The cycle was complete. As the Caretaker had said nothing about restarting it, Alison did not try to second guess him by mailing the original letter to Fran. Instead she did what Brenda had wanted to do at the beginning. She tore it into tiny pieces. The gesture was a weak one and she knew it. Standing at a comfortable distance, humiliating them all, their foe had easily moved each of their names to Column II.
The Monday after the fiasco at the play, Fran received a pale green letter in a purple envelope. It had been mailed locally and had been postmarked the previous Friday afternoon—the bastard sure had been confident the lights would fall on cue.
No longer can I say you do not know me. In these last few weeks, I feel we have come to know each other intimately. The closeness both stimulates and disgusts me. While I can now more readily share your zest for the performances of the tasks that will be set before you, I must also wallow lower and lower in your evil. But this is to be a temporary situation. The hourglass runs low.
At the bottom of this letter is a list of your names. The directions and conditions will be as before, only now your names are to find their way from Column II to Column III. Due to the delicate nature of your tasks, they will appear in the paper in a secret code befitting a secret society such as ours. Starting with the first letter, every third letter will help make clear your duty.
Some of you have sought to defy me. From experience, you have learned how uncomfortable that can be. As your tasks will now be more exciting, your punishment, should you choose to be stubborn, will be equally exhilarating. Remember, you have been told.
It has come to my attention that you suspect I am one of you. Let this be made painfully clear: I am not.
Love,
Your Caretaker
The ad, as it appeared in the Times the same day the letter arrived, read:
Fran: syrtlorryeunahokltnieaesknaesedrl
supcoehycomoaidollpulonitcwohig
Deciphered with the code, it said: Streak naked school lunch.
· · ·
Alison sat alone with Fran in Fran’s kitchen. The purple envelope and pale green letter lay on the table beside the paper. Alison had just finished telling Tony over the phone the details of the Caretaker’s latest exercise. Within the hour, probably within ten minutes, the rest of the gang would know what was happening. Fran was crying.
“Tony is going to the Times offices this afternoon to see if he can’t trace who’s placing the ads,” Alison said, taking a drink of her sugar-saturated Pepsi. She’d given up on diet colas. Why worry about a few miserable calories when a madman would probably be executing her before school got out? “He’ll call if he learns anything.”
Hot air breezed through the open front door. The rest of the house was empty. Somewhere upstairs, a clock chimed two o’clock, causing Fran to lift her tear-streaked face off her damp arms. “I can’t do it,” she whispered.
“What if you were to wear a mask,” Alison said, not trying to be funny. Since reading the task, she had been turning over in her mind whether she would have what it takes to run naked through school at lunch. Given a choice between doing it and dying, she still couldn’t decide. All she knew for sure was that she was glad she wasn’t Fran.
“Everyone would know it was me. No one has hair like mine.”
You mean, no one has a body like yours.
“You could pin it up, or cut it even. I think a mask would be permissible. The Caretaker has not struck me as inflexible.”
Fran groaned, her hands gesturing helplessly. “But I would still have to do it! And I would get stopped before I could get away. I can’t run very fast. One of those gorillas on the football team would grab me and rip my mask off.”
“You’re probably right, there,” Alison agreed. Out of habit, she went to drum her knuckles on the table, as she often did when she was thinking hard. The bandages across her fingers stopped her. Alice had performed Saturday night wearing gloves. Friday’s performance, of course, had never reached Act II. The same doctor who had treated Tony had taken care of her. They would probably be seeing more of the guy. “You know, Fran, you don’t have a bad figure. Would it be so terrible if everyone saw . . . ”
“No!” she cried desperately. “I can’t do it! Don’t you see? Why aren’t you helping me? You’re supposed to be my friend.” Her head fell back onto her arms and she wept uncontrollably. A couple of minutes went by as a wave of compassion stole over Alison. She reached out and stroked Fran’s hair as she would have a child’s.
“I do have an idea,” she whispered.
Fran, sniffling, raised her head. “What?”
“That you go away.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere, it doesn’t matter. Remember last Friday how you told me your parents keep hassling you about visiting your senile grandmother in Bakersfield? Why not call the poor lady tonight and then tell your parents that you feel so sorry for her that you really must go and stay with her for a week or so? You’re finished with the courses required for graduation. And your electives are pretty much winding down, especially now that you have completed the sets for drama. They’ll let you go.”
Unlooked for hope dawned on Fran’s face. It didn’t last. “The Caretaker will find me. He knows everything we do.”
“Don’t tell anybody where you’re going.”
“But you know!”
“I won’t even tell Tony where you’re hiding, trust me.”
Fran thought about that for a minute, when suddenly, a peculiar expression darkened her features. To Alison, it looked positively fiendish. “You really like Tony, don’t you?” Fran asked. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”
“He is important to me,” she answered carefully. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason.” Fran shrugged, averting her eyes. Alison was suspicious of the sudden shift in tone and believed she had a glimmer of what Fran might be considering.
“You’re my friend, Fran, and you’re in trouble,” she said quietly, firmly. “And I intend to do everything possible to help you. But if you want my help, or the help of anyone else in the group, then you better remember where your loyalty lies.”
Fran folded the newspaper and went to stand. Alison stopped her. “What are you doing?” Fran cried, trying to squirm away. “Let go of my arm! I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Her obvious guilt confirmed Alison’s suspicion. Staring her in the eyes, she let go of Fran and Fran stayed where she was. “You’re thinking of going to the police.”
“No, I’m not!”
“Yes, you are. You would turn Tony in and hope . . . ”
“Neil says we should! And he’s a good person.”
Alison nodded. “But Neil has not gone to the police, even though he thinks Tony should. He’s too honorable to do anything behind his friend’s back. He’s not like you. You think if you report the crime, you’ll be absolved of all responsibility. I know how your mind works.”
“You know nothing of my mind!” Fran swore, proud and bitter.
Is that true? This was a side of her friend she had never seen before. Fran whined, worried, and wept. Fran did not shout out pronouncements, that is, not to anyone’s knowledge. Alison picked up the Caretaker’s letter. A tiny seed of doubt, like so many others she had collected of late, sprouted in her mind.
“Maybe I don’t,” she said quietly.
Fran went to the sink and started, of all things, to wash the dishes. Alison studied the list of names and wondered if there was a significance in the Caretaker’s choice of who went first, and who went last.
“So what are you going to do?” she asked when Fran was done with the dirty plates and glasses. Drying her hands on a towel, Fran came back to the table. Her burst of authority appeared gone and she was the same old twitching adolescent.
“Your idea sounds good. I guess it’s my only choice.”
“Do you swear that you won’t go to the police?”
Fran hesitated. “I won’t.”
“I hope for your sake you don’t.”