Chapter 7
"Mr. Smithers! Mr. Smithers!" young Larry Dempsey called out as he pounded on the audio-visual room door. From the other side he could hear the television set blaring, and then after a long, agonizing pause, the sound of a chair squeaking and the approach of footsteps.
The old, gray-haired custodian looked out of the room with a small glower on his face. "What do you want, urchin?" he snapped. "I was watching the movies, and - "
"It's Mrs. Jackson!"
"What about her?" he questioned, seeing the youth's obvious excitement. "Is Mrs. Jackson hurt?"
"Yes! Yes! Come quick, Mr. Smithers, before they kill her!"
"Kill her? What are you talking about, child? Who's going to kill Mrs. Jackson? She's in the music room with her pupils for some recital or another."
"I know! That's where I just came from." Larry tugged at the custodian's sleeve in his frustration. "You've got to come! Frank just fucked her in the ass and - "
"Wh-what?"
"Frank! My brother! He and Mrs, Jackson were on the piano, and he was fucking her in the ass, and now they're all gang-banging her! Something's wrong with her! Something terrible's wrong with her!"
Smithers, who was a deacon of his church and hadn't slept with his wife in nearly fifteen years, pulled himself up in righteous indignation. "Do you mean to tell me that she is perverting the souls and bodies of her charges by .. . ?" He couldn't even find the words to express his outrage. "You must be making it up!"
"I'm not! Please, Mr. Smithers, you've got to believe me!
"If you're not blaspheming the Lord's morality, young man, then there is definitely something very wrong with your Mrs. Jackson!"
"There is! Ohhh, you've got to come and help, Mr. Smithers!"
The custodian cast a glaring eye at the sobbing, quivering boy in front of him. "You wait a minute," he told him coldly. "You wait right, there and don't budge an inch while I phone the police! That's the only kind of help a wanton Jezebel like her deserves!" He. strode across the room to where the telephone was on an instructor's desk. "And," he added when he picked up the receiver, "after that, we'll go down there like you ask!"
He dialed a number, mindless of the sniffling moans coming from the child hunching in the doorway. "Hello, police? This is Mr. Smithers at San Martin High School. Yes ... yes, the custodian. I think we have a sex maniac loose here. No, I mean it. A boy has reported that Mrs. Jackson, the music teacher, has molested him, and according to his story, is currently seducing the whole of her student enrollment! What? Yes . . . I'll be here. You send a couple of cars right away .. . !"