Darkroom by Graham Masterton Read Free Book Online

picture. I don’t want to get the lunatic fringe excited. You know the ones I mean – those people who see images of the Virgin Mary reflected in the windows of Toys R Us.’
    â€˜You got it,’ Jim agreed. ‘But you’ll keep me up to speed, won’t you? If any new evidence comes up … well, it might help me to get a handle on how those poor kids were killed.’
    He walked back across the beach and climbed into his Lincoln. The reporters and the cameramen immediately surrounded him, pushing microphones close to his face.
    â€˜Did you see the bodies, Jim? How do you think they died? Will you be talking to Bobby’s and Sara’s parents? How are their classmates taking it? Pretty badly, I’ll bet.’
    Jim started the engine, jammed his foot down on the gas, and immediately the Lincoln’s rear wheels buried themselves in the sand. He tried revving the car forward, and then back, and then forward again, but the wheels spun deeper and deeper. In the end he had to turn around to the reporters and cameramen and give them a look of utter defeat.
    â€˜OK, OK. I give in. If you people help to push me out of this sand, I’ll give you a quote.’
    â€˜Oh, yeah? How do we know we can trust you?’ challenged Roger Frick from CNN. ‘We might push you out of the sand, and then you might just drive off.’
    â€˜I’m a college teacher. If you can’t trust a college teacher, who can you trust?’
    Six or seven reporters gathered around the front of his car, as well as two cops. They all leaned forward, and when Jim shouted, ‘Push!’, they pushed. He revved the engine, spraying everybody with twin fountains of sand, but suddenly the Lincoln surged backward and bounced up on to the concrete ramp.
    â€˜Thanks!’ said Jim. ‘Thanks, you’re terrific! Thank you!’
    Nancy Broward came up to him and held out her microphone. ‘OK, Jim. How about that quote?’
    â€˜Of course. Never let it be said that I didn’t keep my side of the bargain.’ He waited until all of the reporters were gathered around him, and then he said, ‘“Men talk of killing time, while time quietly kills them.” Dion Boucicault, 1820 to 1890.’
    â€˜Huh?’ said Roger Frick.
    â€˜I promised you a quote … that’s a quote.’ With that, Jim backed the Lincoln up the ramp, slewed it around, and drove back on to the Pacific Coast Highway.
    He walked into Special Class II five minutes late for their last session of the day, which was supposed to be creative writing. All of them were busy, although not one of them had a book open. Shadow was bouncing his basketball from the bridge of his nose to the top of his head and back again, while Brenda Malone was hunched in front of a magnifying mirror, squeezing out her blackheads, and Randy Bullock was eating his way through the largest submarine sandwich that Jim had ever seen. Jim almost expected to see cows’ legs hanging out of the side of it.
    The classroom was filled with the
chikkity-chikkity
sound of dance music, coming from half a dozen headsets. It sounded like a cornfield full of crickets.
    Jim dropped his books on to his desk and then stepped forward to the front of the class. ‘Everyone – I need your attention, please.’
    Shadow went on bouncing his ball and Randy Bullock went on chewing and Ruby Montes went on swaying and miming the salsa music she was listening to.
    Jim waited for a while with his head lowered. Edward Truscott was giving him a dutiful frown, but George Graves had his back turned, and Vanilla King had almost disappeared inside her huge woven bag, rummaging for something critically important, like a lost eyebrow pencil probably.
    After almost half a minute, Jim went up to the chalkboard. In large, clear letters he wrote BOBBY TUBBS AND SARA MILLER ARE DEAD.
    The class fell silent almost immediately. CD players were switched off. Shadow