Chapter 7

Doug Jennings, technical director of the Harriot University Department of Theatre and Dance, was furious—be-cause of what happened, sure, but more so because he might have to miss his son’s honor society ceremony. Stealing was one thing—but inconveniencing him? Well, that was going too far. One of these little fuckers had dicked him twice now, and enough was enough.

“Keep in mind,” Jennings said, “George is taking valuable time out of his rehearsal so all of you, cast and crew, understand how serious this is.” His voice was tight; reverberated off the theater walls and came back to him like someone else’s. “Now, since it’s obvious that you didn’t believe me after our little talk at the beginning of the semester, George here wanted to say a few words so we’re all perfectly clear about what’s going to happen next.”

As George Kiernan took his place at the foot of the stage, Jennings scanned the crowd. More than thirty students clumped together in the first four rows like a herd of frightened sheep. Jennings was breathing heavily; his bushy red beard damp with spittle, the perspiration beginning to pool between his flabby breasts and his big round belly. Whoever had stolen his belt sander was here tonight. He could feel it.

“Doug and his crew,” Kiernan began, “busted their butts this week to get us onstage a day early, and now I have to take time out of rehearsal for this nonsense. In fact, in my twenty years as chair of the Department of Theatre and Dance, tonight is the first time I’ve ever had to take time out of a rehearsal for something like this, period.”

Kiernan set down his notepad and leaned back against the stage—the tension-filled pause, the icy stare over his wire-rimmed spectacles as only George Kiernan could pull off. Jennings had witnessed his boss chew ass many times during his eleven-year tenure at Harriot. And even though he was genuinely angry, the technical director’s chest tingled with excitement.

“As you know,” Kiernan continued, “this isn’t the first time things have gone missing from the tool closet this year. And Doug and I are quite confident that the thief is sitting amongst you here tonight.”

The students shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

“Doug and I are the only people with keys to the tool closet, and thus we’ve narrowed down the possible time frames in which the tools could have been stolen. That’s right. The belt sander, as well as the tools that went missing earlier this semester, appear to have been stolen during your regularly scheduled crew hours.”

Kiernan’s voice was calm and deliberate, but Jennings knew the eruption was coming soon. He exchanged a knowing glance with his assistant Edmund Lambert. Lambert was a good egg, Jennings thought—the only kid in the bunch whom he still trusted. Well, Lambert was hardly a kid anymore—mid-twenties, former Army specialist, and built like a brick shithouse. It was Lambert who brought the latest theft to his attention as he was closing up after yesterday’s stage scenery crew; Lambert who’d since gone to Best Buy and installed the new webcam in the scene shop; Lambert who’d offered to sniff out the thieving bastard himself and teach him a little lesson “Screaming Eagle style.”

Doug Jennings felt a special kinship with his brother from the 101st Airborne. Both had done their stints out of Fort Campbell, Kentucky—Jennings in the mid-1980s; Lambert a few years ago. Finished up his bid with a tour in Iraq, saw the heaviest shit in Tal Afar, he said. Jennings kind of envied Lambert; saw him as a younger, leaner, meaner version of himself. Uncanny the way their lives paralleled each other: returning to school in their mid-twenties on the GI Bill; discovering their love of technical theatre later than most. And Doug Jennings didn’t regret taking his fellow Eagle under his wing. The past year had worked out great. He would have to give Lambert more responsibility now—get a key to the tool closet made for him and all that.

“I cannot begin to express how disturbed and disappointed I am by all this,” Kiernan said. “But what really burns my ass is the blatant disregard and betrayal of everything we here in the Department of Theatre and Dance stand for. And that’s trust. Whoever has stolen the items out of the tool closet has betrayed all of our trust. The trust we have in each other that everybody will do their job and work together toward a purpose greater than ourselves. What I’m talking about is having each other’s backs.”

Kiernan’s voice had grown steadily in speed and volume, his cheeks flushed, the perspiration beginning to break out like melting snow at the edges of his white receding hairline. And when he turned to retrieve his notepad from the edge of the stage, Doug Jennings knew the moment had arrived.

“But now I turn around,” Kiernan said over his shoulder, “and someone sticks a knife in my back. Again, goddammit!”

The theater was deathly quiet, the echo of the chair’s voice petering out into the stifled sobs of the female lead. The rest of the students sat with their eyes focused on their laps. They were scared, Jennings could tell, and that made him feel better.

“Now here’s what’s going to happen,” Kiernan said, his voice once again calm and measured. “Not only have we installed a new security camera in the scene shop, but the Greenville Police have already begun dusting for fingerprints. Harriot University is treating this as a criminal act that will be prosecuted. I will not only make sure that the thief or thieves are expelled, but have also made it my personal mission to see to it that they never work in the theatre again. Period.”

Kiernan paused to survey the crowd.

“However,” he continued, “I’m leaving the door open for the thief or thieves to return the stolen items anonymously outside my office when no one is around. If that happens, all will be forgotten. If not, then rest assured we will find out who did this. And when we do, justice will be swift and merciless. Now get moving and get focused. We go in ten minutes.”

Like a cluster of cockroaches, the students scattered from the theater in a whoosh. Jennings retrieved his boss’s notepad and accompanied him up the aisle to the back of the theater.

“You think Greenville PD will find anything?” Jennings asked.

“Probably not,” said Kiernan, wiping his brow. “Fucking bunch of Keystone Kops. Thing I said about the fingerprints is bullshit. Just trying to scare them.”

“I know.”

“’Least now we got that webcam going twenty-four seven. Nobody’ll be able to get in or out of the scene shop without us recording it. Sad though that it has to come to this. Fucking times we live in.”

Jennings nodded.

“Listen, Doug, I know you got that thing with your son tonight. Why don’t you get going? No need for you to stick around here any longer on account of this bullshit.”

“You sure?”

“We got a week before we open. And Lambert’s going to be around, right?”

“Yeah. He was out sick a couple days last week—really bad, from what he says—but he busted his ass double time this past weekend. If it wasn’t for him, the trap mechanism wouldn’t have been finished. Wouldn’t have been able to give you the stage a day early, either.”

“Fine. Tell Doug Junior I said to keep cracking those books.”

“Will do, George. And thanks again.”

Kiernan nodded and began shuffling through his notes when Edmund Lambert emerged from the stage left vom. Jennings waved to him across the empty seats—pointed and gave him a thumbs-up to ask if everything was okay. Lambert gave a thumbs-up of his own, and with that Doug Jennings exited the theater.

The cool April air felt good on his face—chilled his pits and tickled the wetness in the cracks of his flab as he walked across the parking lot. He would not have time to shower and change into a fresh set of clothes, but that was just fine and dandy as far as he was concerned. He hated wearing a tie—that was a given—but at least now he’d have a good excuse when his wife started bitching at him in the junior high school auditorium. Good thing Lambert had been around to pick up the slack for him, too; at least now he’d get there on time.

“Yeah,” Jennings muttered as he slipped into his old pickup. “I gotta get that guy a key to the tool closet.”