Free I Hunt Killers by Barry Lyga Page A

to regret his part in them. As the play and John Proctor’s life near their end, Hale rants in the jail, begging Danforth to reconsider and spare Proctor so that he will not join the others who’ve died already at the hands of the Puritans. If Proctor can live, then maybe Hale can be redeemed.
    “There is blood on my head!” Hale screams at Danforth, pleading with him. You won’t just be saving Proctor’s life , he’s saying. You’ll be saving my soul, too! “Can you not see the blood on my head!!”
    It was a great moment, and Jazz and Eddie Viggaro (the kid playing Danforth) turned up the volume on it this rehearsal, really clicking for the first time. Danforth stood stone-faced and immobile, glaring out at the audience as Hale, a twitchy, fidgety mass of tics and guilt-induced pacing, roamed the stage, screaming, pleading, finally crumbling in a heap at Danforth’s feet.
    “Really wonderful work today, Jasper,” Ginny told him when they broke for the day. “I really felt that. Nicely done. Everyone else!” She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Hey! All of you! Off-book next week on this scene. Take a few pointers from Mr. Dent and get those lines memorized, okay?”
    “You’re awesome,” Connie said later, linking her arm in Jazz’s as they headed to the Jeep.
    He shrugged. Pretending to be someone he wasn’t…That wasn’t the sort of thing he really wanted to be awesome at. But his being a part of the play with Connie seemed to make her happy.
    “I can’t believe you’re playing Tituba,” he told her. “Like Ginny couldn’t have given you another role?”
    “I wanted to play Tituba. It’s a great role.”
    “But she’s a slave.” He opened Connie’s door and helped her into the Jeep. “Doesn’t that bother you?”
    “Should it?”
    “Well, you’re black.…”
    “I am?” Connie looked at the back of her hand and feigned shock. “Holy crap! You’re right! I am.”
    “Ha, ha.” Jazz closed her door and got in on the driver’s side.
    “I don’t care about Africa,” she said suddenly.
    “What?”
    “Africa,” she explained. “I don’t care about it.”
    Jazz stared at her. She had that expression on her face that told him that she had thought long and hard about what she was saying. So he figured it was best just to get out of her way and let her do it.
    “I mean,” she went on, “I care about the people who are hurting there. The wars. The genocide. The famine. I care about that. But no more than people on any other continent who are suffering. And I don’t care about slavery, either. I know I’m supposed to. I know I’m supposed to be angry about it, like my dad is. But I care about the now , Jazz. The now and the coming. I don’t care about the past. Get it?”
    He wasn’t sure where she was headed with this, and the expression on her face told him that she was trying to make a point beyond the obvious one.
    She waited patiently while he thought about it. Lessons in being human. She told him something about herself and then turned it around on him, so…
    “So, you’re saying maybe I should forget about my past and stop thinking about my father and serial killers and just get on with my life?”
    She grinned and patted his cheek. “Aw, see? And everyone told me you were just a pretty face. But you have—”
    Just then, a man appeared in front of the Jeep as Jazz was about to turn the key, making him forget all about race and Connie and The Crucible and the blood on Reverend Hale’s head. If not for his hangdog posture and the age in his eyes, Jazz would have thought him no older than forty. But the defeated, dragging stoop of his stance made him look more like sixty. He was a man crushed by the world, by life itself.
    He was also right in front of the Jeep and not moving, staring at Jazz as though disbelieving his own eyes.
    Jazz started the engine to give the guy a hint: Move it, pal.
    The man put a trembling hand on the Jeep’s hood and left it there