Deadly Little Lessons

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  But she grabs me again. Her cold, wet fingers wrap themselves around my forearm. “You’re not going anywhere,” she says through clenched teeth. She starts to drag me back toward the house.

  At first, I feel weak. But Sasha’s crying inside my head grows deeper, louder, infusing me with strength. Finally, I’m able to pull away.

  The girl gazes toward the fence; there’s a shovel propped up against it. She starts moving in that direction, but I push her from behind—hard. Her head hits the corner of a barbecue grill, and she slips forward against the wet pavement, letting out a piercing shriek.

  I hurry toward Wes’s car, tears nearly blinding me. I fling the door open and grab my phone to dial 911, but I still don’t have reception.

  The house is completely engulfed in flames now, like something you’d see in a movie. I scream until my throat burns raw, knowing that I’m far too late—that Ben is already gone.

  IT TAKES ME A MOMENT to realize that my head is pressing against the steering wheel and that the horn is sounding. I’m still sitting there, in front of the house—still crying, screaming, seething.

  I fish my key ring from my pocket and try to start the car. It won’t turn over. I try again. Still no go. I look at the keys, realizing they’re for my room. Wes’s aren’t in my pockets, nor are they on the seat or under the floor mat. What did I do with them after I parked?

  Sasha’s cries seem to grow louder by the minute, reminding me that she’s still out there, still missing. And I’m still determined to find her.

  I reach into the glove compartment. Thankfully, there’s a flashlight and some rope. I stuff both into the waistband of my jeans, then hurry back outside. I can feel the heat from the fire on my skin. I move around to the side of the house, passing through the driveway.

  The girl is no longer lying there. I grab the shovel and hold it like a bat, ready to strike if I have to. I cut through the forest behind the burning house, remembering my premonition, remembering the view from above. The farm was on the other side of a wooded lot.

  I cut through the forest. The rain has dissipated. The sun peeks through the trees, making the woods look almost enchanting, like nothing ugly could ever come out of this place.

  Running now, I use the shovel to push branches and brush from in front of my eyes, remembering the entry in the Neal Moche blog, where Ben tried to navigate here in the dark. It must’ve been nearly impossible.

  A stick breaks, and I hear something fall; that’s followed by a swishing sound. I stop. I turn back. “Who’s there?” I shout, clicking on the flashlight.

  No one answers and I don’t see anything.

  My heart pounding, I wait a few more seconds before beginning forward again. I quicken my pace and take a wrong turn, ending up in the thick of some bushes. At first, I think I can get through them, but they’re taller than I am, bigger than I am, and I get trapped among their branches.

  I start to backtrack, my pulse racing. A broken branch with a jagged tip rips through my skin. I touch the spot and feel blood.

  Breathing hard, I maneuver out of the bushes entirely. Back on the path, I continue forward, coming to the end of the woods.

  The farm is sprawled out in front of me. I close my eyes, conjuring up my premonition, able to picture the trapdoor that led underground. It didn’t seem far from the garage. I move in that direction, past the tractor to the door at the rear of the garage.

  And that’s when I see it: the pile of debris. Broken sticks and mangled cornstalks are collected around a wooden slab. The pile’s been kicked away, revealing the trapdoor.

  I look behind me again to make sure I’m still alone. The sky is black with smoke. Burning embers fly into the sky, making the clouds appear to be ablaze, too. As I stand right over the slab now, my whole body’s shaking. I want to be sick.

  The metal handle is just like what I pictured: black and rusty. Keeping a firm grip on the shovel, I reach for the handle. The door is heavy and opens with a thwack against the ground.

  A wooden stairway leads underground. I grab the edge of the trapdoor and pull it closed behind me as I descend the set of stairs.

  My flashlight still on, I proceed downward, noticing another door at the bottom of the stairs. It’s only slightly taller than I am, and there’s a series of locks around the knob.

  With jittery fingers, I push the door open. It’s like stepping inside my hallucination: the dirt floors and the cinder-block walls. The entire space is probably about as big as my dorm room. This was probably once a root cellar, used for storing food.

  A steel wall faces me, dividing the room in half. It almost reminds me of a prison cell with a steel frame attached to concrete walls. A solid door—with no bars—is secured with a padlock.

  I scoot down for a better look, spotting a hole cut into the bottom of the door, a little bigger than a cantaloupe. “Sasha?” I call, still able to hear her crying.

  The flashlight beam travels toward the hole. “Who’s there?” she asks.

  “Are you Sasha Beckerman?”

  “Yes.” Her voice trembles. “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Camelia, and I’m here to help you. I’m going to get you out of here.”

  “Is he coming back? Do you know where he is?”

  “I’m going to get you out of here,” I repeat, not wanting to tell her the truth: that I have no idea where Tommy is.

  I pull at the padlock, but it’s definitely secure.

  “He’s going to come back,” she cries out.

  I nod to myself, knowing she’s right. Why else would the doors be open? Why else would this have been so easy? Maybe it’s a trap.

  I place my flashlight on the ground, angling it so that I can see, and then, holding the shovel above my head, I strike downward with the blade, smashing it against the lock.

  But the lock doesn’t break.

  I try again—harder this time—using all of my weight. For an instant, I think the lock gives. There’s a deep plunk sound and my arms ache from the impact, but still the lock remains intact.

  I take a step back, adjusting my grip, aiming the point of the blade at the lock’s loop. But then I feel a yank on my hair from behind. I lose my footing, falling flat on my back. The shovel drops to the ground.

  The girl with the tattoo on her neck is here. Holding a lantern, she keeps a firm grip on my hair, dragging me to the center of the room. I struggle to get away, reaching behind me, trying to swat at her hands.

  Finally, she releases her grip, but it isn’t because of my efforts. As she stands over me, there’s an eerie grin playing across her lips. “Nobody replaces me,” she says, setting the lantern down.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I tell her.

  “Sure you do.” She pulls a rag from her pocket and folds it. “You want to steal him away from me. You think you’re so much better than me.”

  “No,” I insist, shaking my head, remembering the rag from my premonition. It’d been doused with something that put me out.

  “He didn’t even care that I knew he was cheating,” she continues, pouncing on my stomach, with her legs straddling my middle. I swipe at her face, but she leans back, avoiding my blows. Her grin broadens, as if she’s enjoying my efforts. I keep moving, my legs flailing as I try to knee her or knock her off me. But nothing seems to work.

  “What’s happening?” I hear Sasha cry.

  The girl looks away, reaching into her pocket again. At the same moment, I thrust my pelvis forward, gaining leverage with my hips. Finally, I’m able to sit up and push her back. The girl falls against the ground. A tiny bottle tumbles from her grip.

  I try to retrieve the shovel, scrambling on the ground to reach it.

  “No!” the girl shouts, coming at me with the rag.

  I struggle to my feet and lift the shovel high, feeling the muscles in my forearms stiffen. When she gets too close, I smash the blade against the crown of her head, and the shovel falls from my hands.

  She le
ts out a wail, but still she tries to force the rag toward my face. I kick her in the shin. She stumbles back, but then comes at me again. I’m able to rip the rag out of her hand, toss it to the ground, and then shove her away. She trips over her own feet and falls onto her back.

  I grab the shovel again. The next thing I know, she’s got me in a headlock from behind. The rag is placed over my mouth, between my lips, against my tongue. I hold my breath and take a step back, digging my nails into the flesh of her forearms.

  There’s a loud cracking sound. It’s followed by a high-pitched scream. The girl’s grip on my neck loosens. And the rag falls away. I turn around to see what happened.

  Ben is there. He’s alive. It’s almost too much for my brain to process.

  It appears that he hit the girl from behind with a long steel pipe. Lying in the corner, she’s definitely hurt but not out.

  Ben motions to the rope sticking out of the waistband of my jeans. Still somewhat in shock, I toss it to him and then retrieve my flashlight, watching as he winds the rope around the girl’s wrists, behind her back. Naturally, she fights him, trying to kick him and wriggle her body free, but she’s no match for him.

  Wearing gloves, Ben squeezes her legs together—tightly—securing the rope around her ankles.

  I pick up the fallen bottle. “Chloroform,” I say, reading the label. To put someone out. To make someone sleep.

  “It’s what I used on Tommy,” she says. “Right after I found out that people like you were trying to take him from me.”

  “Where is he?” I ask her.

  “By now, I’d have to say hell.” She smirks.

  “He was in the fire,” I say, putting the pieces together. When she saw me trying to get into the burning house, she must’ve thought I was looking for him. He was the one she was referring to when she said that he was already dead. “Did you know about this?” I ask her, nodding toward the cell. “That he was keeping someone captive here?”

  She looks up at the ceiling. The letter t on her neck moves up and down with her breath. “She’s no replacement for me,” she mutters. “And neither are you.”

  Ben slips the pipe into the padlock’s loop and then pulls the pipe downward, breaking the lock entirely. He pulls the steel door open.

  Sasha is there, crouched in the corner in a fetal position. Her skin looks sallow, and I can tell that she’s lost a lot of weight.

  I approach her slowly, then scoot down. “My name’s Camelia,” I tell her again.

  Sasha looks at me with haunted eyes. The tips of her fingers are cut up and bloody—most likely from picking at cement. And her wrist has a bandage on it. The skin around it is puffy and yellow. “It’s been burned,” she whispers, pulling the bandage back.

  I try my best not to wince at the sight of it: the letter t, bright red and weeping with pus. Black, leathery skin curls up to frame it. Aside from the infection, it’s exactly like what I sculpted.

  “You’re going to be okay,” I say, beyond relieved to have found her, and finally no longer able to hear her tears. I take her hand, feeling her fingers clasp my own, grateful for the power of touch.

  AS SOON AS Ben, Sasha, and I emerge from the root cellar, Ben runs off to get help. Meanwhile, Sasha can barely stand up straight. Her gait is slow, as if she’s just learning to walk. She gazes around at where she is, her eyes struggling to take everything in. The sky must seem far too bright.

  “Do you want to sit?” I ask, looking around for someplace comfortable.

  She shakes her head. “It feels like I’ve been sitting forever.”

  “Your mom’s really missed you,” I tell her. “She loves you more than anything—both of your parents do.”

  She nods like she already knows—like maybe it took being locked away to figure it out. Tears fill her eyes and she lets out a tiny cry. It takes me a moment to realize that the sound is outside my head.

  After only a couple of seconds of standing, she moves to sit down anyway. I join her on the grass; it’s still wet from the rain. If she notices, she doesn’t seem to care. Instead she scoots a bit closer, as if eager for someone to hold her. I wrap my arm around her shoulder, and she rests her head against my chest.

  About fifteen minutes later, sirens sound in the distance, and Sasha huddles closer against me.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I assure her, but her cries deepen and intensify.

  It isn’t long before an ambulance and two police cars pull onto the long dirt road that leads to the farm. They drive right up, over the crabgrass.

  “Sasha,” I whisper, trying to get her to sit up. But her body’s gone limp against me. Her lips are chalky white and her eyes have rolled back in their sockets.

  The medics go right into action, lifting her onto a stretcher, bringing her into the ambulance, and hooking her up with a bag of fluids. A syringe is jabbed into her arm.

  A male and a female police officer linger at the rear ambulance doors.

  I move closer, too, anxious to see if Sasha’s okay.

  “She’s coming around,” I hear one of the medics say.

  Her head’s propped up on a pillow now, and her eyes flutter open; she’s not looking at anything in particular.

  “Your parents will meet you at the hospital,” the male officer tells her. “We’ve already contacted them.”

  “Thank you,” she says, but she’s staring straight at me now.

  “I’ll come visit you,” I promise her.

  One of the medics closes the doors and gets behind the wheel. Once the ambulance leaves, with a police car following close behind, I turn to look for Ben, spotting him talking to the female officer. I join them, listening as Ben tells the officer that when he first went down to the root cellar, Tommy hit him over the head from behind. “It knocked me out, but only for a bit,” he explains. “When I came to, Tommy was gone.”

  “Where did he go?” the officer asks.

  Ben shrugs. “I’m assuming he went back to the house—probably to look for a weapon or some rope to secure me. That’s when I ran out to find something that would break the lock.”

  “And you didn’t see Tommy again after that?” she asks.

  “No.” Ben shakes his head.

  Tommy’s girlfriend must’ve found him instead. The thought of that gives me chills.

  After Ben answers a couple more questions, the officer moves on to me. I give her my complete point of view, including how I knew where to look for Sasha, but she insists that Ben and I come down to the station.

  “Need a lift?” Ben asks, once the officer gets inside her car.

  I turn to him, still overwhelmed that he’s actually here. “I thought I lost you.” I press my forehead against his chest.

  Ben lifts my chin to look into my eyes. “You’ll never lose me—not if I can help it. I think it’s fairly safe to say we’re pretty much connected on every level.”

  “Did you have any idea that we were working on the same case?”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t you think that if I had, we’d have reconnected a whole lot sooner? I’d do anything to protect you.”

  “I think you’ve proven that once or twice.” I encircle his waist with my arms and breathe into his chest.

  “The day I bumped into that Tommy guy at the park… It was totally by chance. I was on my way back to Freetown from D.C. I’d stopped in Connecticut, and then I needed to stop again in Rhode Island.”

  “You were headed back?” I ask, hoping that I might’ve been the inspiration.

  “Being away helped me figure things out,” he explains. “But I also felt like I was missing something.”

  “I can definitely relate.”

  “Good, because now that I think about it, it kind of makes sense that we were working on the same case. There was a reason I felt compelled to follow that guy.”

  “And a reason you felt compelled to write it all down and post it online?”

  “Wait, what?” he asks. His face is a giant question mark.


  “I saw the blog,” I explain. “I read the entries. So, who’s Neal Moche? And why are you using his name?”

  Ben looks at me, his mouth hanging open, as if completely dumbfounded by the question. And that’s when I suddenly realize that there’s no way he could’ve possibly known that I’d found his blog, never mind that I’d figured out his identity.

  “Neal Moche is you, right?” I say.

  Ben proceeds to tell me that he’s always kept a journal or blog of some sort, but it was only recently that he decided to keep some of the entries open. “And that was because of you,” he explains. “Because of what you said before…how reading about other people’s experiences with psychometry helped you with your own. I thought that keeping a blog might in some way—someday—help someone.”

  “Well, you were right,” I say, wondering about the coincidence of it all—me finding the blog and Ben just happening to bump into Tommy that day in the park.

  Or maybe nothing is a coincidence at all. Maybe it was all meant to be—all a part of what we created and made happen. I chose to help Sasha. And, at the same time, Ben chose to follow his instincts—instincts that brought him to me.

  “And Neal Moche?” I ask.

  “It’s Chameleon,” he says. “Scrambled up.”

  “Chameleon,” I repeat, taking a moment to mentally unscramble the letters.

  “It’s you,” he says, pulling me close, his hands at the small of my back. “It’s always been you. Even before I met you—when you were just a hope inside my head.”

  I kiss him, hearing more sirens in the distance.

  “So, how about that lift?” he asks, his gaze lingering on my lips.

  “As long as you don’t mind if we make a pit stop. I need to go save Wes’s car. I also need to call him and Kimmie. They’re probably freaking right about now.”

  We head away from the fire, through the dead cornstalks—what once must’ve been lush land—finally reaching Ben’s motorcycle, parked on the road that the police and ambulance used.