Relic

by Gretchen McNeil

  “The college students,” I say. “They dismantled the wall. Cooper must have been trapped down there and they released him.”

  Flynn nods. “His body was probably weak, so the Anamet started looking for a new host.”

  I was right. “It could be anyone.”

  Flynn glances at Frankie, then back to Jack and me. “And one of you might be the next victim.”

  Or the killer.

  Frankie snorts. “Well, you’re not dead. Maybe it won’t come for all of us.”

  “It will,” he says grimly. “The only reason I’m still here is that it’s found . . .” He glances up at her. “Easier targets.”

  I think of Greer, alone in her room. Graham, isolated in the back of his house.

  Flynn sighs and leans back in his chair. “I wish we’d known earlier that you kids went into the mine.”

  “I wish we’d listened to you,” I say without looking at Jack. “And left that place alone.”

  “Don’t blame yourselves,” Deputy Flynn says. “There’s a reason this creature has been around for centuries—it knows exactly how to protect itself, and how to feed on us.” He points at us. “You must stay separated. It’s the only way to figure out which of you is the host. Sooner or later, the Anamet will have to feed again. And then we’ll know which of you it is.”

  Which of us. I turn to Jack. “Did you say you called everyone?”

  He nods. “Yeah, Sonya’s brother was going to drive her over. Rob and Terrence were coming together.”

  “How long ago?”

  “At least a half . . .” His voice trails off. “Shit.” Jack pulls out his phone and calls Rob.

  I stare at him while he waits, and I swear I can hear a phone ringing in the distance. Probably my imagination.

  Jack hangs up. “They’re not answering.”

  But I can still hear the phantom ring for another two seconds.

  “Call again,” I say.

  Jack shrugs and redials.

  “Do you really think they’ll answer this—” Frankie begins.

  “Shh!” I hiss, and hold up my hand for silence. There, muffled and faint, I can clearly hear the sound of a ringtone floating in through the open kitchen windows.

  Flynn pushes back his chair, legs screeching against the linoleum floors. “It’s coming from outside.”

  “Oh my God,” I say, suddenly remembering what I saw when I ran up to Jack’s house. “There’s a black Charger parked across the street.”

  Jack meets my gaze, then without speaking, we race out of the house.

  “What?” Frankie calls after us. “What’s going on?”

  It’s the smell of the blood that hits me first—I can identify it from ten feet away through the open car window. Tangy and metallic, so strong you can taste it, like that first day home from the orthodontist with a mouthful of braces that make everything from oatmeal to ice cream taste like you’ve been sucking on a lead pipe.

  Jack is two steps ahead of me. He swings open the heavy door, and Rob’s limp body spills out of the car.

  His legs are still caught inside, and his torso hangs upside down. His head smacks into the concrete, crumpling his neck at an abnormal angle as if it’s been snapped, as his lifeless arms splay to each side. His eyes are open, frozen in a look of surprise and confusion, like he knew his attacker, but it’s not his face that makes my throat contract. It’s his body. . . .

  I can’t scream, can’t make a sound. I can’t even look away from the grotesque sight of what used to be Jack’s best friend.

  Rob’s T-shirt has been ripped open. “Clawed” might be a better word, judging by the shreds of fabric that flutter in the breeze like a tattered flag. Well, the ones that aren’t soaked in blood, that is. Those are stuck to the inside of his abdomen, where an enormous, gaping hole has been torn through his flesh, just below the rib cage. Bits of doughy, fatty membranes spill from the hole. His intestines, I think.

  Rob’s been completely disemboweled.

  I feel my stomach contract, and I spin away from the car, bracing myself against the trunk as I fight back the urge to vomit.

  “This can’t be happening,” Jack says.

  “You said Rob and Terrence were driving together, right?” Frankie says, her voice cold and devoid of panic.

  “Yeah.”

  “Terrence isn’t in the car,” she continues matter-of-factly. “It must be him.”

  Jack recoils. “Not Terrence. Not any of us.”

  “Terrence isn’t Terrence anymore,” she replies.

  I stumble backward across the neighbor’s lawn, squishy and wet beneath my feet. Jack’s right: this can’t be happening.

  But it is.

  I’m close to the house when I trip, twisting as I fall backward onto the soaking wet grass. I push myself up on my hands and realize I’m touching something hard and cold beside me. I stare down at the grass and find a hand touching mine.

  Just a hand.

  Severed from its body, its wrist a bloody, gory stump.

  I scamper away, kicking backward against the disembodied limb, and bump into something behind. I turn before I can stop myself. Beside me, lying on his back in the moonlight, chest cracked open like a lobster tail with one arm ripped from its socket, is Terrence.

  THIRTY-SIX

  IT’S BEEN ALMOST TWENTY-FOUR HOURS SINCE TERRENCE and Rob were murdered and I’ve spent almost all of it in bed. Not sleeping, though. That would be too easy. Instead, I’ve lain awake through the darkness and the sunrise, the bright summer afternoon and the sunset. Day and night have blended together in my brain because none of it matters anymore. One of my friends is a killer. And I could be the next victim.

  While I’ve been sequestered in my room, my dad spent most of the day installing an alarm system in our house. Every door and window got a sensor so that the moment one of them is opened, an alert is sent to the Sheriff’s Office. A fancy keypad mounted on the wall in the kitchen turns the alarm on and off via a special code, plus there’s a panic button, which sets off a blaring alarm that should, in theory, alert the entire neighborhood that I’m in danger.

  I suppose the alarm makes me feel better—at least no one’s getting into my house undetected—but I’m still having a hard time wrapping my head around the idea that Jack, Frankie, or Sonya is a killer.

  There aren’t any other options. Unless Flynn is lying to us. But then why would he tell us about the Anamet if he was the killer? Which brings it back to my friends.

  I wish there were a way to figure out who the Anamet is infesting, other than waiting around until someone else is attacked. This thing has been smart so far, devious in its ability to come and go without being seen. Five murders, no witnesses. Am I sure my dad’s new alarm system will be enough to protect me?

  I’ve been thinking about the killer all day, itemizing all of the evidence in my head like a good little cop’s daughter. Which of them is it? I started with that day in the mine, trying to remember what everyone had said, but we all had pretty much the same experience: disorientation, lost time, the sense that we weren’t alone, and the ever-present shadows lurking in the darkness. The sabotaged radio on the boat is the first tangible piece of evidence. If it was one of us, acting under the influence of the Anamet, who had the opportunity?

  I cringe. Jack arrived at the boat first, which makes him the most likely suspect. Rob was second, then Sonya, which means she could have done it too. Meanwhile, Frankie didn’t arrive until after we’d discovered that the wires had been cut: Does that mean she’s innocent?

  Not necessarily.

  It’s true. Frankie came out the main entrance to the mine, the closest to the boat. What if she made it back before any of us? She’d have had plenty of time to destroy the radio, then hide out for a couple of hours to give herself an alibi.

  Any of them could have killed Weller and attacked Greer. But what about Graham? Sonya and Frankie are unaccounted for, but Jack was with me. Still, he’d gotten to my house pretty qui
ckly that night—had he been in his car already? Had he been at Graham’s when I called him? Terrence and Rob were dead in the car when I ran into Jack’s house last night, but how long had they been there? Could Jack have called them earlier and killed them before Frankie or Flynn arrived? Or maybe Frankie did it? Or Sonya while we were all inside the house?

  All three of them had an opportunity, which means, for now, I have to assume that they could each be a killer.

  My phone rings, and I lift it from my mattress, feeling that this whole situation is hopeless. Sonya FaceTiming me. I feel a spark of optimism. Maybe she’s figured out this mystery? If anyone can, it’s Sonya.

  “Hey,” I say, holding the phone above my face as I continue to lie on the bed.

  “I have an idea,” she begins tentatively, “how we can figure out which of us is the Anamet.” Her eyes are puffy, her voice raw, and I’m reminded that with Terrence’s death, Sonya lost someone she cared about deeply.

  “Really?” Short of waiting for the cannibal to starve to death, I’m not sure how.

  Sonya nods. “Halite. The rock salt is supposed to repel the Anamet, right? So if we can touch the halite without it doing anything to us, we might be okay.”

  I sit up, realizing the brilliance of her plan. “We need to get back to the mine,” I say, excited. “We need to bring back some of those bricks.”

  “No,” Sonya says. “We just need salt.”

  Of course. Weller had scattered salt across the doorways of his cabin, and had even kept some inside the cover of his scrapbook, probably to keep it from falling into the wrong hands. If he believed the salt kept the Anamet at bay, maybe it would work for us?

  “I’ll add Jack and Frankie to the call,” I say, speaking quickly. “And we’ll all do it together. That way, we’ll know.”

  “Okay.”

  I conference in Jack, who looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. His eyes sag at the corners and his brow is wrinkled, though his Mohawk is gelled to a crisp ridge over his head. “Sonya has an idea,” I say, and explain her theory on the salt. “I need you to add Frankie to the call.”

  Jack’s eyes shift to the left. “Um, okay. Give me a sec.”

  “I’m going to grab some salt from the kitchen,” I say.

  By the time I return, Jack, Frankie, and Sonya fill my phone screen, ready with saltshakers in hand.

  “What, exactly, do we think this is going to do?” Frankie asks, lips pursed.

  “I don’t know,” Sonya says. “But if the salt acts as a repellent, the Anamet might not be able to stand it against the host’s skin. Maybe it’ll burn? Or cause some sort of branding?”

  Frankie rolls her eyes. “Or melt us into a puddle, Dorothy?”

  “At least then we’d know if you’re actually a witch,” I say.

  “Right,” Frankie says. “Because the salt worked for Deputy Weller. Wasn’t it poured across his doorway?”

  “Just do it.” Jack sighs. “It’s the best idea we’ve had yet.”

  Frankie arches a brow. “Is it?”

  I ignore her. “I’ll go first.”

  I hold the shaker up in front of the camera so they can see it. It’s glass, so they can clearly identify the white powder inside. Without hesitating, I pour salt into my hand, then on my arm, letting it trickle down into my lap. I hold my breath, hoping I won’t feel any kind of burning sensation that would indicate a reaction to the salt. Thankfully, I feel nothing.

  Sonya repeats the process, holding her hand and arm to the camera to show that her skin isn’t marred. Then Frankie does the same.

  Which leaves Jack.

  Like the rest of us, he holds up his saltshaker—it’s ceramic with large holes in the top—and proceeds to pour salt all over his head and body, then tosses the canister away in disgust.

  “Nothing,” he says.

  “What a waste of time,” Frankie says.

  “Oh, like you had something better to do?” I say. “Another hot date?”

  Frankie looks to her right, but doesn’t say a word.

  “It should have worked,” Sonya says, tears welling up. “We should have been able to tell which of us it is.”

  “It was a great idea,” I say. Though a flawed one.

  “Unless one of us isn’t using salt,” Frankie says, more serious than she’s been since she joined the call.

  Jack turns to his left, a comical Brady Bunch moment where it actually looks as if he’s taking to Frankie on my FaceTime screen. “What do you mean?”

  Frankie shrugs. “Sugar looks a lot like salt on a video call.”

  She’s right, it does.

  Sonya’s shoulders sag. “What do we do now?”

  I don’t even know what to say. “We—”

  “Hang up that phone!”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  MY DAD BARGES INTO MY ROOM, RIPS THE PHONE FROM MY hand, and ends the conference call.

  “What the fuck?” I yell, lunging for it. But my dad shoves my phone into his pocket.

  “You are under house arrest until further notice,” my dad says through clenched teeth.

  I shoot up from my bed. “You can’t do that!”

  “Watch me.” My dad’s uniform is rumpled, his face is candy apple red, and he hasn’t even been drinking. “There’s a murderer on the loose, and every time I turn around you’re standing over a dead body.”

  “With Jack,” I say, cutting to the chase. “That’s what you’re really pissed off about.”

  He takes a breath, attempting to calm himself. “I’ll be talking to Jack soon enough.”

  “Jack isn’t a killer.”

  “Did I say he was?”

  “Then why are you putting me on lockdown?”

  He doesn’t answer, simply turns his back on me. “It’s safer this way.”

  Safer for whom?

  I grab his hand. “Dad, listen to me. I can help.”

  “Help?” He laughs, but without any lightness or mirth. “Annie, this is serious. The FBI has been called in from Sacramento. I’m not in charge of the investigation anymore.” He pries my hand from his, then removes the spare set of car keys from my desk drawer and tucks my laptop under his arm. He turns and slowly walks down the hall.

  “What if someone tries to attack me?” I ask, following at his heels. “I can’t even call for help.”

  “I have a unit positioned across the street,” he says, removing the receiver from the old analog phone in the kitchen. “Fully armed. And the new security alarm is on. No one is getting in or out of this house.”

  It’s not the “out” I’m worried about. “I know it sounds crazy, but Deputy Weller’s scrapbook—”

  He cuts me off. “We have all the evidence we need.”

  I clamp my mouth shut. Just like my father, refusing to listen to anyone else’s advice, stubbornly doing things his own way. Only this time it’s not just our family’s happiness on the line. There are lives at stake.

  “Look,” he says, the edge gone from his voice. “I just need you to stay here until we figure this out, okay? Too many of your friends have been killed and . . .”

  “. . . and I might be next.”

  He presses his lips together, but doesn’t say another word. I’ll take that as a yes.

  I close my eyes, squeezing them so hard red and orange stars dance before them, but even the chaos of my rods and cones can’t banish the gory sight of Rob’s mangled torso from my mind. I can see it so clearly: the way the creature had practically clawed its way into his body cavity. The hunger. The desperation.

  I don’t even bother to wipe my face as the tears begin to cascade down my cheeks. So many that I’ve shed for my friends. And no end in sight.

  “Hey.” My dad crouches down in front of me and places his hand gently on my shoulder. The anger is gone from his face, replaced by a depth of sadness I haven’t seen since right after my mom died. “I’m going to keep you safe, Annie. I promised your mom I would always protect you. Which is why I need you to stay he
re.” He looks older suddenly, like he’s lost some of his vitality. Skin sallow, lines deeper, projecting long shadows across his face. That’s all because of you.

  I nod once and collapse onto the sofa, staring at the fireplace with unseeing eyes. He stands over me for a moment, then without another word, he turns and strides out of the room. Moments later I hear the telltale beeps of the alarm system, then the door closes, his SUV roars to life, and he’s gone.

  I sit there for what feels like forever. Listening to the silence. Nothing moves in the house, and other than the soft whistle of my own breathing, the only noise I hear is the distant ticking of the old-fashioned grandfather clock at the end of the hallway.

  Maybe my dad is right? I’m safe here. No one’s getting into this house unannounced. I’ve got a patrol car across the street, every door and window is wired to the home security system, and as a last line of defense, there’s a Baby Desert Eagle with a full clip in the safe. I’m not exactly a sitting duck.

  What about Jack? And Sonya? Even Frankie?

  No one reacted to the salt, which either means it doesn’t bother the Anamet like Weller and Flynn thought, or the killer is someone else entirely. But who?

  I lean forward on the sofa, head in my hands. My face is slick with perspiration and my palms are clammy. The air conditioner is on, but it’s burning up in the house. I feel trapped; I need to get out.

  I stand up and edge over to the window, peeking out from behind the curtain. Across the street, a white Sheriff’s Office patrol car is parked under a light. I can see the two deputies inside, chatting back and forth with animated gestures. Even distracted, there’s no way they wouldn’t spot me the second I opened the front door. And even if I could get past them, the alarm would notify my dad the second I open a door.

  I let the curtain fall back into place and instantly feel a breeze against my damp skin, as if something moved quickly through the house, disturbing the air in its wake. I turn my head in time to see what appears to be a shadow at the end of the hall near my dad’s bedroom. But I blink, and it’s gone.

  My skin prickles. That thing has followed me here. Followed me from the mine. It’s here to kill me.