by Келли Криг
A bird, Isobel realized with dull horror, almost retching. He was eating a bird—one of the fat pigeons that liked to waddle around in the courtyard looking for morsels, never suspecting that it would one day become a morsel itself.
Isobel swung the door open and climbed in. Shutting it fast, she pressed down the lock.
“Go,” Isobel said, “drive.”
Gwen stuck the key in the ignition and turned. The car complained with a high, grating whine but then rumbled to life. Isobel checked the side-view mirror again, panic stopping her heart when she saw the creature lower the torn, bloody bird and look up.
“Gwen, we need to go. That would be a now.”
Gwen fumbled to shift the car into reverse. “Why? Is it a teacher?”
Isobel shifted her gaze to the side-view mirror, watching the thing as he sneered and lowered himself onto the pavement, slowly, one boot at a time. She twisted in her seat to look out the back window, but froze when she saw only the rows of parked cars. He was gone.
To Isobel’s relief, Gwen pulled fast out of the parking space and, gripping the wheel with both hands, spun them in the direction of the exit.
The bird hit the windshield with a dull splat.
Gwen screamed. Her foot slammed the brakes. They sat for a moment in shock. Then something moved to block out the sunlight on Isobel’s side. There came a quiet tap, tap, tap on her window.
“What was that?” Gwen whispered.
Isobel turned her head to look.
There were two of them now. The first one—the one missing an eye—leaned down to bring his existing eye, black and soulless, close to the glass. It blinked at her, watching her like a shark through a tank. The other one stood close behind, grinning, his face whole but split by a diagonal hairline crack. He had only one arm.
Isobel felt every muscle in her body tense as she stared into that eye, a predator’s eye, she thought. Slowly he raised one fist and stuck his thumb out. He aimed it, like a hitchhiker, in the direction they were pointed.
Isobel pawed at Gwen, who watched the mutilated pigeon slide down the windshield, leaving behind a gooey streak.
“Gwen,” she said. It was a plea.
The creature without the eye grabbed at the door now, looping his fingers through the handle. Had she locked it? Yes, she thought, as he pulled and the latch stuck. Thank God, she had.
Without warning, Gwen’s foot hit the gas pedal and they accelerated. Thrown backward in her seat, Isobel heard the creature hiss as it wrenched its hand away in a movement too quick for her eyes to follow. Gwen’s tires squealed as they sped out of the parking lot and onto the main road, being caught by school authorities having been bumped down to the bottom of their list of concerns.
Out of habit, Isobel reached behind her and yanked down on her seat belt. She clicked it into place, turning again to look over her shoulder through the rear window. Dead leaves swirled in the wind tunnel they made with their escape, the trees lining the streets receding into the distance. As far as she could see, they weren’t being followed. She turned to face forward and caught a glimpse of Gwen’s face, pale and frightened.
“I still get the impression there’s something you’re not telling me,” Gwen said, her eyes pinched as she strained to see past the dead pigeon and its belly, open against the glass to display the stark white of its rib cage. Isobel looked away, suddenly glad she hadn’t had time to eat anything at lunch. She leaned forward in her seat to try and find the switch for the windshield wipers. The bird looked heavy, but hopefully that would work.
“Turn right at the next light,” Isobel said, by accident flipping the windshield wiper fluid release. Sudsy blue liquid squirted across the glass, soaking the pigeon.
“Oh, gross,” Gwen muttered, and batted Isobel’s hand away. She slowed the car and switched on the wipers, her fingers easily finding the right knob. It took four swipes to get the bird to one side, and then a fifth and final one to scoot it off the windshield completely. It hit the roadside with a wet smack. “Should have stayed home today,” said Gwen, taking the turn Isobel had indicated. “Rented a movie. One of those bad romances that make you want to puke. ’Course I already want to puke.”
She glanced from the road to Isobel, then back again, her brow furrowing. The silence that followed gave Isobel time to think. At this point she couldn’t keep Gwen out, but at the same time, she couldn’t justify involving her any further. She thought about Pinfeathers sitting next to Brad in the lunchroom, then pictured him sitting here in her place, next to Gwen, who would just keep driving, never knowing any better. She thought about Gwen driving home. She thought about the Cadillac on the highway, about how it wouldn’t take much more than a gentle tug on the steering wheel to send the car careening into oncoming traffic.
“Left here.” Isobel pointed.
Gwen put on her signal. She pulled into the left turning lane. The arrow flicked green.
“Isobel, did you really see something in the lunchroom today,” she asked, “or were you just playing around?”
Isobel swallowed, not sure if she should answer. How could she answer? As far as she knew, the line “I see dead people” had already been taken.
“Did that bird hit my window on purpose? ’Cause you know, I don’t think I can take much of that. Not without the promise of sending you my therapy bills later. Are you listening to me, Isobel?”
“Just a bird,” Isobel murmured. She turned away from the lie to look out her window.
They passed a group of college students on the right, huddled on the sidewalk, waiting for the crosswalk light to change. Isobel envied them. They all looked so normal in their jackets and blue jeans, scarves lacing their necks, hands stuffed in their pockets, probably talking about their next class or Halloween plans, totally unaware.
“Turn here,” said Isobel automatically when they reached the intersection to Bardstown Road. Gwen swerved to make the turn. Either she still had the jitters or she was mad.
“There,” she said, pointing for Gwen to pull over. Gwen followed the order. She put the Cadillac in park, turned off the engine, and pulled the keys into her lap.
Isobel grabbed the door handle, and Gwen, apparently not willing to wait in the car, got out too. Together they stepped up to the front of the tiny used bookstore.
Varen had to be here, Isobel thought. There was nowhere else for him to go. If he left school, this was where he would come. He would be here, and she could tell him everything. With that thought stoking her courage, Isobel opened the door and stepped inside. Gwen followed.
She caught that familiar, heavy scent of stale air, and the rusty belt of bells clanked as the door shut behind them.
“What is this place?” Gwen whispered. “What are we doing here? Whoa, is that a first edition?”
Isobel raised a finger to her lips. She led the way, and they wove through the shelves toward the vacant counter, stepping over stacks of books, finding neither Bruce nor Varen.
Then she heard that familiar rattling cough. It came from somewhere at the rear of the shop. Isobel followed the sound across the rickety floor and into the back room, stacked with all the newer-looking nonfiction. Bruce was there between the rows, taking books one at a time out of a cardboard box marked NON-FIC WILDLIFE in Varen’s careful, antique scrawl. He brought each book he drew out of the box up close to his face and examined it with a sweep of his good eye before finding a place for it on the shelf.
Isobel stood in the doorway, waiting to be noticed, not wanting to startle him. A distracted Gwen bumped into her from behind, unleashing a muffled “Oof” that made Isobel sure then that they were being ignored.
“Excuse me, Mr. Bruce? I’m looking for Var—”
“Not here,” he grunted, continuing to shelve. Isobel was taken aback. This was not the kind-if-loopy man she remembered from her last visit.
“Do you know where he is?” she tried, moving closer to him. Gwen remained in place, watching, her car keys clinking between nervous
fingers.
“If I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”
Isobel frowned, unsure where his sudden dislike had come from. Didn’t he remember her? “I—I think he could be trouble.”
“Could be!” he scoffed. He lowered the book in his hand, finally looking at her. He scrutinized her with his good eye, frowning at her cheer uniform. Then the coughing ensued once more, harsher, mucus rattling in his chest. “I think a bloody nose . . . and a busted lip says . . . that the trouble’s already found him. Guess the thing you’ll tell me next is that you hadn’t anything to do with that.”
Brad. He’d been telling the truth. But how could that be when she’d seen Varen only an hour ago? His face— he had been fine.
Bruce scowled at her, apparently taking her silence for confirmation of whatever suspicions he’d been harboring. His mouth tightened into a line, quivering with anger. “I told you now, I don’t know where he’s got to. Hasn’t said a word to me since he came in like that this morning. Went upstairs and slept till noon. Missed school. Left a half hour ago. Go upstairs and look for yourself.”
Isobel, her mind dulling as it tried to compute the barrage of conflicting information, actually turned to the attic door. She was stopped from making any progress toward it, though, by a soft hand on her arm. “Isobel,” said Gwen. “C’mon. He’s not here. We would have seen his car outside. We gotta go.”
Isobel turned to stare at Bruce again, trying to gauge if he was telling the truth. If Varen had left only a half hour ago, how could he have been at school to do the project? How could anyone be in two places at once? Maybe Bruce had it wrong, she thought. He was old. Old people got mixed up, right?
“Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” He waved them toward the door as though shooing flies. “I’ll call the police, if that’s what you want.”
“Isobel . . .” Gwen’s hand on her arm tightened, and Isobel took an involuntary step in the direction her friend pulled. “C’mon,” she said, “we’ll see him tonight, remember?”
For a moment Bruce’s good eye seemed to lighten in surprise. It flashed a glimmer of hope, but like a dying ember, the spark faded, dissolving into bitterness and then defeat. He shook his head. “I’m too old to worry about him like this. You tell him I said that. You tell him . . .”
The coughing again. He was sick. Really sick.
Isobel stood in place and watched him, unable to do much else. The coughing continued, unrelenting in its attack, and without saying a word, he brushed past them into the main room.
He hobbled toward the counter and reached for a box of tissues. Isobel trailed after him, torn. She wanted to reach out, to help him to his chair behind the counter, just as she could envision Varen doing. She wanted to tell him that she was sorry and that it wasn’t her fault and that she’d find Varen. She bit her tongue, though, knowing that it was her fault. She’d seen all of this coming, or at least part of it. Pinfeathers had said as much before he tried to slice her to ribbons. And, in truth, deep down, how could she be certain she would find him?
Isobel pushed that thought quickly aside. She would find him. She would see him tonight.
She felt it.
Bruce found his chair on his own. He rocked backward into it, as if the joints of his knees no longer worked. Clouds of dust plumed around him, worsening his cough. He glowered at Isobel, as if the sudden fit were somehow her fault. “You . . . don’t deserve him.”
Isobel’s breath lodged in her throat, the truth she feared most let out of its cage in an instant.
“Isobel,” Gwen said, pulling at her arm again. “C’mon, we’ve got to get back.”
Isobel shoved away from the counter. She yanked her arm out of Gwen’s grasp and hurried through the front door. A burst of cold air hit her in the face, like a splash of fresh water.
She took in a huge gulp, sucking as much oxygen into her belly as she brought into her lungs.
Behind her, Gwen emerged from the shop. “Don’t listen to him, Isobel,” she said, “he’s just worried, is all.”
“Gwen, I have to find him. I have to be there tonight.”
Her face solemn, Gwen nodded, as if she’d come to understand this on her own. “Don’t worry,” she said, “we’ll find him.”
34
Caught
They made it back inside the school by sneaking in through the art wing. The sound of banging lockers thrummed, echoed by the approaching drumbeats of the marching band and color guard preparing for their Pied Piper pilgrimage through the gold-and-blue-streaked halls. Kids flooded out of open classroom doors, boys jumping to tap the doorways for luck, girls screaming.
Together Gwen and Isobel melded into the masses, then split courses—Isobel heading to the locker rooms, Gwen joining a group heading down from the eastern stairwell. On the drive back, they’d agreed to meet up again at the game that night. And as Isobel watched her friend go, she offered a small wave, wondering if Gwen would be glad to be rid of her for a while.
She slipped into the locker room unnoticed except by Nikki, who watched her curiously while they went through warm-ups. She sent a tentative smile, which Isobel did her best to return, though she had long since lost her appetite for a pep rally. The whole thing suddenly seemed stupid to her as it never had before, the idea of everyone getting together to scream and act crazy.
Out in the gym, she heard the marching band arrive. The rat-a-tat thumping of the drums traveled into her bones, sounding in her ears more like a funeral march than a rallying call. The squad ran out together as one, the rhythm pulsing through her body and the lights blaring. Everyone shouted as they piled in, feet stomping until the bleachers rattled and squeaked on their steel supports. Balloons waved, banners shook, painted faces laughed. It was like a mad carnival where everyone was oblivious, lost in the bliss of chaos, a throng unaware of a bomb planted beneath the floorboards.
Two hours ago Isobel would have happily been one of them.
She stood in front of the crowd, mechanically clapping and shouting with the squad. She scanned the risers for any signs of a cloaked figure or yet another porcelain-faced demon.
“When I say Trenton, you say Hawks! Trenton!”
“Hawks!”
“Trenton!”
“Hawks!”
The crowd thundered, their voices booming, calling for blood.
As the squad began their stunts, Varen’s image continued to haunt Isobel, and more than once, she struggled to keep the count. Stevie, standing as third base, whispered to her almost every time. “All right, Iz?” he asked just before the load.
“Yeah,” she said, even though she had never been less right.
Dip. Toss. Isobel popped into the air, propelled high. She opened her legs, hitting a toe touch. The cradle caught her and her sneakers found the floor. The crowd cheered. The squad clapped, shouting a steady rhythm of, “Let’s go Tren-ton, let’s go!” Clap! Clap!
Someone announced the football team. Clad in their blue and gold numbered jerseys, they sprang through the gym doors like a herd of oxen and pounded across the gym floor, spreading out like a conquering army, like they’d already won. The stands exploded with riotous shouts of favorite numbers—Brad’s number, number twenty-one, prominent among the calls. Isobel saw him then, the last one out of the double doors. Following behind the rest of the team, Brad half jogged, half walked.
Isobel watched him as the team took their place on the bleachers, piling up the rows, but then Henry the Hawk ran by her, flapping his wings, and Isobel jumped, letting out a small yelp.
Coach Anne’s whistle blew, and it was time for the squad’s routine.
The drums rumbled for action. Isobel walked to her place in the formation. Alyssa bumped her as they passed and leaned in to whisper, “Try not to screw us up, spaz.”
The squad gathered. They all brought their arms up, crisscrossed in front of their faces, their hands made into fists. Coach Anne’s proud microphone announcement echoed around them, telling everyone how this wo
uld be Trenton’s routine for the cheer Nationals, the one they’d started over the summer, the one the squad would perform again tonight at the game, and then for real in Dallas in less than two months, the one that would bring Trenton the first-place trophy for the third time in three consecutive years. The crowd filled each of Coach’s pauses with screams of enthusiasm. Trenton liked to win.
The music started with a reverberating synthesizer blast that morphed into a fixed beat, electronic and fast. Isobel let her body go to the memory of routine and she was in the air, whirling before she could recall how. Caught, dipped down, then shooting up again, like a stalk through a tangle of weeds. Her body stiff, she raised her arms in a high V; then, extending her leg out, twisted it behind her head, grabbing the toe of her tennis shoe. She went into a Scorpion, her back arching, her rib cage extending out. The stretch felt good.
She felt the dip, and instinctively, on the pop, she went into the tight, spiraling twist of a double-down. Her bases caught her, and Stevie set her back on her feet. Everyone was on the floor now, and the squad wound around one another, in and out like a deck of self-shuffling cards, a montage of blue and gold, their footsteps matching the beat, their arms fanning out and snapping in. They reorganized, the base of the pyramid preparing for the load. Isobel climbed up, one foot sliding into Alyssa’s awaiting grasp, the other into Nikki’s. Then, extended high, she raised her arms in another V. She felt her foot wobble, and she stiffened. They completed the pyramid within three seconds, almost as tight as Coach had drilled it.
The music ended with the sound effect of a dynamite explosion. The squad held their pose to the eruption of deafening cheers.
Isobel felt her foot wobble again, enough this time for her to glance down. Her eyes locked with Nikki’s—two spheres of utter panic, her face flushed pink with effort. Isobel felt a strange pang from somewhere within her gut. Not at the sight of Nikki’s distress, but at the white porcelain hand wrapped tight around Nikki’s left wrist.