"Oh, no," Ruth said when I called her to tell her what was going on. "They did not say that to you."
"Yeah," I said. "They did. Tisha came right out with it. She was all, 'Jess, if you're holding back on us because of what Heather said to you in the caf the other day, may I just point out that she has been on the Homecoming court two years running, and that it would behoove you to get to work.'"
Ruth said, "Tisha Murray did not say the word 'behoove.'"
"Well," I said. "You know what I mean."
"So I guess this means Mark didn't kill Amber after all." I heard a scratching sound, which meant that Ruth was filing her nails as she talked, as was her custom. "I mean, if he was with you when Heather disappeared."
"I guess," I said.
"Which means, you know. He's Do-able."
"He's not just Do-able," I said. "He's a hottie. And I think he kind of likes me." I told Ruth about how Mark had squeezed my hand and winked before leaving me to my fate with my parents. I did not mention that he seemed to have no goals other than making it to the pros. This would not have impressed Ruth.
"Wow," Ruth said. "If you start going out with the Cougars' quarterback, do you have any idea what kind of parties and stuff you're going to get invited to? Jess, you could run for Homecoming Queen. And maybe even win. If you grew your hair out."
"One thing at a time," I said. "First I have to prove he didn't kill his last girlfriend, by finding the guy who did. And," I added, "besides. What about Rob?"
"What about Rob?" Ruth demanded. "Jess, Rob's totally dissed you, all right? It's been three whole days since you got back, and he hasn't even called. Forget the Jerk. Go out with the quarterback. He's never been arrested for anything."
"Yet," I said.
"Jess, he didn't do it. This thing with Heather proves it."
There was a click, and then Skip went, "Hello? Hello? Who's using this line?"
"Skip," Ruth said, with barely suppressed fury. "I am on the phone."
"Oh, yeah?" Skip said. "With who?"
"With whom," Ruth thundered. "And I'm talking to Jess, all right? Now hang up. I'll be off in a minute."
"Hi, Jess," Skip said, instead of hanging up like he was supposed to.
"Hi, Skip," I said. "Thanks again for the ride this morning."
"Jess," Ruth roared. "DO NOT ENCOURAGE HIM!"
"I better go, I guess," Skip said. "Bye, Jess."
"Bye, Skip," I said. There was a click, and Skip was gone.
"You," Ruth said, "had better do something about this."
"Aw, Ruth," I said. "Don't worry about it. Skip and I are cool."
"No, you are not cool. He has a crush on you. I told you not to play so many video games with him, back at the lakehouse."
I wanted to ask her what else I'd been supposed to do, since she had never been around, but restrained myself.
"So what are you going to do now?" Ruth wanted to know.
"I don't know. Go to bed, I guess. I mean, by morning I'll know. Where Heather is, I mean."
"You hope," Ruth said. "You know, you've never looked for somebody you didn't like before. Maybe it only works with people you don't hold in complete contempt."
"God," I said before hanging up, "I hope that's not true."
But apparently it was, because when I did wake up, after seeming to have nodded off somewhere around midnight, I did not even remember I was supposed to be finding Heather. All I could think was, Now what was that?
This was because I'd wakened, not to the sound of my alarm, or the twittering of birds outside my bedroom window, but to a sharp, rattling noise.
Seriously. I opened my eyes, and instead of morning light pouring into my room, there was nothing but shadow. When I turned my head to look at my alarm clock, I saw why. It was only two in the morning.
Why, I wondered, had I woken up at two? I never wake up in the middle of the night for no reason. I am a sound sleeper. Mike always joked that a twister could rip through town, and I wouldn't so much as roll over.
Then I heard it again, what sounded like hailstones against my window.
Only they weren't hailstones, I realized this time. They were actual stones. Someone was throwing rocks at my window.
I threw back the blankets, wondering who on earth it could be. Heather's friends were the only people I knew who might be anxious enough to see me to pull a stunt like this. But none of them had any way of knowing that my bedroom was the only one in the house that faced the street, or that it was the one with the dormer windows.
Staggering to one of those windows, I peered through the screen. Somebody, I saw, was standing in my front yard. There was hardly any moon, but from what little light it shed, I could see that the figure was tall and distinctly male—the distance across the shoulders was too wide for it to be a girl.
What guy did I know, I wondered, who would throw a bunch of rocks at my windows in the middle of the night? What guy did I know who even knew where my bedroom windows were?
Then it hit me.
"Skip," I hissed down at the figure in my yard. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Go home!"
The figure tipped his face up toward me and hissed back, "Who's Skip?"
I jumped back from the window with a start. That wasn't Skip. That wasn't Skip at all.
My heart slamming in my chest, I stood in the center of my bedroom, uncertain what to do. This had never happened to me before, of course. I was not the kind of girl who had guys tossing pebbles at her window every night. Claire Lippman, maybe, was used to that sort of thing, but I was not. I didn't know what to do.
"Mastriani," I heard him call in a loud stage whisper.
There was no chance, of course, of him waking my parents, whose room was all the way at the opposite end of the house. But he might wake Douglas, whose windows looked out toward the Abramowitzes', and who was a light sleeper besides. I didn't want Douglas waking up and finding out that his little sister had a nocturnal caller. Who knew if that kind of thing might cause an episode.
I darted forward and, leaning over the sill, with my face pressed up against the screen, called softly, "Stay there. I'll be right down."
Then I spun around and reached for the first articles of clothing I could find—my jeans and a T-shirt. Slipping into some sneakers, I hopped down the hall to the bathroom, where I rinsed my mouth with some water and toothpaste—hey, a lady does not greet her midnight callers with morning breath. That much I do know about these things.
Then I crept down the stairs, carefully avoiding the notoriously creaky step just before the second landing, until I reached the front door and quietly unlocked it.
Then I stepped into the cool night air and Rob's warm embrace.
Look, I know, okay? Three days. Three days I'd been home, and he hadn't called. I should have been mad. I should have been livid. At the very least, I should have greeted him with cold civility, maybe a sneer and a "Hey, how you doing," instead of how I did greet him, which was by throwing my arms around him.
But I just couldn't help myself. He just looked so adorable standing there in the moonlight, all big and tall and manly and everything. You could tell he'd just taken a shower, because the dark hair on the back of his head was still wet, and he smelled of soap and shampoo and Goop, that stuff mechanics use on their hands to get the grease and motor oil out from beneath their nails. How could I not jump into his arms? You'd have done the exact same thing.
Except that Rob must have been supremely unaware of how stunningly hot he was, since he seemed kind of surprised to find me clinging to him the way those howler monkeys on the Discovery Channel cling to their mothers.
"Well," he said. He didn't exactly seem displeased. Just a little taken aback. "Hey. Nice to see you, too."
Well. Hey. Nice to see you, too. Not exactly what a girl expects to hear from the guy who has just woken her in the middle of the night by throwing pebbles at her bedroom window. A "Jess, I love you madly, run away with me" might have been nice. Heck, I'
d have settled for an "I missed you."
But what did I get? Oh, no. That'd be a big "Well. Hey. Nice to see you, too."
I am telling you, my life sucks.
I let go of him and, since I was hanging about a foot in the air, Rob being that much taller than me, slithered back to the ground. Which I then stared at, in abject mortification. I had just, I could not help feeling, made a great big fool out of myself in front of him.
Again.
"Did I wake you up?" Rob wanted to know as we stood there on my front porch, awkward as two strangers, thanks to my underdeveloped social skills.
"Um," I muttered. "Yeah." What did he think? It was two in the morning. A perfect time, in my opinion, for a little romance.
But not, apparently, to Rob.
"Sorry," he said. He had shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, but not because he had to in order to keep himself from snatching me up and raining kisses down upon my face, like the heroes in the books I sometimes catch my mom reading, but rather because he didn't know what else to do with them. "I just found out you were back in town. My mom said you came into the restaurant tonight. Or last night, I guess."
Oh, God! His mother had told! Mrs. Wilkins had told him about waiting on me and Mark Leskowski at Table Seven. The make-out table! I sincerely hoped she'd mentioned that Mark and I had not, in point of fact, been making out.
"Yeah," I said. "I got back Sunday night. I had to. You know. School. It started on Monday."
What I did not add, though I wanted to, was, "You moron."
And I was glad I hadn't, when he said, "I know. I mean, I figured it out tonight, that of course school must have started again. Last week of August and all. It's just that when you aren't going anymore, it's kind of hard to keep track."
Of course! Of course he hadn't known I was back! He wasn't in school anymore. How would he know it had started on Monday? And, being at work all day, it wasn't as if he'd have seen the buses, or anything.
So that's why he hadn't called or stopped by. Well, that and the fact that I'd asked him not to, on account of my parents not knowing about him, and all.
I gazed up at him, feelings of warmth and happiness coursing through me. Until Rob asked, "So, who's the guy?"
Oops.
The feelings of warmth and happiness vanished.
"Guy?" I echoed, stalling for time. A part of me was going, Why, he’s jealous! Ruth’s stupid Rules thing actually works, while another part went, Hey, he’s the one who insists on the two of you not dating, and now he’s got a problem because you’re seeing someone else? Tell him to deal with it, while a third part of me felt sorry for hurting him, if indeed he was hurt, which was impossible to tell from his voice or expression, both of which were neutral.
Way neutral.
"Yeah," Rob said. "The one my mom saw you with."
"Oh, that guy," I said. "That's just, um, Mark."
"Mark?" Rob took his hand out of his pocket and ran his fingers through his still-damp hair. Which didn't, I decided, mean anything, really. "Yeah? You like him? This Mark guy?"
Oh, my God. I could not believe I was having this conversation. I mean, I was not the one with the problem with his arrest record and his age and all of that. He was the one who seemed to think he'd be robbing the cradle if he went out with me, even though he was only two years older and I am, I think, exceptionally mature for my age. And now he was upset because I'd gone out with somebody else—somebody else who, by the way, was his exact age, just minus the conviction?
So far, anyway.
I almost wished Ruth had been around to witness this. It was truly classic.
On the other hand, of course, I was wracked with guilt. Because if I'd had a choice between going out for pizza with Mark Leskowski and going to the dump to scrounge for used car parts with Rob Wilkins, I'd have chosen the dump any day of the week.
Which was why, a second later, I realized I could take it no longer. That's right, I broke the Rules. I ruined all that hard work, all that not calling, all that not chasing him, all that making him think I liked someone else, by saying, "Look, it's not what you think. Mark's girlfriend is the one who turned up dead on Sunday. I just went out with him to, you know, talk. The Feds are after him, now, see, so we have a lot in common."
Both of Rob's hands shot out of his pockets and landed, to my great surprise, on my shoulders. The next thing I knew, he was shaking me, rather hard.
"Mark Leskowski?" he wanted to know. "You went out with Mark Leskowski? Are you nuts? Are you trying to get yourself killed?"
"No," I said, between shakes. "He didn't do it."
"Bullshit!" Rob stopped shaking me. "Everyone knows he did it. Everyone except you, apparently."
I shushed him. "Do you want to wake my parents up?" I hissed. "That's the last thing I need, them finding me out on the front porch in the middle of the night with—"
"Hey," Rob said. "At least I'm not a murderer!"
"Neither is Mark," I said.
"Says you."
"No, says everyone. I know he didn't kill Amber, Rob, because while we were out together, another girl disappeared, Heather—"
I broke off with a gasp, as if somebody had pinched me. Pinched me? It felt more as if somebody had punched me.
"What is it?" Rob asked, grabbing my arm and looking down at me worriedly, all of his anger forgotten. "What's wrong, Jess? Are you all right?"
"I am," I said, when I had caught my breath. "But Heather Montrose isn't."
A fact I knew for certain, because the moment I'd uttered her name, I remembered the dream I'd been having, just as Rob's pebbles had woken me up.
Dream? What am I talking about? It had been a nightmare.
Except, of course, that it wasn't. A nightmare, I mean.
Because that was the thing. It had been real.
All too real.
C H A P T E R
11
"Come on," I said to Rob as I darted down the porch steps into the yard. "We've got to get to her, before it's too late."
"Get to whom?" Rob followed me, looking confused. On him, of course, even confusion looked way sexy.
"Heather," I said, pausing by the dogwood tree at the end of the driveway. "Heather Montrose. She's the girl who disappeared this afternoon. I think I know where she is. We've got to go to her, now, before—"
"Before what?" Rob wanted to know.
I swallowed. "Before he comes back."
"Before who comes back? Jess, just what, exactly, did you see?"
I shivered, even though it couldn't have been much under seventy outside.
But it wasn't the temperature that was giving me goosebumps. It was the memory of my dream about Heather.
Rob's question was a good one. Just what had I seen? Not much. Blackness, mostly.
It was what I had felt that had scared me most. And what I'd felt was surely what Heather was feeling.
Cold. That was one thing. Really, really cold.
And wet. And cramped. And in pain. A lot of pain, actually.
And fear. Fear that he was coming. Not just fear, either, but terror. Stark white terror, unlike anything I had ever known. That Heather had ever known, I mean.
No. That we had ever known.
"We've got to go," I said with a moan, my fingers sinking into his arm. Good thing I keep my nails short, or Rob would have been the one in some pain. "We've got to go now."
"Okay," Rob said, prying my hand from his arm and taking it, instead, in his warm fingers. "Okay, whatever you say. You want to go find her? We'll go find her. Come on. My bike's over here."
Rob had parked his bike a little ways down the street. When we got to it, he opened up the compartment in the back and handed me his spare helmet and an extremely beat-up leather jacket he kept in there for emergencies, along with some other weird stuff, like a flashlight, tools, bottled water and, for reasons I'd never been able to fathom, a box of strawberry NutriGrain bars. I think this was just because he liked them.
/> "Okay," he said, as I swung onto the seat behind him. "All set?"
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. I was afraid if I did, I might start screaming. In my dream, that's what Heather had wanted to do. Scream.
Only she couldn't. Because there was something in her mouth.
"Uh, Mastriani?" Rob said.
I took a deep breath. All right. It was all right. It was happening to Heather, not to me.
"Yeah?" I asked, unsteadily. The sleeves of the leather jacket were way too long for me, and dangled past the hands I'd locked around his waist. I could feel Rob's heart beating through the back of his jean jacket. I tried to concentrate on that, rather than on the dripping sound that was the only thing Heather could hear.
"Where are we going?"
"Oh," I said. "P-Pike's Quarry."
Rob nodded, and a second later, the Indian roared to life, and we were off.
Ordinarily, of course, taking a moonlit motorcycle ride with Rob Wilkins would have been my idea of heaven on earth. I mean, let's face it: I am warm for the guy's form, and have been ever since that day in detention last year when he'd first asked me out, not knowing, of course, that I was only a sophomore and had never been out with a guy before in my life. By the time he'd figured it out, it was way too late. I was already smitten.
I like to think that the same could be said of him. And you know, the way he'd reacted when he'd heard I'd been out with another guy was kind of indicative that maybe he did like me as more than just a friend.
But I could no sooner rejoice over this realization than I could enjoy our ride. That, of course, was because of what I knew lay at the end of it. The road, I mean.
We did not encounter a single other vehicle along the way. Not until we reached the turnoff for the quarry, and saw a lone squad car sitting there with its interior light on as the officer within studied something attached to a clipboard. Rob slowed automatically as we approached—a speeding ticket he did not need—but didn't stop. His distrust of law enforcement agents is almost as finely honed as mine, only with better reason, since he'd actually been on the inside.
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