by S Gepp
But, Luke reasoned, at least a part of that was a reasonable question: Why had Eric LeCroix committed suicide, and why now? He found he could not help but gaze up at the ceiling where, somewhere above him, his own daughter was hopefully hearing Francis's son reading to her in her long sleep.
Julian was wrong. This was not a coincidence. He cast a last glance into the room as he stood in the doorway, where Francis and Brandon met his gaze.
They knew.
Definitely not a coincidence, not at all.
1991
Francis could see immediately why the others were so panicked.
One of them had used the point of one of the ornate knives Troy had managed to procure—none asked how or where from—to undo the zip along the top of the bag, as if actually physically touching it was going to be too much to bear. The duct tape had been peeled from her mouth and dropped on the ground, but that only made it seem worse.
Chelsea's lips were blue, her eyes closed, her skin almost a translucent white except for the deep red of her flushed cheeks.
Francis looked wildly about. "Is she…?" he started.
Troy turned his back on them all.
"I couldn't feel a pulse," Sean whimpered pathetically.
Francis knelt down beside the still body and pushed his cold fingers against her carotid artery. He felt a chill run up his spine, making the hairs on his neck stand on end and goose-pimples break out all over his body. He bent down to press his ear against her mouth. He pushed himself closer and closer, crushing his cheek against her face harder and harder.
Without saying anything, he gripped her nose and chin and tilted her head back, opening her mouth and breathed down her throat, watching to make sure her chest rose. Five times, then he switched, and in the center of her sternum, he pumped with the heels of his hands before returning to the mouth, a mouth he had kissed so often in the past, and yet which he was now trying to use to save her life. Breathe, pump, breathe pump… he could not stop.
The others watched this ritual with fearful detachment before Troy gathered the courage to mumble, "Considering what we were going to do, this is sort of…"
A sharp elbow to his ribs from Brandon silenced him, and the looks Troy received from all the others were accusing and guilty, tacitly telling him that, of course, they weren't going to go through with his crazy plans.
Of course not.
Gazes were once more returned to Francis's frantic efforts on the ground; their thoughts were solely and fervently hoping he was going to be successful.
Chapter Thirteen
2012
It was paranoia, and only paranoia, that saved the life of Karyn Worthington.
At least, that was how Julian saw it.
But…
Julian sat behind his desk, not focusing on a laboratory report in front of him, written by one of his undergrad students but that he was sure he'd seen somewhere before. If he could prove it, the plagiarism charge would finally get rid of this kid and maybe make some of his so-called mates reconsider doing his subjects. Fresh out of one of the elite private schools—not Julian's old alma mater, thank goodness—and with that air of entitlement that he was growing unfortunately accustomed to from those children.
And which he now recognized as having been alive and well in himself and his friends when they had first come here.
His phone beeped, and he grabbed it from the desk beside him. "Can i go 2 Hannah hous?" the message read. Then another beep and the word, "Pleez?" appeared on the screen.
He stared at it, unsure just why he should suddenly feel so uneasy about something that had happened more than two dozen times this year alone. The two of them would get together under the pretense of doing their homework, and then spend the whole time making lip-sync music videos that he wouldn't know about until he checked out the HanKan97 YouTube channel, normally at the instigation of Karyn's younger brother, Brock, as he tried to get his sibling into trouble yet again.
Especially after that "Milkshake" video they did.
No, that wasn't the cause of the uneasiness. The songs Karyn had been incessantly singing just recently were a little older—Kylie Minogue hits from the 1980s and 1990s, of all things, after Hannah's sister had received a greatest video hits DVD of the Australian songstress for her birthday—and that was most likely going to be the current source of their inspiration.
This was crazy. Why was he obsessing about something so pathetic and minor?
He slowly stood, dropping the submitted paper to the top of the pile. That could wait. Whatever was on his mind was growing, and he could not concentrate.
No, there was no "whatever" on his mind. It was Karyn. Not Brock, not his wife, not his work, not his old friends, but Karyn. He stared at the messages again, then, before he could think about it, typed in, "Sure."
He subconsciously grabbed his satchel and slung it over his shoulder.
A third beep. "Thanx dad ur d BEST!" He smiled and locked his office behind him as he left the building.
Without looking where he was going, he scrolled through the apps on his phone and hit the Facebook icon. His page came up on the small screen, and he quickly brought up his family list. He tapped on Karyn's profile picture—taken the previous year with her face painted to look like a zombie—and watched as his daughter's page came up.
"Kickin' it old skool!" read the latest post with a link to the YouTube video of Kylie Minogue's "I Should Be So Lucky."
He reached the bottom of the stairs as a new photo appeared—his daughter and her best friend sitting on the bus in their school uniforms, their long hair swept up into side ponytails, the caption reading, "Ready 4 the 80s!" Still on the bus; that was good… wasn't it?
He strode briskly towards the staff car park, ignoring the incessant chatter of the students milling all around.
Another update—a three-second video on her Vine feed of the two of them singing off-key in the standard selfie pose, though, thankfully, without the ubiquitous duck-face. He smiled as he slid behind the wheel of the car, sticking a cigarette in his mouth and lighting it without so much as a second thought.
He stopped short, holding the key in his hands over the ignition. What was he doing? Without even really thinking about what he was doing, he had left work and climbed into his car, fully prepared to go and get his daughter.
She would probably never forgive him, no matter what excuse he came up with.
He closed his eyes even as he started the engine.
He couldn't help it; he had to keep going.
He plugged the phone into the car as he pulled out onto the road and headed east. The phone suddenly connected automatically as someone rang, the voice cutting in on the car's speakers. "Uhh, hello?" It was a male, exhausted and yet familiar to Julian's distracted mind.
"Yeah, Doctor Worthington speaking," he said mechanically, stubbing his cigarette out.
"This is Francis." There was a touch of relief to the voice.
"Hey, how are you?"
"Good. Actually, real good." He paused. "Chantelle, Luke's kid, just got out of surgery. She had a real bad turn this morning while Nate was with her." Even over the phone's poor connection, his inhalation of breath sounded deep; Julian knew now wasn't the time to interrupt. "She's pulled through. They think she might even finally regain consciousness in the next day or so. But the signs are so much better than before. They apparently missed a hole last time, so they went back in and repaired it. It's finally looking good."
"Thank God! Good news." Julian felt the smile creep across his face, and he shoved another cigarette in and lit it straight away. "How's Luke?"
"Yeah, good, good," Francis chuckled. "Nathan's in there with them now, but I thought I'd just let you guys know what's going on."
Julian paused before asking the next question. "And how's Randy?"
"Yeah, well, yeah." An icon flashed on the screen, and now Julian just wanted him to hurry; already, Karyn was posting things from Hannah's house. "I'll be seeing him
in around forty minutes."
"What do you mean?" A sense of dread hit him, hard and suddenly.
"The police are saying now they don't think Eric meant to commit suicide." Francis's voice took on a distinctly professional tone all of a sudden.
"What? But they found Eric in the shower, didn't they?" This was taking in the definite feeling of a dream. Good news, bad news—and all concerning his old friends.
"Yeah," Francis went on, breaking into his contemplations. "Randolph said he made sure Eric got into the shower okay, and then went to check on him when he thought he'd been in there for too long, even for Eric." He tried to laugh, but it was a hollow sound, made worse by the distance over the telephone. "Anyway, they didn't say Randolph slashed Eric's wrists or anything—at least, not as far as they indicated to me—but that he was aware of Eric's intentions and deliberately delayed going to him."
"That's fuckin' insane!" Julian almost swerved out of his lane as he thumped the steering wheel in anger and frustration. Weren't things bad enough without this as well?
"Yeah, well, that's what I'll be saying. But you can imagine what it's doing to him. First, his son, then this."
"Oh, Christ, I hope he doesn't do, doesn't…you know—Troy," Julian managed.
"That's what I'm afraid of, too." He sighed, a noise that sounded almost frivolous over the phone. "But, look, good news—it seems Chantelle's going to be fine. Let me deal with Randolph." He paused. "For now. But he is going to need your support, too."
Julian swung off the main road. "Yeah, sure, I understand. And thanks for letting us know."
"No problem." A brief, stupidly uncomfortable pause followed, then: "Catch ya later."
"Let me know how things go with Randolph, okay? Or better yet, see if you can get him to call me."
"Will do."
"See ya." He pressed the button to disconnect the call and concentrated on guiding the car the rest of the way to Hannah's house.
He parked across the road two houses down, not really sure what he was doing, and lit yet another cigarette. As he stared at his daughter's Facebook page, a new photo came up. "The stage," she had written beneath a photo of what looked like two card tables covered in old bedsheets. He grimaced; she surely couldn't be serious.
Another update, another video, this one from Hannah's Tout account: the two of them sitting on the makeshift stage. "Almost ready," Hannah said, her high-pitched voice grating on Julian as it always had and most likely always would.
"We're going to get dressed and then—video time!" Karyn laughed. Julian had trouble seeing the fifteen-year-old there; he could only remember the six-year-old who wanted so badly to do ballet and yet had run screaming from the stage on the night of her first recital.
A flash of white appeared between them.
"See you in fifteen, peeps!" Hannah squealed.
"HanKan97 on YouTube!" were Karyn's parting words before the video stopped.
Julian laughed a little under his breath, but his sense of panic had increased. He replayed the video. There was something about that flash of white…
He paused it, went through it at the equivalent of frame by frame.
It was one frame only.
A face surrounded by gold and white. Blurred. Fast. Bright.
Terrifying.
He left the car and walked quickly to the front door of the house, crushing the cigarette underfoot as he went. He didn't hesitate before knocking. "Doctor W!" Hannah's mother greeted. "What brings you here?"
He smiled sweetly. "It's a surprise, Tanya," he whispered conspiratorially. "I wanted to watch them make their video." Her expression indicated she believed him completely and wholly. And why wouldn't she? He was Dr. Julian Worthington, professor of applied and theoretical physics, father of Karyn, who was dux of her year level at school, his old school, now co-educational from reception through, unlike when he had been a student there. The school where his old friend's son was School Captain…and he suddenly realized that the surnames had never connected with him before. No, that didn't matter now. What mattered was that he was here and had just lied to Hannah's mother.
Tanya giggled, ushering him in, breaking into his thoughts. "I do that a lot. Come on, they'll be starting soon."
She led him to the large back shed and slid the bolt on a side door, which she opened a crack. It was more a junk room than anything else, though it had probably started its existence as the workshop of Hannah's surgeon father before work took over his life, as it did to them all. Tools were scattered everywhere, with half a motorbike in one corner, an old hoist attached to the roof, and boxes and crates of all sorts of objects piled up everywhere. The girls had set up their stage in the middle of a space they had apparently cleared themselves. The video camera was hooked up to a laptop and rested on top of a pallet of empty bottles, a half-deconstructed wooden bookcase between it and the stage.
"Here they come," Tanya whispered. The front door slid open, and the two girls rushed in. Both were wearing hot pants, which made Julian scowl a little, and tight, long-sleeved tops that showed just how pre-pubescent they really were. But he stayed his ground.
They spoke in hushed tones, then Hannah fiddled with the computer and camera before they climbed onto the tables, both of which shook uneasily as they gained their balance. The music started, and they performed their synchronized dance moves with the biggest grins imaginable on their faces. Julian could not remember the last time he had seen his eldest child having so much fun.
That very thought made him choke up a little.
It hit him.
A definite flash of white.
Julian was moving even before they had landed their jump that had turned them side-on to the camera.
The leg of the table collapsed.
Julian leaped forward.
Karyn didn't get a chance to scream as she tumbled sideways.
Julian's arms stretched out desperately, his eyes never leaving his daughter's falling body.
Her head slammed into his upper arm, driving the limb down and impaling the shoulder muscle on a trio of six-inch nails sticking out of the old bookcase, right where the side of Karyn's chest and the top of her shoulder would have been. His other arm wrapped around her, and he dragged her in close even as he cried out in agony. Karyn screamed in terror and pain, her face cracking against her father's arm and jaw on the rebound. The impact drew blood from her nose and mouth and created a swelling under her eye that ballooned straight away.
And Kylie Minogue's nasal voice continued to croon about how she should be so lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky…
1990
Francis walked slowly out of the school hall and stretched his body, trying to increase blood flow to his lower extremities after sitting at a small desk for three hours without a break. His head ached a little, but he was happy and more than merely satisfied with his afternoon's work.
"Hey, how'd you go?" came from behind him. He turned and smiled at Troy, who was following him outside.
"Yeah, pretty good, I think," he nodded before breaking into a broad smile. "One more exam to go, then that's that. No more high school."
"I've got two more to go, but, yeah—it's so close I can taste it!" Troy agreed. He sounded exhausted, like every other person in their year level.
They continued to move casually away from the hall, like all the other students filing out. Three hours of reading and writing continuously in complete silence, recalling dates and names, regurgitating a year's worth of knowledge, writing essays—everything a final examination was dreaded to be.
"Franky!" Both of them turned with a start and watched as a stunningly gorgeous girl jogged towards them. She beamed as she sidled up to Francis and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you," she said, her voice sincere, her smile completely genuine, and all for him.
Troy was stunned. What was Chelsea Hartog, the most desirable and beautiful girl he had ever seen, doing with Francis, destined to be Dux of the school, king of the nerds? A twinge of jealousy
rose abruptly in the pit of his stomach.
"So, you did well?" Francis was asking her, her beauty clearly the only thing he was seeing.
"Oh, hell yeah," she giggled, nodding and moving slightly so she now stood between Francis and Troy so that the only one of the duo in her line of sight was the boy she was talking to, shutting Troy out completely and effectively. This meant all he could see was her hair, gold in color, unbound and hanging down, styled like Christie Brinkley in Billy Joel's "Uptown Girl" video, only longer. His eyes drifted down the sun-yellow tresses to the narrow waist and rounded hips until they rested on her buttocks and the long legs that were barely hidden by the school dress she wore, as short as the rules could possibly allow.
"Got it all done?" Francis went on, ignoring his friend as effectually as the girl he was talking to.
She giggled again, the sound music to the ears of both boys. "Done and dusted with enough time to go over the essay." She grabbed him in a tight embrace around the neck. After a moment's hesitation, he responded in kind, gripping her about the waist, crushing her body against his. She pulled her head back and kissed him lightly on the lips, and they let go simultaneously and gazed at one another, smiling. "Thank you," she purred.
He shrugged, his face reddening in embarrassment. "It was my pleasure," he managed. "Really."
"I still don't really get why." She looked at him curiously. "I mean, you didn't have to." She bowed her head a little. "I thought you wanted to get down my pants, but you didn't even make a move on me like I reckon half the other guys would have done. And virtually no-one knew, so it wasn't even to make yourself look good. I still don't get it." Her eyes darted across to where two other girls were watching with some degree of confusion. "You didn't help Jazz or Sophe."