Clenching her teeth against another onslaught of pain, Lucy reached out for the candle. She pried it from the glaze of dried wax, then held it at arm’s length, moving it in a slow, deliberate arc.
She seemed to be in a cave. A small, denlike space with damp, water-stained walls and a low ceiling. About fifteen feet off to her left, the ceiling vanished completely into the pitch-blackness of a tunnel—while the same distance to her right, it sloped sharply upward before dead-ending.
No . . . not a dead end . . .
As Lucy’s gaze followed the angle of the ceiling, she realized it led to an opening—a tiny opening scarcely big enough to squeeze through, an opening she hadn’t recognized at first because it was covered up. But now she could see a hint of gray light around its edges, and a ragged hole near the bottom where part of the camouflage had blown away, and she realized that tree branches had been stacked up and wedged in from outside.
Someone had deliberately disguised the entrance to the cave.
To keep others out?
Or to keep me in?
A dank breeze snaked across the floor, threatening the candlelight and swathing Lucy in those strange and secret smells. But there was another odor she detected now—a much stronger odor than the one she’d noticed before. Something dead. Something spoiled.
Only bats, she tried to convince herself. Bats and rats and other creepy things that hid in dark places, shying away from the light. Or some wounded animal that had wandered in here once upon a time to die. Some poor creature, lost and trapped.
Trapped like me.
With sheer willpower, Lucy pulled herself to her knees. The feeble candlelight revealed several small puddles of water around her—black, shiny pools, shallow but thick. She could see dark splatters over the ground, and dark smears trailing back into the tunnel where her light couldn’t reach.
She drew in her breath and closed her eyes. She opened them again and swallowed down a sick taste of fear.
Clutching the blanket, Lucy worked her way slowly to the nearest wall. It took several moments for her queasiness to pass, even longer to stand up. The gloom spun around her as she braced against the stone. She forced herself to take three halting steps.
There was no time to lose.
Moving toward the front of the cave, Lucy spotted a pile of clothes lying directly in her path. She picked it up and ran her fingertips through the tangled shreds, relief giving way to disappointment. Her blouse—or rather, what was left of it—was completely useless. Her jacket was there, too—torn and stained, with one sleeve ripped away, but at least it was dry. Her jeans were missing. Also her socks. No shoes. No underwear.
Lucy eased her arms slowly, torturously, into her jacket. Then once again she wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and started walking.
Keep going. You can do it. One step at a time . . .
Her foot sank into something wet.
Wet and cold and slimy.
At once a stench rose into the air, the same foul odor she’d smelled before, except it was overpowering now, suffocating now. She jerked away, wiping her foot across the ground, and in the weakening candlelight saw one of the thick, black puddles she’d stepped in. She stumbled back, only to realize that the hem of her blanket had also trailed in the pool. Quickly she yanked it up again, losing her balance as her other foot slammed down on something small and furry.
She felt the sharp snap of tiny bones.
The gush of curdled liquid squishing between her toes.
Screaming, Lucy toppled over, landing hard on her stomach, fighting desperately not to pass out. As she lifted her head, she found herself staring into the dull, sightless eyes of a rabbit.
It had been dead for quite a while.
She could tell from the lolling posture of its neck, the jagged slash through its underbelly, the way it had been savagely gutted, leaving only a few strings of raw flesh and muscle and leftover entrails smeared across the bottom of her foot.
Lucy’s mind went dark.
As her fingers dug into the ground, the whole world turned upside down, and her brain exploded in a kaleidoscope of panic:
Running—racing—right left zigzag path—paws thundering silently—shadow swift—scent of hopeless terror—screams—shrill screams—breath razor hot—sprays of red gurgling bubbling—
One last look at the sky . . . one last smell of the pines . . . sweet woodland home fading . . .
Lucy’s eyes slowly opened. Shaking violently, she turned her head sideways and threw up.
The candle flared one last time.
As Lucy tried to reach it, to revive it for another second, the hot red wax dripped over her fingers, molding to her like a second skin.
As though her own hand was stained with the innocent blood of her vision.
2
It was madness, she knew.
Sheer madness to run, not knowing where she was or what lay outside the cave, not knowing where she could possibly go.
Sheer, utter madness.
Yet not nearly as crazy as staying here, Lucy reminded herself. Here in this place of death and darkness, not knowing when her captor might return. She knew now that those pools and splatters on the ground, those stains leading back into the tunnel, could be only one thing—and that much blood could never have come from one small rabbit.
What kind of person was she dealing with?
What kind of insanity?
Peeling the wax from her fingers, Lucy staggered to her feet and limped to the entrance of the cave. Her earlier suspicions had been right—someone had tried to cover it with brush and branches, but where some of the limbs had fallen away, she had a clear view of the world beyond.
Trees.
Trees as far as she could see. A leaden gray sky overhead. Ghostly gray mist . . . a solid downpour of cold gray rain. Lucy couldn’t tell if it was dusk or early morning.
He could be out there right now. Hiding. Watching. Waiting to see if I’ll try to escape. Waiting so he can catch me and bring me back again.
It was a chance she had to take.
Steeling herself, she began tearing at the barricade. The branches were heavy and cumbersome, most of them hopelessly entwined, and Lucy had to stop frequently to catch her breath, brace herself against the wall, will her dizziness away, and force herself not to cry out. The blanket slipped from her shoulders onto the wet ground. The few remaining buttons on her jacket were useless against the chill. Every simple movement was almost more than she could bear.
But at last she began to make headway. The opening grew larger; she could see more of the woods beyond. The rain fell harder, and as she stopped once more to catch her breath, she gathered the soggy blanket and shoved it through the opening. Not much protection, but better than nothing. She watched it land in a puddle on the other side, and then, gathering all the strength she could, Lucy squeezed through after it.
The ground was frozen. The wind was raw. Her whole body recoiled from the shock of the elements, and for several agonizing moments all she could do was lie there, sprawled in the mud where she’d fallen. Something slid down over her left eye, and she managed to pull it off. She remembered feeling a strip of cloth there earlier. Now she could see that it was a bandage, and that it was soaked with blood.
My blood? Oh God . . . how bad am I really hurt?
With cautious fingers she touched the swollen places on her forehead, the ragged edges of split skin, the crustiness in her hair. She choked down a fresh wave of horror and stumbled to her feet, then pulled the blanket around her and began to run.
She had no idea where she was going. She simply plunged into the woods, ignoring the dizziness in her head, the weakness in her knees. Her body felt like a stranger’s body as she tried to drag it through the forest, tripping over the soggy blanket, crawling through the mud and underbrush, forcing herself up again. She could see her breath—short gasps of pain hanging frosty in the air—and her nose was running, and her tears seemed to freeze upon her cheeks. H
er heart thudded in her ears, and every clumsy footstep seemed to echo around her, causing her to look back in terror, certain she was being followed.
Don’t stop—run! Run faster, run harder! Run for your life!
But run where?
Lucy was completely lost. Like a liquid dream, minutes flowed into hours, and then into no time at all. The woods were endless. With so many twists and turns, she wondered if she might even be going in circles. It was definitely growing darker. She couldn’t feel her feet anymore. As she glanced down to see if they were still at the end of her legs, she realized that the blanket had fallen off, though she didn’t remember dropping it.
It doesn’t matter! Keep running!
She tried to hold her jacket around her, but her arms had gone numb. Through the steady rush of rain, she was aware of trees like phantoms, and the dying brilliance of fallen leaves, thick cushions of pine needles, and the ups and downs of hills that went on and on.
She wanted to give up.
To collapse and simply lie there, to close her eyes and drift away.
Better to die out here than back in the cave. Better to die on her own terms than at the hands of some maniac.
She paused a moment, breath sharp in her ribs, trying to peer off through the dense maze of trees. Surely there was a house out here somewhere—a farm, a cabin? Surely there must be a pathway or a road? She thought about screaming for help, but decided against it. She doubted anyone could hear her above this rain, and if her captor had returned by now to find her missing, she couldn’t take the chance of giving herself away.
Lucy turned slowly in all directions.
There must be a way out—there had to be a way out!
And then her body went rigid with fear.
A shadow?
Had she seen a shadow just now . . . off to the side of her . . . slipping through the woods?
Seconds crept by but she couldn’t move, could scarcely even breathe. Of course she’d imagined it. The rain was playing tricks on her. It was just leaves swirling to the ground, branches swaying in the wind, some startled animal taking cover between the trees.
That’s all it is, Lucy. That’s all.
Rallying her courage, she forced herself to go on. Then stopped again, almost immediately.
She hadn’t imagined it—she was sure this time!
A dark silhouette through the foggy rain, just a glimpse as it glided up the incline about twenty yards away, then vanished behind some rocks.
Lucy’s heart ricocheted into her throat. A bear? Yet it seemed too graceful, too fast to be a bear. And the vague, unsettling shape of it . . . something so dangerous . . .
So familiar ...
The low stone wall behind Irene’s house . . . the woods, the deserted road at the Fall Festival . . . the large, murky figure darting in front of Byron’s van . . .
“Oh God,” Lucy whispered. “Oh God, please help me!”
In sheer panic she began to run. Mindless now with terror, exhausted beyond reason, she stumbled deeper and deeper under cover of the forest, never even noticing the sudden glimmer of light just ahead of her. As Lucy plunged through the trees, the ground disappeared without warning.
There was a dreamlike sensation of falling, of floating, before she suddenly slammed back to reality and rolled down the side of the hill. The earth was soft where she landed, but her body screamed on impact. She lay there, too stunned to move, her breath completely jolted out of her. Against her icy cheeks, the flow of blood felt warm and almost comforting.
Cautiously, Lucy tried to lift her head. She was lying in tall dead weeds, and as she moaned softly and squinted through her pain, she imagined she could see a dirt road not five feet away.
Her head fell back again. She closed her eyes against the rain and tasted blood trickling into the corners of her mouth.
And then she heard a sound.
A sound like an engine, like a car.
Tears came to her eyes, and she pinched the skin on her arm, pinched it hard to make herself wake up, because she knew she couldn’t bear one more nightmare, one more disappointment.
But the sound was still there.
And it was coming closer.
With her last ounce of strength, Lucy dragged herself onto the road. She tried to lift one arm, tried to give a feeble wave as the car bore down on her. She knew the driver probably couldn’t see her through the rain, through the dusk, and as the headlights blinded her, she braced herself for the shock.
There was a loud squeal of brakes, a wet skid of tires.
And then a door opening . . . hands on her shoulders, turning her over, rearranging her jacket, smoothing back her hair.
Arms lifted her. Carried her without the slightest effort, then settled her gently onto the backseat.
And then, as she finally surrendered to blissful unconsciousness, Lucy heard soft words whispered through the dark.
“Remember to look both ways, Lucy. It’s a dangerous road you’re on.”
3
“My meeting will probably run late tonight, Lucy. Will you be all right here alone?”
Startled, Lucy glanced up to see her aunt standing in the living room doorway. With one quick movement, Lucy managed to hide the piece of paper she’d been holding, slipping it underneath some magazines stacked beside her on the couch.
“I’ll be fine.” Lucy forced a smile, even though her heart gave a sickening clench. Of course I’ll be fine, I’m used to it; even when you are here, I’m still alone. But still, she couldn’t keep from asking, “Are you sure everything’s locked?”
“The house is completely secure, I’ve told you before. And I’ll set the alarm on my way out.”
But it didn’t matter how many times Irene had told her, Lucy never felt entirely protected, never entirely safe. She merely pretended each time to be reassured by her aunt’s promises, because she knew Irene would never believe her if she told the truth. Neither Irene nor anyone else would ever believe that something, or someone, was after Lucy. Sometimes Lucy wasn’t even sure she believed it herself, yet the nagging dread was always there, like a shadow over her shoulder.
And anyway, Lucy told herself, where else could I go?
Her aunt turned to leave, hesitated, then faced her again. Like a robot, Lucy thought, more cold and withdrawn than ever. As though Angela’s disappearance had added a final layer of distance to those steel barriers around Irene’s heart. Lucy couldn’t help wondering how differently things might have turned out if that relationship between stepmother and stepdaughter hadn’t been so strained. But speculations were pointless, and now she watched curiously as her aunt’s lips twisted into a tight semblance of a smile.
“Did Dr. Fielding mention your going back to school?” she asked, and Lucy nodded.
“Yes. On Monday.”
“He feels it’s best for you to get back into a normal routine. I agree with him.”
Of course you do. Out of sight, out of mind.
“He called me this afternoon.” Irene seemed to be struggling for conversation. “He says you’re doing well. He says you’re coming to terms.” Another uncomfortable pause, and then she straightened. “You should eat. Fix yourself something in the microwave. There’s pizza. Angela always . . .”
Abruptly her aunt walked away. Lucy waited for the sound of the back door to close, then jumped up and went systematically around the house, checking windows, double-checking that shades were drawn and curtains were closed, inspecting locks and deadbolts and the security system. Then, as satisfied as she could be that the house was impregnable, she sat down again and pulled out the paper she’d hidden.
Angela, Lucy thought miserably, where are you?
She stared down at the crumpled poster. A poster of Angela, just like the ones she’d seen plastered all over town.
With a weary sigh, Lucy snuggled deep into the couch and leaned her head back against the cushions. No one had seen or heard from Angela since that Saturday night of the festival, the night
of Lucy and Byron’s accident, that strange and fatal night just over a week ago.
Things like this don’t happen. How many times had Lucy told herself that in the days following the tragedies? Things like this happen only in movies. Happen only to strangers. Things like this don’t happen in real life, not to normal people.
But I’m not normal anymore, she had to remind herself now for at least the hundredth time. Not since she’d wandered into the cemetery that night and found Katherine. No matter how much she tried to pretend, nothing would ever be the same again, and it had taken Byron to convince her of that.
Byron . . .
She’d cried buckets of tears, cried until she couldn’t cry anymore. The guilt was more than she could bear—the doubts, the regrets, replaying those last moments of Byron’s life. Her heart and soul felt empty. So empty, in fact, that she often found herself wondering if maybe she had died, too, and that this strange half existence was but a lingering dream. Her salvation had become a cold sort of numbness, a distancing of herself from both memories and emotions. This was the only way she’d been able to survive.
The only way she would ever be able to survive.
Reaching over, Lucy lifted a mug of cocoa from the end table, then tested the foamy marshmallows with her tongue. The chocolate was sweet and hot, but did little to warm the chill inside her. As she took a cautious sip, her gaze returned to the small poster she’d placed in her lap.
MISSING: HAVE YOU SEEN ANGELA?
Looking back at her was a color-copy image of Angela’s face, taken from her senior class photo. Those perfect cheekbones and flowing black hair, that model-perfect smile. I wonder where that smile is now? I wonder if she even can smile?
Lucy fought off the familiar waves of guilt and set her mug back on the table. Then she put the poster aside, drew both knees up to her chin, and wrapped her arms tight around them.
“Not your fault,” Dr. Fielding would say if he could share her thoughts now. “Circumstances beyond your control,” he’d remind her, and “You can’t keep torturing yourself.”
Good old Dr. Fielding. Aunt Irene’s personal choice of prominent friends, who was supposed to be helping Lucy through the nightmares, helping her to readjust, helping her to come to terms with all that had happened.
Rest In Peace Page 2