Rest In Peace

by Richie Tankersley Cusick

  Dakota had been tactful enough not to even mention Lucy’s haggard appearance. She’d merely stopped by Lucy’s locker to ask if she felt better this morning, making casual small talk, putting Lucy at ease, smiling that Mona Lisa smile of hers. At least that’s how Lucy had begun to think of it—that slight, mysterious curve to Dakota’s lips that hinted of secrets known but never shared. Now, as Mr. Parkin took attendance, Lucy turned and shifted her attention to the desk behind her. Dakota was wearing knee-patched overalls again, fuzzy socks with beat-up sandals, and a leather bombadier’s jacket. Between the layers of scarf and the droopy hat, Lucy couldn’t even see the girl’s eyes.

  Like most of the class, Lucy drifted through the morning announcements. Despite her best intentions, she could feel paranoia creeping in again, as her eyes darted around the room, as she wondered how many of her classmates might have conspired against her to set up last night’s charade. Was it just her imagination or was everyone trying not to look at her? Were kids smirking at each other, trying not to laugh? And had Dakota been telling the truth about what people really knew? The girl seemed to have a handle on things here at Pine Ridge High—if there were any other rumors going around, Lucy sensed that Dakota would be honest about them.

  The bell rang again, signaling first period. As everyone spilled out into the hallway, Dakota tugged on Lucy’s sleeve.

  “See there?” she mumbled.

  Lucy saw. Matt was standing just outside the administration office, jotting in a notebook, and talking earnestly with a small cluster of female students.

  Dakota tugged her arm again. “There hasn’t been this much sexual excitement around here since Mr. Enright took over the chemistry lab.”

  “Are you talking about Matt? I mean . . . Father Matt?” she quickly corrected herself.

  Dakota’s tone was solemn. “I have to admit—he’s very hot.”

  “He’s also a priest.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s dead.”

  Lucy opted for another look. Matt was all business again today—properly religious from head to toe. Yet those faint streaks of sunlight still showed in his hair, and his grin was still easy and warm, and his eyelashes still lay long and thick against the fading tan of his cheeks.

  For the first time Lucy really noticed the vast number of girls in the hall, moving at a snail’s pace despite the sound of the bell. It was obvious from their faces that holy vows of any kind were not uppermost in their thoughts at the moment.

  “So are you trying to tell me he’s your type?” Lucy couldn’t help teasing.

  “No. I’m just trying to tell you that’s he’s too hot to be a priest.”

  “As hot as Mr. Enright?”

  “Hotter. Mr. Enright’s gay.”

  As the girls continued to watch him, Matt suddenly glanced up, recognized Lucy, and waved. Immediately heads began to swivel in her direction. Embarrassed, Lucy took Dakota’s arm and moved her rapidly down the hall.

  “He’s nice, though,” Dakota observed. “And he looked kind of worried about you.”

  “I . . . he’s just trying to help me through some stuff. You know . . . like he’s trying to help everyone else.”

  “Well, I’m glad he took you home yesterday. You shouldn’t have tried to drive by yourself.”

  Lucy felt a tiny ripple of uneasiness. “How’d you know he took me home?”

  They’d reached their classroom by now. Dakota paused outside the door and began unwinding her scarf.

  “Come on, this school can’t be that different from your old one. You know how information gets around. And besides”—she leaned forward with a conspiratorial whisper—“you can’t expect to keep something a secret when Father Matt announces it to the whole office.”

  “It’s not a secret,” Lucy insisted. But it did help explain all the weird looks she’d been getting this morning. And maybe it explained something else, as well . . .

  The whole office . . . the whole school. Which means anyone could have found out I was alone yesterday. Anyone could have planned to scare me, anyone could have put that stuff in the car. Just a cruel joke. Just a mean trick, like Matt said.

  But what about the call from Angela? Could someone have managed to sneak into the house? Tamper with the fuse box? Rig the telephone somehow? Imitate Angela’s voice?

  Please let it be that. Please let it all be just a trick.

  “Ladies, you’re not going to learn anything lounging out here in the hall. Except, perhaps, bad posture.”

  As the teacher’s voice broke into her thoughts, Lucy jerked back to the present. Dakota was already halfway through the door, and Mr. Timms was motioning Lucy to follow.

  “Sorry,” Lucy mumbled. She slid quickly into her seat, trying to figure out what the biology assignment had been for today. She couldn’t even remember now if there’d been homework last night, much less if she’d done it.

  She watched as Mr. Timms began listing various body parts on the board. At the next table over, Dakota was digging through her knapsack, the brim of her baggy hat practically obscuring her eyes.

  Lucy took out her notebook. She hadn’t even begun to catch up on all the schoolwork she’d missed so far; she didn’t have the slightest idea how she was ever going to manage it. Not with so many tests looming on the horizon, and definitely not in her current state of mind. Sighing deeply, she clicked her pen, opened her notebook, and flipped to the next blank page.

  And that’s when her heart stopped.

  For an endless moment her heart stopped beating, and the blood chilled solid in her veins.

  She could see the words scrawled there, in large messy letters.

  In strokes that had dried to a dark reddish brown.

  Words meant for her . . .

  And for her alone.

  VERY SOON, LUCY

  15

  “Please—isn’t there any way I can get in to see him?”

  Lucy stood in the office, shifting anxiously from one foot to the other. She watched as the secretary consulted a schedule. Lucy clutched her notebook tight against her chest.

  The woman looked up with a regretful smile. “I’m sorry, but—”

  “It’s very important. Please. Very important.”

  “What I’m trying to tell you is that Father Matt’s left for the day. But the other grief counselers are still here. Perhaps you’d like to speak with Father Paul? Or Dr. Kauffman?”

  “No. No . . . I ...” Lucy stood for a moment, unsure what to do. Her mind felt blank. The notebook felt heavy in her arms. “Thanks anyway,” she mumbled.

  “I can schedule you for tomorrow,” the secretary offered, but Lucy was already out in the hall.

  Maybe this was a bad idea after all, showing this to Matt. Because what could Matt do about it anyway? Calm her down again? Try to convince her it was just another spiteful joke? And maybe it was, Lucy argued with herself. Maybe it was just another vicious prank. If she freaked out about it, then whoever had done this awful thing would win—again.

  But what if it’s not?

  And what does it mean?

  Had she been right about her unknown captor following her back to Pine Ridge? Knowing where she lived? Taunting her with those things in Angela’s car? He could have found her notebook in the house last night and written his message then. And if she was right, who was going to help her? Who was going to protect her? If the police and the doctors hadn’t believed her before, they certainly weren’t going to believe her now.

  How she longed for someone—anyone—to believe her.

  Her resolve to keep silent had weakened with last night’s incident. Her determination to handle things on her own had become shaky. Matt had listened to her, stayed with her, offered halfway sensible explanations—and though she’d been thoroughly frustrated at the time, it had felt so wonderful to have the burden lifted and shared, if even for just an hour or so.

  She wasn’t sure how much longer she could go on like this. Recalling the real-life nightmares. Str
uggling to stay sane. Feeling so terrified.

  Being so alone.

  But if she broke down and confided in Matt, would he die, too? Like Katherine? Like Byron? And what could she tell Matt, really? What could she expect from him if she didn’t even know what she was dealing with?

  Oh, Byron, I’d give anything to have you back again.

  More depressed than ever, Lucy stopped at her locker. There wasn’t anything she could do about the notebook now. She’d have to deal with it later—decide in the meantime whether or not to show it to Matt. She was late for class as it was. The bell for second period had already rung, and the corridor was deserted. She threw her notebook inside and was fumbling with the combination lock, when she heard laughter and running on the stairs.

  The cheerleaders were late for practice, Lucy supposed. The whole uniformed group of them, with pom-poms in hand, making a beeline for the door at the end of the hall. Lucy drew back as they passed, and her eyes immediately landed on the girl with the short-cropped hair.

  Wanda Carver.

  She’s going to die on Thursday.

  Lucy’s heart pounded. She felt herself step forward. Lift her arm to wave. Open her mouth to speak.

  On Thursday.

  She stood and watched the cheerleaders head off toward the gym. Her hands were shaky as she rechecked the door of her locker, tested the lock just one more time to make certain it was secure.

  What am I thinking? I must be crazy.

  Trying hard to compose herself, Lucy walked slowly to class. She got a lecture for being tardy and flunked a test she’d completely forgotten to study for.

  She didn’t know if she could survive school until the weekend.

  And it was only Tuesday.

  16

  I’m going to show Matt the notebook.

  Lucy sat in the kitchen, both elbows on the table, chin propped in her hands.

  No, I’m not.

  Yes, I am.

  She’d struggled with the decision all day. She hadn’t been able to concentrate on anything else. And when school was finally over, she’d half expected the notebook to be missing from her locker, just like the jacket and blanket from Angela’s car.

  But it was still there, right where she’d left it. She’d shoved it down in her backpack, wedged it in tight, as though by trapping it there, she could end all the torture once and for all.

  It was after six now. Irene hadn’t come home yet, and as Lucy hunted for a memo pad, she kept glancing over at her backpack by the door. She didn’t want to touch that notebook again, at least not till Matt had seen it. She didn’t even want it in her room. As soon as Matt read the ominous message, she planned on throwing the notebook away. She could always copy Dakota’s notes later.

  In fact, that’s where she was going tonight—to the bookstore to study with Dakota . . .

  “I can’t believe your aunt leaves you alone so much,” Dakota had told her that afternoon. She’d insisted on giving Lucy a ride home, and they’d been on their way to the parking lot. “Don’t you two ever do anything together?”

  Lucy’s laugh had been humorless. “She hardly even talks to me. And since Angela’s been gone, she’s been more distant than ever. She keeps Angela’s room closed up. And all she does is work.”

  “Aren’t you scared to be there by yourself?”

  “Sometimes.” But then, as Dakota’s eyes had searched hers, Lucy had given in. “Actually . . . most of the time.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Lucy had tried to smile. “The weird thing is, I was never afraid before. We lived in the city, in a walk-up apartment, and there were lots of times I stayed alone. My mom was a teacher. Sometimes she had school things to do at night, or meetings kept her late. It just never bothered me.”

  “There’s my truck,” Dakota had said.

  It was big and old and clunky and even more beat-up than Dakota’s knapsack. It had probably been cherry-red once, beneath all the dents and rust and scratches. And there was an odd assortment stowed in the back—a toolbox without a lid, two fishing poles, a laundry basket full of books, a gasoline can, and a small wicker rocking chair tied down with rope.

  When Lucy tugged on the passenger door, Dakota had given it a hard shove from inside.

  “Tragedies change us, don’t they?” The girl’s look had been intense as Lucy settled beside her. “We’re never the same people we were before.”

  How true, Lucy thought now, climbing into Angela’s car. She mentally reviewed the directions Dakota had given her and headed into town.

  As her friend had predicted, the snow had all but disappeared, leaving streets and sidewalks a wet, muddy mess. Lucy drove slowly, watching for landmarks and street signs on the way. She’d never actually visited Pine Corners—the old section of Pine Ridge—and though a lot of places were open tonight, they didn’t appear very busy. The four-block area allowed only foot traffic; there were parking lots at each end and curb parking in nearby neighborhoods. After several trips around the perimeter, Lucy finally found a spot on one of the adjacent streets, then set off briskly to find the bookstore.

  Souvenir shops . . . art galleries and local crafts stores . . . cafés and coffee shops and an all-night diner—Lucy passed row after row of charmingly restored buildings, keeping a lookout for the alley she was supposed to take. There were a lot of alleyways, in fact, each of them quaintly named and squeezed inconspicuously between shops, where Lucy could glimpse tiny courtyards and miniature gardens beyond. After making a turn onto Candlewick Lane, she finally found the bookstore. It looked older than the other buildings—narrow, two stories high, and not nearly as well kept—but the door and windows and droopy awnings sparkled with strands of tiny white fairy lights, giving the place an almost magical quality. A curious assortment of lawn furniture and statues filled the small enclosure—stone elves and birdbaths, gargoyles and angels, all adorned with the same twinkling decor. And hanging from a clothesline were thirteen wind chimes, clanging out the most discordant harmony she’d ever heard.

  Opening the door, Lucy went in. The first thing that struck her was the smell. A warm, musty smell of worn bindings and brittle pages, old leather and aged wood, damp wool coats and wet shoes, dust, a hint of mildew, and the strong rich smell of coffee.

  The second thing she noticed were the books. Books everywhere. Shelves of books, tables of books, books stacked in corners, piled carelessly on the floor. Overstuffed chairs holding books instead of people. Books on the front counter and the rolltop desk behind it, and books on the staircase at the back of the room.

  “Welcome to the eighth wonder of the world,” said a familiar voice.

  Turning, Lucy saw Dakota standing beside her, balancing a stack of books in her arms.

  “I’ve never seen anything quite like it,” Lucy agreed.

  “Yes. We work very hard to maintain our reputation for clutter. Oh—Lucy, this is my dad.”

  Lucy instantly saw the resemblance. Though very tall and lanky, with wire-rimmed glasses and an absentminded smile, Mr. Montana had the same red hair and blue eyes as his daughter. He welcomed her to the store, encouraged her to get some coffee, and made her promise to come back again. Then, as a telephone rang, he obligingly transferred Dakota’s books, excused himself, and hurried away.

  Dakota raised an eyebrow at Lucy. “He’ll tell you the exact same things next time you come, so don’t be offended. He never remembers anybody.”

  “I like him. He seems really sweet.”

  “He is, but he makes me crazy. Come on—I’ll give you the grand tour.”

  Dumping her coat and backpack behind the counter, Lucy followed Dakota through the rest of the shop. There were two more equally cramped rooms downstairs, and Dakota kept up a running dialogue as the two of them tried to maneuver their way around browsing customers and through tightly packed aisles.

  “We try to categorize everything,” Dakota explained, pointing things out as they went. “Keep all the genres together, make things
easy for customers to find. But we just don’t have enough space.”

  Lucy could see what she meant. Shelves bowed beneath their heavy loads, and baseboards were lined with boxes overflowing their contents.

  “We’re already double-shelving, so the rows are two books deep. And people hardly ever put stuff back where it belongs. So lots of titles end up in the wrong places.”

  “How do you keep track of everything?” Lucy asked in amazement.

  “We don’t. If we ever tried to clean behind those shelves, I bet we’d find books that have been missing for years.”

  The second-floor rooms, though every bit as crammed with books, were far less occupied with people. The light seemed dimmer up here; the rooms more stale and cold. There wasn’t space enough for even one chair.

  “What’s that?” Lucy asked, pointing to a door with a KEEP OUT sign.

  “Oh, that goes to the attic. We have a little office up there, but mostly it’s just more books.”

  “Impossible.”

  “My mom keeps talking about moving to a bigger place. A newer store.” Tilting her head, Dakota straightened the lopsided sign. “My dad keeps holding out for character and atmosphere.”

  “Do they both work here?”

  “My dad, full-time. He’s a writer, so this is perfect for him when business is slow. My mom’s an artist. In fact you probably passed her gallery on your way. It’s about five doors down.”

  Lucy was impressed. “It must be great to have such a creative family.”

  “Not if you’re the only one who’s not creative.”

  “Come on, I don’t believe that.”

  “It’s true. My sister’s an awesome photographer; my brother’s in a rock band and writes his own music. I’m the middle sibling who got completely passed over when it came to talent.”