Rest In Peace

by Richie Tankersley Cusick

  “There must be something you like. Something you’re passionate about.”

  Dakota nodded. One corner of her mouth tugged down, and her pale eyes narrowed in thought.

  “There is something,” she admitted.

  “Well, tell me. What is it?”

  “You’ll think I’m strange.” Dakota hesitated, then sighed. “But then, of course, I am a bit strange, so you would be right.”

  Lucy couldn’t help smiling. “Just tell me.”

  “In here.”

  Abruptly the girl turned and led Lucy into the last of the upstairs rooms. This room was easily the smallest of them all, with an odd configuration of shelving much like a maze, reaching from floor to ceiling and completely obscuring the windows, with unexpected turns and dead ends, and no rhyme or reason whatsoever.

  “This is my favorite place,” Dakota said quietly. “This is my passion.”

  She leaned against the door frame as Lucy took a cautious step into the room. For several long minutes Lucy was silent, her eyes sweeping back and forth over the hundreds of titles around her.

  “Do all these deal with the supernatural?” Lucy finally asked. A tiny chill crept through her, raising goose bumps on her arms.

  “Some people call it supernatural. Some call it real.”

  “What do you call it?”

  Dakota moved slowly into the room. Her expression was thoughtful as she ran one hand along a row of old books.

  “Lucy, there are just so many things out there that can’t be explained or understood—not by our limited human perceptions, anyway. But those things still exist. They still happen. People are still affected by them . . . destinies are still controlled by them.”

  “Is that what you believe, then—that our destinies are predetermined?”

  “I believe in everything.” A thin smile flitted over Dakota’s face. “But the question is . . . what do you believe in?”

  “I . . . I guess I never thought about it.”

  “Witches? Zombies? Ghosts?”

  Lucy pretended to be studying some titles. Adamantly she shook her head. “I really don’t know much about any of that stuff.”

  “But you must have wondered about something in your life, right? Hasn’t anything ever happened to you that was just too bizarre for this world?”

  Lucy’s eyes shot to the girl’s face. “Why would you say that?”

  “Vampires? Werewolves? Spells and curses? Just because you can’t see what’s in front of you doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

  The chill spread to Lucy’s heart. She was wearing warm clothes, but she was beginning to shiver.

  “No,” she heard herself say. “No, I guess nothing like that’s ever happened to me.”

  “Oh, well.” Dakota seemed totally comfortable with Lucy’s reaction. “I warned you, you’d think I’m strange.”

  “I don’t. I don’t think that.”

  “This is the problem I face with my particular passion, you see. It doesn’t involve any sort of creative talent, and I happen to be the only one who believes in it.”

  Still stunned by Dakota’s revelations, Lucy watched her leave the room. Tell her. Tell her the truth. Maybe she’ll believe you. Maybe she’ll have some insights . . . maybe she’ll know how to help. But Lucy couldn’t say a word. Instead she could only stand there, trapped in a curious web of longing and denial.

  “Lucy, are you coming?” Dakota was poised in the doorway, watching her. “I guess we’ve put off studying long enough.”

  The two went back downstairs. Dakota cleared off a lumpy, well-worn couch by the front window while Lucy poured each of them a cup of strong coffee from the pot on the counter. Then the girls settled themselves at opposite ends of the sofa, with their notes and textbooks spread out between them.

  Somewhere between lists of required book reports and unsolvable math problems, Lucy’s attention began to wander. From time to time, she caught herself glancing over at Mr. Montana scribbling at his desk, or at the big round wall clock creeping interminably toward nine, or at Dakota’s head bent low over yet another school project. The shop was practically empty now. Through the half-fogged window, she had a clear view of the courtyard beyond.

  “You’re drifting,” Dakota mumbled, without looking up. “Only two more pages, I promise. Pay attention.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s incredibly boring.”

  Amused, Lucy tried her hardest to focus on the subject at hand. Dakota kept up a monotonous translation of French verbs. The bookstore was quiet now, and despite her megadose of caffeine, Lucy could feel herself getting drowsy. Her eyelids were heavy. With a halfhearted effort, she forced them open again and stared sleepily out the window.

  Night lay deep within the courtyard walls. Like diminutive candle flames, the fairy lights glimmered softly through the shadows. The shadows where someone stood watching.

  His face was near the glass.

  Staring in at her.

  And he looked just as she remembered, just as he had the last time she’d seen him, except for the bloodless pallor of his skin and his blank, hollow eyes.

  “Oh God . . .”

  She felt herself trying to stand. Trying to rise from the couch, trying to hold herself up and lean forward on shaky, unsteady legs . . .

  “Lucy?” Dakota broke off in the middle of a sentence, looking up at her with a quizzical frown. “Lucy, what is it?”

  And Lucy’s voice trembled out, no more than a whisper.

  “It’s Byron.”

  17

  “What?”

  The book fell from Dakota’s hands. As she jumped off the couch and reached out for Lucy, her eyes shot straight to the window.

  “What! Where?”

  But Lucy didn’t hear. She was frozen helplessly in place, unaware of anything now but a misty pane of glass and shimmering pinpricks of light and a blanket of nighttime shadows in the courtyard just outside . . .

  The deserted courtyard outside.

  “I—” From some dreamlike place, she felt Dakota trying to pull her down again. “Didn’t you see him?”

  “Lucy, there’s nobody out there.”

  “No, there is. Was! I saw him!”

  “Lucy?” Dakota tugged at her again. “Come on, sit down. Let me get you some fresh coffee.”

  But Lucy brushed her aside and ran for the door. Ignoring a startled glance from Mr. Montana, she hurried out to make a hasty search of the courtyard. A raw breeze swept down the alley, stinging through her clothes. It snaked through the wind chimes and played a macabre melody.

  “Byron?” Lucy called.

  You’re losing your mind; you know Byron’s dead.

  Yet she’d seen someone there.

  She’d seen Byron there.

  Lucy rushed from the courtyard and back out through the alley. She looked frantically in every direction, but the shops were all closed, as still and deserted as the sidewalks.

  And then she saw him.

  He was at least fifty feet ahead of her, head bowed, walking rapidly toward the corner. She could see his dark hair blowing wild across his shoulders, and the long, easy stride of his legs . . .

  “Byron!”

  Before she even realized it, she was following him, racing along the pavement, oblivious to the cold.

  He was turning the corner now.

  For one split second Lucy saw him hesitate, as though he might look back at her. He seemed to be listening to the pounding of her footsteps. Then he lowered his head again and disappeared.

  “Byron!”

  Lucy ran faster.

  As she came around the corner, she could see that Byron was moving faster, as well. His shoulders were hunched against the wind, his collar turned high around his neck. He cut across a parking lot, then headed for a gap between two buildings. It was all Lucy could do to keep up.

  Her breathing was ragged; her chest burned from the cold. As she entered the narrow opening, she caught a shadowy glimpse
of Byron at the other end of the alley. Once more he paused, but just for an instant, before stepping out into the dim light of a streetlamp beyond.

  “Byron! Wait!”

  Lucy burst from the passageway, her heart ready to explode.

  And then she stood there, staring in disbelief.

  The figure had vanished.

  From end to end, as far as she could see, the area was completely deserted.

  “No . . . no . . . it’s impossible . . .”

  She seemed to be in some sort of delivery zone. To her left stood a row of identical buildings, small loading docks, and Dumpsters, obviously back entrances to shops and restaurants. To her right was a fenced-in wooded area, which she guessed to be a park. The high spiked gates were chained with a padlock; there were benches and overgrown pathways inside.

  Maybe he climbed the fence. Maybe he left through the park. Yet Lucy doubted he’d had enough time to cover that much distance before she’d come out of the alley.

  My God, just listen to yourself.

  She was talking about Byron as if he’d deliberately led her here. As if he’d deliberately eluded her.

  She was talking about Byron as if he were still alive.

  But I saw him. I saw him!

  Lucy strained her ears through the darkness. The wind had gone still. It was so unnervingly quiet, she could hear the echo of her own heartbeat.

  So quiet . . .

  Too quiet.

  Suddenly she wanted to get away from here. For the first time it dawned on her just how foolish she’d been to follow some shadowy figure into an isolated part of town. He wasn’t Byron—of course he wasn’t Byron! And now he could be anywhere—close to her—watching her. The one in the cave . . . the one in her nightmares . . . the one nobody ever believed existed . . .

  Lucy turned and ran back.

  Back through the alley, back to the sidewalk, where she saw Dakota standing on the corner and looking frantic, trying to figure out where Lucy had gone.

  “Lucy! Thank God!”

  There was relief in Dakota’s voice. Relief and fear mixed together, as the girl ran up to her and caught her in a hug. “Are you okay?”

  “I saw him, Dakota. I’m not crazy.”

  “No, but you’re frozen. Come back inside.”

  “It was Byron.”

  “We’ll talk about it.”

  Reluctantly, Lucy allowed Dakota to lead her to the bookshop, where Mr. Montana was waiting for them at the door. He handed each of the girls a refill of hot coffee, then tactfully retreated to his desk.

  “Sit down.” Dakota steered her firmly to the couch. “Drink this. And don’t try to tell me anything till you stop shaking.”

  But Lucy was too upset to follow orders. “I’m sorry,” she blurted out. “I . . . I know it sounds impossible—”

  “No. It doesn’t.”

  “I know it sounds insane, but I really think it was him.”

  “It doesn’t sound insane.”

  “Well, of course, it sounds insane, Dakota. Byron’s dead!”

  Dakota sat beside her. She propped her elbows on her knees and wrapped both hands around her cup. She blew gently on her coffee. She stared thoughtfully at the floor. “If you believe it’s real,” she said at last, “then it’s real.”

  Lucy’s tone was bitter. “But haven’t you heard? I hit my head in the accident. I have flashbacks and I forget things. I’m prone to delusions, and I make things up. Most of the time, I don’t even know what I’m talking about.”

  “That’s crap.”

  Surprised, Lucy watched as Dakota looked up, took a cautious sip of coffee, then turned to face her.

  “You are not delusional,” Dakota said calmly. “You are brave. And you are gifted. And I am certainly not the person who’s going to think you’re imagining things.”

  Lucy hadn’t expected this. It was such a shock and such a relief that quick tears sprang to her eyes. For a long moment, she couldn’t even speak.

  “Weren’t you listening to a single thing I said upstairs?” Dakota went on. “I told you, I believe in everything.”

  “But you told me you didn’t see anyone out in the courtyard.”

  “I didn’t. But that doesn’t mean you didn’t.” Dakota blew on her coffee again. “Reality’s in the eye of the beholder.”

  “But what if you don’t know what’s real anymore?”

  Dakota’s gaze was steady and serene. “You know, Lucy. You have an aura about you . . . a special kind of energy I’ve never felt before. Except from one other person.”

  Mystified, Lucy stared at her. Dakota reached out and squeezed Lucy’s hand.

  “Byron,” Dakota said softly. “I felt it with Byron. He had a gift, and so do you. Only yours is much, much stronger. Maybe even stronger than you realize.”

  18

  “Dakota . . . what are you saying?”

  A hint of a smile crossed Dakota’s face. She tucked her legs beneath her and settled back against the cushions.

  “I remember the first time I saw Byron,” Dakota explained. “He came into the bookstore, and the whole atmosphere changed.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I told you . . . it’s like this individual energy that every person gives off. I didn’t know Byron then, but when he walked through that door, it was like a physical shift in the air. I knew there was something very different . . . very special . . . about him. But I never knew what.”

  Lucy gave a curt nod. She was fascinated by Dakota’s observations and wanted to hear more.

  “I’d heard stories about his sister, of course—being psychic, being a witch, being a fortune-teller. But people turn cruel when they don’t understand someone. And Byron was really protective of her. So I didn’t pay much attention to all the rumors.”

  Lucy felt tension building inside her. The temptation to blurt everything out, to reveal everything to Dakota was suddenly unbearable. Through sheer willpower, she forced her emotions down again, kept her face impassive, focused on Dakota’s narrative.

  “But with Byron,” Dakota continued, “something was definitely there.”

  “But . . . you don’t know what it was.”

  “No.” Dakota took a sip of coffee. “But I think you do.”

  Lucy looked out the window. She could hear the scrape of Mr. Montana’s chair, could hear him going through the shop turning off lights. She felt Dakota lean forward again on the couch.

  “Lucy, trust your instincts,” Dakota said urgently. “Don’t let anyone tell you they’re not true.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Dakota began gathering up their books and papers. It was almost as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened tonight, and Lucy sat for a few minutes longer, letting it all sink in.

  “Dad and I are stopping for something to eat,” Dakota finally said. “Why don’t you come with us?”

  “No, I really can’t. But thanks.”

  “Are you going to be okay?”

  Still avoiding eye contact, Lucy nodded. “I’m okay.”

  “Then we’ll at least give you a ride to your car.”

  Lucy was glad for the escort. This old section of Pine Ridge reminded her of a ghost town now, and her car was the only one in the lot.

  “Be careful going home,” Dakota warned her. “There’s a bunch of one-way streets around here, and it’s easy to get turned around.”

  Lucy watched the Montanas drive off. She let the motor idle and waited for the heater to warm up. Her thoughts were clamoring for attention, but she couldn’t sort them out. All she could concentrate on was the fact that Dakota hadn’t asked for any explanations, hadn’t expected any confidences, hadn’t questioned her sanity.

  Dakota had believed her.

  Hadn’t she?

  Lucy rested her cheek on the steering wheel. It had been so long since she’d felt validated by anyone that suspicions began creeping in. Maybe Dakota was just pretending. Maybe she was just some weirdo who enjoyed acting out s
upernatural fantasies. Maybe she was just trying to get close to Lucy so she could play another cruel trick on her.

  Yet Lucy didn’t think so.

  “Trust your instincts . . . don’t let anyone tell you they’re not true.”

  And Lucy’s instincts were telling her now that Dakota believed her. That Dakota was a friend.

  Sitting up straight, Lucy adjusted the heater and switched on her headlights. Then she pulled onto the street and started for home.

  It didn’t take her long to realize she was lost.

  Landmarks started looking way too familiar, and after an endless series of frustrating turns, Lucy saw that she’d been going in a complete circle. Come on, don’t panic—after all, this is a small town . . .

  She tried to recall the exact sequence of street names Dakota had given her. But despite her best efforts, Lucy eventually found herself in a neighborhood of run-down houses and broken streetlights, with no clue as to how she’d gotten there.

  Damn! Swearing under her breath, she looked for a place to turn around. The houses were spaced wide apart, the yards neglected and overgrown, with wide patches of shadows in between. As she started into a driveway, a dog suddenly lunged toward the car, barking furiously. Lucy jerked the wheel hard to the left. She felt the car swerve, then bump noisily over something piled along the curb. To her relief, she spotted a cul-de-sac at the end of the street and immediately stepped on the gas.

  One house stood alone in the cul-de-sac. An old Victorian surrounded by tall trees and clipped hedges and a picket fence without a gate. Though it had definitely seen better days, it looked more well kept than the other houses on the block, and a porch light cast a welcoming glow over the leaded glass in the front door.

  Lucy couldn’t help staring at it as she drove into the circle. She was still staring at it, in fact, when she suddenly became aware of the car leaning to one side and the slapping sound coming from underneath the front end.

  Oh, no . . . don’t tell me . . .

  Shifting into park, Lucy jumped out and gazed in dismay at the flat tire.

  Great. Now what am I supposed to do?