Rest In Peace
Page 13
“I couldn’t do that. It’s really nice of you, and I appreciate it, but . . .”
“But what?”
“But I just couldn’t, that’s all.”
After a second’s hesitation, Dakota reached over and squeezed Lucy’s hand. “I don’t know everything you’ve been through, Lucy. And I know this is none of my business. But I don’t think you should be alone right now. So promise me you’ll at least think about staying over.”
“Yes.” Lucy forced a weak smile. “I promise.”
“When’s she leaving, anyway?”
“Next week sometime.”
“Well, you’d definitely start eating at my house,” Dakota informed her. “My mom and dad are both great cooks. And I bet you’d sleep, too.”
“I sleep now.”
But Dakota wasn’t fooled. Releasing Lucy’s hand, she leaned even closer, a wise sadness in her eyes. “Be honest with me, Lucy—when’s the last time you really slept? A sleep without nightmares . . . a sleep without pain?”
And Lucy couldn’t answer.
Because she truly couldn’t remember . . .
She’d stayed awake till morning.
Still restless from her need to be outside, Lucy had paced her bedroom in the dark, and she’d stared out for hours through the sliding glass doors. She’d sat on the bed with her arms wrapped around her, trying to give herself comfort. And she’d rocked back and forth, back and forth, but it hadn’t lulled her to sleep.
As if she hadn’t had enough on her mind already.
After Matt brought her home, she’d had more than enough to think about, a whole new set of fears to consider. She’d felt numb and strangely distant, as though her emotions belonged to someone else. For a while she’d held the medallion Matt had given her, turning it over and over in her hands. Then she’d put it in the drawer of the nightstand and collapsed on her bed, shutting her eyes and trying desperately to shut out the rest of the world.
A world she no longer trusted or understood.
A world of questions without answers.
The message in her notebook . . . Byron’s face at the bookstore window . . . a series of wrong turns leading her straight to the Wetherly house . . .
And Byron’s grandmother . . . Byron’s reflection in those sad, dark eyes . . .
How did she know my name?
Lucy had lain there, too exhausted to move, and praying for sleep. Deep, senseless, peaceful sleep. Kind sleep . . . sleep without dreams.
But of course she hadn’t slept.
Not then.
Not while those questions and conjectures had continued to rush blackly through her mind, like bats swarming at dusk from their cave.
Byron must have mentioned her, she’d decided.
At some point, Byron must have mentioned Lucy’s name to his grandmother—or described her, maybe—and that’s how his grandmother had known.
Yet how could Lucy explain the rest of it? Like her tire going flat, so conveniently near Byron’s house? And Byron’s grandmother recognizing her from countless other blond-haired, blue-eyed girls who might have happened to knock on her door?
“Mrs. Wetherly was propped up in bed, almost as if she’d been waiting for us. She didn’t even look surprised. Just so sad . . . calm . . . resigned, almost.”
Matt’s words had come back to her then.
Matt’s account of the night Byron died—when Matt and Father Paul and the sheriff and doctor had all gone to tell Byron’s grandmother the news.
Could it be true?
Yielding reluctantly to her memories, Lucy had opened her eyes and stared hard at the ceiling. Byron had told her once that his grandmother had psychic powers, the ability to “know” things other people weren’t privy to. Could it be that Mrs. Wetherly had expected Lucy to show up there?
Could it be that she led me there deliberately?
The idea had been too chilling to contemplate.
So Lucy had gone into the bathroom and run a hot shower. She’d stood there under the steamy spray, but her mind had continued to fret.
Should I go back to Byron’s house? Tell his grandmother how much he helped me, how much he meant to me?
Or should I stay away from there forever?
And even beneath the soothing flow of the water, Lucy had felt bruised and battered by indecision.
How much does Byron’s grandmother know about me? How much did Byron tell her? Does she know about Katherine’s horrible death? And how I found Katherine that night in the cemetery, and how Katherine changed me forever?
Lucy had leaned her head against the shower wall, picturing Byron’s house again. The second-floor windows had been dark, she remembered. Windows where Katherine had stared out at an unsympathetic world . . . windows that had become Katherine’s prison.
And suddenly her heart had ached for Katherine.
Ached and cried for Katherine.
Not only for the girl’s heartless death, but for the life she’d been denied. Denied because of her powers. Denied because of her gift.
“A gift sometimes . . . but also a curse,” Byron had called it.
And now it belonged to Lucy.
And as the shower washed away her tears, she’d wondered about her own life and the strange direction it had taken.
And she’d asked herself—as Dakota had asked her in the bookstore that night—just what did she believe in?
“Hope,” said Dakota, and once again Lucy looked at her friend in total bewilderment.
“What?” Lucy asked.
“The candlelight vigil. As an expression of hope.” Dakota was standing up now, closing her knapsack with a tolerant smile. “Lucy, I’ll be glad to go over all this again when you’re back on the planet.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just so out of it today.”
“Candlelight vigil,” Dakota repeated patiently. “For Angela. Tomorrow night in front of the school.”
“Whose idea was this?”
“Some of her friends on the cheerleading squad. At least that’s what I heard.”
“Does my aunt know about it?”
“I’m sure someone plans on telling her. Do you think she’ll come?”
Lucy shrugged. “I’ve given up thinking what she might or might not do.”
The two headed off to class. They were just rounding a corner near the office when Lucy spotted several of the cheerleaders standing together, handing out flyers.
“Those are the notices,” Dakota mumbled. “For the vigil tomorrow night.”
As they got nearer, Lucy’s heart began to quicken. She recognized one of the girls as Wanda Carver, and she stopped uncertainly in the middle of the hall.
“What?” Dakota stopped, too, her expression puzzled. “What is it?”
“Nothing. I’m okay.”
“You sure?”
Lucy nodded. But her heart was beating faster now, and she could see Wanda starting toward her, one hand extended, passing Lucy one of the printed announcements.
Lucy stood frozen. Wanda was looking at her strangely, as strangely as Dakota was, and Lucy couldn’t move, couldn’t move even though she wanted to, even though she wanted to turn and run and never touch that paper that Wanda was touching . . .
But Wanda thrust the flyer into her hand, and Lucy had to take it. Had to take it and pretend nothing was wrong, while the quick, sharp flashes of danger strobed darkly through her brain.
“Lucy? You did this last time—what’s wrong?”
And she could hear Dakota’s voice so close to her as she whirled around and started away, away from the curious stares and away from the feeling of tragedy . . .
She’s going to die on Thursday.
“I have to go back,” Lucy said.
Breaking from Dakota’s grasp, she pushed her way through the packed corridor. Wanda didn’t even see her coming, not till Lucy was right beside her and leaning in close to her ear.
“Be careful,” Lucy whispered. “Be careful tomorrow. Please.”
“You could get hurt. You could fall and get hurt. Just please be careful.”
“Get away from me! Are you crazy?”
Lucy pulled back. Wanda and her friends were staring at her with undisguised contempt, and Lucy’s cheeks flamed in embarrassment.
“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I just . . . It’s a mistake. Sorry.”
Turning on her heel, she ran to catch up with Dakota. But her heart was still pounding.
And the images in her mind had gone hopelessly black.
23
She and Dakota had almost been late for class.
Which is a good thing, Lucy reminded herself wryly.
There’d been no time for Dakota to question Lucy’s strange behavior, no time for Wanda Carver to mortify Lucy more than she already had.
Still, by the end of the day, Lucy couldn’t help noticing more curious stares and secretive whispers aimed in her general direction.
Lucy Dennison. Certified Nut Case.
She wished she could just go straight home and hide, but she’d already had to beg a ride from Dakota. Angela’s car was waiting at Glen’s Repair, and after that, Irene had asked her to pick up some dry cleaning.
“We can do that first,” Dakota offered, coaxing her truck from the school parking lot. “It’s right next to the soup kitchen where I volunteer.”
Lucy was impressed. “Do you really? I’ve always wanted to do that. What’s it like?”
“Interesting. And humbling. It definitely keeps me grounded.”
“Do you feed a big crowd?”
“Not like a lot of places, thank goodness.” Dakota raised an eyebrow. “Pine Ridge is pretty affluent. But we have our share of homeless. You get to know the regulars. And then there’re the ones just passing through town.”
“So when do you work?”
“Saturdays mostly. But around holidays or when it’s really cold, I work during the week, too.”
“Do you think I could help out sometime?”
Looking genuinely pleased, Dakota nodded. “We’d love to have you. Would you like to stop by now and see it for yourself?”
“That’d be great.”
As Dakota continued to drive, Lucy lapsed into silence. Several minutes passed before she cast her friend a troubled look.
“Dakota, I need a job.”
She’d halfway expected shock at this announcement. At the very least, reminders about her aunt being one of the richest people in Pine Ridge. Dakota, however, kept her eyes on the road and creased her brow in thought.
“Doing what?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Something useful.” Shifting in the seat, she gave her friend a hard stare. “The thing is, Irene keeps telling me to use her credit cards. I don’t want to ask her for anything. But there’s stuff I need. And I don’t have any money of my own.”
Dakota’s voice was quiet. “I understand.”
“So do you know of anything?”
“Well . . . shops around here always need part-time help around Christmas. But they usually snap up the college kids first.” She paused, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. “My dad might know of something. And I’ll ask around, too. There’s bound to be someone out there who needs you.”
“You mean, they’re just waiting for me to come along and walk right through their door?” Lucy couldn’t help teasing.
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
The smile faded from Lucy’s face. “You’re really serious.”
“Of course I am. You should know that by now.”
“So you really believe that somebody who needs one particular job done is waiting just for me—out of all the other people in the universe.”
Dakota’s glance was solemn. “Lucy,” she said, “there are no coincidences.”
Lucy frowned, a sliver of uneasiness shin nying up her spine. Dakota’s eyes shifted back to the windshield and stayed there the rest of the way. When they finally pulled up in front of the dry cleaner’s, Lucy grabbed Dakota’s arm before the girl could get out of the truck.
“Aren’t you going to ask me?” she demanded.
Dakota gazed back at her, those pale blue eyes calm on Lucy’s face.
“Ask you what?” Dakota murmured.
“You know. About Wanda Carver. About those weird spells I have. About what happened today.”
“Do you want me to?” Dakota countered softly.
“Well, don’t you think I’m crazy like everybody else does?”
That hint of a smile drifted over Dakota’s mouth. She rested her hand on Lucy’s.
“You’re not crazy. You’re a person with many secrets. And secrets should never be told until their time. And when they’re ready to be told, then you’ll tell me.”
Lucy didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.
“Come on,” Dakota said, shoving open the door. “Let’s go sign you up.”
Lucy instantly felt at home.
As Dakota showed her around the soup kitchen and introduced her to the staff, Lucy knew she’d made the right decision about volunteering. She hadn’t felt such a warm, welcoming atmosphere since moving to Pine Ridge.
Not since her mother had died.
“See?” Dakota looked almost smug as she guided Lucy through the oversized pantry. “These are wonderful people. You fit right in.”
“Thanks for letting me join.”
“No. Thank you.” Taking Lucy’s arm, Dakota led her to the main dining area. “Come on. I’ll show you how we do the serving line. Just think of it as your friendly neighborhood buffet.”
The room was practically empty. Three elderly women in threadbare coats sat at a table in one corner, chuckling over some shared bit of gossip, their raggedy shopping bags beside them on the floor. They waved to Dakota as she passed them, then went on with their conversation. Behind the serving counter, Dakota pointed out the contents of shelves and explained portion sizes, while Lucy listened attentively. She scarcely even noticed when the front door opened and the disheveled figure slunk in.
“Okay, here’s someone,” Dakota murmured, glancing toward the approaching stranger. “Perfect time to practice.”
“Now?” Lucy asked hesitantly.
“Of course, now. Here. Just do it like I showed you.”
Nodding, Lucy picked up a ladle and waited for the man to take a bowl. Dakota walked to the end of the counter where a few pieces of chocolate cake still remained in their baking pan.
“Hi,” Lucy smiled, as the man stopped in front of the huge soup kettle.
For a moment he paused there, head lowered.
And then he looked up at her.
Dear God . . .
Lucy’s fingers dug into the ladle, the smile frozen on her lips. For one panicky second she wondered if she’d actually been able to keep her face expressionless, if she’d managed to keep the revulsion from showing in her eyes.
His cheeks were scarred, this man standing before her—scarred and festering with sores. Across his forehead and through the matted beard on his chin, Lucy could see pus oozing out beneath big, wet scabs. Long hair lay over his shoulders in greasy strands. His body was rail-thin, his weary shoulders slumped, and the odor emanating from his tattered clothes made the bile rise into Lucy’s throat.
She hastily tried to collect herself.
But she couldn’t look away from his eyes.
His eyes . . .
At first glance she’d guessed him to be young—somewhere in his twenties, perhaps. And yet his eyes were old.
The eyes of a very old man.
Eyes of vast experience. Intelligence and cunning.
Tragedy . . . but survival.
And as Lucy peered into their rheumy depths, she felt an unnerving shiver pass through her.
“Hi,” she heard herself mumble again.
Beneath his coarse mustache, she thought he might have smile
d. Rotten teeth and foul breath.
His eyes flickered dimly . . . some emotion she couldn’t read.
Lucy plunged the ladle into the pot. Her hand was trembling, and she glanced up to see the man still watching her.
His hand was trembling like her own.
Trembling as he held out his empty bowl, waiting for her to fill it.
A rush of pity went through her. Pity and an understanding of his soul.
On his face . . . in his eyes . . . through the quivering of his hand, Lucy recognized the depth of isolation. The aching loneliness and despair. The qualities that kept him distant and apart.
Before she even realized what she was doing, she’d reached across the counter, taken his bowl, and in its place, laid her hand in his.
“I’m so glad you came today,” she said softly.
He gazed at her in silence.
A penetrating silence as he slowly squeezed her hand.
Lucy’s breath caught in her throat. For the space of one heartbeat, the air seemed to swell and split around her, as though something in the very atmosphere had changed.
Her head grew light.
Her skin flushed warm.
And from some very distant place came the burning familiarity of a deep, insistent ache . . .
“Lucy?”
Startled, Lucy turned toward the sound of a voice.
Dakota was standing beside her, easing the ladle from Lucy’s clamped fingers.
“I think you’ve stirred that soup long enough,” Dakota teased. “Save some of your strength for next time.”
Lucy’s eyes quickly scanned the room. Except for the three women still talking in their corner, all the tables were empty.
“Where’d he go?” Lucy asked.
“Who?”
“The man who came in to eat.”
“He left about fifteen minutes ago.” Dakota gave her a funny look. “Didn’t you notice?”
“I . . . I guess not.”
“Now, that’s what I call being involved in your work.” As Lucy stared down at the counter, Dakota stepped back, studying her with a thoughtful frown. “But you’re upset, aren’t you? About that man.”
Lucy didn’t answer. Her hands felt cold now, her mind hazy—as though she’d just awakened from a dream.