by Potter, Ryan
His translucent hand grabs the back of my neck and squeezes hard. William’s fingertips feel like they could easily dig through my skin and crush my bones. I close my eyes and sense his open mouth centimeters from my lips.
Listen to me, Alix.
There’s increased anger in his voice as he continues squeezing my neck.
I need your help. I’m just trying to convince you that everything you think you’ve always wanted might not be your true destiny after all. Will you help me find my killer or not?
He releases my neck, and I sense him backing away a few feet.
“What about the guy who threw me into a closet and told me to stay away from Perennial?” I say. “And I’m pretty sure he’s the guy who texted me after I visited your clever little blog. He told me I should have listened and stayed away.”
You just answered your own question. If you say no, you stay away and nobody bothers you anymore. But I need you, Alix. I need you more than you realize. If my murder remains a mystery, a killer walks the streets, and I live a tortured existence on this side. I was no saint. I admit that. Vagabond despises me. I’m nothing but a pawn to him. He says you’re capable of great things and that your gift can possibly help a lot of innocent people against evil. The only thing in it for me is that I might figure out who killed me.
“Where can I find Vagabond?”
You can’t find Vagabond. Nobody can. Vagabond finds you.
“But who is he, William? Is he human? Is he something else?”
I’m afraid I can’t say anything else. But your curiosity is obvious, meaning you’ve already agreed to help solve my murder.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll need information from you. What do you remember about the night you died? Did you do something to piss off Face? Was Aruna your girlfriend?”
His loud, annoying laughter fills the space around us.
“Stop laughing, William. Please just shut up.”
I clench my jaw and close my eyes until he stops.
I’m sorry, Alix, but you’re grasping at straws. Desperation and ignorance make anybody unattractive, even somebody as beautiful as you. Besides, the game doesn’t work that way. I can’t give you any information. You have to solve the mystery using your brilliant mind and developing abilities. Vagabond’s orders. Again, he needs to know how good you can become. If I reveal too much, the deal is off, and we all lose. I’m sorry, but you’re on your own.
“I can see what you stand to lose, not knowing who killed you. But what would I lose? Nothing as far as I can see. As you said, I’ll just go back to my nice, boring, predictable life.” I pause. “Lots of people in this world would love to have something like that.”
Nice try, Alix, but your interest in all this surrounds you like a bright, shining halo. This is the most important puzzle of your life. You have all the pieces you need. Go solve it. Our time is up for tonight.
“Wait,” I say, not wanting to lose his presence and voice. “What about Lewis Wilde? He seems different. Can I trust him? He said you two were friends. It’s the only question I’ll ask you.” I pause and take a deep breath. “Can I trust Lewis?”
I feel William’s mouth close to the side of my neck. I close my eyes as his warm breath travels around my throat and the nape of my neck before settling on my lips.
Lewis was a good friend, Alix, but loyalty has different meanings to different people.
My eyes remain closed as his fingertips caress the sides of my face. A warm, tingling sensation washes through me in reaction to his touch. I imagine Lewis’s hands doing the same thing and soon find myself thinking other things about Lewis that surprise me.
“I need to know you’re real and not a dream, William,” I say, unable to resist his hands as they travel gently down my neck, arms, waist, and outer thighs. “Please,” I whisper, “I want to help you, but I need to know you’re real. Lewis is real. Are you real, William?”
Of course I’m real, Alix. I’m William Weed. I’m your Dream Guy. Open your eyes and see for yourself.
***
I gasp and awaken bolt upright in bed, my sheets and pajamas once again damp with sweat. I sense something at the foot of the mattress but can’t see anything in the dimly lit room. I rub my eyes and slide my glasses on.
William Weed stands over my bed, hands folded in front of his waist, the slightest smile on his beautiful face. It’s the William from the blog photo, and he’s absolutely stunning, shirtless in his black cargo shorts, taller and even more muscular than I imagined. He’s there for less than a second; not long enough for me to get a closer look at his tattoos; not long enough for me to ask him to remove the sunglasses and backwards baseball cap.
I blink once, and then he’s gone. But William is real. I know this now. I’ve agreed to play a dangerous game, a game that can kill me if I’m not careful. As crazy and un-Alix-Keener-like as it sounds, this is a game I know I must play. As Vagabond told William, it was no coincidence I ended up living in his bedroom. Up until now my parents have planned my life for me. I loved Mom. I love Dad, and I would never do anything to hurt him. But something is happening to me—something that reaches beyond the so-called normal world. I have new, developing abilities I need to explore; abilities that can help people; abilities that both excite and terrify me. I have otherworldly abilities that can fight evil. The universe is enormous. In the grand scheme of things, humans are specks of dust. There is so much more out there.
Strange. Although I’ve never met Vagabond, I find myself eager to impress him. He’s obviously part of something special. When it comes down to it, I’m really not much different from my father. Dad is a cop fighting the bad guys, and it looks as if I’m heading down a similar career path. Except something tells me my stage will be far larger than his. I need to solve William’s murder. Not only for William, but because I want access to whatever special club Vagabond is considering me for.
Of course, it also occurs to me that I’m falling in love for the first time, and it happens to be with two different guys. One object of my affection is a mysterious fellow senior who lives down the street. The other happens to be a ghost who by all accounts was quite a bad boy when he was alive.
Chapter 9
Wednesday, September 5
The second day of school is surprisingly normal for a high school that just lost its finest teacher to a horribly violent death. I’d been checking the hallways all day for any sign of Lewis’s amazing face, but I didn’t see him until sixth-hour history class, where a long-term substitute named Mr. Frank Dobbins introduced himself at the front of Mr. Watkins’s former classroom on the second floor and awkwardly explained his approach to teaching the course. Although he pointed out more than once that he was no Marc Watkins, he insisted he would teach the independent study just as Mr. Watkins would have done, a fact all ten of us appreciated. Basically, this means we get to select and research our own narrow, instructor-approved American history topic for the entire semester, which is exactly what independent learners want.
Mr. Dobbins, a tall, stocky man in his late thirties, looks professional in his navy-blue suit and reminds me of a retired football player. Despite the overall jock-like aura he gives off, he seems like a nice, fair teacher, as good a replacement for Mr. Watkins as any, I suppose. I also sense that the high intelligence levels of, and ultra-nerd vibes given off by, the ten select students in this class intimidate him. I find that awesomely funny.
“Any topic ideas yet?” Lewis asks.
We’re near the back of the classroom, desks facing each other as we brainstorm research proposals during the last twenty minutes of class. Mr. Dobbins circulates the room, stopping and conferencing with students, tapping notes into his tablet now and then. For all I know he’s checking sports scores or messaging a girlfriend or something.
“Nothing,” I say. “I still like yours, by the way. I love the science link with the DNA too. Famous Unsolved American Murders and the Likelihood of DNA Evidence Helping to Solve Them.” I smile.
“Wow, Lewis. I can already see the title on the cover of some well-respected historical journal. I’m jealous I didn’t think of it myself.”
“I’m starting with the Donner Party.”
“Gross,” I say, laughing and adjusting my glasses. “Back in the nineteenth century, some California pioneers got snowed in, starved, and eventually ate each other, right?”
“Actually, there’s a lot more to it than that,” he says, his aqua-green eyes melting part of me every time they connect with my own. “The cannibalism is the mystery part. I’d like to figure out who ate who, if anybody, although DNA evidence is probably useless in the Donner Party case. Still, you have to admit that it’s one cool story.”
Mr. Dobbins gives us a strange look and moves on to another pair of students. When his back is to us, Lewis and I cover our mouths to muffle the laughter.
“On a somewhat related note,” I say, gathering my composure, “I have a favor to ask you.”
“About cannibalism?” he says, smiling.
“No,” I say. “About murder.” Lewis must sense my sudden seriousness, because his smile fades and he stares right through me. “I believe you about William getting murdered and not killing himself,” I add in a hushed tone. “I think we should do something about it. But I can’t do it alone. I’m asking you to help me solve his murder.”
Lewis’s gorgeous mouth opens slightly. Then he rubs his face with his hands as if he doesn’t believe what he’s just heard.
Clasping his hands in front of his chest, he looks me dead in the eyes and says, “Alix, you have no idea—” He cuts himself off, shakes his head, and studies the room to ensure nobody is listening in. “Listen to me,” he continues, quieter now, gaze back on me. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, okay? Willis was into bad stuff with bad people. I know because I was there once, remember? I got clean, and he didn’t. There’s a reason why I told you that stuff on the porch last night about the Beaconsfield police covering up his death. I wanted you to mention it to your dad, okay? He’s the cop, Alix. Not you. And he’s not a Beaconsfield cop either. Everybody knows Clint Keener does hardcore undercover federal shit, so I was thinking he might have some power to look into Willis’s so-called suicide.” He shakes his head as if it’s full of cobwebs. “Jesus, are you insane or something? Drug people will kill you if you start sniffing where you’re not wanted.”
“Wait a second,” I say, struggling to keep my voice low. “What about all that stuff about me finally starting to discover who I am? You said that last night, right after I mentioned Oval City, Aruna, and Face. It felt to me like you were trying to convince me to get involved.” I pause and think about William. “Like it was my destiny or something.”
Lewis closes his eyes and tilts his head back. “All one big misunderstanding, Alix.” He exhales deeply and opens his eyes. Around us students begin gathering their belongings in anticipation of the dismissal bell. “I’m sorry if I misled you. I didn’t mean to. I was simply hoping you’d mention things to your dad.” He pauses. “Well, everything except me knowing where your bedroom is.” He smiles. I don’t. “Right,” he says. “Wrong joke at the wrong time. Sorry.”
“Maybe I don’t need my dad on this one,” I say, drawing a few glances from my peers. I wait for them to look away before whispering, “I know what I’m doing. Trust me. But I can’t do this without your help.” I dig into my pocket and drop a yellow sticky note with my phone number written on it onto his desk. He glances at it but leaves it lying on the desktop. “I’m going to Oval City tonight,” I say. “I’d like you to be my tour guide.”
“Bullshit you are,” he says, pointing an index finger at me. “If you go there, there’s a good chance you might not come back, especially if you’re nuts enough to drive that new Explorer.”
“Then wish me luck,” I say. “I’m leaving around eight. With or without you.”
The dismissal bell rings. Lewis and I stare at each other as the class files out.
“Just one question,” he says, standing. “Why? You live in Beaconsfield, Michigan, and you’re sitting in one of the best high schools in the country. I get the sense you can choose the university of your choice. You don’t seem like a drama queen. You say you lose it and flip out every now and then, but who doesn’t? What I’m saying is that you have a perfect life with an amazing future in front of you.” He shrugs. “So why does a sweet, beautiful, wholesome girl like you want anything to do with something as ugly as Oval City or the death of William Weed?”
I ponder his solid questions for few moments. Then I say, “Like I told you last night, there’s something happening to me. I’m questioning things for the first time in my life.” I pause. “And it has everything to do with what happened in my bedroom two years ago. We need to bring justice to William. People can’t just get away with murder.”
When the room empties, Mr. Dobbins gives us a good-bye wave before entering a tiny office connected to the front of the classroom and closing the door. Lewis reaches for the sticky note and shoves it into his front pocket.
“So, I’ll hear from you later?” I ask.
Lewis nods. Barely.
I’m turning to leave when he says, “Alix?”
I stop and turn in the doorway. “Yes?”
“Bring a weapon,” he says. “Nobody goes to Oval City without one.”
My heart pounds, my knees are on the brink of buckling, and it takes everything I have to keep a straight face as I nod and walk away.
Chapter 10
I’m too nervous about tonight’s trip to Oval City to go home to an empty house, so I drive through the snobby downtown Beaconsfield shopping area and make an impulsive decision to stop at Zeppelin Coffee, the small, independent coffeehouse where Dad buys his fancy coffee-geek beans and accessories. In a city full of high-end chain stores and expensive boutique shops, Zeppelin Coffee is easily the coolest retail outlet.
The downtown streets are old and narrow, paved with newer red bricks that are supposed to look old but don’t. Despite that poor design decision, downtown Beaconsfield is actually quite beautiful. Enormous planters overflow with cascading flowers and hang from every lamppost. Mature trees line the streets. Old brick structures mix with newer, modern designs, creating a mixed-use area of high-end residences and ground-floor retail space that draws huge numbers of shoppers and gawkers from all over metro Detroit. If you could remove all the arrogant rich people, the place would be perfect.
There’s never daytime parking available at the metered street spots, so I drive through a tight alley around back and barely manage to wedge the Explorer into one of five tiny spots reserved for Zeppelin. Maneuvering an SUV through spaces originally designed for much smaller vehicles is a real pain sometimes.
It’s a hot and humid afternoon. Walking through the deserted back lot, I wipe sweat from my brow and decide I’ll order a large, unsweetened iced coffee. What’s odd is I’m not a coffee geek at all. I’ve only had a handful of iced coffees in my life, but for some reason I feel like I’m supposed to be here right now. It’s as if I’m following somebody else’s program, a feeling I’ve never had before and suddenly don’t like.
I’m approaching the shaded, narrow concrete walkway that separates the coffeehouse from the neighboring building when my attention shifts to a green Dumpster to my right, directly behind Zeppelin Coffee. The blinding white light and subsequent vision slice through my mind like the clearest, most vibrant HD film imaginable.
I stop in my tracks and place my palms on either side of my head. It all happens so quickly. It’s new. It’s terrifying. It’s exciting. Imagine a bright flashbulb filling your head and revealing a crystal-clear display. It’s showing the future, I realize. Seconds from now. I’m seeing what others can’t.
There’s a girl hiding behind the Dumpster. I see her in my head. She has no clue I know this, but she’s waiting for me. She wants to surprise me. Is she a threat? I can’t tell, but she does seem desperate.
Wait. Th
ere’s more. She’s sick. Really, really sick. She needs help.
I know who she is. I’ve never seen her face before, but her name pops into my head after another blast of the mental flashbulb.
“Aruna?” I say, lowering my hands and preparing to defend myself as I step toward the Dumpster. There’s still no sign of her, but she’s back there. “Aruna? It’s okay. You can come out.”
She stumbles out from behind the Dumpster and nearly falls onto the walkway, before managing to lean a deathly thin arm against the Dumpster for support. Aruna’s shoulder-length dark hair is disheveled, matted, and dirty. She’s way too pale. Her glassy eyes and lack of coordination make it clear she’s in another world, stoned beyond belief. She’s wearing a wrinkled, black tank top and tight, tattered black jeans. I see small red marks up and down her arms. Needle marks, I realize. Right now she’s the most un-Beaconsfield-like creature in Beaconsfield.
And this once-beautiful girl is dangerously close to death.
“Hey there, special new girl,” she says, slurring her words. Her voice is annoyingly high pitched, and whatever she’s high on makes her giggle at the end of her sentences. “Face said you’d know who I was.” Another giggle. “But how did you see me? I thought I was hidden pretty damn well, if I do say so myself.”
I’m trying to read her and hoping for another vision, but I get nothing. Five feet separate us. She’s not carrying a bag or any other accessory, and her tight clothing doesn’t reveal any hidden weapons. Still, her unstable state worries me, so I clench my fists and keep them at my sides.
Aruna notices and says, “No, no, no, special girl. You got me all wrong. I’m not here to fight. You’ll get plenty of that later.” Giggle. “I’m just a messenger. You know what they say—that thing about not shooting the messenger or whatever. That’s me, okay?”
“Aruna, you need help,” I say. “Can I take you to a doctor?”