Blind Spot

by Laura Ellen

  “That’s reassuring,” I mumbled.

  “You’ll be fine.” She began putting an identical receiver on Mr. Dellian. “If things look dicey in the car, get away from him and call me. You have your cell phone?”

  “That’s the backup plan? Get away and call you?” I shoved my phone in the front pocket of my jeans. “What if he’s going one hundred miles an hour? What then?”

  “If he’s going that fast, we’ll have cause to stop and arrest him for speeding. Relax, okay?” She nodded at Greg. “Keep your eye on her.”

  “Oh, I will,” Greg said.

  “Now when you get there with Jonathan, you go straight to the apartment, even if you haven’t recorded any info from him yet, okay? Abbey will open the door; Heather will be visible from the doorway in the other room. As soon as Jonathan’s seen her, Rodney will confront him. You come inside then. You hear me? Rodney will do the rest.”

  A sudden gasp from Abbey interrupted the detective.

  Heather had emerged from the bathroom wearing Tricia’s cloak, her eyes deep black circles, her face a pasty white. For a split second it really did seem as if I was looking at Tricia’s ghost.

  “How’d you do that?” I said. “You look so . . . real.”

  “I know, right?” Heather said. “Missy’s a goddess with the makeup.”

  “Well done, Miss Cervano,” Mr. Dellian said. He put his arm around Abbey’s shaking shoulders. She’d started to sob.

  No one spoke. I’m sure we were all thinking the same thing, though. How sobering it was to have Heather standing there as Tricia’s look-alike, when the real Tricia would never get a chance to stand there.

  Determination and anger overtook me. This plan had to work. Jonathan had to fry for everything he’d done. He was nothing but a user. He had used Tricia and then just thrown her away. Heck, he’d used us all in one way or another, all to serve himself. I wasn’t going to stop until I had recorded a confession from him for something. I didn’t care what. As long as his ass was sitting in jail, I’d be happy.

  “It’s nearly six,” Greg said. “I should get Roz home before he gets there. Fritz? You coming with me?”

  “Yeah.” Fritz moved his chair toward the door. Heather bent down to give him a hug. “Be careful,” Fritz whispered.

  The slight tremble in Fritz’s voice tore at my confidence again. I expected it from Greg—anything out of his control made him nervous—but Fritz? He was Mr. Daredevil. Maybe this was a bad idea. If something went really wrong, would we be okay? Could the police keep Heather and me safe? I pulled the collar of Greg’s borrowed shirt up to my nose, hoping to reclaim some of that calm I’d had earlier.

  As if reading my mind, Mr. Dellian put an unexpected arm around me. “Don’t worry, Miss Hart. You’re a survivor. Use those instincts of yours.” He held out a small canister. “Pepper spray, just in case,” he said. “We both know the law can’t always protect us.”

  Pepper spray? What the hell was I doing heading into a situation that might require pepper spray? “Thanks,” I said, willing my voice to be steady despite the sense of horror that was taking place inside me. I clenched the spray in my fist and gave the room a shaky smile. “Break a leg!” I told Heather, then followed Fritz and Greg out the door.

  On the way to my house, Greg and Fritz made small talk about the weather while I rolled the pepper spray around inside my palm, going over the plan in my head.

  “I recorded a playlist for you,” Greg said as he walked me inside.

  “I’m going to be talking to Jonathan, not listening to music, Greg.”

  “I know. Actually it’s just one song.” He pushed “play” and handed me an earphone. “‘Roswell’s Spell’ by Chevelle.” He blushed. “It reminds me of you.”

  I put it up to my ear. The music was harsh and shrill and . . . perfect. Anything softer would’ve made me lose it. “Thanks.” I handed the player back to him.

  “No, keep it,” he said, “until this is over.” He tried to hug me.

  I pushed him away. If I let myself feel his arms, I’d crumble. If I crumbled, I’d never go through with this plan. “I can’t,” I whispered. My voice cracked. Tears came to my eyes.

  “That’s okay,” he said, walking backwards toward his car. “We can save that for later too.” He opened his car door and looked at me. “Be safe, Roz. For me?”

  Waiting inside for Jonathan proved too claustrophobic. The plan plowed through my mind like a freight train, over and over, on a never-ending track. The more I thought about it, the more the walls seemed to close in on me, until there didn’t seem to be enough air for my constricted lungs to breathe.

  I went outside and tried swinging on the porch to derail my thoughts. The motion made me queasy. I stopped and tried listening to the song Greg had given me. The loud, abrasive music, perfect only moments before, contributed to the chaos in my head. I ripped the earphones out and tried to just breathe.

  Greg made several approaches in his hovercraft of a car while I waited. Although I couldn’t see him, I could picture him, that intense look on his face as he passed. The image was enough to shoot blast after blast of unwanted adrenaline through my veins until my body was so overdosed, I thought I’d explode.

  “I just want to get this over with already!” I fingered the corner of my shirt, folding and refolding the cotton material while I waited.

  The bass vibration warned me before the flash of red sped down the street. I slipped Greg’s MP3 player into my shirt pocket and, with an all-too-familiar rush of panic, stood up. I groped my back pocket until I felt the pepper spray, and then walked toward Jonathan’s car.

  “I saw Loser driving around the neighborhood,” Jonathan said. “What’s his deal?”

  Showtime. I rolled my eyes and tried to sound annoyed. “He’s mad.” I climbed into his car. “I told him we were going to see Tricia, and he kind of got pissed.”

  Jonathan grinned. “A little jealous, huh?” He threw the gear into reverse and squealed out of the driveway. A few seconds later, he glanced in the rearview mirror. “Loser’s tailing us.”

  Before I had a chance to respond, Jonathan slammed his foot on the gas pedal and floored it. Instead of turning right toward Heather’s, he yanked left. We flew through two stop signs and an intersection, and then barreled down a side road.

  “Ha!” Jonathan checked the mirror again. “Loser!” he screamed out the window. As if Greg could hear him. He was now miles away in a cloud of dust.

  I peeled my fingers off the armrest. “You didn’t have to do that. He was just—”

  “Stalking you? You don’t need a loser like that following you. It’s creepy.”

  You’re creepy. I wanted out of the car. Away from Jonathan. I was wrong. I couldn’t do this.

  I looked out the window for the familiar purple blob. Greg was long gone, frantically searching the route to Dellian’s, while we sped along in the opposite direction. “You can turn around now. I’m pretty sure you lost him.”

  “Oh, I know I lost him.” He grinned at me. “Forgot to tell you. Change of plans.”

  “What?” Change of plans? He couldn’t change plans. I was making the plans, not Jonathan!

  “You know Dellian won’t let me talk to Tricia if I go there. So I e-mailed her, told her to meet me at our spot.”

  “Your spot?” Oh God. What was I supposed to do now? Where was he taking me? “What if she doesn’t check her e-mail? Shouldn’t we go by the apartment first? I could go in, tell her where to meet us.”

  “Already got that covered, Beautiful.”

  Covered? I was really starting to freak now. If Greg had been there, he’d have a quote for me about best-laid plans. Why hadn’t I come up with Plan B? Why hadn’t the cops? Oh wait, that’s right. There was a Plan B. What had Detective King said? Get away and call?

  I glanced out at the houses and trees zooming by the window. Great advice. Jump at this speed? How fast was he going? Sixty? Eighty? Could I survive that?

 
He slowed a bit as he changed lanes. My chance to get out.

  I clutched the door handle.

  Took a breath.

  But I couldn’t open the door.

  What if my head hit the concrete? Or the car behind us ran me over? I rubbed the cold metal between my fingers, debating. Stay in danger, or jump into danger?

  He took the on-ramp to the highway and sped up again. Crap. We were heading out of town. Going fast again, too fast to escape.

  Now what? We’d lost Greg. No one knew where we were going. Even if Abbey thought to read Tricia’s e-mail, nobody would know where Jonathan and Tricia’s “spot” was.

  I reached for the pepper spray and remembered. My microphone. Were we still within range? I had to hope we were. It was all I had. I looked out the window again. Where could we be going? What was out here? Woods? Campgrounds?

  Birch Hill.

  “Are we going to Birch Hill?” I said into my collar.

  “You’ll see.”

  His smug look made my skin crawl, my mind race, my heart pound. Was he on to me? Had he figured out this was a hoax, and I was the key player?

  “Could we stop at Birch Hill? I have to pee.”

  “Sure.” He shrugged.

  His response made me feel better. If he was on to me, he would’ve said no. I sat back, trying to relax. Even if they couldn’t hear me, maybe Greg or the police or Dellian would think to go to Birch Hill. It was the last place Tricia had been seen; it was a logical place to look for me.

  The big yellow sign announcing Birch Hill Recreational Park came into view up ahead. Once Jonathan pulled onto the park’s dirt road, I’d run. There were trees, trails, and thick tangles of bushes to lose myself in until the police or Greg showed up.

  I took a calming breath and released the panic inside me.

  We blew by the sign.

  “Wait! Where are you going? It’s back there!” I whirled around, watching the sign disappear behind us.

  “Forgot,” Jonathan said. “Sorry.”

  I slowly turned around, swallowing the fear in my throat. Was he sorry? Had he really forgotten? Or was he messing with me? Toying with me because he knew I was toying with him? “I can go in the bushes, I guess.”

  “Cool.” He nodded. “It’s not much farther.” He slowed as he said this and turned onto a paved road almost hidden by overgrown grass and stark bushes.

  “Where are we?” I said into the microphone. “Another campground?”

  Should I jump? He was driving slower now to keep his precious car from getting scratched by the low-hanging branches. I’d scrape myself up a bit if I jumped out, but I’d be in those bushes and running before he could stop the car and chase me.

  My pulse pounded. It was now or never. Again I grasped the door handle. Again I hesitated. It wasn’t my safety that stopped me this time, though. It was Jonathan’s.

  If I ran, I’d probably be safe, but so would he. This was all for Tricia, for justice. Who would stick it to this pompous prick then? We’d still have no proof of anything. And he’d be wiser, more cautious; he’d never fall for another trick. This would all be for nothing. He’d be laughing, thinking he was too clever for us. Meanwhile, I’d be serving some sort of time for the fire, and Tricia? She’d still be dead with no hope of vindication for her death.

  I loosened my grip on the handle and slid my hand under the tails of Greg’s shirt to my back pocket. My fingers pushed against the denim of my jeans and slowly rolled the canister up until it fell into my palm. My fist closed around the cold metal.

  The pepper spray would buy me some time if I did need to run. But I was here to find the truth. Truth seekers like my father, searching for proof of extraterrestrial life, paranormal beings, Big Foot, the Loch Ness monster—none of them would get this close only to run in fear. I wouldn’t either.

  Jonathan turned left at a fork in the road and parked.

  I perked up at the sight of the clearing ahead. There was the picnic table, the lineup of beer bottles Ruth and I had left. “We’re by the river, right?” I leaned into the receiver. “We looked for Tricia’s cloak here after her funeral. The Birch Hill Lodge is upriver a ways, right? The ice bridge downriver?” I looked around. “I don’t see Tricia.” Or anyone. How long would it take the police to get here? If they were coming. Maybe they hadn’t heard me.

  Jonathan wasn’t listening. He had his phone in his hand, reading a text. “A frickin’ trap. I knew it!”

  That didn’t sound good. I popped the door open, ready to sprint. “What’s a trap?”

  He shook his head. “Just says ‘a trap, on my way.’” He handed me the phone.

  “Who’s on the way?” I took it from him and pretended to read the text. If he was showing it to me, my cover wasn’t blown.

  “Ethan. I sent him to grab Tricia.”

  Oh no. Ethan knew it was a trap. Time to go. Even if I did get a confession before Ethan got here, there was a good chance this microphone was a bust, since there was no sign of the police anywhere. What good was a confession if only I heard it?

  I stepped out of the car, intent on maintaining total calmness. “I really have to pee. I’m gonna go in the bushes over there.”

  “Okay, you want a beer?” he asked, popping the trunk.

  His question took me aback. “A beer?”

  “Yeah, I brought some to celebrate with Tricia. For being alive and all. No sense in wasting it. Something to do until Ethan shows anyway.”

  “Uh, sure. Be right back.” I rushed into the woods, focused on escaping. Barely a yard in, my toe caught in a root and I hit the ground with a thud. The canister of pepper spray flew through the air and out of sight.

  “You okay?” Jonathan ran up behind me. “You’re about to lose your music.”

  I looked down. Greg’s music player dangled from my shirt pocket. The one Dellian had banned from class. The one Greg once recorded lectures with. I could get a confession after all! I casually pushed “record” and set it back in my pocket. “I think I’ll wait to go.” I walked back toward the clearing. “Don’t want Ethan surprising me midpee. He’ll be here soon, right? What do you think he meant by ‘a trap’?”

  “Whatever it is, Dellian’s behind it.” He pointed to my cheek. “You’re bleeding. I’ve got napkins in the glove box.” He returned to the open trunk.

  I ducked into the car and found some fast-food napkins poking out from underneath what looked like a bag of pot. “Bag of pot, glove box,” I muttered into the recorder.

  “Find some?” Jonathan came around the side of the car and handed me a beer.

  I wiped at the blood and then took the beer. “A trap does sound like Dellian.” I pretended to take a sip. “You know he planted her pipe in my locker?”

  “No shit?” He took a big swig of beer. “He’s trying to get me too, for that photo. That’s got to be what this is about.”

  “How exactly did you get it?”

  “I planned it. I needed ammo to get him off my back, and she’d do anything for a fix. He wasn’t supposed to start puking, though; that wasn’t planned. But we still got the shot.” He grinned. “A picture worth a thousand bribes.”

  I frowned to myself. Wasn’t supposed to puke? What did he think ipecac syrup did? “What was he supposed to do if not puke?”

  “I gave Tricia some stuff to slip him, to loosen him up, make him out of it, you know? We were gonna get him out to his truck, then take the picture. The puking messed that up a bit, had to think on our feet.”

  “What did you give her to”—I tried to keep the disgust out of my voice—“loosen him up?” It was hard to be casual and friendly. So hard.

  “A party drug,” he said with a shrug.

  “A party drug? What Tricia had in her when she died?” I said. “What I was slipped? That sort of thing?”

  “Yeah, that sort of thing.” He studied me over the top of his bottle. Fear crept through me, but I wasn’t backing down. I couldn’t let him scare me. “We’re in this together, r
ight?” he asked. “You and me?”

  “Are you joking?” My hand trembled. I gripped the neck of the bottle. “Why would I be? You just admitted to slipping me a date-rape drug!”

  “What? No, I didn’t! I said that’s what I gave to Tricia for Dellian. I swear. I never gave you any!”

  “And I’m supposed to believe you?” I wanted to scream You tried to rape me, but I knew if I did, he’d shut down. I had to get more first, get it all, before I accused him of that. “You told the police I bought Tricia drugs and you let me take the fall for the fire!”

  “I said I was sorry. I couldn’t admit I’d been there with D. on my back, telling the cops I was selling drugs to Tricia. If they knew I put the photos in there, my ass would be toast.”

  “Your ass should’ve been toast! You were selling her drugs, weren’t you?”

  “Not like some dealer on the corner, the way D. was telling it. I helped her score sometimes, to help her out. Same as you did.”

  “No. I tried to help her get pot so she could stay off the heroin. You went and bought her crack—with my money!”

  He gave me a sheepish look. “Actually, that’s why I’m cool with telling the cops I was with you at the ATM. I didn’t buy any drugs with your money. I just pocketed it.”

  “What?” I stared at him. “Then how’d she get the crack that day?”

  “Ethan said he couldn’t score the pot until the next day. When I told him the situation, he offered up some crack for free, said he’d let it slide, this being her first time.”

  “Of course he let it slide! He knew she’d get addicted and be back, you idiot! Geez, Jonathan—she was trying to pull herself up. To finally take control of her life, on her terms. You took that from her. You pushed her right back into the gutter! How could you do that to her?”

  “Come on, you saw her. She was desperate! If I didn’t get her something, she would’ve just gone somewhere else. She’s an addict! That’s not my fault.”

  “You could’ve said no. You could’ve turned her away.” Bile rose up in my throat. “But you liked her desperate, didn’t you? It made getting what you wanted easy, right? Like that night in the loft? That was just another drug deal, wasn’t it?”