“A way back,” I repeated, this time under my breath, as I walked more slowly up the stairs.
Have you ever smelled something and been flooded with a memory? Dr. Crispin had asked. At the top of the stairs I tried to think about a smell that would force me to remember, when what I was trying so hard to remember was myself. My eyes snapped open.
Honor.
She was the only piece of me—Cassidy—untouched by the other thing that was lurking around inside my head.
I tiptoed to her door and listened. Usually when she was inside, I could catch her singing along to the soundtracks of Broadway musicals, but the room was quiet. I knocked just in case. Downstairs I could hear the television on and my mom banging around in the kitchen.
I let myself into Honor’s room. She was a freshman, but her room hadn’t made the leap to high school yet. I walked over a giant rug in the shape of a flower. Stuffed animals lined the window seat. I ran my hand over the tops of their heads, trying to remember some of their names.
Turning, I spotted Honor’s blanket still scrunched half underneath her pillow. I crossed to reach it. The inside square of the blanket was knitted and it had a silky lavender border. I pressed it to my nose. It smelled as it always had, like laundry detergent, strawberry shampoo, and, okay, maybe a hint of drool. How many times had I made fun of my sister for keeping a stupid blanket? Mom said she’d grow out of sleeping with it when she was ready. Now part of me hoped that she never would.
In her nightstand, I found a pair of scissors. She would kill me once she found out. But I took the shears and cut a corner off the blanket and stuffed it into my pocket.
TWENTY-TWO
Marcy
The clock on the dash read nine o’clock when I pulled beneath the flickering fluorescent light of the gas station awning and parked beside the Dumpster next to Lena’s VW Bug. I found her sitting on the hood of her car, back leaned up against the windshield, staring up at the stars. I thought about the stars on her wrist and wondered what it is that she would wish for.
I had only one wish now and it was about to come true.
“Why haven’t you started already?” I asked.
She peeled herself off the glass. I’d been “waking up” earlier and earlier and tonight had set a record. But midnight was pressing in on us with an urgency so sharp that we couldn’t dare waste a minute.
“I’m not going in without you.” Her shoes squeaked across the hood. I held her hands to help her down. “The mill gives me the creeps.”
“I should give you the creeps. The mill’s just a mill. I’ll be the scariest thing in there.”
She looked seriously at me. “I wish you wouldn’t say things like that, you know.” The fringe of her bangs caught in her lashes. I brushed them free. She blinked at me for a second, then turned to rummage around in her backseat. She pulled out a heaping cardboard box and handed it to me, then pulled out another to balance in her own arms.
“Is this everything?” I asked, enjoying the weight of the box in my arms because it made things real.
“Everything that you ordered plus the theater department equipment you asked for. I need all this stuff back, though, Marcy. If it doesn’t get returned to school, they could figure out it was me.”
“Duly noted,” I said, and made sure that nobody saw two girls disappearing into the field behind the station. The night consumed us as we walked into the high grass and picked our way over uneven terrain and torn-up roots to the shadowy silhouette of the old grain mill.
The hulk of metal and mortar twisted into the night sky, and I stared straight into its hollow, glassless eyes for windows. The darkness inside seemed to be deep and without a soul, and the presence of the mill worked chills up the back of my neck.
“Shall we?” I said with the same rush of excitement of a little kid on Christmas Eve.
I thought I heard the sticky sound of saliva sliding down Lena’s throat beside me. We stepped over the broken threshold and into the mill, where sawdust made a sound like sandpaper underneath our boots. Lena clicked a flashlight on and then fished around for a couple of battery-operated lanterns that she pulled from her box.
The lanterns cast circles of soft glowing light on the cement floor. I paced the surrounding area, thinking, exploring, scheming.
How long would it take for stories to be told about this place? I imagined the future legends of the massacre in the old grain mill, forever haunted by the spirits of three college students. The idea was delightful.
Fingers of light stretched into the cavernous corners, revealing sharp objects and treacherous tilling equipment. A metal auger, a machine used to empty grain on the bin floor, was a razor-edged spiral that stretched horizontally along the length of one stretch of open space. A dormant conveyor belt ran along the perimeter, at the end of it a giant cogged wheel. Tattered burlap bags of grain piled up six feet high. Ladder rungs stretched into holes in the ceiling.
“How long will it take you?” I asked, hardly able to stand the anticipation. Seconds ticked by fast and slow all at once. My heart and soul were ready.
Lena rotated in place, peering around the room. “Not long if I focus,” she said. The light from the lanterns played on the angles of her face.
She set up a series of three smaller cameras throughout the mill’s bottom floor, checking in a handheld monitor to make sure she caught the expanse of the room on camera. Single red lights blinked on and began to watch us.
Lena worked with skill and precision. It was easy to imagine her directing the lights, the camera, the action from behind stage. Someday maybe I’d see for myself.
But not tonight.
She’d brought the stagehands’ walkie-talkies. I changed the dials to matching stations and tested them. Then, I read through my list, checking items off as I completed a task. Lena showed me how to operate the monitor.
Minutes sank into hours and it was just after eleven thirty when I looked at my cell phone, wiped the sweat from my forehead, and realized that my honored guests would be arriving any minute.
“It’s all working? Did you check the microphones to make sure they’re picking up sound?”
Lena was adjusting a lens. She turned to me without a word, and through the nighttime dust-ridden air, I could make out the sparkle of tears in her eyes. “We don’t have to do this,” she said.
“Yes, we do.” My voice went flat.
She closed the distance between us. Her hands were icy as they picked mine up and held them. “No, we don’t. We could run away. Go somewhere, anywhere. Together. We understand each other and as of right now, nobody knows what you’ve done. We could stop this right here, right now. Please, Marcy. I know what they did to you, but it doesn’t have to be this way.” Her body reeked of desperation.
I examined her coolly. Finger by finger I removed my hands from her grasp, separating us. “You’re wrong,” I said. “This is the only way it can be.”
Her breath caught. She looked down at the bare space between us where there was now nothing linking us together. “Then I—I don’t think I can—”
“You can go,” I said, and I wondered if she had banked on the fact that she’d need my permission. “This is probably the part in the horror movie where you’d want to cover your eyes.”
She opened her mouth to say something, but there wasn’t a good response to what I’d said because in this direction, there would be only suffering, death, and ugliness not for the faint of heart.
As she turned to leave, I wondered if she expected me to run after her, to make some grand romantic gesture. I wondered if she expected to be enough on her own. But I watched her go without feeling or regret.
Twenty minutes later, they were here and I was ready: lights, camera, action.
There was a knock, a creak, and then footsteps. If these boys had any imagination at all, they might have guessed what waited for them behind the walls of the abandoned grain mill—broken bones, flayed skin, and boiled blood sacrifices at the altar of
justice. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. A life for a life.
The second they walked in, it was already too late for them. I wish they appreciated that, but then again, I loved a good surprise.
I perched on a crate on the second level, monitor in hand, ready to let the games begin.
I used the grain mill to design a maze of sorts that would separate the boys and bring them back together in turns.
A kinked cord attached a pair of headphones to the monitor so that I could hear what was going on downstairs. I’d have to ditch them as soon as the games began in earnest, though.
Shoot, popcorn, I thought with a snap of my fingers. I knew I forgot something. Popcorn would have been perfect.
I watched as three figures entered the shadowy ground floor. I could hear the shuffle of their shoes below.
Like mosquitoes to a zapper, the three boys gravitated to the lone battery-operated lantern that I’d left for them. I watched as they turned around, peered up, walked backward, and tugged at their hair, taking in their surroundings.
“What the hell?” The long-haired Jessup said this as if he’d been seriously inconvenienced. His voice echoed up to the second story. “Where are we?”
And, see, I would have thought that part was obvious.
Cruel, shark-eyed Tate with his cavalier, rumpled rich boy looks cupped his hands over his eyes as a visor and peered up into the rafters. “Is this some kind of joke?”
For the first time, I picked up the walkie-talkie and pressed down on the “talk” button. Three matching sets waited for them in a ring next to the lantern. “I’m afraid not.” My voice crackled over their speakers.
All three boys flinched. Alex’s arms flew up to the side of his skeleton face, half boxer, half refugee, preparing to get bombed.
“Who’s there?” Tate yelled. His voice bounced off the walls and skipped back down, landing at his feet.
I smirked and spoke into the handheld device that contained so much power in this moment. “Why don’t you read and find out?”
The sound was muffled, but I could just make out what Jessup said. “Look, there’s a note.”
“Oh goodie, I love notes,” I said through the speakers. “Don’t you? Read it for us, will you?”
Tate snatched it away from Jessup, then smoothed the sheet of paper. He picked up one of the walkie-talkies and held it up to his mouth.
His voice was gravelly as it came through, playing close to my ear. “Rules of the House.” He scoffed as if he were the one in control instead of me. “Number One. Smile, you’re on camera.” Tate spun in place, held his arms out wide as though to say come and get it, and plastered a big grin on his face. “Eat your heart out, sugar. You can film me all night long.” Of course, I would. Just like he’d filmed me. Fair was fair. After a full rotation, he returned to the list. “Number Two. There is no leaving the game. If you play the game from start to finish, the video invitation provided to you will not be made public. Ever.” He glanced up at no one in particular. “It better not be,” he said. “Number Three. If at any point you break the rules of the game, the video invitation provided to you will be released. Immediately.” There was a low growling sound from Tate and he lifted his middle finger. He couldn’t see, but I lifted mine right back. “Number Four. At your convenience, please deposit your cell phones in the storage box directly to your left. Any calls, texts, e-mails outside of these walls will be met with the same consequences as set forth in Rule Three above. Or worse. Number Five. Cheaters will be punished. Without exception. Number Six. Don’t forget to have fun. You’ve earned it.” Tate dusted off the knees of his jeans and shouted up at the ceiling. “So I guess you think you’re funny, huh? You think you’re clever with your little puzzle?”
“Ah, don’t be a sourpuss,” I said. “Next time you blackmail someone you can make the rules. Until then, though…”
Alex started to speak, then stopped himself, retrieving his walkie-talkie from the ground. “But what’s the game? We can’t play a game if we don’t know what the hell it is,” he said. “She mentioned a game, didn’t she?” This he said more to the two boys at his side.
I smiled to myself. “That’s the best part. You already know how to play. The game … is hide-and-seek.”
“Are you serious?” Jessup said. The boys were exchanging looks.
“Deadly.”
Nearby, there was a large, hulking generator. I flipped the three switches that were on the side. The insides of the mill groaned like the whole building had indigestion. The mill was coming to life. Below, I heard the auger begin to rotate, a sharp metal spiral. Cogs on various pieces of machinery lurched, noisy with rust.
“Dammit,” Jessup yelped. The boys instinctively shuffled together. Tate shoved them away.
“And,” I continued, “since I’m feeling generous, I’ll give you to the count of twenty-five. No Mississippis, though, I’m not that nice. Are you ready?” I didn’t wait for a response. “Okay, then, here we go. One … two … three…”
“We’re not actually doing this,” said Alex.
“Come on. We all saw the video.” Tate was speaking through gritted teeth now. “If this gets out, my dad’s career could be ruined. And if that happens, I’m ruined. You understand?”
“And I’ve got Anna, dude. She would freak out. It’s just a little girl. What the hell are you afraid of?”
“Yeah.” Tate pushed Alex in the chest. “Stop being such a pussy and play her little game.”
Alex stumbled back. “But…” He dropped his voice lower. “What about Mick and Brody?”
“Ten … eleven … twelve…,” I counted.
“What about them? Brody was beaten to death with a bat. You think a girl did that?” Tate reached down and picked up the single remaining lantern. “Let’s get this over with so we can move on and get out of here.”
Jessup rubbed his bare arms. “How come you get the lantern?”
“Because I’m going to be the one to go find this bitch, unlike you two weenies. Now take your walkie-talkies and scram.”
Alex didn’t move. He looked to Jessup for help, but Jessup just shrugged. “Either we do what she says or we’re screwed.”
At last Alex caved. “Fine,” he said, but it was to no one because Jessup and Tate had already gone their separate ways, wandering off into the bowels of the mill.
“Twenty-one … twenty-two … twenty-three…” I made sure I had what I needed. A new knife in my boot. A Taser stashed in the front pocket of my hoodie. A hammer clutched in my sweaty palm. I fitted a pair of night vision goggles over my eyes. My walkie-talkie. I wouldn’t bring the spare lantern with me. It would be too much to carry. I took a second look at the monitor, then stuffed it into a thin backpack along with the two reams of rope and a roll of duct tape and slung it over both shoulders. “Twenty-four…” I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Twenty-five. Ready or not, here I come.”
Game on.
The sound of the churning machinery masked the sound of my footsteps as I spirited across a grain bridge and then down the rungs of a ladder fixed to the side of a silo. Last I’d seen, Alex had still been pacing indecisively near the entrance, unsure of which way to go. That was perfect. I’d make the decision for him.
“Do you see her?” came Jessup’s voice over the walkie-talkie frequency.
Now on the same level, I could hear Alex click the button on his transmitter. “No. Do you? Over.”
It was staticky when Tate’s voice sounded. “She can hear you, you idiots.”
“Right. Sorry. Roger that,” said Jessup. “I’ve just always liked playing with these things.”
Oh, don’t you worry, California, you’ll get to play soon enough.
Through the lenses of the goggles, the surrounding world was a wash of video-game green hues. I pressed my back to the curved surface of the grain silo. As I shimmied around the edge of it, using it to protect my backside, I scanned the area, landing at last on the form of Alex McClung
. His cragged face showed up looking blotchy and pockmarked even in night vision. He hid behind the pile of burlap bags containing stores of grain like a coward.
I walked gently heel-to-toe so as not to be heard. Closer and closer I drew until I could see Alex’s fingers turning an unlit cigarette over and over between them. My heart pounded in my ears. I stopped breathing. I was four feet, three feet, two feet. I thought he heard me. Or maybe he smelled me.
Whichever it was, there was a hammer to his temple before he could react. The sound it made was silenced by the grind of the machines. His head snapped back. Then, his knees buckled and he turned in at the waist and he was on the ground. I fought the urge to make a sound. Even a battle cry.
Instead, I stowed the handle of the hammer in the waistband of my jeans and hooked my hands underneath his damp armpits. I dragged him in short halting motions, checking behind my back every other step, until painstakingly, methodically, I pulled him over to the conveyor belt and up onto it.
He started coming to just as I was wrapping the duct tape all the way around his chest, pinning his arms tight to his sides. I twisted another quarter roll around his shins.
“Hey.” His eyes fluttered open. “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” He scrunched his chin to his chest and tried to stare down in the direction of his feet. “Hey, watch it!”
I took a small strip and pressed it over his mouth.
At the end of the conveyor belt was one of the large, spiral augers, a perfect bit of machinery made from curved, metal blades that rotated in a lethal corkscrew motion. It was already twisting, making long scraping noises across the cement floor. I doubted that Alex could make out what lay ahead at the end of the runway, but I knew he could hear it.
A few feet above his head was a lever the size of my forearm. I wrapped my hand over the bulb at the top. I used the full force of my weight and I pulled it down toward me. The conveyor belt lurched, sputtered, and then began to move.
Alex tossed his head. Muffled screams came from behind the duct tape. I strode to his side, following him as his body traveled down the length of the conveyor belt. I stooped down close to his ear. “How does it feel not to be able to run?” I whispered, and his eyes widened.
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