“You’re not him,” I whisper, unable to tear my eyes away from the thing that is wearing Sam’s face. Even as I watch the skin that stretches too tight across his cheek bones ripples and bulges, as if it doesn’t quite fit. “You’re not Sam.”
He leers openly, his lips drawing back to reveal even white teeth. Sam’s teeth, but not Sam’s teeth. Sam’s mouth, but not Sam’s mouth. Sam’s voice, but not Sam’s voice. “I am now, sweetheart,” he says.
Bile rises in the back of my throat. I swallow it down and gag on the taste. Francesca is at my side in an instant, gripping my arm, holding me upright. Her eyes flash with ill-disguised revulsion as she glares at the Unknown that has taken over Sam’s body.
“Craven.” She snarls his name like it is the foulest word imaginable. Which it is.
“Yes,” he says. “You’ve caught me. Long time no see, sweet thing.” He reaches for her face and she spits at him.
My first instinct as I watch saliva drip down Sam’s cheek is to yell at Francesca. Why would she do that to Sam? Sweet, funny Sam who never hurt anyone. Sweater vest Sam who sacrificed himself to protect me. But this isn’t Sam standing in front of me. This is the thing that took him. The thing that is wearing his face like a Halloween mask.
“Where is he?” I growl, ripping free of Francesca’s grasp to stand toe to toe with Craven. It is hard, harder than I ever imagined anything could possibly be, to stare into Sam’s gray eyes and see through to the monster lurking beneath. To look past his familiar smile and know it isn’t him smiling back at me.
“Be careful,” Francesca says.
“Where is he?” I repeat.
“Where is he? Where is he?” Craven mocks in a high pitched voice. “You don’t really want that pathetic excuse for a boy, do you sweetheart? He was a waste of a good body. I did you a favor kicking him out of it. All things considered you should really thank me.”
I wish I knew what to do. Standing here trading insults with Craven is getting me nowhere. I should have paid closer attention to when Sam was explaining the Unknowns. What happens if I can’t get them switched back? How do I get them switched back?
“Well this has been fun,” Craven drawls, quirking one eyebrow, “but you’ll have to excuse me. I have things to do. People to see. Places to haunt.” He winks at me and it takes all my strength not to punch the smug look right off his face. It might not be Sam pulling the strings, but it is Sam’s body, and when I get him back into it – which I will do – I don’t want to have to explain why his jaw is broken.
“You’re not going anywhere,” I say.
“Oh no? And just what are you going to do about it?”
It is difficult to imagine this… this thing using Sam’s body is the same thing that chased us through the school. Without the mashed up face and the grunting and the wrench as big as my leg, it is almost easy to forget Craven is a monster. He is arrogant, smooth, and almost… charming. As I imagine most serial killers come across in the beginning. It doesn’t exactly help that he is wearing Sam’s face. Sam, who I would never want to hurt in a million years. Sam, who is stuck somewhere in Craven’s rotting corpse.
“I’m going to stop you,” I say. It is a bold prediction. Only time will tell if I can make it come true.
Craven snickers, amused by my attempt to sound like a bad ass. “I’m shaking in my penny loafers.”
“You should be,” says Francesca. She steps up beside me and I feel every muscle in her body vibrating with tension. Like a wolf who has sighted its prey she is poised for the kill. After watching her wield the knife on Peter I have no doubt she could take Craven down bare handed if she was so inclined and suddenly I feel much better knowing I have her on my side.
Craven clucks his tongue. Something flickers in his eyes as he looks at Francesca, something I can’t decipher. There is history here, between these two. Belatedly I recall Francesca’s fierce reaction to the mere mention of Craven’s name when I first brought it up in her bedroom. Where has she met him before? And what effect will it have now?
“You could not save your Demetri,” Craven says.
Beside me Francesca goes stiff as a board. Alarmed, I wrap my fingers around her arm. “Francesca?” I hiss urgently. “What is it? Who is Demetri?”
“Shall I tell you how he went mad?” Craven continues. His eyes gleam knowingly as he studies the dawning horror on Francesca’s face. “Tearing at his own flesh, ripping out his eyes, screaming like a–”
“STOP IT!” I cry, still looking at Francesca. “Just stop it.”
Too late. As if Francesca has been delivered an invisible knockout punch all of the fight leaves her body. Her shoulders slump. Her gaze drops blindly to the floor. She is defeated.
Son of a bitch.
“Oh no,” Craven coos. “Is our little warrior too sad to fight? Is she – oomph!”
His breath escapes him in a muffled exclamation as I launch myself at him. My hands wrap around his neck choker style. I sink my nails into his skin for leverage, squeezing as the momentum of my body flips us backwards and we crash into a console.
Craven punches me in the side. I don’t even feel it. Hitting, growling, kicking we roll off the console and onto the floor. He catches my chin in an upward jab hard enough to rattle my teeth. I bring my elbow down on his nose, sending Sam’s glasses skittering across the lane. My knee plows into his stomach. He grabs a fistful of dread locks and rips my head back until I see stars. Pain envelops me like a shroud, but it is nothing compared to the furious haze of anger that has taken hold.
By taking Sam’s body Craven didn’t only take Sam away; he stole my only chance at seeing my family again as well. Without Sam to guide me through the After I am lost; a sitting duck for all those other Unknowns out there looking for an easy target. And now somehow he has taken away Francesca as well – the only other person in this miserable place I could consider a friend. Angry doesn’t even begin to cover it.
I fight like someone possessed. My fingernails rake across Craven’s cheek, peeling back layers of flesh. Blood pours from his nose, covering his shirt and mine in a sticky coat of red. A blow to the side of my face catches me off guard and I reel to the side. Together we roll down the lane, our gasps for air and muffled curses punctuating the air.
Struggling to get to my feet I rear up on my knees, but the lane is slick with grease and blood and I slide forward on my belly, ducking my head to escape a punishing hit intended for my face. Craven dives after me and grabs my ankle. I try in vain to kick him off. The heel of my sneaker connects with some part of his body, but he doesn’t let go. With a hard yank he pulls me towards him. My hands skitter across the slick floorboards, trying desperately to grab onto something, but there is nothing to grab.
A hard shot to my back just to the left of my spine renders me immobile. My mouth gapes open. No sound comes out. There isn’t a sound in the world that could do justice to the pain that slices through me like a jagged knife. I think the bastard ruptured one of my kidneys. Do you need two kidneys when you’re dead? Do you need any kidneys? Probably something I should have found out before I decided to go one on one with a cold blooded killer.
Catching my breath I flop over, intending to use my legs to push Craven away. Mistake. He is on me in an instant. Skin slides against skin. Blood mixes with grease to create a thick syrup that stains everything a dull red.
His knuckles glance off my cheek. I sink my teeth into his hand. Another punch catches me in the ribs. I arch off the floor and this time I do scream, long and loud. My limbs flail. My fist bounces off the side of Craven’s head but it is a halfhearted attempt. I have reached the end of my physical limit.
Sensing I am spent, Craven grins down at me in triumph. “Nice try, Sweetheart. I can see why Sam–”
I jab my thumb in his right eye and twist. Craven howls and falls backwards. I scramble to my hands and knees, slipping and sliding across the floor, reaching for anything that could be used to the turn the tides of a fight I will oth
erwise lose. By some miracle my fingers close around the top of a bowling pin. The pin is heavy – at least now I know why I suck at bowling – and my arms tremble as I swing it around, intending to knock Craven unconscious, but at the last second he brings his arm up to instinctively protect his face and it’s too late to pull back.
The pin smashes into his forearm. We both hear the bone shatter.
“BITCH,” Craven screams, his face a tight mask of agony as he clutches the broken arm to his chest and writhes on the floor. “I just got this body.”
Dizzy with pain, high on adrenaline, I lean weakly against the back board and smile down at Craven with grim satisfaction. “Then it’s time you gave it back. Bitch.”
“Winnifredi!” Francesca teeters down the next lane and steps gingerly across the gutter. Her face is still pale, but her eyes are filled with determination. “Here,” she says, shoving something heavy and cold into my hand.
My fingers close around the gun. I stare at it blankly and it doesn’t immediately register why Francesca would be handing me a deadly weapon. Not until Craven’s weak laughter fills the air.
Using his one good arm he manages to reel into a sitting position. Blood continues to run from his nose and the deep grooves I have scratched in his face. One eye is stained an ugly red courtesy of my thumb. I know I must not look much better. The adrenaline that pumped through my veins in the midst of the fight is already fading, leaving me to feel every kick and punch my body suffered. The pain is nauseating and I waver on my feet as my vision blurs.
“You won’t be able to do it,” Craven gurgles.
I blink. Force myself to focus. “Do what?” I ask. The gun feels heavy and unnatural in my hands. I turn it over, careful to keep the dangerous end pointed away from me.
“You must shoot him,” Francesca says.
I spin clumsily to face her. “Shoot him? What the hell are you talking about?”
“That is the only way. A life for a life. A body for a body. This is how it is done here. When Craven dies he will return to where he came from, and Sam will be free to enter his body again,” she explains softly.
“It won’t make a difference now,” Craven grinds out.
I swing the gun back to him. It hovers even with his chest. My pointer finger curls around the trigger, then slides off. “What do you mean?” I ask uncertainly.
“Do not listen to him,” Francesca urges. “He will say anything to fill you with doubt. He is a demonios,” she spits, glaring so fiercely at Craven I’m surprised he doesn’t disintegrate on the spot. “They can never be trusted.”
“Ah, but you didn’t always feel that way, did you sweetheart?” Craven tries to smile. It comes off as more of a grimace. The fight has left him broken and bleeding. Even as I watch he starts to fall to the side, only to catch himself at the last minute and shake his head as if to wake up. “Sam is worse than dead now. He has been in my body for more than a day. Anything over an hour will drive a person insane.” Craven’s upper lip curls in a sneer. “I should know.”
“Shoot him, Winnifredi! Shoot him now!”
I bring the gun up again. Bite my lower lip. Start to squeeze the trigger… “I can’t,” I say abruptly. “I just can’t. I know it’s not Sam. I know it’s not but it looks just like him. Francesca, here.” I hold the gun out to her. “You do it.”
She links her arms behind her back. “I cannot do this for you. This is your decision, and yours alone. I am sorry.”
I exhale sharply.
I understand why Francesca won’t take the gun. I understand what I have to do. I even understand that I wouldn’t really be killing Craven, because he is already dead.
Craven is dead. Sam is dead. Francesca is dead. I am dead. It is so absurd that I begin to laugh. I laugh and laugh until tears run down my cheeks. When the laughter dries up, when it turns to dust in my mouth and floats out with my breath, I am filled with a quiet certainty. I know what I have to do.
I point the gun at the middle of Craven’s chest. I am afraid if I aim for his face I will miss, and I know once I pull the trigger I won’t be able to do it again. The gun bobbles. I take a deep breath and use both hands to steady it. More tears burn the back of my eyelids, but I refuse to let them fall. I need to see clearly.
“Winnifred, don’t. Please,” Sam whimpers. His gray eyes swim in front of me, silently begging me not to shoot him in cold blood. Except it is not Sam. It’s not him. It’s not. It’s not. It’s NOT.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
For the second time I wake up with Sam hovering over me. This time I don’t handle it quite as smoothly.
“Get away from me!” I strike out with both hands and catch him off guard. He stumbles back and I sit up, looking wildly around.
“Win,” he says, holding both arms up, palms facing outward. “Win, it’s okay. You’re safe.”
My pounding heart says otherwise. “Where is Francesca?” I demand. “Who are you? WHO ARE YOU?”
“I’m me,” he says quickly. “Sam. We’re in your tree house. I brought you back here. Take a deep breath, okay? You’re safe. Look around. You know where you are. Just… just look around.”
My eyes linger on him suspiciously. I take in the clean blue polo shirt. The tan khakis. His face is smooth. His arm isn’t crooked anymore. He looks like Sam. He talks like Sam. But is he Sam? Did it work? By shooting Craven did I really switch them back? I have to be certain. “What is my brother’s name?” I ask.
“Brian,” he says immediately.
“How did I die?”
“You drowned.”
“What’s my favorite color?”
“You never told me your favorite color.”
Well, he has me there. “Fine. What’s your favorite article of clothing?”
Sam hesitates. My body tenses. I swing my legs off the old black and white checkered cot I was laying on and sit up straight, doing a swift perusal of my surroundings. One thing is certain. I am definitely back in my tree house, even though I have no idea how I got here.
“Well?” I say.
Sam mumbles something I can’t quite hear.
“What?”
“Sweater vest,” he says more clearly.
Relief washes over me. “It is you.”
“That was a stupid question,” he says, looking annoyed.
“Yeah,” I agree, “but only you would know the answer.”
“Sweater vests are cool.”
My eyebrows lift. “Sweater vests are not cool, were never cool, and will never be cool.”
His mouth curves. “So says the girl with the awesome holes in her face.”
“Shut up.”
Sam runs his thumb and pointer finger across his lips to zip them closed. It is a childish gesture, and so completely Sam that any lingering doubts I may have had as to if it is really him standing in front of me instead of Craven vanish in an instant.
“It worked,” I say quietly.
“It worked.” He sits in the rocking chair. Looks down at his feet. Back up at me. “Thank you, Win, for coming after me and–”
“Oh no,” I interject, holding up one hand. “No, no, no. Don’t start with that crap.” The last thing in the world I want right now is for Sam to thank me. It was my fault he got left behind. My fault Craven caught up with us. My fault he even came after us to begin with. If it wasn’t for me and my fresh dead stink, he never would have been drawn to Sam. I am to blame for everything. Even in death, I can’t help but hurt those I love.
“Where is Francesca?” I ask, hoping to change the subject. Unfortunately, Sam is not so easily deterred.
“You saved me,” he says firmly. “No, don’t shake your head. You did. You saved me, Winnifred Coleman. And for that I get to thank you, whether you like it or not.”
I stare hard at the plywood floor. It is marked up from crayons and markers and whatever else was handy when I used to go on one of my drawing fits. I was never much of an artist – stick figures were my specialty – but I would
spend hours up here when I was younger painting the walls, drawing on the floor, and cutting out magazine picture to paste on every flat surface I could reach. The tree house was my own private haven. No one ever came up here, not even Brian.
It says something about Sam that of all the places he could have chosen to take me, he picked this one. It says he is kind and good. He is thoughtful and honest. He is everything I am not and everything I can never be, because I am dead. This is it. My bell has rung. The fat lady sang. I will be forever remembered as That Girl.
“That Girl had so much potential. It’s too bad she died so young. Her poor brother. And her father! He’s suffered so much.”
“Oh, you mean That Girl? The one who fell apart when her mother died? I met her once.”
“That Girl was totally weird. Do you remember what she did to her hair? And her face?! Gross.”
“Win? Are you okay?” Sam’s voice mirrors the concern on his face. He leans towards me until in the tiny space our knees almost bump. Almost, but not quite.
I glance up at him. Manage a smile. “I’m fine. What about you? Your arm? Is it better?” My own injuries have disappeared. I don’t even have so much as a sore muscle. The memory of the pain is still there, though. Memories, I have discovered, have a nasty habit of sticking around whether you’re alive or dead.
Sam extends the arm I all but cleaved in two with the bowling pin. He turns it left and right. Makes a fist. “Good as new. I didn’t feel a thing. Francesca says you beat me up pretty bad. You’re a regular Jet Li.”
“Who?”
He grimaces. “I forgot. You only watch lame movies. Never mind. Francesca was here, by the way. She had to go visit someone, but she’ll be back.”
I like the idea of Francesca sticking around. I’ve made my first friend in the After. It’s quite an accomplishment, all things considered. “And Craven?” I ask. “What about him?”
Sam goes unnaturally still. “He’s… gone. For now.”
“Gone? What do you mean gone? Where did he go? Can he come back?”
“Win, I don’t…” Sam trails off. Too late I notice all the color has drained from his face. “I don’t want to talk about it right now,” he manages to say.
The Mysterious Death and Life of Winnie Coleman Page 16