“I didn’t know what you were going to do!” Lara cried, her voice so loud it startled her. “You said we were playing a joke.”
“You knew. You knew damn good and true what was going down and you didn’t do a thing to stop it. So, baby, that makes you an accessory, and if we fry, you fry.” Hunter’s voice grew calmer as he spoke. “Now, your little friend’s takin’ a nap and ain’t sayin’ a word. Nobody’s got to worry about a thing. But you go steppin’ all righteous and we’re going to have a whole lot of worry. And I don’t do worry. So, I’m going to make it a little easier for you.”
Lara shivered, kept her eyes on the trees sliding past the window.
“Maybe you’re thinking you can turn some evidence and get off free and clear,” Hunter said. “Or maybe you’re tellin’ yourself that you deserve to be punished so you don’t worry so much what the cops do to you. But I swear to God, if you say a word about the Hollow to anyone, what we did to your little friend is going to look like a slap on the ass compared to the pain we bring down on you.”
“Hunter,” Lara said, unsure if it was a plea or a question.
He slammed on the brakes. Lara lurched forward in the seat, nearly smacking her head against the dashboard. A second later, Hunter had his hand wrapped around her face. He yanked hard so that she was forced to look at him.
“Bitch, I am so not joking. You lay it down a few times, and you think that makes us tight? That don’t make us shit. I’d throw you out on this street and back over you right now if I wasn’t worried about messin’ up my tires. You think I’m lyin’? Do you? Answer me. You think I’m lyin’?”
“No,” Lara cried. She knew he wasn’t lying. Anyone who could do what Hunter did to Rene didn’t care about anyone. She knew that. She believed it.
“Good,” Hunter said. “Now, you take your ass back to school and you remember that mouth of yours is good for only one thing, and talkin’ ain’t it.”
The insult drove into her. Shame made her blush. It tightened her throat so badly she couldn’t speak, but she nodded her head furiously so Hunter would know she meant it.
“Good,” he said again. “Now get out of my car. I got places to be.”
By the time Lara had walked back to school, she was so upset she disappeared right into the girls’ bathroom and sat in a stall, crying for over twenty minutes. Once she was certain the worst of the tears were over, she washed her face and reapplied her makeup. She waited for the bell to announce the end of first period and then slipped into the halls amid her classmates.
Lara kept her head down, books tight to her chest. If anyone asked, she’d tell them she was still totally freaked out and upset about Rene’s attack.
Walking through the halls, she got the feeling everyone already knew what she’d done. It made no sense and was so impossible, but she felt their eyes on her: Miranda Bocage with her fake nose and breasts; Tod Crawford (Eric’s little brother) with the nest of zits on his forehead; Mark Decouteaux and Susan Melvoin, always looking for someplace to make out between classes. They watched her pass, and they knew what she’d done. Done to her best friend!
Cassie was the worst. She wouldn’t even look at Lara when they passed in the halls. Once Cassie caught sight of her, she turned her head, nose slightly raised, and continued on as if Lara were a bum asking for change.
Feeling sick to her stomach, Lara wished she’d just stayed home for the day. She could have pounded a bottle of NyQuil and slept through this terrible feeling.
She stopped at her locker to drop off her English textbook, which she hadn’t needed anyway. As she placed the book inside the locker, she noticed the picture of Hunter Wallace taped to the door. She tore it off and crumpled it up. Instead of dropping it on the ground and stomping on it the way she wanted, Lara navigated across the hall through the streams of kids and threw the picture in the garbage can. That was where Hunter belonged. He was a low-life freak who pushed drugs. He wasn’t even good in bed. Just another boy. Just a nothing.
Except he was a scary nothing with a gun.
“But I swear to God, if you say a word about the Hollow to anyone, what we did to your little friend is going to look like a slap on the ass compared to the pain we bring down on you.”
Lara was halfway back to her locker, kids pushing in on all sides of her, when she saw Rene again. This time, her friend stood less than ten feet away. Her face was bruised and swollen. Her white hospital gown dripped blood, spattering the floor at her broken, misshapen feet.
Lara screamed and leaped into a group of her classmates.
“What the hell?” a boy said, shoving Lara back to the center of the hallway.
Lara stumbled, nearly fell. She righted herself and again saw her beaten friend. Rene raised a hand toward her, a single finger pointed at Lara’s chest.
Oh God, she thought. She is dead. They killed her. I killed her, and now she’s come back for me.
A small crowd gathered. They whispered. Some showed pity, others amusement. Why didn’t they see Rene? They had to see her—her bruised and battered face, her bloody white hospital dress. No one said a word.
This is what crazy does to you, Lara thought.
The apparition of her friend trembled. Rene’s head whipped to the side as if struck by an unseen fist. Blood sprayed the locker behind her. Lara slapped her hands over her own mouth so she didn’t scream.
Then she ran. Down the hall. Away from the gawking crowd. As far as she could get from her open locker.
Even if she had noticed Mason Avrett sitting on the floor next to the biology lab with his eyes closed, she wouldn’t have given him a second thought.
One more class.
Lara just needed to make it through Mrs. Denver’s dumb-ass art class. Her nerves were finally settling down after a day of complete stress. Rene didn’t appear again, but every time Lara turned a corner or looked up, she expected to see her friend, pointing that finger at her. It wasn’t a ghost. She knew that. Lara called the hospital right after history class and was totally relieved to hear that Rene’s condition hadn’t changed. If she wasn’t dead, then she wasn’t a ghost.
So what was Lara seeing? Just some weird manifestation of her guilt?
She shifted in her chair and looked out the window at the long lawn running from the school building to the football field. She couldn’t focus on the assignment, something about negative space and drawing what wasn’t there. Concentration was impossible, and it was still so cold. Too cold. She clutched the ski parka around her, wishing she were lying beneath a mound of them.
She looked at her classmates, noticing how they were all drawing something on a sheet of paper. All except Mason.
That was strange. This was the only class Mason had a chance of passing, and he usually got as excited as a puppy when Mrs. Denver gave an assignment. Today though, the big goof had his eyes closed.
He was probably upset about Rene too. She was the only real friend the retard had.
Lara looked away, back to the board, where Mrs. Denver finished drawing a circle. The teacher said something, but Lara wasn’t listening. She just wanted to go home and get warm.
She returned her attention to the broad stretch of grass outside the window and gasped.
A girl dressed in white stood against the chain-link fence separating the football field and track from the lawn. Black birds circled the air above her. They dove at the ground and rocketed back into the sky. Circled again. Rene walked away from the fence toward the school. She moved with catlike grace, each step seeming to bring her several yards closer. And the murder of crows followed.
Lara ground her lower lip between her teeth to keep from screaming. She scrubbed at her eyes with the backs of her hands.
Rene crossed the vast lawn in less than a dozen steps. She stood just outside the window, her wounds clear and terrible so close up. The birds were wounded too. Lara saw the gashes in their bellies and across their throats. Their eyes, like tiny bits of flame, flashed orange light at her.
Tears filled Lara’s eyes. She swallowed a cry.
Rene lifted an arm and pointed. Her mouth dropped open, revealing the great dark pit of her throat. A black snake slid out of her mouth, coiling as it dropped to the grass. Another snake pushed over Rene’s lips and circled up to coil around her head, covering her eyes like a blindfold. Its tail rested on her chin. Rene’s head fell back and a flock of black birds soared from her mouth, shooting skyward like a perverse geyser.
Lara screamed. Her reason crumbled. She couldn’t look away, and even if she could, the damage was already done.
Watching Mrs. Denver at the front of the class, sketching the assignment on their notepads, no one even noticed Lara trembling in her chair and staring out the window. Only when her screams cut through the sound of pencils on paper, chalk on board, did they take notice.
Then the students reared back in their chairs. Some leaped to their feet. Loudly spoken questions and exclamations of surprise filled the room. They looked at the source of the cries and saw Lara Pearce clutching the edge of her desk, still transfixed by something happening beyond the window. They tried to see what she saw but couldn’t. Mrs. Denver raced from the front of the room toward her disturbed student. The entire class was in motion.
All except for Mason Avrett, who sat quietly in his chair, eyes closed and head down.
18
Dark Monochrome
Gene sat in his room with the door locked, as always. On the computer screen a white page with a bright blue border was open. It listed the financial activity for a savings account held by a young man named Wesley Michael Montgomery. According to the digital statement, Mr. Montgomery was doing very well for himself. All deposits. No withdrawals. Gene would have envied Wesley Montgomery if the kid weren’t dead.
In fact, Montgomery had hardly lived at all. He died from some respiratory disease only a month after his birth. Gene didn’t really care about that. His only interest in Montgomery was the birth certificate filed by the hospital, for which he’d paid a good amount of money. With it, he was able to order a social security number in Montgomery’s name. He went on to get a driver’s license and a bank account up in Shreveport.
On paper Gene was all but broke, his own bank account holding a couple of hundred bucks. Montgomery, however, was quite well off. In a few years, if all went well, Gene could retire in style if he had a mind to. Gene understood the mistakes many young businessmen made and tried to avoid them. A lot of guys in his line of work spent their money as fast as they made it. No thought for the future, no patience for greater rewards down the road. They drew attention to themselves with fine cars and flashy jewelry, living in homes far too opulent to be explained by legitimate financial means, and people noticed. Cops noticed. The government noticed. From there, any brain-dead doughnut vacuum could build a case against them.
That was why Gene still lived at home. He continued to endure the annoyances of his whiny aunt and the doorknob, because they provided him cover. He needed to be ready for the great, big world.
Six months, he thought. Six more months and Gene Avrett would disappear.
Footsteps in the hall drew his attention from the screen. From the sound of the heavy, plodding steps, his little brother was home. Gene closed the bank-statement window—not that he was worried. Even if Mason got a look at the numbers, they would mean nothing to him.
Gene stood up. He was done with his daily accounting and wanted to pay his little brother a visit.
It amused him to know his business dealings had inadvertently hurt Mason. So he walked into the hall and wandered down to the small room at the back of the house.
The door was partially open, just a crack between door and jamb. Gene strolled right into the room, to find Mason sitting on the edge of the bed, head down. Afternoon light poured through the window at his back. Dust danced in the thick beam of sunshine, circling Mason’s huge head and shoulders.
“Disappointment in the halls of learning today?”
Mason didn’t move, just kept his big, dumb face pointed at the floor. Likely the doorknob didn’t understand what Gene was asking him.
“Bad day at school?”
In answer to the question, Mason looked up. He glared at his brother with anger, an emotion Gene had never before seen on Mason’s face. Though Gene felt the urge to back out of the room, he wasn’t going to let his idiot brother intimidate him. Instead, he stared back at Mason and forced a smile to his lips. Something was going on in Mason’s head. It showed in his gaze. For perhaps the first time, Mason actually appeared to be thinking, and the thoughts weren’t good.
They remained locked in a staring match for nearly a minute. Tiring of the game, Gene turned and left, following the dark hall back to his own room. He closed and locked the door.
No sooner had he killed the screen saver on his computer than the landline rang. Gene lifted the phone.
“Avrett,” he said.
“Yeah, Gene? Hey, man, it’s Hunter.”
“Yes?” Gene said.
“We either got us a major break or just got completely screwed.”
“That’s a broad interpretation of a single event,” Gene said. “What happened?”
Hunter told him about Lara Pearce, the girl who’d set up her friend for the dance at the Hollow. Apparently, she went nuts in art class.
“The ambulance came and hauled her away. It was a total crisis.”
“And you’re concerned that she might recover sufficiently to expose your involvement.”
“Yeah, right. She could go full-on narc. Maybe not for a while. I mean, she was messed up bad. But who knows, right? They might give her something to calm her down, and then the bitch could spill everything.”
“Well, this is problematic,” Gene said, feeling the urge to break something. “I’m not sure you realize the level of my disappointment.”
“I know, man. I know. This blows hard. With any luck, the skank will be a total basket case ’til they plant her, but what if she’s not?”
“What, indeed.”
Despite his calm tone, Gene was already scrambling mentally, calculating the amount of time he would need to escape Marchand. Paper trails would need to be erased, as would a certain young lady named Denton. He needed to clean things up and make a quiet departure.
“So, anyway,” Hunter continued, “I thought you should know. It might be a total break for us, but you never know, right?”
“I hardly think you’re the sort to get that lucky,” Gene said. “I suggest you finish your conversation with Miss Denton, and then have a similar conversation with her unstable friend.”
“Yeah, but they’re both in the hospital, man. No way I can get in and out without a hundred geeks seeing me.”
“Perhaps. But right now, these aren’t my problems. If they become my problems, you and I will have a conversation of our own. Can you guess what I’m likely to say?”
“Hey, man, chill. It ain’t going to come to that. Okay? Denton’s still in sleepyland, and it doesn’t sound like she’s leaving any time soon. I’ll figure something out.”
“Sooner would be better than later.”
“Yeah, right, man. Yeah, I know.”
“Good-bye,” Gene said.
He hung up the phone. The urge to hurt and break things was strong in him, but right now was the wrong time to take it out on the doorknob. He certainly couldn’t take the chance of venting his frustration on anyone else, not with things so close to exploding in his face.
No. This fury he would have to eat and push low. He had to get out of the house, needed to move to clear his thoughts. He would take a drive through the parish, maybe go up to the city for a night and blow off some steam there. If he didn’t put some distance between himself and this town, he would do something foolish.
Gene drove north on the freeway. He was aware of the traffic on the road ahead but little else. As he drove, he went over a mental checklist again and again to make sure he’d left nothing out. Ulti
mately, he came to the same conclusion he had while on the phone with Hunter: The two girls, Rene and Lara, needed management. They were big question marks, and Gene didn’t like question marks.
Lara was the immediate problem. Her breakdown might have been a momentary glitch, a passing nightmare that her doctors were already bringing under control. It was highly unlikely she would slide into the kind of permanent madness that had captured Gene’s daddy.
Wouldn’t that be a bit of luck, though? Many of his problems would be solved if little Lara went the way of Nelson Avrett.
Gene had been nine years old when his daddy snapped. He remembered the night vividly, and why wouldn’t he? It was a turning point. Oh, his daddy had never been exactly right in the head. Not even close. For years Gene had listened to the old man’s paranoid stories. His daddy used to believe he could capture thoughts from the people he met. He didn’t have to touch them or concentrate. Images just came to him like unexpected memories.
On the night his daddy had snapped, Gene stood in Mason’s room, ready to smother his baby brother. Ever since the idiot’s birth, Gene had all but vanished in the eyes of his parents. They only had time for Mason, because he was so “special.” Standing over his brother’s bed, palm clasped over Mason’s plump nose and disgusting, drooling mouth, Gene was going to prove that there was nothing special about the little lump of meat. He was just a retard who always got to do what he wanted, who always got the last cookie, the last piece of pie.
Beneath his hand, Mason squirmed and slapped. His eyes widened. Gene watched as the fear in those eyes clouded and began to fade. The lids grew heavy and began to flutter.
Then his father started screaming.
Even now, so many years later, Gene believed he had seen something gathering in the room between himself and Mason. Bits of shadow and light came together in dull forms. He thought he saw a beak and a set of black wings, like one of the crows he kept in his shed in the backyard, hovering over his brother’s bed, but the image faded quickly.
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