by L. J. Smith
She was very proud of herself for realizing it had all been in her mind. She planned to stay calmer in the future.
“Well, that’s good,” Michael said. His voice sounded surprisingly weak for somebody whose theory had been confirmed, “Uh, Jenny—”
“What?”
“Oh, nothing. See you tomorrow. Take care of yourself.”
“You, too,” Jenny said, a little startled. “Bye.”
Michael stared at the cordless phone he’d just clicked off. Then he glanced uneasily at his bedroom window. He wondered if he should have told Jenny—but Jenny had enough to worry about.
Besides, there was no reason to do anything to tarnish his own brilliant theory. It was just battle fatigue, and he was as subject to it as anyone else.
Stress. Tension. In his own case combined with a rather nervous temperament. Michael had always claimed to be an unashamed coward.
That would account for the feeling he’d had all day of being watched. And there was nothing really moving outside that window. It was a second-floor apartment, after all.
Audrey stretched in her Christian Dior nightgown and deposited herself more haphazardly across the peach satin sheets. Even after forty-five minutes in the Jacuzzi her feet hurt. She was sure she was getting calluses.
Worse, she couldn’t shake the strange sensation she’d had ever since this afternoon. It was the feeling Audrey usually had when entering a room—of eyes on her. Only these eyes today hadn’t been admiring. They had been watchful—and malicious. She’d felt as if something were following her.
Stalking her.
Probably just the remnants of yesterday’s fright. There was nothing to worry about—she was safe at home. In bed.
Audrey stretched again and her mind wandered. Eyes . . . hmm. No eyes now. C’est okay. Va bène.
She slept.
And dreamed, pleasantly. She was a cat. Not a repulsive scroungy cat like Jenny’s, but an elegant Abyssinian. She was curled up with another cat, getting a cat-bath.
Audrey smiled responsively, ducking her head, exposing the nape of her neck to the seductive feeling. The other cat’s tongue was rough but nice. It must be a big cat, though, she thought, half-waking. Maybe a tiger. Maybe—
With a shriek Audrey bolted straight up in bed. She was awake—but she could swear the sensation had followed her out of the dream. She had felt a rough tongue licking her neck.
She clapped a hand to the back of her neck and felt the dampness there.
A strange, musky smell filled the room.
Audrey almost knocked the bedside lamp over getting it turned on. Then she stared around wildly, looking for the thing that had been in her bed.
CHAPTER 7
Dee woke with a start. At least she thought she woke—but she couldn’t move.
Someone was leaning over her.
The room was very dark. It shouldn’t have been, because Dee liked to sleep with the window open, the curtains drawn back. Breathing fresh air, not the stale refrigerated stuff that came out of the air conditioner.
Tonight she must have forgotten to open the curtains. Dee couldn’t tell because she couldn’t move her head. She could only see what was directly above her—the figure.
It was a thick darkness against the thinner darkness of the room. It was a human shape, upside-down because it was leaning over from the headboard side.
Dee’s heart was pounding like a trip-hammer. She could feel her lips draw back from her teeth savagely.
Then she realized something horrifying.
The headboard side—the figure was leaning over her from the headboard side. But there was a wall there. It was leaning out of the wall.
“Get away from me!”
Shouting broke the spell. She vaulted off the bed, landing in a tangle of sheets in the middle of her room. She kicked the sheets free and was at the light switch by the door in one movement.
Light filled the room, glowing off the ocher walls. There was no dark figure anywhere.
Tacked over the bed between an African mask and a length of embroidered cloth from Syria was a poster. A poster of Bruce Lee. It was just where the figure had been.
Dee approached it slowly, warily, ready for anything. She got close and looked at it. Just an ordinary poster. Bruce Lee’s image stared out blandly over her head. There was something almost smug about his expression. . . .
Abruptly Dee reached out and ripped the poster off the wall, scattering pushpins. She crumpled it with both hands and threw it in the general direction of the wastebasket.
Then she sat back against the headboard, breathing hard.
Zach had been lying for hours, unable to get to sleep. Too many thoughts crowding his brain. Thoughts—and images.
Him and Jenny as kids. Playing Indians in the cherry orchard. Playing pirates in the creek. Always playing something, lost in some imaginary world. Because imaginary worlds were better than the real thing. Safer, Zach had always thought.
Zach breathed out hard. His eyes fluttered open—and he shouted.
Suspended in the air above him was the head of a twelve-point buck.
It was hanging inches from his nose, so close his dark-adjusted eyes could see it clearly. But he was paralyzed. He wanted to twist to the side, to get away from it, but his arms and legs wouldn’t obey.
It was falling on him!
His whole body gave a terrible jerk and adrenaline burst through him. His arm flung up to ward the thing off. His eyes shut, anticipating the blow.
It never came. He dropped his arm, opened his eyes.
Empty air above him.
Zach struck out at it anyway. Only believing it was gone when his hand encountered no resistance.
He got up and turned on the lights. He didn’t stay to look around the room, though. He went downstairs, to the den, flipping on the lights there.
On the wood-paneled wall where his father’s trophies hung, the twelve-pointer rested in its usual place.
Zach looked into its liquid-dark glass eyes. His gaze traveled over the splendid antlers, the shockingly delicate muzzle, the glossy brown neck.
It was all real and solid. Too heavy to move, bolted to the wall.
Which means maybe I’m losing my mind. Imagination gone completely wild. That would be a laugh, wouldn’t it, to get through the Game and then come home and lose my mind over nothing?
Ha ha.
The den was as still as a photograph around him.
He wasn’t going to get any sleep tonight. Normally, he would have gone out to his darkroom in the garage and done some work. That was what he’d always done before when he couldn’t sleep.
But that had been—before. Tonight he’d rather just stare at the ceiling. Nothing else was any use.
“Hypnopompic hallucination,” Michael said to Dee the next morning. “That’s when you think you’ve woken up, but your mind is still dreaming. The dark figure in your room is a classic example. They even have a name for it—the Old Hag Syndrome. Because some people think it’s an old lady sitting on their chest, paralyzing them.”
“Right,” Dee said. “Well, that’s what it must have been, then. Of course.”
“Same with you, Zach,” Michael said, turning to look at him. “Only yours was hypnagogic hallucination—you thought you weren’t asleep yet, but your brain was in la-la land already.”
Zach said nothing.
“What about me?” Audrey said. “I was asleep—but when I woke up, my dream was true.” She touched polished fingernails to the back of her neck, just beneath the burnished copper French twist. “I was wet.”
“Sweat,” Michael said succinctly.
“I don’t sweat.”
“Well, ladylike perspiration, then. It’s been hot.”
Jenny looked around at the group on the knoll. They all sounded so calm and rational. But Michael’s grin was strained, and Zach was paler than ever. Dee’s nervous energy was like an electrical field. Audrey’s lips were pressed together.
&
nbsp; In spite of the brave words, they were all on edge.
And where’s Tom? Jenny thought. He should be here. No matter what he thinks of me, he should be here for the sake of the others. What’s he doing?
“I heard there was a body found up in the Santa Ana foothills,” Dee said. “A guy from this school.”
“Gordon Wilson,” Audrey said, wrinkling her nose. “You know—that senior with the cowboy boots. People say he runs over cats.”
“Well, he’s not going to run over any more. They think a mountain lion got him.”
* * *
Tom had heard about the body yesterday afternoon, and his first irrational thought had been: Zach? Michael?
But they had both been safe. And Jenny was safe at school today—although maybe school wasn’t so safe, either. Yesterday, she’d gotten herself sent home from computer applications after something—it was hard to figure out exactly what from the conflicting stories—had happened.
A brief thought crossed his mind that he might call her and ask—but Tom had already chosen his course. He couldn’t change it now, and she probably wouldn’t want him to. He’d seen her in the car, that look when the song came on. Scared, yes, but with something underneath the scaredness. She’d never looked like that at him.
It didn’t matter. He’d protect her anyway. But yesterday, knowing she was home for good, he’d taken the afternoon off and gone to the police station. He’d used charm on a female detective and learned exactly where the body had been found.
Today he was skipping school completely. Teachers were going to start asking questions about that soon.
So what?
Tom found the dry creek bed. It wasn’t too far from the famous Bell Canyon Trail, where a six-year-old had been attacked by a mountain lion. The air was scented with sage.
There was a crinkled yellow “crime scene” ribbon straggling along the creek bed and little flags of various colors planted in the ground. Tom scrambled down the slope and stood where tiny traces of a dark stain on the rocks still showed.
He looked around. One place on the opposite bank had seen a lot of activity. Cactus had been broken, pineapple weed uprooted. There were footprints in the dirt.
Tom followed the trail up to a slope covered with purple sage. Coastal live oak and spreading sycamores cast an inviting shade nearby.
Tom studied the ground.
After a moment he began to walk, slowly, toward the trees. He skirted brush. He came to three old sycamores growing so closely that their branches were entwined.
The air was heavier here. It had a strange smell. Very faint, but disturbing. Feral.
Like a predator.
Sometimes there were huge patches of poison ivy under these old trees. Tom looked carefully, then stirred the brush underneath with his foot. The smell came stronger. Something heavy had lain here for quite some time.
He turned and retraced his steps slowly.
Then he saw it. On a dusty rock directly between the trees and the place where the creek bank was disturbed. A splatter of black like tar. A thick, viscous substance that looked as if it had bubbled at the edges.
Tom’s breath hissed in, and he knelt, eyes narrowed.
There was no sign that any of it had been scraped off. Either the police hadn’t seen it or they hadn’t cared. It clearly wasn’t the blood of anything on earth. It didn’t look like anything important.
It was. It was very important. Tom took out a Swiss army knife and scraped some of the gunk up to examine it. It had an odd, musky smell, and spread very thin it was not black but red.
Then he sat back on his heels and shut his eyes, trying to maintain the control he was famous for.
By Thursday Jenny noticed that Zach had dark circles under his eyes and Dee was jumpier than ever. Michael’s face was blotchy, and one of Audrey’s nails actually looked bitten.
They were all falling apart.
Because of dreams. That was all they were. Nothing really happened at night, nothing hurt them. But the dreams were enough.
Friday they were scheduled to go postering, but Jenny had to stop by the YMCA first, a few blocks from the Center. And it was there that something really did happen at last.
Jenny had been waiting so long, searching for so long, that she ought to have been prepared. But when the time came, she found she wasn’t prepared at all.
She was inside the Y, talking to Mrs. Birkenkamp, the swim coach. Jenny volunteered every Friday with the swim class for disabled kids. She loved it and hated to miss.
“But I have to,” she said miserably. “And maybe next Friday, too. I should have told you before, but I forgot—”
“Jenny, it’s okay. Are you okay?”
Jenny lifted her eyes to the clear blue ones which looked at her steadily. There was something so wise about them—Jenny had the sudden impulse to throw herself into the woman’s arms and tell her everything.
Mrs. Birkenkamp had been Jenny’s hero for years. She never gave up or lost faith. She’d taught a child without arms to swim. Maybe she would have an answer.
But what could Jenny say? Nothing that an adult would believe. Besides, it was up to Jenny to do things for herself now. She couldn’t rely on Tom anymore; she had to stand on her own feet.
“I’ll be fine,” she said unsteadily. “Tell all the kids hello—”
That was when Cam came in.
Dee was behind him. She had been waiting outside in her jeep. “He came over from the Center. He won’t talk to anybody but you,” she said.
Cam said simply, “I found her.”
Jenny gasped. She actually felt dizzy for an instant. Then she said, “Where?”
“I got her address.” Cam thrust a hand into the pocket of his skin-tight jeans and pulled out a grimy slip of paper.
“Right,” Jenny said. “Let’s go.”
“Wait,” Mrs. Birkenkamp said. “Jenny, what’s all this about—”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Birkenkamp,” Jenny said, whirling around and hugging the willowy coach. “Everything’s going to be all right now.” She really did feel that way.
Cam directed them to the house. “Her name’s Angela Seecombe. Kimberly Hall’s big sister Jolie knows a guy who knows her. This is the street.”
Filbert Street. East of Ramona Street, where P.C. lived, just south of Landana. Audrey and Jenny had been there, distributing flyers.
But not inside this yellow two-story house with the paint-chipped black iron fence. Jenny couldn’t remember why they hadn’t been let in here, but they hadn’t.
“You stay here,” she said. “I’ve got to do this myself. But, Cam—thank you.” She turned to look at him, this tough kid with dandelion-fluff hair whose life had changed because his sister had gone to a party.
He shrugged, but his eyes met hers, grateful for the acknowledgment. “I wanted to.”
No one answered the door of the yellow house. Jenny leaned on the bell.
Still no answer. But faintly, from inside, came the sound of a TV set.
Jenny glanced at the driveway. No car there. Maybe no adults home. She waved to Dee and Cam to stay in the car, then went around the side of the house. She unlatched the creaking iron gate and waded through thigh-deep foxtails to the back porch.
She grasped the knob of the back door firmly. Then she cast a look heavenward, took a deep breath, and tried it.
It was unlocked. Jenny stepped inside and followed the sound of the TV into a small family room.
Sitting on a rust-colored couch was the Crying Girl.
She jumped up in astonishment at the sight of Jenny, spilling popcorn from a microwave bag onto the carpet. Her long dark hair swung over her shoulders. Her haunted eyes were wide, and her mouth was open.
“Don’t be afraid,” Jenny said. “I’m not going to hurt you. I told you before, I need to talk to you.”
Hatred flashed through the girl’s face.
“I don’t want to talk to you!” She darted to the telephone. “I’m call
ing the police—you’re trespassing.”
“Go ahead and call them,” Jenny said with a calm she didn’t feel. “And I’ll tell them that you know things you haven’t told them about the morning P.C. disappeared. You saw P.C., didn’t you? You know where he went.” She was gambling. Angela had threatened to tell in the beginning; in the bathroom she’d said she could prove P.C. didn’t kill Summer. But she hadn’t told—which must mean she didn’t want to. Jenny was gambling that Angela would rather tell her than the police.
The girl said nothing, her slim olive-tan hand resting on the phone limply.
“Angela.” Jenny went to her as she had four days ago in the high school bathroom. She put her hands on the girl’s shoulders, gently this time.
“You did see P.C., didn’t you? And you saw what he had with him. Angela, you’ve got to tell me. You don’t understand how important it is. If you don’t tell me, the thing that happened to P.C. could happen to other people.”
The small bones under Jenny’s hands lifted as Angela heaved in a shaky breath.
“I hate you. . . .”
“No, you don’t. You want something to hate because you hurt so much. I understand that. But I’m not your enemy, and I’m not a soshe or a prep or any of those things. I’m just another girl like you, trying to cope, trying to stop something bad from happening. And I hurt, too.”
Dark, pensive eyes studied her face. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Like hell. And if you don’t believe it, you’re not as smart as you look.” Jenny’s nose and eyes were stinging. “Listen, Summer Parker-Pearson was one of my best friends. I lost her. Now I’ve lost my boyfriend over this, too. I just don’t want anything worse to happen—which it will, if you don’t help me.
Angela’s eyes dropped, but not before Jenny saw the shimmer of tears.
Jenny spoke softly. “If you know where P.C. went that morning, then you have to tell me now.”
Angela shrugged off Jenny’s hands and turned away. Her entire body was tense for a moment, then it slumped. “I won’t tell you—but I’ll show you,” she said.
“Jenny? Are you in there?”