by Meg Cabot
Michael did something surprising then. He reached out and touched my hair where it curled out from beneath the knit watch cap I was wearing.
"I knew you'd understand," he said. "From the moment I saw you, I knew you, out of all of them, were the only one who'd understand."
I seriously wanted to throw up. I mean it. He didn't get it. He so didn't get it. I mean, hadn't he thought about his mother at all? His poor mother, who had been so excited because a girl had called him? His mother, who already had one kid in the hospital? Hadn't he thought how his mother was going to feel when it came out that her only son was a murderer? Hadn't he thought about that at all?
Maybe he had. Maybe he had, and he thought she'd be glad. Because he'd avenged what had happened to his sister. Well, almost, anyway. There were still a few loose ends in the form of Brad … and everyone else who'd been at that party, I suppose. I mean, why just stop at Brad? I wondered how he'd managed to secure the guest list, and if he intended to kill everyone on it or just a select few.
"How did you know, anyway?" he asked in what I suppose he meant to be this tender voice. But all it did was make me want to throw up even more. " About the guardrail, I mean? And their car horn. That wasn't in the papers."
"How did I know?" I jerked my head from his reach. "They told me."
He looked a little hurt at my pulling away from him. "They told you? Who do you mean?"
"Carrie," I said. "And Josh and Felicia and Mark. The kids you killed."
His hurt look changed. It went from confused, to startled, and then to cynical, all in a matter of seconds.
"Oh," he said with a little laugh. "Right. The ghosts. You tried to warn me about them before, didn't you? Right here, as a matter of fact."
I just looked at him. "Laugh all you want," I said. "But the fact is, Michael, they've been wanting to kill you for a while now. And after the stunt you pulled today with the Rambler, I am seriously thinking about letting them."
He stopped laughing. "Suze," he said. "Your strange fixation with the spirit world aside, I told you: today was an accident. You weren't supposed to be in that car. You were supposed to ride home with me. Brad was the one. Brad was the one I wanted dead, not you."
"And what about David?" I demanded. "My little brother? He's twelve years old, Michael. He was in that car. Did you want him dead, too? And Jake? He was probably delivering pizzas the night your sister was hurt. Should he die for what happened to her? Or my friend Gina? I guess she deserves to die, too, even though she's never even been to a party in the Valley."
Michael's face was white against the bits of sky I could see through the window behind his head.
"I didn't mean for anyone to get hurt," he said, in an oddly toneless voice. "Anybody except for the guilty, I mean."
"Well, you didn't do a very good job," I said. "In fact, you did a lousy job. You really messed up. And do you know why?"
I saw his eyelids, behind his glasses, narrow.
"I think I'm starting to," he said.
"Because you tried to kill some people I happen to care about." I swallowed. Something hard, that hurt, was growing in my throat. "And that's why, Michael, it's going to stop. Right here. Right now."
He continued to stare at me though those narrowed eyelids.
"Oh," he said in the same expressionless voice. "It's going to stop, all right. Believe me."
I knew what he was driving at. I almost laughed. If it hadn't been for the painful lump in my throat, I would have.
"Michael," I said. "Don't even try. You so don't know who you're messing with."
"No," Michael said quietly. "I guess I don't, do I? I thought you were different. I thought you, out of everyone at school, would be able to see things from my point of view. But I can see now that you're just like everybody else."
"You don't have any idea," I said, "how much I wish I were."
"I'm sorry, Suze," Michael said, undoing his own seatbelt. "I really thought you and I could be … well, friends, anyway. But I am getting the distinct impression that you don't approve of what I've been doing. Even though no one - no one - will miss those people. They really were wastes of space, Suze. They had nothing meaningful to contribute. I mean, look at Brad. Would it be such a tragedy if he simply ceased to exist?"
"It would," I said, "to his father."
Michael shrugged. "I suppose. Still, I think the world would be a better place without all the Josh Saunderses and Brad Ackermans." He smiled at me. There was nothing, however, warm in that smile. "You, however, disagree, I can see. It even sounds to me as if you're contemplating trying to stop me. And I really can't have that."
"So what are you going to do?" I gave him a very sarcastic look. "Kill me?"
"I don't want to," he said. "Believe me."
Then he cracked his knuckles. Can I just tell you, I found this quite creepy. I mean, aside from the fact that cracking your knuckles in front of somebody is creepy, anyway, this was especially disturbing since it drew attention to the fact that Michael's hands were actually quite large, and were attached to these arms that I remembered from the beach were remarkably muscular, and filled with ropy sinews. I'm not exactly a delicate flower, but hands attached to a pair of arms like that could do a girl like me some serious damage.
"But I guess," Michael said, "you haven't left me with much choice, have you?"
Oh, sure. Blame the victim, why don't you?
I don't know if I said the words aloud, or simply thought them. I only know I went, "Now would be a good time for Josh and his friends to show up," and that a second later Josh Saunders, Carrie Whitman, Mark Pulsford, and Felicia Bruce all appeared, standing in the gravel by the passenger side door of Michael's rental car.
They stood there blinking for a second, as if unsure what had happened. Then they looked beyond me, at the boy behind the steering wheel.
And that's when all hell broke loose.
CHAPTER 18
Was it what I intended to happen all along?
I don't know. Certainly there'd been a moment in Dopey's room when I'd been seized by a kind of rage. It was rage, not bicycle pedals, that had propelled me down into the Valley, and rage that had prompted me to put that quarter into that pay phone and call Michael.
Some of that rage, however, dissipated when I spoke to Michael's mother. Yes, he was a murderer. Yes, he'd tried to kill me and a number of people I cared about.
But he had a mother. A mother who loved him enough to be excited because a girl was calling him, maybe for the first time in his life.
Still, I got into that car with him. I told him to drive to the Point, even though I knew what was there waiting for him. And I got him to admit it. All of it. Out loud.
And then I called them. There was no doubt about that. I called the RLS Angels. And when they showed up, all I did was calmly get out of the car.
That's right. I got out of the way. And I let them do what they'd been wanting to do for so long … since the night of their deaths, actually.
Look, I'm not proud of it. And I can't say that I stood there and watched it with any relish. When the seatbelt Michael had removed suddenly wrapped around his throat, and his adjustable car seat started creeping inexorably toward the steering wheel, crushing his legs, I didn't feel good about it.
The Angels sure seemed to, however.
And they probably should have. Their telekinetic powers, I could see, had come a long way. They weren't messing around with any seaweed ropes or mardi gras decorations now. The force of their combined power was strong enough to have flicked on the rental car's lights and windshield wipers. Through the rolled up windows, I could hear the radio blare to life. Britney Spears was bemoaning her latest heartache as Michael Meducci clawed at the seatbelt around his neck. The car had begun to rock and was lit eerily from inside, almost as if the dashboard lights were halogens that someone had set on bright.
And all the while, the RLS Angels stood there in eerie silence, their hands stretched out toward the car,
and their gazes fixed on Michael. I mean, even for ghosts they looked spooky, glowing in that unearthly way, the girls in their long dresses and wrist corsages, and the boys in their tuxes. I shuddered, watching them, and it wasn't just from the cold breeze coming off the ocean, either.
I hate to say it, but it was Britney that broke the spell for me. I mean, she's likable enough, but to have to die while listening to her? I don't know. It just seemed a bit harsh, somehow.
And then there was poor Mrs. Meducci. She had already lost one child - well, more or less. Could I really just stand there and watch her lose another?
Minutes - maybe even seconds - before, the answer to that question might have been yes. But when it came down to it, I just couldn't. I couldn't, in spite of what Michael had done. I simply had too many years of mediation behind me. Too many years, and too many deaths. I couldn't stand there and allow yet another one to occur right before my eyes.
Michael's face was contorted and purple, his glasses askew, when I finally shouted, "Stop!"
Instantly, the car stopped rocking. The windshield wipers stilled. Britney's voice was cut off mid-note, and Michael's car seat started sliding slowly back. The seatbelt loosened around his neck enough to allow him to gasp for air. He collapsed against the back of the seat, looking confused and frightened, his chest heaving.
Josh blinked at me like someone newly wakened from a trance. "What?" he said, sounding annoyed.
I said, "I'm sorry. But I can't let you do this."
Josh and the others exchanged glances. Mark was the first to speak. He gave a little laugh and went, "Oh, right."
Then the radio blared to life again, and suddenly, the car was rocking on its shocks.
I reacted swiftly and decisively by hammering a fist into Mark Pulsford's gut. This threw off the Angels' concentration enough so that Michael was able to scrape open the driver's side door and throw himself out of the car before anything else could start strangling him. He lay in the gravel, moaning.
Mark, on the other hand, recovered all too quickly from my assault.
"You bitch," he said, looking mightily offended. "What gives?"
"Yeah." Josh was clearly livid. His blue eyes were like shards of ice as they glinted at me. "First you say we can't kill him. Then you say we can. Then you say we can't. Well, guess what? We're tired of this mediation crap. We're killing him, and that's the end of it."
That was when the car started rocking with enough energy that it looked as if it was going to flip over, right on top of Michael.
"No!" I cried. "Look, I was wrong, all right? I mean, he tried to kill me, too, and I'll admit, I went a little wacko. But believe me, this isn't the way - "
"Speak for yourself," Josh said.
And a second later, I was flying backward through the air, blown off my feet by a blast of energy so strong, I was convinced Michael's car had blown up.
It wasn't until I landed hard in the dirt on the far side of the parking area that I realized it hadn't been the car exploding at all. It had merely been the combined force of the Angels' psychic power, thrown casually my way. I had been tossed aside as easily as an ant flicked off a picnic table.
I guess that's when I knew I was in some real trouble. I had, I realized, unleashed a monster. Or four of them, I should say.
I was struggling to get back up to my feet when Jesse materialized beside me, looking almost as angry as Josh.
"Nombre de Dios," I heard him breathe as he took in the sight before him. Then he looked down at me. "What is happening here?" he demanded, holding out a hand to help me up. "I turn around for one second, and they are gone. Did you call them?"
Flinching - and not from pain - I took his hand, and let him pull me up.
"Yes," I admitted, brushing myself off. "But I didn't … well, I didn't mean for this to happen."
Jesse looked at Michael, who was crawling across the parking lot, trying to get away from his gyrating car.
"Nombre de Dios, Susannah," Jesse said again, incredulously. "What did you expect to happen? You bring that boy here, of all places? And now you ask them not to kill him?" Shaking his head, Jesse started striding toward the Angels.
"You don't understand," I protested, trotting after him. "He tried to kill me. And Doc and Gina and Dopey and - "
"So you do this? Susannah, don't you know by now that you are not a killer?" Jesse's dark-eyed gaze bored into me. "Kindly don't try to act like one. The only person who will end up getting hurt by it is you."
I was so taken aback by the rebuke in his tone, tears filled my eyes. I mean it. Actual tears. Furious. That's what I told myself. I was crying because I was furious with him. Not because he'd hurt my feelings. Not at all.
But Jesse didn't notice my fury. He'd turned his back on me, and now he strode up to the Angels. A second later, the car stopped rocking, the windshield wipers and radio stilled, and the lights went dead. The Angels were strong, it was true. But Jesse had been dead a lot longer than they had.
"Get back to the beach," Jesse said to them.
Josh actually laughed out loud.
"You're kidding me, right?" he said.
"I am not kidding you," Jesse said.
"No way," Mark Pulsford said.
"Yeah." Carrie pointed at me. "I mean, she called us. She said it was all right."
Jesse did not turn his head in the direction Carrie was pointing. It was pretty clear he was disgusted with me.
"Now she says it is not," Jesse informed them. "You will do as she says."
"Don't you get it?" Josh's eyes were flashing again, flashing with the psychic energy he was so filled with. "He killed us. He killed us."
"And he will be punished for it," Jesse said evenly. "But not by you."
"By who, then?" Josh demanded.
"By," Jesse said, "the law."
"Bullshit!" Josh exploded. "That is bullshit, man! We've been waiting all day for the law! The old man said that was what was going to happen, but I don't see this kid being taken away by any boys in blue. Do you? I don't think it's going to happen. So let us teach him a lesson our way."
Jesse shook his head. It was a dangerous move with four angry, out-of-control young ghosts bearing down on him. But he did it anyway.
I took a step closer to Jesse as I saw the RLS Angels shimmer with rage. I stood on tiptoe so he could hear me when I whispered, "I'll take the girls. You take the boys."
"No." Jesse's expression was grim. "Leave, Susannah. While they are occupied with me, run for the road and flag down the next automobile you see. Then go with them to safety."
Uh, yeah. Right.
"And leave you to deal with them alone?" I glared at him. "What are you, nuts?"
"Susannah," he hissed. "You don't understand. They'll kill you - "
I laughed. I actually laughed, all my anger with him gone.
Jesse was right. I didn't understand.
"Let them try," I said.
That's when they rushed us.
I guess the Angels must have agreed upon an arrangement amongst themselves that was similar to the one I'd tried to make with Jesse, since the girls came at me and both boys went for Jesse. I wasn't too dismayed. I mean, two on one is kind of unfair, but, except for the whole telekinetic power thing, I felt we were pretty even. Carrie and Felicia hadn't been fighters when they'd been alive - that much was clear from the very first moment they tackled me - so they didn't have a real solid idea of where it was best to apply a fist in order to cause the most pain.
At least, that's what I thought before they started hitting me. The thing I hadn't counted on was the fact that these girls - and their boyfriends, too - were really, really mad.
And if you think about it, they had a right to be. Okay, maybe they had been jerks when they'd been alive - they didn't exactly strike me as the kind of people I'd want to hang out with, with their obsession with partying and their elitist attitudes - but they'd been young. They would likely have grown into, if not thoughtful, then at least producti
ve citizens.
Michael Meducci had put a stop to that, though. And they were spitting mad about it.
I guess you could argue that their own behavior hadn't exactly been above reproach. I mean, they had thrown that party where Lila Meducci had been so seriously hurt, due not only to her own stupidity, but also their - and their parents' - negligence.
But that didn't seem to occur to them. No, as far as the RLS Angels were concerned, they'd been cheated. Cheated from their lives. And somebody was going to have to pay for that.
That someone was Michael Meducci. And anyone who tried to stand in the way of their achieving that goal.
Their wrath was exquisite. Really. I don't think I've ever been as completely, one hundred percent angry as those ghosts were. Oh, I've been mad, sure. But never that mad, and never for that long.
The RLS Angels were furious. And they took that fury out on Jesse and me.
I didn't even see the first blow. It spun me around the way that semi truck had spun the Rambler. I felt my lip split. Blood flew out in a fountain from my face. Some of it landed on the girls' evening gowns.
They didn't even notice. They just hit me again.
I don't want you to think I didn't hit back. I did. I was good. Really good.
Just not good enough. I had to reassess my whole theory on that two-on-one thing. It wasn't fair. Felicia Bruce and Carrie Whitman were killing me.
And there wasn't a blessed thing I could do about it.
I couldn't even look over to see if Jesse was bearing up any better than I was. Every time I turned my head, it seemed, another fist connected with it. Soon I couldn't see at all. My eyes had filled up with blood, which appeared to be streaming from a cut in my forehead. Either that or some blood vessels in my eyes had burst from the force of some of those blows. I hoped Jesse, at least, would be all right. It wasn't like he could die, or anything. Not like I could. The one thing that kept going through my head was, Well, if they kill me, then I'll finally know where everybody goes. Once a mediator has sent them packing, I mean.