She rubbed her arms and glanced around the room. She thought of Jen. Jen was probably home from her retreat. Zoe checked the time and frowned. Over an hour had passed—it was too late to try calling Jen now.
She slipped out of bed and checked the locks on the windows. Then she tiptoed across the room and pushed her desk chair in front of the door so she could hear if anyone tried to break in. Once she had secured the room, she picked up Grace’s journal from the floor and, getting back into bed, opened it to where she had left off.
There was something in his hand—something shiny—maybe a knife—I don’t know. I could smell his rancid breath as he bore down on me. He grabbed me and shoved me backward with one arm pressed against my throat. That’s when Yoda came to my rescue. Teeth bared, Yoda—bless his soul—grabbed the man by his ankle. The man yelped in surprise and tried to shake Yoda loose. Then he lost his balance and tripped over Yoda. I heard a nasty crack as the man’s knee made contact with the pavement. I stumbled backward as he let go of me. My foot struck a patch of ice and my feet went flying out from under me. I guess I must have hit my head against the brick wall and passed out for a few seconds—maybe more—because that’s the last thing I remember until I heard voices and felt Yoda’s warm tongue licking my face. I looked around and saw swirling blue lights and the man who had attacked me kneeling on the ground. A police officer was standing over him, gun drawn. As the officer cuffed him, the man twisted to face me and snarled, “You’re gonna pay for this, bitch.”
There was an ear-piercing crack as a bolt of lightning struck something nearby. Zoe’s bedside light flickered on and off, then the room went pitch black. She heard the generator behind the house kick in and saw the reflection in the wet leaves of the lights going on again in the main part of the house leaving only Grace’s room and her room in darkness.
Trembling, she pulled the blankets up to her chin.
Another flash of lightning lit up the room.
Zoe gasped.
The bedroom door—it was ajar. Oh, my God! Someone—or something—was in her bedroom.
Then she heard it between the howling wind and cracking of branches—a scraping sound followed by footsteps—clicking like claws on the wooden floor. In the ghostly shadows of a flash of lightning she saw the figure of a man—no, not a man, more like a werewolf! She felt a wave of panic wash over her.
The creature leered at her, its narrow eyes glowing like blue embers. It threw back its hideous head and howled—a long, drawn-out, blood-curdling howl.
Zoe tried to move, to get up and run, to cry out for help, but her terrified body would not move.
The creature lowered its head and leapt forward, grabbing hold of her shoulders, tearing at her flesh, shaking her.
“Zoe, Zoe, wake up,” a voice called in the distance.
Zoeʼs eyes popped open. Mom stood over her holding a flashlight. Yoda was sitting beside the bed looking up at her, his head cocked in concern.
“You were having a bad dream,” Mom said, pulling back the blankets and helping Zoe to her feet. “Come on down and sleep in the spare bedroom next to ours until the power comes back on.” She grabbed Zoe’s pillow. As she did, Zoe remembered the journal. She must have been holding it when she fell asleep.
She whirled around, terrified, and stared at the empty bed.
The journal was nowhere in sight.
Chapter Seven
By morning the storm had subsided to a steady rain, leaving in its path fallen branches and power lines. The power came back on just as Zoe and her parents sat down to breakfast. Yoda settled on the floor under the table, his nose resting on Zoe’s foot.
Zoe pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and obsessed about the journal. Where could it be? Now that that nosy detective knew about it, she probably would not stop pestering them until she found it. The last thing Zoe wanted was for someone to find the journal in her bedroom and arrest her for stealing evidence.
She thought back to the night before. She was pretty sure she had been holding the journal when she fell asleep. So what happened to it? Oh, God. Did Mom find it in her room last night, before she woke Zoe up?
She took a bite of her Cheerios and considered this for a moment, then decided it was unlikely. Knowing Mom, she would have said something by now. She was not the type to hold back or keep secrets. Zoe set down her spoon. Maybe there really had been an intruder in her room last night—maybe that creepy guy who had murdered Grace. And maybe he had taken the journal and fled when he heard Mom coming.
Or, maybe she had been sleep walking and hid the journal somewhere in her room, although she’d never walked in her sleep before. But there was always a first time for everything. She had to try to find the journal before someone else did.
“I should go up and get ready for school so I don’t miss the bus,” Zoe said, trying to sound casual.
“Are you sure you’re up to it?” Mom asked. “You can take another day off if you need to.”
“I’m fine,” Zoe said. She picked up her empty cereal bowl and started to stand up.
“Sit down,” Dad said. “There’s no rush.”
“But…” She looked pleadingly at Mom. “I’ll miss the bus.ˮ Zoe was hoping Jen had gotten back early enough last night to go to school today. They rode the same bus, so she would have a chance to talk to her and tell her what had happened.
“Some of the buses are running late because of the storm last night,” Dad said. He pointed toward the television, which was tuned into the local news on Channel 10. “Your bus won’t be here until eight-thirty—maybe later.”
“I can drive you to school,” Mom said, clearing the breakfast dishes.
“I’m okay,” Zoe replied sullenly. “I don’t mind waiting for the bus.”
“It’s no problem. I’m going into work late.”
Zoe did not answer.
“Oh, by the way, Mrs. Worthen might come over this morning to do some cleaning and help me get Grace’s room in order, if she can make the time.”
Zoe gulped. If anyone could find the missing journal, it was Mrs. Worthen. She was such a neat-freak that she could sniff out anything that wasn’t in its proper place—even a clipped toenail. Zoe squirmed in her seat. She had to get up to her room and find that journal before Mrs. Worthen arrived.
“And Jennifer called yesterday,” Mom said, “while we were still at Patrick’s. She left a message on the answering machine. Said she was sorry to hear about Aunt Grace and that she would see you in school.”
Dad cleared his throat. He looked upset and exhausted. “The police have a few more questions for me,” he said, gathering up some papers. “After that, I’m meeting Patrick at the funeral home this afternoon to make arrangements, but I should be home by five-thirty.” He stood. “I’ll pick something up for dinner.”
Tears welled up in Zoe’s eyes at the mention of the word “funeral.” It sounded so final. She just could not believe that Aunt Grace would never be back.
Mom reached over and patted her arm. “I know you’re upset about Aunt Grace. We’re all in shock.” She checked her watch. “Look, why don’t you run up to your room and get ready, and we can talk about it on the way to school. How about meeting me at the car in say—twenty minutes?”
****
After quickly dressing, Zoe searched the area around her bed for the journal. She checked under her bed, pulled back the blankets, and felt under her mattress. She even checked the closet and dresser drawers. Nothing—no journal.
Tears of frustration and sadness welled up inside her. Where in the world was that journal? She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her jersey. Taking a deep breath, she picked up her backpack, and dumped the contents from her stay at Uncle Patrick’s onto the bed. Her MP3 Player fell out of the side pocket and slid off the bed.
Zoe groaned and flopped down on the bed and reached her arm down between the bed and the wall. As she felt around her hand touched something hard—like the back of a book—wedged between the under-bed storage drawer an
d the wall. She grasped the object between her fingertips and pulled it up. It was the journal. A wave of relief flooded over her.
She shoved the journal into her backpack with her schoolbooks and headed out to the driveway. Mom was waiting in the car.
****
The school day passed slowly with its endless long division problems and boring lectures about protozoa and other stupid one-celled creatures—as if anyone cared. Thank God it was Friday. It all seemed so unreal. How could things just go on as if everything was normal when her beloved aunt had been murdered and Zoe’s whole world had been turned upside down?
On the bus ride home, she told Jen all about what had happened—how she was awoken by a thumping sound, about the police coming to the house because they said it was a “suspicious death,” and what the medical examiner had told Dad. She thought of telling Jen about the journal, but decided not to because Billy Ray Spitz was sitting across the aisle listening to every word. Not that she didn’t trust Billy—it was that nosy mother of his.
Zoe glanced over at Billy. But he just looked away, like he was upset at her about something. She sighed. He used to be fun. They had been friends—playmates—when they were younger.
Jen finally told Billy to mind his own business, but it didn’t do any good. He kept on snooping in on their private conversation and smirking like he knew something they didn’t.
“Hey, didn’t you hear her telling you to mind your own f’ing business?” said one of the older boys who was sitting in the seat behind Billy.
Billy ignored him.
“Hey—Spitzballs. I’m talking to you.” He snatched Billy’s hat—a stained Red Sox cap. “Phew,” he said, holding his nose. “What did you do—use your cap to wipe your skinny ass?”
The other kids on the bus roared with laughter—except for Zoe. She felt sorry for Billy, the way the other kids picked on him. He was small for his age too, like her, except it didn’t seem to matter so much if you were a girl.
“Give it back,” Billy whimpered.
“Give it back,” the older boy mimicked.
Billy jumped up and tried, unsuccessfully, to grab his hat.
The bus driver slowed down and glared at Billy in the rear view mirror. “Sit down in your seat, Billy Spitz. Don’t make me have to write you up. Do you hear me?”
“But he stole my hat,” Billy protested.
“Hey, Spitzballs,” the older boy taunted in a low voice once the bus driver’s attention was back on the road. “Come and get it.” He held the cap up in the air above Billy’s head.
Billy said nothing.
“Looks like our feeble-minded little spitzballs is on the wrong bus,” another boy said with a smirk. “He should be on the ghost bus to the school for the feeble-minded out by the cemetery.”
“Give me back my hat,” Billy demanded, his narrow face twisted in humiliation.
“Make me, girlie,” the older boy said.
“I’m not…” Billy broke off. He looked like he was about to cry.
“Hey, did mommy dearest take your precious Billy Spitz balls—turn you into a girlie girl?”
The older boy leaned forward and made a kissing sound with his lips just inches from Billy’s neck.
Billy jumped up and drew his arm back as if he was going to punch the older boy.
The school bus screeched to a halt on the gravel shoulder of the road.
“Kyle, give Billy back his hat,” the driver ordered. “And Billy, you get up here in the front seat where I can watch you. This is my last warning.”
Billy turned a deep shade of red. As he slowly made his way to the front of the bus, hat in hand, one of the older boys swatted Billy in the butt, much to the delight of the other students on the bus.
At that moment a black pick-up truck with oversized tires pulled out from behind the stopped bus and roared past.
The bus driver laid on his horn.
“Asshole,” someone yelled from the window at the driver of the truck.
The driver thrust his hand out his window and gave them the finger.
Zoe shuddered. The truck had a sinister look about it, and sounded like it came straight from the gates of hell.
****
Zoe and Billy’s stop was a few stops after Jen’s. Once the bus was out of sight, Billy came up behind Zoe and flicked her on the head.
“Stop it,” Zoe said, rubbing the back of her head. She gave him her best dirty look and pushed her hair behind her ears with an air of exasperation.
“Mama says your aunt deserved to die because she was evil,” he said. “She told me last night.”
“W—what?”
“You heard me.”
Zoe felt a swell of hurt and anger in her chest. “That’s a terrible thing to say,” she said, clenching her fists. “Aunt Grace was not evil—you’re the one who’s acting like an evil jerk.” She picked up her pace—trying to put some distance between them.
“Oh, yeah?” he said, catching up to her. “Well, you may not know this but your aunt told Mama she was going to kill Precious if he didn’t stop barking. So there.”
Zoe stopped. His mother had bought Precious the Chihuahua for him a few years ago when his dad had left them. Billy and that annoying little dog had been inseparable. She swung around and stared at him. “So that was the complaint your mother filed with the police last summer—she thought Aunt Grace killed Precious?”
“And Mama says your aunt is going straight to hell ʼcause she killed my dog.”
“That’s just about the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Zoe said, her eyes flashing with anger. “Everyone knows the coyotes got Precious.”
Billy crossed his arms. “You’re just making that up. I’ve never seen any coyotes.ˮ
“Well you must be blind then as well as stupid because my dad told me he saw one the very week Precious disappeared trotting down the street in the middle of the day with one of Dr. Luczak’s roosters in its mouth.”
Billy did not answer.
“So it’s all your fault for letting that stupid little rat dog of yours run loose.”
“Oh, yeah?” Billy said. “Well your aunt was a real dog. Probably flew around at night sucking the blood out of rats.”
Zoe sniffed and flipped her hair back and started to walk away. Why did she even try to reason with such an idiot? She could not believe that she had actually felt sorry for him earlier.
Billy came up behind her again and stepped on the heel of her clogs. Zoe stumbled. Her backpack fell off her shoulder and her books spilled out onto the road.
“Now look what you’ve done!” she cried, scooping up the books.
“What’s that?” Billy asked, spotting the journal as she stuffed it in between the other books.
“It’s none of your business,” she said, gripping the backpack in her arms. Her heart pounded. Had he seen the word Journal on the cover?
He tried to snatch the backpack from her.
“Stop it,” she said, kicking him in the shin.
“Ouch,” he yelped, rubbing his leg. “I just asked a simple question. What’s the matter with you?” He straightened up and eyed the backpack. “What’ve you got in there? I bet it’s one of those fake books for stashing your dope—isn’t it?”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what it is. The head of that dopey little rat-dog of yours. I chopped it off and ate its brain for breakfast.”
Billy’s jaw dropped. He hesitated, apparently unsure of what to make of what she had said.
Zoe rolled her eyes. “Oh, for Pete’s sake, you’re so stupid,” she said. Then she broke into a run, not stopping until she had reached her house.
Chapter Eight
The only car in the driveway was Grace’s blue Mazda Miata convertible—a wedding present from her husband Luke—parked on the side of the driveway next to the woods.
Zoe opened the door to the house. “Mrs. Worthen?” she called out.
No answer. Zoe paused and listened. She thought she heard someone i
n the basement. Maybe Mrs. Worthen was downstairs straightening up Dad’s office in the basement.
Yoda came bounding out of the kitchen. It was Zoe’s job to walk Yoda when she got home from school. She went upstairs and threw her jacket and backpack on her bed. It was clear from the condition of her room, with its unmade bed and clothes scattered on the floor, that Mrs. Worthen hadn’t gotten to her room—at least not yet. Probably best not to leave the backpack here just in case.
Grabbing it, Zoe headed back downstairs.
Yoda followed.
Once downstairs, Zoe stopped and set down her backpack. She had to come up with a plan. She could not keep carrying the journal around in it forever. What she needed was to find a better place to hide it—a place where the police or someone might find it and figure it was Grace who had put it there.
Yoda pawed her leg and, whimpering, gazed up at her.
“Come on, Yoda,” she said. “Let’s get you out for a walk.”
The leash hung just inside the back door, next to the brightly colored key rack her Uncle Patrick and Aunt Alejandra had brought back for them from a trip to Guatemala several years ago. Zoe ran her fingers across the keys wondering which one of them belonged to Grace’s car. Maybe she could plant the journal in her car—in the trunk or under the front seat. Some people probably hid their journals in their car—it made sense if they didn’t want other people in the house to read them. Then she could drop a few hints—maybe say she just at that very moment remembered seeing Aunt Grace carrying the journal with her to the car. Then her parents would alert the police and they would come and check out the car and find the journal.
The keys jingled as she sorted through them, trying unsuccessfully to figure which one was for the Miata. Finally, she just grabbed the nearest one.
Clutching it in one hand, she reached for the leash with the other hand, then snapped it on Yoda’s collar. Once outside, she took the journal out of her backpack and hurried across the driveway.
She tried the key in the trunk first. It didn’t fit. She tried the driver’s door—still no luck. As she was about to go back to the house and get a different key, she heard the sound of voices coming down the street. She ducked behind the car just as Mrs. Spitz came stomping down the driveway in a pair of bright pink capris at least two sizes too small, with Billy in tow. Drops of blood trickled down Billy’s leg where Zoe had kicked him.
Fall From Grace Page 5