Reunion

by Meg Cabot

  “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

  Eighteen

  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 tele-kinetic 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 midnote, 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.

  Jos
h 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 tele-kinetic 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 productive 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.

  At one point during Felicia and Carrie’s assault, I tripped over something—something that was warm and somewhat soft. I wasn’t sure what it was—I couldn’t see it, of course—until it moaned my name.

  “Suze,” it said.

  At first I didn’t recognize the voice. Then I realized Michael’s throat must have been crushed by that seatbelt. All he could do was croak.

  “Suze,” he wheezed. “What’s happening?”

  The terror in his voice, I thought, showed that he was probably as frightened now as Josh, Carrie, Mark, and Felicia had been when he’d rammed their car and sent them plummeting to their deaths. It served him right, I thought, in some distant part of my mind that wasn’t concentrating on trying to escape the blows that were raining down on me.

  “Suze,” Michael moaned, beneath me. “Make it stop.”

  As if I could. As if I had anything like control over what was happening to me. If I lived through this—which didn’t seem likely—some big changes were going to be made. First and foremost, I was going to practice my kickboxing a lot more faithfully.

  And then something happened. I can’t tell you what it was because, like I said, I couldn’t see.

  But I could hear. And what I heard was perhaps the sweetest sound I’d ever heard in my life.

  It was a siren. Police or fire truck, ambulance or paramedic, I couldn’t tell. But it was coming closer, and closer, and closer still, until suddenly, I could hear the vehicle’s tires crunching on the gravel in front of me. The blows that had been raining down on me abruptly ceased, and I sagged against Michael, who was pushing at me feebly, saying, “The cops. Get off me. It’s the cops. I gotta go.”

  A second later, hands were touching me. Warm hands. Not ghost hands. Human hands.

  Then a man’s voice was saying, “Don’t worry, miss. We’ve got you. We’ve got you. Can you stand up?”

  I could, but standing caused waves of pain to go shooting through me. I recognized that pain. It was the kind of pain that was so intense, it seemed ridiculous…so ridiculous, I started to giggle. Really. Because it was just funny that anything could hurt that much. It meant, pain like that, that something, somewhere, was broken.

  Then something soft was pressed beneath me, and I was told to lie down. More pain—burning, searing pain that left me chuckling weakly. More hands touched me.

  Then I heard a familiar voice calling my name as if from somewhere very far away.

  “Susannah. Susannah, it’s me, Father Dominic. Can you hear me, Susannah?”

  I opened my eyes. Someone had wiped the blood from them. I could see again.

  I was lying on an ambulance gurney. Red and white lights were flashing all around me. Two emergency medical technicians were messing with the wound in my scalp.

  But that wasn’t what hurt. My chest. Ribs. I’d cracked a
few. I could tell.

  Father Dominic’s face loomed over my gurney. I tried to smile—tried to speak—but I couldn’t. My lip was too sore to move it.

  “Gina called me,” Father Dominic said, I suppose in answer to the questioning look I’d given him. “She told me you were going to meet Michael. I guessed—after she told me what you’d said about the accident today—that this was where you’d bring him. Oh, Susannah, how I wish you hadn’t.”

  “Yeah,” one of the EMTs said. “Looks like he worked her over pretty good.”

  “Hey.” His partner was grinning. “Who you kidding? She gave as good as she got. Kid’s a mess.”

  Michael. They were talking about Michael. Who else could they be talking about? None of them—except Father Dominic—could see Jesse, or the RLS Angels. They could see only the two of us, Michael and me, both beaten, apparently, almost to death. Of course they assumed we’d done it to each other. Who else was there to blame?

  Jesse. Reminded of him, my heart began to hammer in my broken chest. Where was Jesse? I lifted my head, looking around for him frantically in what had become a sea of uniformed police officers. Was Jesse all right?

  Father Dominic misread my panic. He said, soothingly, “Michael’s going to be all right. A severely bruised larynx, and some cuts and bruises. That’s all.”

  “Hey.” The EMT straightened. They were getting ready to load me into the ambulance. “Don’t sell yourself short, kid.” He was talking to me. “You got him real good. He won’t be forgetting this little escapade for a long time to come, believe me.”

  “Not with all the time he’s going to be spending behind bars for this,” his partner said with a wink.

  And sure enough, as they lifted me into the ambulance, I could see that Michael was sitting not, as I’d expected, in an ambulance of his own, but in the back of a squad car. His hands appeared to be cuffed behind his back. His throat may have been hurting him, but he was speaking. He was speaking rapidly and, if the expression on his face was any indication, urgently to a man in a suit I could only assume was a police detective of some kind. Occasionally, the man in the suit jotted something down on a clipboard in front of him.