Driver's Dead

by Peter Lerangis

  “But he was drunk. A cop would know—”

  “He’s a driver’s ed teacher, Kirsten! And Rob was driving a stolen car. Who do you think the cops would believe?”

  Kirsten stared straight ahead. “Tell me. Was Busk sober enough to drive you to the hospital, or did Rob drive?”

  After a silence that seemed to last an hour, Virgil mumbled, “Rob drove.”

  “So that was that, huh? You thought you pulled it off—until Maria told you I was starting to get interested in Nguyen. Was that why you came to my house? You were coming on to me, Virgil. Was that part of the plan, too?”

  “I—I knew the Trangs had moved without finding Nguyen’s diary,” Virgil said. “I got worried that you would. Rob had been worried about that, too. So I figured I’d become your … friend. Maybe I’d find the diary first.”

  “You left the attic door open!” Kirsten blurted out. “When you were taking that long time in the upstairs bathroom …”

  “I wasn’t in the bathroom at all. I was snooping around—you know, looking for loose floorboards, hidden cracks, anyplace a book might fit. I hadn’t thought it’d be on a disk. Anyway, I was in your room when I heard that crash downstairs.”

  The plate. The door had swung open, knocked it over, and created a distraction.

  Kirsten mumbled, “Nguyen …”

  “What?”

  Telekinesis. When you move things by thinking about them. Those had been Maria’s words. Joking about Nguyen.

  Some joke.

  Kirsten’s mind was racing. If he could move a plate, could he … ? “He took Rob. He’s going to take you, Virgil. Maybe Gwen, too. And me. Maybe everybody, until he gets what he wants!”

  Virgil looked at her as if she’d completely lost it. “What are you talking about? Who?”

  “Just hear me, Virgil, You don’t have to believe a word. I thought Gwen had killed Rob, but she didn’t. Nguyen is trying to get revenge. The picture of the Escort on that driver’s ed contest flyer—it moves. Slowly. It turns toward you a little at a time, and then—”.”And then what? It drives off the page?”

  “Rob had a flyer with him the night he died. I found it the next day. The car was missing, Virgil.”

  “Oh my God … oh my God …”

  “I know you think I’m crazy, but—”

  Virgil shook his head. “That’s not why I’m saying that. Look in the back, Kirsten.”

  Kirsten craned her neck.

  A manila envelope sat on the backseat. It was labeled CONTEST FLYERS.

  Chapter 26

  “WHAT DO WE DO with them?” Virgil asked.

  “I don’t know,” Kirsten replied.

  “Throw them out?” Virgil reached into the back.

  “Don’t touch them!” Kirsten snapped. “We don’t know what might happen.”

  “Is the … mechanism, the spell, whatever you call it—is it activated if the flyer’s inside an envelope?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “Or does it have to do with, like, personal possession? In other words, only if it actually belongs to you—”

  “Virgil, how should I know?”

  Virgil reached for the handle. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m getting out of here.”

  “No, don’t!” Kirsten said. “Mr. Busk is out there somewhere. He’s probably coming after us. It’s already getting too dark to go home through the woods. We can drive into Fenimore Village and circle home using the expressway.”

  “But the flyers—”

  “They haven’t done anything to us yet. It’ll be only ten minutes to get home the long way. Let’s take the chance. We can ditch the Jeep when we get into Port Lincoln.”

  “Okay, fine. But if I get run over while we’re in here, you’re in trouble!” Virgil sank back into his seat. “Wait a minute. If we’re in a car, can another car materialize inside it? And if it does, would the surrounding car inhibit its growth, or …”

  Kirsten let him ramble on as she shot down Riverside Drive.

  By the time she wound through Fenimore Village and found the expressway, Virgil had fallen silent.

  Kirsten clutched the steering wheel, staying carefully in the right lane at forty miles an hour. She hated expressway driving. Cars hurtled by her like rockets.

  “Kirsten?” Virgil finally said.

  “This is as fast as I’m going to go!” she retorted.

  Virgil didn’t seem to hear the comment. “Maybe Nguyen is a revenant.”

  “Huh?”

  “You know … a restless spirit. I saw a show about this once. It’s someone who dies before he’s supposed to, and he can’t die in peace unless he gets something that he really wanted before he died. They need, like, some tribal headdress, or a picture of their newborn baby, or—”

  “Virgil, I’m trying to concentrate—”

  “Sorry—”

  Suddenly Kirsten slammed on the brakes and veered into the breakdown lane. She came to a full stop and turned to Virgil. “What did you say?”

  “I said, ‘Sorry.’”

  “I mean, before that. About the revenants.”

  “I was just mouthing off. I don’t know, it was just a TV movie—”

  Kirsten cut him off. “Virgil, did Nguyen wear any jewelry?”

  “Jewelry? Like an earring or something? I don’t think so. He was pretty conservative.”

  “Like around his neck? He kept pointing to his neck.”

  “Who?”

  “Just answer my question!”

  Virgil shut up and thought. “Well … hm. Yeah. Actually, he did. This grungy old thing. Like a … pendant, or whatever.”

  “A locket?”

  “Yeah, I guess you call it that—”

  Kirsten gunned the accelerator.

  “Hey, easy!” Virgil protested. “What’d I say?”

  “Hang on.”

  By the time Kirsten parked the Jeep on Main Street, the sun had set. The street lamp in front of Something Old, Something New was dead, and the shop window glowed eerily with its low-wattage lightbulbs.

  She left her door open as she ran to the window and peered in.

  The display had been rearranged. A few leaves had been strewn haphazardly around, probably to create an autumn motif. A laptop computer was the centerpiece, and to its left was the small, felt-covered, slanted shelf holding jewelry.

  Right in the center was the locket Gwen had traded in.

  “What are you looking for?” asked Virgil, sidling up beside her.

  Before Kirsten could respond, Virgil said, “Hey, that’s it! That’s Nguyen’s pendant!”

  Kirsten stared at it in disbelief. It was small and old and unremarkable, carved with lines that had faded over the years.

  “That’s it?” Kirsten murmured under her breath. “That’s what all this is about?”

  It seemed so … trivial. So needless. Someone had died—and for what? A stupid, tarnished little trinket?

  Kirsten looked carefully at the window. Silver burglar-sensor tape surrounded the edges. She would have to work fast.

  “Uh, I think it’s closed,” Virgil volunteered. “I could try to, like, slip a credit card into the door latch. I saw someone do that on TV—”

  “Uh-uh,” Kirsten said, running back to the Jeep. “I think I know an easier way.”

  She flicked on the Jeep’s inside light and felt around under the seat.

  “You’re not going to drive into the window?” Virgil asked.

  “I hope not.” Under the passenger seat, Kirsten found what she wanted. She pulled it out and smiled. “I figured he had one of these.”

  Mr. Busk’s Club was the deluxe version, even heavier than the one she’d used before. “Ever seen one of these?” she asked Virgil.

  “I don’t think you have to worry about car theft, Kirsten. We’re right here.”

  Kirsten approached the window, rearing back with the Club.

  “What are you doing?” Virgil asked.

  “Get
away,” Kirsten replied. “I’m good at this.”

  With a sharp swing, she sent the Club flying through the center of the pawnshop window.

  BRIIIIIIIINNNNNNG!

  The alarm echoed up and down the deserted street.

  Kirsten reached through the gaping hole, grabbed the locket, and ran.

  Chapter 27

  “LET’S GO!” KIRSTEN STUFFED the locket in her pocket and jumped into the Jeep.

  Virgil was cemented to the sidewalk, gawking.

  “Come on!” Kirsten insisted.

  Finally he broke away. His footsteps crunching the broken glass, he ran to the Jeep and climbed into the other side. “Where to now?”

  “I don’t know!”

  She drove blindly through the darkened streets of Port Lincoln. The sound of police sirens now rang out. Kirsten would have to be careful. She was in a stolen car, driving without a license, having just vandalized a store. For all she knew, her mom may have called the cops to report her missing, too.

  “I hate to say this, Virgil, but I think we’d better leave town.” Kirsten steered the Jeep toward the entrance to the expressway.

  “Great. Just great, Kirsten. I had a promising life ahead of me, you know, and now—”

  “Cram it, Virgil! You’re not smelling like a rose yourself—”

  A flash of red-and-white lights darted across the next intersection.

  “Oh, wonderful,” Virgil said. “They’re going our way.”

  “Maybe they’re blocking the expressway,” Kirsten remarked.

  “So take Riverside!”

  Kirsten did a K-turn, using someone’s driveway. She drove back west, hooking up with Riverside Drive at the edge of town.

  Before long they were back where they’d started, driving toward Fenimore Village.

  “Kirsten, we’re fugitives!” Virgil cried out. “Our faces will be hanging in post offices coast to coast. We won’t be able to stop for gas. What are we going to do—drive around till we find a plastic surgeon who can change our looks for free?”

  “Just let me think, okay?” Kirsten retorted.

  “What if we see Mr. Busk?”

  “He’d better get out of the way!”

  But they didn’t see him. Not along the river, not over the bridge, nowhere.

  Thoughts caromed inside Kirsten’s brain. What now? Do I go home with the locket and wait for Nguyen? How will I explain the injuries? The Jeep? The theft?

  Who on earth would believe me?

  As they approached the ravine, the surrounding sounds began to fade. Kirsten felt as if her ears were clogged. She swallowed, but it didn’t help.

  Then she heard a low, familiar noise.

  A moan.

  “Virgil! Do you hear that?”

  To her amazement, Virgil was leaning forward in his seat, eyes buggy. “Yes!”

  “Ohhhhhhh!” It grew louder and louder until, just as they were passing the concrete guardrail, it made the Jeep vibrate like an echo chamber.

  Kirsten skidded to a stop.

  Virgil’s hands were over his ears. He looked at Kirsten in disbelief. “Are you nuts? Go!”

  “Virgil!” Kirsten was shouting. “Get out! You have to show me exactly where the crash site was!”

  “What? No way!”

  Kirsten got out of the Jeep, ran to Virgil’s side, pulled open the door, and yanked him out.

  “Stop!” Virgil protested.

  But Kirsten did not let go. She pushed Virgil in front of her and yelled, “Show me! I have the keys, and we’re not leaving!”

  His hands still over his ears, Virgil looked into the ravine. “Okay. I know where there’s a flashlight—or does Nguyen provide lighting?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he went around to the back of the Jeep. He lifted the door and pulled out a thick flashlight with a handle. “Follow me!”

  “GRRRRRUUUMMMB OHHHHSHAAA!”

  The moaning was unbearable, words struggling to escape a mangled mouth. But Nguyen was nowhere to be seen.

  Virgil kept the flashlight trained on the ground. Slowly he led Kirsten down the pathless embankment. She held on to branches and slender shoots, her shoes slipping on the leaves.

  They seemed to be traveling aimlessly. Every few moments Virgil stopped, swinging the light beam around, trying to get his bearings. The moaning seemed to have taken physical form, replacing the oxygen around them. Kirsten found it hard to breathe.

  Then, finally, when she could take it no longer, Virgil stopped. “There!” he shouted. “By that tree!”

  In the path of the flashlight beam was a thick oak tree. About two feet off the ground, its trunk had been ripped open. A rough oval of smooth, blond wood gaped from within, surrounded by jagged fingers of split bark.

  Here we are, Kirsten thought.

  This was where Nguyen had left the world. And where his aunt and uncle had returned to sprinkle his ashes. Nguyen’s body was here among the leaves and pine needles.

  Virgil’s lips were moving, but Kirsten couldn’t hear him. Nguyen’s voice seemed to be bending the trees, making the leaves turn away in fright.

  She reached into her pocket and pulled out the chain. She held the locket in her right hand.

  Then, digging her finger into a small ridge in its side, she sprang it open.

  In the tiny space inside was a yellowing, faded photograph.

  Two young faces, male and female, looked obliquely at each other. The woman was wearing a gorgeous brocaded collar. Her mouth was grim and patient, her chin weak and almost indistinguishable from her neck. But Kirsten could not stop looking at her. Her eyes were like two small, dark jewels. Though tiny and faded and ancient, the photo had still not extinguished their fierce, fiery love.

  This was what Nguyen wanted. What he longed for his whole life. What had been ripped away from him when he was too young to fight back. What he had given to a girl who hadn’t loved him. His mother and father.

  Kirsten looked upward, hoping now to see the hideous form their son had become.

  Kirsten’s hair blew across her face. She felt a sudden chill. Then a drop on her nose. Another on her cheek.

  Around her, branches began to groan and bend in a sudden gale wind.

  Thunder boomed nearby, barely audible through the moaning. Rain began to fall heavier.

  “Oh, no!” Virgil shouted.

  Or maybe it was “Let’s go!” Kirsten couldn’t tell. And she didn’t care.

  Virgil’s flashlight was migrating all over the place, but Kirsten could see the oak tree clearly. It was lit as Nguyen had been, from within, like a dream.

  On the forest floor, in the growing gusts, leaves began to rustle. From among them, a thin grayish-black cloud swirled upward like the dust from a city sidewalk in a summer windstorm.

  Kirsten felt herself being sucked toward the swirling gale. She tried to hold her ground, but it was impossible.

  Virgil was shrieking at her now. “GIVE IT TO HIM!” she thought she heard him say.

  The locket. Of course. She held it upward.

  A hand landed on her shoulder. Hard.

  Kirsten looked around.

  Crrrackk!

  A flash of lightning bathed the embankment in harsh green-whiteness. Directly above them a police car was parked along the road.

  And a blue-uniformed man with a tense face was now pulling Kirsten toward it.

  Chapter 28

  “DON’T!” VIRGIL SHOUTED, GRABBING her other arm. “Leave her!”

  He lunged at the policeman, shining the flashlight in his face, pushing him backward.

  The policeman let go. A partner, approaching behind him, grabbed Virgil in a hammer hold.

  “GIVE HIM THE LOCKET, KIRSTEN!” Virgil bellowed.

  His flashlight was swinging wildly. Kirsten caught a glimpse of the first policeman, scrambling to his feet.

  She stepped closer to the tree, again lifting the locket high.

  Before her, the dust was rising, whirlpooling furiously, th
ickening into a vague gray-black shape.

  The policeman, gritting his teeth angrily, stepped into the unearthly glow before her.

  Before he could grab her, his feet left the ground. He rose upward like a leaf on a gentle breeze, his face locked in a mask of terror.

  Then, as if flicked by a gigantic finger, he hurtled away and landed on the slope of the embankment.

  In Kirsten’s hand, the locket began to glow dull green.

  The dust, thick and almost solid black, still in a frenzy of movement, was recognizable now. It had taken a human form—head, torso, arms, legs—all composed of swirling ashes.

  Then the form began to move. Slowly its arm rose to mirror Kirsten’s.

  The locket’s glow grew intense. Kirsten had to squint to avoid being blinded.

  The moaning was changing now, becoming an explosive sob, a cry of joy.

  BOOOOOOM!

  The crack of thunder sent Kirsten flying. A flash of light obliterated everything around her, and she fell to the ground.

  Pain shot up the right side of her body like an electric jolt.

  When she opened her eyes, she was next to Virgil.

  Behind him, two burly Port Lincoln cops were gaping, rubber-faced.

  The moaning had stopped. The silence was so powerful, it made Kirsten nauseous.

  “What happened?” Virgil’s voice was muffled and tinny, with a high-pitched, metallic ring.

  Kirsten grabbed his flashlight. She trained it on the ground before her. The dust was gone, the leaves resting as if they’d never been disturbed.

  The light beam caught a tiny glint of metal near the base of the tree, and Kirsten went to it.

  She pulled the chain out of a tangle of leaves and broken twigs. The locket was hanging open.

  The photo was gone.

  Kirsten smiled.

  For the trumpet shall sound, she thought. And death is swallowed up in victory.

  At last.

  Screeeeee!

  The sound of squealing tires made Kirsten look up. She quickly shone the flashlight toward the road.

  The Jeep was tearing away. The light beam caught the unmistakable silhouette of Mr. Busk in the driver’s seat.