Detention minutes are an anomaly of physics, moving slower than ordinary minutes. I’m so bored I actually read a chapter of my textbook. I look up at the clock, willing it to speed up. But time stops for all rule-breakers. I want to throw something to smash the stupid clock.
What I really want to do, though, is talk to Rattlesnake Tat.
Ms. Chu is busy on her cell phone and not watching me, so I purposely drop my pencil on the ground.
I swear under my breath like I’m annoyed with my own clumsiness.
My stealth pencil rolls right up to Rattlesnake Guy’s foot. He glances down, then kicks the pencil back to me and grunts something like, “Hmmm.”
“Thanks,” I say softly, bending down to pick up the pencil.
“Hmmm,” he says again, not looking at me.
“I’m Thorn. And you’re … ?”
Now he looks at me; dark brows knitting and a wisp of a smile curving into dimples. He glances over at the teacher’s desk, then whispers, “Wiley.”
I smile back, thinking of the Cartoon Channel my sibs torture me with. “Like the coyote?” I say.
He nods, but then looks away quickly as Ms. Chu calls out, “Thorn! No talking.”
Damn, just when things are getting interesting.
“I dropped my pencil and was picking it up.” I wave the pencil, my expression all innocence. “The tip broke off so I’ll need to sharpen it.”
I look hopefully at Wiley, willing him to loan me one. But he’s returned to his book like I don’t exist.
“You may use the sharpener,” Ms. Chu says, gesturing toward the back of the room.
I walk down the aisle, replaying Wiley’s voice in my head and trying to match it to the Reaper. But “Hmmm” and “Wiley” isn’t much for comparison. And with Ms. Chu watching so closely, I won’t be able to talk to him until after class—assuming he’ll talk to me. He smiled and told me his name, but then turned away … was he afraid of getting in trouble, or was he avoiding talking to me because we’ve met before? Like yesterday in the haunted gym?
I poke my pencil in the sharpener, trying to figure out what to say to Wiley when detention ends. Dropping a pencil was too subtle; I should have dropped a book or my backpack (on his head). Okay, that was my hostility reacting. Seriously, to get him talking, I’ll need a cool topic, maybe tats. Rune and I talk about them all the time and sometimes go into the only tat shop in town, Stuck For Life, and plan the tats we’ll get when we turn eighteen.
The pencil sharpener buzzes till my lead tip is sharp.
On the way back to my desk (not in a hurry), I get a weird feeling as I pass a bulletin board covered with educational posters, student projects, and flyers. One flyer stops me. It’s a promotion for a new arcade, offering discounts with a student ID. The flyer is cut into the shape of a saddle, and it shows a map of the town with directions to the arcade.
A map on a paper saddle—just like Sabine said.
I’m not thinking or even realizing what I’m doing when I lift my hands. It’s like my brain is under siege by a compulsion to touch the map. My fingers reach out and the pencil in my other hand rises to meet the paper.
When my head clears, I’m standing in front of the saddle-shaped flyer with my pencil marking a spot on the map. I’ve penciled a large black X beyond the boundaries of Nevada Bluff, on a place called Stallion Creek.
From my fingertips to toes, I begin to shiver because I know this is the locket’s way of leading me to answers, or perhaps of helping someone in trouble.
X marks the spot.
And I have to go there.
Instead of waiting to talk to Wiley after Ms. Chu dismisses us, I grab my backpack, sling it over my shoulder, and jump out of my chair. With the image of the X blazing like a beacon in my head, I’m filled with an urgency that races along with me as I run down the walkway.
There’s hardly anyone around, although as I pass the auditorium I hear singing. The Singing Star contest. I’m not interested until I realize that Amerie will be inside, and unlike me, she has her own car.
I push open a metal door, scan the auditorium, and see wings. Amerie stands on the stage talking to a thirty-something woman in a red business suit. Further back on the stage, surrounded by at least a dozen students and a hulky dude who I guess is a bodyguard, is Philippe—bronzed, tall, a wild black ponytail spiraling down his back.
My heart rushes, despite my logical brain reminding me that he’s just another guy and being a super star doesn’t make him special, any more than my finding things makes me special.
Still, he’s really hot in snug jeans and a leather vest.
“Thorn!” Amerie lifts her arm to wave, her wings glittering under the bright lights and giving the odd impression that she’s taking off for a flight. She murmurs something to the red-suited woman, then hurries over to me. “I knew it!” she tells me triumphantly. “You couldn’t resist coming to see Philippe!”
“Don’t be dense. I’m so not interested.”
“Really? Isn’t that why you’re here?”
“Not even close.”
“Sure you wouldn’t like an introduction?” Amerie asks with a wink of glitter lashes.
“What part of not interested didn’t you understand? I am not a groupie.”
“Stick around and you will be. Just don’t get ridiculous like some of the other girls. Ruby is supposed to be interviewing contestants for the school newspaper but she’s only flirting with Philippe. I finally had to warn her to act professionally or leave. But I can’t blame her—he’s so cool, and super nice, too.”
“His fans can have him. I came to talk to you.”
“Really?” She lights up like I’ve given her a gift. “About what?”
I hesitate, because Amerie worked hard to buy her car. She has personalized plates that say FAREGRL and speaks of her car like it’s a real person. But I can’t think of another way to get to Stallion Creek. So I flash the closest thing to a sweet smile … then I beg.
And it works.
I must have said “please” a dozen times and promised to be back in one hour. Amerie isn’t happy about loaning FAREGRL to me, but she’s too nice to refuse a desperate friend.
So, with keys bouncing on a pink rhinestone Tinker Bell key ring, I hop in Amerie’s car and follow the map that’s fixed firmly in my head. I don’t actually visualize the map; it’s more a sense of directions and distances. The route is easy enough, and I have a way of finding places even if I’m given the wrong directions. I don’t need street names; the black penciled X calls to me. And I can feel energy pulsating from the heart-shaped necklace in my backpack.
Still, I worry I’m doing something dumb. Turn around and forget all about this, I tell myself as I leave the school parking lot. But I keep driving, past the football field, and turn right onto a road that seems to disappear into the ragged, yellow-brown hills.
Based on the map, I know I’m supposed to go in this direction for about five miles, then wind through a canyon until I reach Stallion Creek. Then I’ll make a left up and over a hill until I dip down into a valley. My internal map will let me know when to stop.
Amerie’s car radio is fixed on a country station. The dash has so many buttons and dials that I can’t figure out how to turn the music off, although I do manage to turn it down. But I can still hear the twangs and ballads of lost loves and heartbreak. A song about someone dying of a broken heart seems foreboding, as if the universe of Station KWIT is sending me a warning.
As the hills climb higher and thicken with wild brush, my uneasiness grows. No one knows where I am. I don’t have a cell phone, since my family can barely afford the one Mom and Dad share. If I could call someone, I’d choose Sabine. I’d feel a lot better if I could hear her say I’m doing the right thing.
I slow when I see the Stallio
n Creek sign on a partially finished housing development. There are a few completed houses perched on a hillside with cars and signs of life, but on this eerie street wooden frames stick up like gravestones; houses that may never be homes.
A ghost neighborhood.
The only sign of life is a sheriff’s car parked by a portable potty. Is he taking a break or patrolling the housing development? I slouch in my seat, not wanting to be noticed, and keep driving. When I reach a dirt road, I make a sharp left. Dust flies by my window and gravel rumbles beneath the tires. I cringe, knowing Amerie’s car is getting filthy. I’ll promise her a car wash when I’m finished here.
Finished doing what? I’m afraid to find out the answer.
After following a dried creek bed for over a mile, I pull off the side of the road by a lone oak tree, its limbs gnarled and a burn mark scarring its trunk. This is it. No way to explain how I know; I just know.
I step out of my car, into an icy wind that rips through the canyon and chills me to my bones. The terrain is rough—uneven, and with dips and rises that stretch beyond the hills. I feel small and not sure what I’m supposed to do now. Something has been calling to me, and since it all started with the locket, I dig into my backpack for it.
Is it my imagination, or is the locket shining as if glowing from the inside? How could I ever think it was ugly? It’s golden and glorious. I caress it; it’s so warm and alive, as if the heart is beating with life. When I slip the necklace on, I hear a plaintive cry—only it’s not coming from the locket or inside my head, it’s coming from the burnt tree.
The gnarled tree is tall and broken, as if abandoned by nature to a slow death. I move toward it cautiously, compelled by things I don’t understand and afraid of what I’ll find. I reach out with shaky fingers to touch the blackened trunk. I look from ground to branch, not sure what I’m supposed to find. There are no hidden holes or strange messages blazed into the bark.
“Why am I here?” I whisper to the golden heart that’s resting against my chest.
I walk in a wide circle around the tree, and nearly trip over small piles of freshly dug dirt. There are also claw marks and paw prints. A wild animal, like a fox or coyote, was digging.
Curious, I bend over the hole. A scrap of blue fabric hangs out of it as if an animal had started to drag it away. A heat pulses through me and I reach down for the blue fabric, which is soft and shiny like satin. There’s a faded design, too, in the dirt-crusted fabric … tiny animals of some kind. Elephants? Weird.
My finding radar is really off this time. No answers to the mystery of my locket; only garbage. Driving here was a waste of time, and I’m annoyed with myself for giving into freaky imaginings.
So I turn to leave, but pause when the sunset peeks from beneath a cloud, shining golden-brown on the dirt-crusted twigs clinging to the blue rag. Not a rag, I realize as I bend down again, careful not to touch it. A child’s blanket. And the twigs are shaped oddly; disconnected yet strangely symmetrical, like leathery beads once linked together. I lean closer, then draw back with a sharp intake of breath.
The twigs are not twigs.
They’re human bones.
Tiny fingers.
Eight
All the air sucks out of me. Can’t gasp or scream. Beyond horrified. Sick to my soul. My feet finally move. Running back to the car.
Why did I come here? I fumble for Amerie’s keys. Warnings were there: the cries, the vision of a damp earth and danger. But I never thought I’d find … OMG. Those tiny fingers break my heart. I collapse against the side of the car. I want to run away and forget what I’ve seen. But powers larger than my own fears brought me here. I have to report this, so the tiny lost soul can find peace.
If I don’t, I won’t have any peace.
But reporting it means admitting that I came here because of a vision—which is unbelievable. When I can’t offer a logical explanation, suspicion will fall on me. My family could suffer, too. I can’t report what I found, but I can’t pretend it never happened, either.
As I lean on the car, trying to decide what to do, I see bright lights flashing in my driver’s side mirror.
I whirl around just as the sheriff’s car pulls up beside me.
The decision is out of my hands.
The sheriff is middle-aged, his dark-blue uniform stretched across his middle. He moves slowly, in the stereotypical manner of a country sheriff. Yet there’s a sharp awareness in his face that’s not at all small-town. He pushes up his cap, his gaze shifting over me and then narrowing in a familiar judging way. And when I catch a shadowy reflection of myself in the car window, I see what he’s seeing: devil-red wig, corpse makeup, metal on my skin and clothes.
This isn’t going to be easy.
He introduces himself as Sheriff Hart, then fixes me with a hard stare. “What are you doing way out here?”
My mouth opens but nothing comes out.
“Are you all right, miss?” he asks more kindly.
“I—I am … but not that poor … ” I clench my chilled hands together. “I—I found … found something.”
He doesn’t move, studying me. “What are you talking about?”
“Over there … ” I point, closing my eyes to shut out the image. “Behind the tree.”
“Show me,” he says with thick suspicion.
I shudder. “I—I can’t.”
His hand rests on the hilt of the gun at his side, studying me. Then he nods, as if coming to some decision. “Stay right here,” he tells me. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“Okay,” I murmur. My legs wobble and I lean against Amerie’s car for support.
I watch him stride over to the burnt tree, his gaze sweeping around, on alert as if expecting an ambush. He stops abruptly, a few feet from the hole.
“What’s this?” he calls over to me sharply. “Were you digging?”
“I—I wasn’t.”
“Could have been an animal.” He bends down, rubbing his chin. “What’s this?”
My stomach clenches and I know the exact moment when he’s seen past the dirt and ragged cloth … to the tiny finger bones. An intake of breath. But he recovers quickly, backing away and brushing past me as he strides to his vehicle. I don’t move, as instructed, but my mind drifts, so I’m only half-aware of the sheriff barking orders into a phone. It’s not until he finishes talking and comes over to touch my shoulder that I snap back to this awful reality.
“How did you know to come here?” he asks, steel behind his words.
“I didn’t know anything. I was just out driving.”
“Do you have any idea what’s over there?” He pointed past the burnt tree.
Tensing, I nod.
“So you’ll understand why I need to get a statement from you.”
I hesitate, then nod.
“We can’t do that here, so I’ll have to ask you to come to the station with me.” There’s underlying hostility in his tone, as if he’s found me guilty and can’t wait to lock me up. Freak goths are liars, right? I get that all the time. Sure, I lie sometimes, but not when it’s important. Unfortunately, my truth is more unbelievable than any lie.
“I don’t know anything,” I insist. “I need to get home or my parents will worry.”
“They should worry,” he says. “May I see your driver’s license?”
Not a question. An order.
I imagine the news headline: Minster’s Daughter Finds Grave Under Suspicious Circumstances. No, I can’t do that to Mom. She’ll get fired for sure.
But I can’t refuse the sheriff, so I hand over my license. It’s a horrible picture, of me with blond hair and no makeup. My heart sinks like quicksand.
I shift in my army boots while the sheriff studies my license. He rubs his chin. He makes “hmm” sounds. Then he picks up a phone and
steps away from me so I can’t hear what he’s saying.
Amerie’s car keys dangle from my fingers, the tiny pink fairy wings sparkling as if ready to fly away. I wish I had wings.
“Beth Ann Matthews,” the sheriff says, turning back toward me. “Why does Matthews sound so familiar?”
I shrug. “It’s a common name.”
He snaps his fingers. “Are you any relation to our new minister?”
I groan. Can things get any worse?
Of course they can.
The next hour is forgettable—at least I’d like to forget.
Waiting on a hard plastic chair, strangers staring at me or ignoring me, conversations buzzing like white noise. I shut most of it out until Sheriff Hart informs me that my father is on his way.
Just great, I think miserably. Why couldn’t it be Mom?
When Dad arrives, he avoids looking directly at me. He sits stiffly beside me while I answer questions.
Unfortunately, everything I say sounds wrong.
Sheriff Hart shoots off questions like his words are bullets and I’m standing in front of a firing squad. I think I’d prefer bullets. His questions rip through truth and lies so I hardly remember what I’ve said. I can’t tell him about my finding or the curl hidden inside my locket. If they search me and find the curl (which I’m sure belonged to the buried baby), I might as well dig a grave for myself and dive in.
So I stick to a simple (lame) story about driving around randomly and noticing the dug-up area. “I thought an animal had been digging recently. I had no idea it was a grave … with baby bones … ” I close my eyes tight to shut out the memory.
“Baby?” The sheriff’s gray-brown brows arch with surprise as he leans forward in his chair, his jacket open slightly to give me an up-close-and-scary view of his gun. “We don’t know for certain the bones are from an infant.”
Buried Page 6
