The Burning Man

by Christa Faust

  He brought up the blade and drew it swiftly across her exposed throat, cutting all the way down to the bone and releasing a bubbling hiss of escaping steam.

  Her last breath, he thought. Now I’ll be free.

  She sagged in his embrace, boneless and empty as her lifeblood soaked into the snow around their feet. He let her drop and took a deep shaky swallow of the icy night air.

  His arm still burned.

  Panic set in, driving his heart like a whipped horse. He could still feel her razor-edged glitter shimmering inside his skull. Her poisonous heat still burned through him even as her body grew cold at his feet. He clutched at the place where his flesh met the dull rubber of the prosthetic, overwhelmed with a sudden conviction that he really was crazy.

  Could Doctor Chalmers have been right? Was his psychic connection with the devil child really all in his head?

  It couldn’t be. It felt so real. So true.

  But if it was real, how could he still feel her, even after she was dead?

  He fell to his knees beside her and turned her body face up. Her features were caked with bloody pink snow. Her familiar coat had fallen open and the shirt beneath was crimson with sticky gore.

  But something wasn’t right.

  It just wasn’t right.

  Her bloody, steaming shirt clung to her body, revealing a flat, almost boyish chest beneath. Olivia was no Dolly Parton, but she had more than this.

  Tony combed his fingers through the snow, fumbling for her fallen purse. When he finally found it, he unzipped the main compartment and pulled out a fluffy fake fur wallet and a disposable lighter.

  He couldn’t hold the lighter and go through the wallet at the same time, so he had to take each plastic card out in the dark, set it on the snowy ground between his knees, and then spark the lighter to read it.

  The first one was a video rental ID. The next was a credit card. Then a Deerborn student ID. They all had the same name.

  Chelsea Speigelman.

  He’d screwed up. Big time.

  18

  Olivia was walking around the back of the rec hall toward the entrance, when a sudden spike of a headache pulsed behind her right eye. She’d always been a little scared of headaches, after what her mother had been through. She often wondered if her mother’s condition might be dormant inside her own head, like a hungry seed, just waiting to blossom.

  But this felt different from anything else she’d experienced. More like the way your ears hurt if a noise was too loud. It was like her brain was trying to squint against some painfully intense stimulation. She staggered a bit. The snow all around her boots suddenly melted in a warm rush, revealing the frozen yellow grass beneath.

  But as quickly as the strange headache appeared, it was gone. And she was so keyed up, going over and over her plan, that she quickly put it out of her mind and started walking again.

  She took a surreptitious swig from the flat pint bottle of cheap gin Kieran had given her, swished the nasty, medicinal-tasting liquid around in her mouth, then spat it into the snowy bushes. She cupped her bare hand in front of her lips and sniffed at her steaming breath. She could detect a hint of the junipery floor-cleaner scent of gin, but wasn’t sure it was strong enough, or how long it would last.

  So she dabbed some behind her ears and into her exposed cleavage like perfume, and was instantly sorry. The alcohol evaporated rapidly in the cold night air, chilling her skin. She shivered, and figured she would have to rely on her backup plan. She had five white Good-n-Plenty candies she’d put into an old bottle of Vicodin Chelsea had nicked from her mother. She’d need to make sure she was seen swallowing those.

  There was music playing, ‘Good’ by Better Than Ezra, and she could hear a group of girls laughing. Someone else was throwing up. Olivia had never been all that much into parties, and always felt slightly uncomfortable in large groups, hence Chelsea’s nickname for her—“Han Solo.” But the thick make up and borrowed clothes made her feel like an undercover agent on a secret mission.

  Which, essentially, she was.

  She’d known ever since the day she shot Randall that she wanted to be an FBI agent. The very next day she’d gone to the library and found a book with a list of the qualifications required to become a special agent. She’d photocopied it and had kept it in her pocket or purse ever since, meticulously updating it by hand as the qualifications were modified or enhanced over the years. That soft, ragged, and endlessly refolded piece of paper became a kind of talisman that she went back to whenever she felt unsure of herself.

  She was constantly pushing herself to drop a few seconds off her 300-meter sprint, or add one or two more sit ups to her one-minute limit, not because she wanted to look good or be healthy, but because she wanted to make sure she aced the physical fitness test. She planned to join the Marines as soon as she graduated from high school, not just to get money for college or because her late father had been a Marine, but because military service would give her a leg up in the FBI application process.

  It was as if her whole life was geared toward achieving that goal. And even though she couldn’t exactly put this kind of thing on her application, her little sting operation felt like the perfect way to hone the skills she would need later in life.

  Not if she was accepted into the FBI, but when.

  * * *

  Tony hooked his arms under the imposter’s armpits, and dragged her corpse down to the edge of the lake.

  He’d underestimated his quarry’s fiendish intelligence. She had sent this decoy to trick him, to mislead him and allow her to slip—unscathed as quicksilver—between his fingers. And now he had this mess to deal with. If this girl’s body was found, it would create a media frenzy, followed by a security crackdown that would make it difficult—if not impossible—to get to Olivia.

  He didn’t need months, or even weeks. He felt confident that he’d find a way to be alone with her within the next forty-eight hours, maybe less.

  This girl would need to be missing for that long before the local police would initiate any kind of search. By then, Tony would have done his sacred duty.

  After that, nothing else mattered. He’d go to the gas chamber with a smile on his face, knowing that the demoness had been vanquished, and the world was safe.

  There was a fat, impassive moon hanging in the cold sky, veiled by an icy scrim of cloud, and its light made the dead girl’s skin seem to glow with a gentle, translucent beauty she’d never possessed while she was alive. Tony laid her out across a long, flat rock on the wooded shore and used one of its fellows to smash a hole in the thick ice. The water beneath was as black as the sky, and probably no deeper than waist high where he was standing. But it didn’t need to be deeper. It just had to be deep enough for him to slip the inconvenient body under the cloudy ice, where it would remain undiscovered until the spring thaw.

  He used the rock to chip away the edges of the hole, in order to accommodate the width of her shoulders. A series of resonant cracks echoed across the frozen surface, and he had a bad moment where he thought the ice might give out beneath his feet. So he made himself stand completely still with his arms spread wide. After a few anxious seconds, the sounds subsided and the snowy hush returned.

  Tony looked out over the surface of the frozen lake. There were a few scattered lights on the far shore, too far away to be a concern. The rowing team’s dock was visible to his left, but it was dark and deserted this time of year. The only real illumination came from the indifferent moon and the faint glow of the old-fashioned gas lamps that lit the winding paths of Deerborn.

  Even though he was alone, Tony didn’t feel that way. He could still feel Olivia close by, her heart beating in tandem with his own. He carefully skirted the edges of the hole and went back up to the shore, where he’d left the impostor’s body.

  There was a thin dusting of snow on the surface of her open eyes, making them seem to sparkle in the dim moonlight. He didn’t bother to carry her, just dragged her by her ankles ove
r to the hole, and shoved her head first into the dark water.

  Sure enough, her shoulders were a tight fit, but once they were through, the rest of her slipped beneath the ice with no trouble at all. Her body lingered in the water just beneath the hole, Olivia’s puffy coat bright and visible like a warning flag, so he got a sturdy branch from the shore and used it to push the body out of sight. That hole would be gone by morning, and the imposter would be perfectly entombed.

  That was all Tony needed to buy him a few precious hours.

  19

  Inside the main hall, pretty much the entire Junior and Senior classes were crammed cheek and jowl, with a generous handful of underclassmen sniffing around the perimeter. There was a billiards table in the middle of the room that was currently being used as a throne from which a languid Stacia was holding court.

  Stacia Mason wasn’t exactly the most beautiful girl at Deerborn, but she was by far the most desirable. Looking at her objectively, Olivia couldn’t figure out what all the boys saw in her. Chelsea was much prettier, yet when Stacia was in the room, guys acted like Chelsea didn’t exist. Her dimensions were average in every direction, neither fat, nor thin. Five feet five inches, with a longer torso and short, sturdy legs. B-cup chest. Even her face was plain, eyes just a little too small and nose just a little too long. Her brown hair was shoulder length and forgettably styled. If you saw her in a still photograph, you’d forget what she looked like the minute the photo was taken away.

  But in person, Stacia smoldered. She gave off a trail of steamy pheromones as if it was incense, and moved with a come-hither bump and grind that turned any male within a mile radius into a leering cartoon wolf. Stacia knew it, too, and used it ruthlessly to her advantage.

  Luckily for Olivia, Brent and Taylor would have no interest in an alpha she-wolf like Stacia—she was way too intimidating to victimize. Like all predators, they singled out the weaker members of the herd.

  Although Olivia was viewed as a white-trash outsider at Deerborn, and didn’t have a lot of friends, she was far from an easy mark in the eyes of a guy like Brent. He tended to prefer girls who had a reputation for being “sluts” so that if it came down to her word against his, no one would believe a girl like that.

  It would be up to Olivia to make him believe that she would get in some kind of trouble if she were caught drinking. Then to convincingly pretend to be passed out drunk.

  When she spotted her targets standing over by the snack machine, she felt a thrilling pulse of adrenalin that sharpened her senses and made her heart hammer in her chest. Here she was, hunting a hunter, just like she’d always dreamed she would do. It felt so right. Like her destiny.

  They hadn’t spotted her yet, so she took a few moments to plan her approach. She looked around for Chelsea, but didn’t see her. She thought that she might wait a few minutes for her roommate to arrive with the camera, but then again, she might be waiting all night.

  Then Brent was pointing to the door, seeming to be indicating a desire to leave.

  Olivia couldn’t wait any longer. She had to act quickly.

  She turned and backed toward the two of them, her bottle of fake pills open and ready. Then she made herself stumble, bumping into Brent and spilling the candy out onto the floor.

  “Oopsie,” she said. “Let me just...”

  She got down on her hands and knees and started crawling around Brent’s legs collecting the fallen candy. Brent and Tyler snickered, elbowing each other and nodding at her raised ass and short skirt.

  “Hold this,” she said, thrusting the empty bottle into Brent’s hand and hoping he’d read the label.

  “No problem, Han,” he said. “Take your time down there.”

  Bristling inwardly at his use of her nickname, she kept her feelings hidden and gathered up most of the candies. At the same time she slipped one hand into her boot, quickly enough that they didn’t notice.

  Then she turned her face upward so Brent and Tyler could see her, and then popped them all into her mouth at once, cringing a little at the thought of eating anything off the floor, but grimly determined to do whatever it took to pull off this charade.

  “Atta girl!” Tyler said.

  “You missed one,” Brent said, toeing the last candy with his boot.

  Olivia picked up the muddy candy and held it out to Brent.

  “You want it?” she asked. Before he could answer, she giggled and shook her head. “Too bad.”

  She swallowed the last candy and pretended to wash it down with a swig from the nearly empty gin bottle.

  “Need a hand?” Brent asked, reaching down to help her up with one hand while sliding the other up under her sweater, brushing against a breast.

  She shuddered with revulsion at his touch, but made herself act like she didn’t notice. She had to think of it like eating the dirty candy. A necessary evil for the greater good.

  “Don’t tell Coach Lowenbruck that I’ve been partying,” she said, leaning heavily against Brent. “If he finds out, he’ll totally kick me off the team.”

  She put her finger to her lips and made a loud, wet, shushing sound, and then pretended to fade out for a moment, letting her eyelids flutter closed, but still watching his face through her eyelashes.

  He looked over at Tyler and smirked.

  Olivia knew the hook was in, but he wasn’t in the boat. Not yet anyway.

  She jerked her eyes open and looked up.

  “I’d better...” She waved her fingers in the direction of the door. “I should go home now. I think I feel sick.”

  “Here, baby,” Brent said, wrapping a python-like arm around her waist. “Let us help you.” Tyler stepped up to the other side and did the same.

  “You’re so sweet,” she said, stumbling against him. “I feel kinda queasy. I think I need some bacon. Can we get some bacon sandwiches?”

  “Don’t worry,” Brent told her. “We’re here for you.”

  Tyler covered his mouth with the back of his hand and snickered. Olivia had to stifle an urge to punch his leering face. Instead she pulled away from him and spun around, hands in the air.

  “Oh my god I LOVE this song! WHOO-HOOO!”

  She didn’t even recognize the song that was playing— something with a girl singer—but it didn’t matter.

  “Yeah,” Brent said, pressing up against her under the pretense of dancing. “Shake it baby!”

  Tyler pushed up against her from behind, crushing her between them, and she felt a flush of claustrophobic panic, but she pushed it down inside, steeling herself for what had to be done. She let out a slushy giggle and sagged against Brent as if she’d nodded out.

  “Is she out?” Tyler said, his hands up under her little skirt. “I don’t want her to wake up in the middle, like that last one. What’s her name again?”

  It took every ounce of determination and will to stay completely still and not to flinch away from his touch. The urge to elbow him in the nuts was almost overwhelming.

  “Her name is Han Solo,” Brent said. “But after tonight, I think her name will be Han Trio.”

  “How about if we just call her Whore?”

  “Good idea. It’s so much easier when they all have the same name. That way you don’t accidentally say the wrong one when you’re nailing them!”

  Olivia let her body go heavy and limp, and when Brent failed to hold her up, she let herself slide to the floor.

  “Oh my god!” an unfamiliar female voice said. “She’s totally wrecked.”

  “No worries,” Brent was saying, lifting her with his hands in her armpits. “We’ll take her back to the dorm.”

  Olivia kept her eyes closed, but felt the icy shock of the night air as she was dragged out of the rec hall. They propped her up against the outside wall of the building for a moment, while they made some sort of adjustments.

  “This one is definitely ready for her ride on the stud train,” Brent said, lifting one of her limp hands and then dropping it. “Stick a fork in her, because she
is done!”

  Tyler snickered, lifting her other arm and slinging it over his shoulder.

  “I’ll stick my fork in her as soon as we get her back to our room!”

  Olivia cheered silently. Not only did she have them talking about previous assaults, but she also had them outlining their plans for her, right there on tape. She just needed a little bit more and she’d be ready to “wake up.”

  “Evening, gentlemen,” a deep voice said from behind them. “What’s wrong with your ladyfriend?”

  Brent spun to face the voice, dragging Olivia around with him. The voice belonged to an older guy with thick black hair that was just starting to gray at the temples, and cold dark eyes. He was dressed in a cheap down jacket, the little T-shaped plastic tab that used to hold a price tag sticking out of one sleeve. Bulky leather gloves, but no hat or scarf.

  Instead of boots, he wore an incongruous pair of fancy, expensive sneakers, currently caked with snow. He might as well have been wearing a sign that read NOT FROM AROUND HERE.

  Looking at him through slitted eyes, Olivia felt the swift return of the strange, spiky headache she’d felt earlier, followed by a flash image of blood on snow. It was like a double exposure, gone before she could get a handle on it.

  “Who the hell are you?” Brent asked, the tight panicky tone of his voice undermining the intended toughness.

  “I’m the guy who’s taking that girl off your horny little hands, tiger.” The man held out a slim leather wallet in his left hand and flipped it open, flashing a badge too quickly for them to read it. “You got a problem with that?”

  “Whoa,” Tyler said, backing away from Olivia like she was on fire.

  “Hey,” Brent said. “We don’t want any trouble, officer. We were just helping her get home safe.”

  “And she lives in the boys’ dorm, huh?” He smiled. “Right.”

  “Listen,” Olivia said, standing up straight and pulling away from Brent, keeping her voice clear, calm, and normal. “I’m fine. We were just goofing around, really.”