She read the response in my face.
“Yeah,” she said, and she sighed, the first evidence that this topic held any pain for her. “And that is why I’m not going to have a problem having this conversation with them.”
“I hate confrontation,” I muttered. It was possibly the most unnecessary thing I had ever said.
“I don’t understand,” Grace said, stretching out her legs, “how a guy who never seems to wear any socks has so many ones that don’t match.”
We both looked at my bare feet. She reached out her hand as if she could possibly reach my toes from where she sat. I grabbed her hand and kissed her palm instead. Her hand smelled like butter and flour and home.
“Okay,” I said. “We’ll do it your way. Koenig, then your parents.”
“It’s better to have a plan,” she said.
I didn’t know if that was true. But it felt true.
• ISABEL •
I hadn’t forgotten about Grace’s request for me to find out about summer school, but it took me quite awhile to figure out how to go about tracking down the answer. It wasn’t as if I could pretend it was for me, and the more precise my questions got, the more I’d draw suspicion. In the end, I figured out a solution by accident. Emptying out my backpack, I found an old note from Ms. McKay, my favorite teacher from last year. Which wasn’t saying much, but still. This particular note dated from my “problematic period” — my mother’s words — and in it, Ms. McKay let me know that she would be happy to help me if I would let her. It reminded me that Ms. McKay was good at answering questions without asking any of her own.
Unfortunately, everyone else also knew this about Ms. McKay, so there was always a line to see her after last period. She didn’t have an office, just the English classroom, so to an outsider, it looked like five students were waiting desperately to get in there and learn some Chaucer.
The door opened and closed as Hayley Olsen left the classroom and the girl in front of me went in. I moved forward one step and leaned against the wall. I hoped Grace knew how much I did for her. I could have been at home doing nothing by now. Daydreaming. The quality of my daydreams had improved exponentially as of late.
Footsteps slapped up behind me, followed by a sound that was unmistakably a backpack hitting the ground. I glanced back.
Rachel.
Rachel was like a caricature of a teen. There was something incredibly self-aware with the way she presented herself: the stripes, the quirky smocks, the braids and the twisted knobs she put her hair into. Everything about her said quirky, fun, silly, naive. But, this: There was innocence and there was projected innocence. I had nothing against either, but I liked to know what I was dealing with. Rachel knew darn well how she wanted people to see her, and that was what she gave them. She wasn’t an idiot.
Rachel saw me looking but pretended not to. My suspicion had already settled, however.
“Fancy seeing you here,” I said.
Rachel flashed me a grimace that lasted about as long as a movie frame; too fast for the human eye to properly perceive. “Fancy.”
I leaned toward her, my voice lowered. “You wouldn’t be here to talk about Grace, would you?”
Her eyes widened. “I’m already seeing a counselor, but that’s none of your business.”
She was good.
“Right. I’m sure you are. So you aren’t going in to confess anything to Ms. McKay about her or the wolves,” I said. “Because that would be so incredibly dumb, I can’t begin to tell you.”
Rachel’s face cleared suddenly. “You know.”
I just gave her a look.
“So it really is true.” Rachel rubbed her upper arm and studied the floor.
“I’ve seen it.”
Rachel sighed. “Who else knows?”
“Nobody. It’s staying that way, right?”
The door opened and closed. The student in front of me went in; I was next. Rachel made an annoyed noise. “Look, I didn’t do my English reading! That’s why I’m here. Not for anything about Grace. Wait. That means that you are here for her.”
I wasn’t sure how she’d managed to come to that conclusion, but it didn’t change the fact that she was right. For half a second, I considered telling Rachel that Grace had asked me to find out about summer school for her, mostly because I wanted to rub in that Grace had trusted me first and I was shallow that way, but it wouldn’t really be useful.
“Just finding out about some graduating credits,” I said.
We stood in the awkward silence of people who had a friend in common and not much else. Students passed down the other side of the hall, laughing and making weird noises because they were guys and that was mostly what high school boys did. The school continued to smell like burritos. I continued to devise my method of questioning Ms. McKay.
Rachel, leaning against the wall and looking at the lockers on the other side of the hall, said, “Makes the world seem bigger, doesn’t it?”
The naïveté of the question irritated me, somehow. “It’s just another way to die.”
Rachel looked at the side of my head. “You really do default to bitch, don’t you? That’ll only work as long as you’re young and hot. After that, you’ll only be able to teach AP History.”
I looked at her and narrowed my eyes. I said, “I could say the same for quirky.”
Rachel smiled a wide, wide smile, her most innocent one yet. “So what you’re saying is you think I’m hot.”
Okay, Rachel was all right. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of a smile back, but I felt my eyes giving me away. The door opened. We regarded each other. As far as allies went, I guessed Grace could do worse.
As I went in to see Ms. McKay, I thought that Rachel actually was right. The world seemed bigger every day.
• COLE •
Another day, another night. We — Sam and I — were in the QuikMart a few miles away from the house, the sky black as hell above us. Mercy Falls proper was still another mile away; this convenience store was mostly for the oh-shit-I-forgot-to-get-milk moments. Which was exactly why we were at the QuikMart. Well, it’s why Sam was there. Partially because we had no milk and partially because I was beginning to learn that Sam didn’t sleep without someone there to tell him to, and I wasn’t about to tell him. Normally this would fall to Grace, but Isabel had just called with the exact model of the helicopter that would be carrying the sharpshooters and we were all a little on edge. Grace and Sam had engaged in a wordless argument that somehow managed to involve only their eyes and then she had won, because she started making scones, and Sam had sulked on the couch with his guitar. If she and Sam ever had kids, they’d be gluten-intolerant out of self-defense.
Scones required milk.
So Sam was here for milk because the grocery store closed at nine. I, on the other hand, was at the QuikMart because if I spent another second in Beck’s house, I was going to break something. I was figuring out more about the wolf science every day, but the hunt was almost here. In a few days, my experiments would be about as useful as medical research on the dodo bird.
Which brought us to QuikMart at eleven P.M. Inside the store, I pointed to a rack of condoms and Sam gave me a look completely devoid of humor. He’d worn too few or too many to see the amusement in it.
I broke off to navigate the aisles of the store, full of nervous energy. This crappy little service station felt like the real world. The real world, months after I’d murdered NARKOTIKA by disappearing with Victor. The real world where I smiled at security cameras and somewhere, they might smile back at me. Country music wailed low through speakers hung next to the sign for the bathrooms (FOR PAYING CUSTOMERS ONLY). The plate glass windows were painted with the green-black night that only lived outside of service stations. No one was awake but us, and I’d never been more awake. I browsed candy bars that sounded better than they tasted, checked tabloids for mention of me out of habit, looked at the racks of overpriced cold medications that no longer had the ability t
o impair either my ability to sleep or drive, and realized there was nothing here in this store that I wanted.
In my pocket, I felt the weight of the little black Mustang Isabel had given me. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I slid the car out and drove it over racks to where Sam stood in front of the milk case, his hands in the pockets of his jacket. Though he faced the milk, his face wore an undirected frown, his thoughts consumed by a problem somewhere else.
“Two percent is a nice compromise between skim and whole, if you’re having problems deciding,” I said. I kind of wanted Sam to ask me about the Mustang, to ask what the hell I was doing with it. I was thinking about Isabel, about shifting into a wolf for the first time, about the black sky pressing against the windows outside.
Sam said, “We’re running out of time, Cole.”
The electronic bell of the QuikMart door opening kept him from saying more, or me from answering him. I didn’t turn to look, but some sort of instinct made the skin crawl at the back of my neck. Sam had not turned his head, either, but I saw that his expression had changed. Sharpened. That was what I was subconsciously reacting to.
In my head, memories flashed. Wolves in the woods, ears pricked and swiveling, suddenly at attention. Air sharp in our nostrils, scent of deer on the breeze, time to hunt. The wordless agreement that it was time to act.
By the counter, I heard the murmur of voices as the newcomer and the clerk exchanged greetings. Sam put his hand on the handle of the cooler but didn’t open it. He said, “Maybe we don’t actually need milk.”
• SAM •
It was John Marx, Olivia’s older brother.
Speaking with John had never been easy for me — we barely knew each other, and every encounter we’d ever had had been on tense terms. And now his sister was dead and Grace was missing. I wished we hadn’t come. There was nothing to do but to carry on as usual. John wasn’t quite in line; he was staring at the gum. I slouched up to the counter beside him. I could smell alcohol, which was depressing, because John had seemed so young before.
“Hi,” I said, barely audible, just so I got credit for saying it.
John did the man-nod, a curt jerk of the head. “How are you doing.” It was not a question.
“Three twenty-one,” the clerk told me. He was a slight man with permanently lowered eyes. I counted out bills. I didn’t look at John. I prayed that he didn’t recognize Cole. I eyed the security camera, watching all of us.
“Did you know that this is Sam Roth?” John asked. There was silence until the clerk realized that John was talking to him.
The clerk darted a glance up at my damning yellow eyes and then back down to the bills I’d placed on the counter, before replying politely, “No, I didn’t.”
He knew who I was. Everyone knew. I felt a surge of friendliness toward the clerk.
“Thanks,” I told him as I took my change, grateful for more than the coins. Cole pushed off the counter next to me. Time to go.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” John asked me. I heard misery in his voice.
My heart jerked inside me as I turned toward him. “I’m sorry about Olivia.”
“Tell me why she died,” John said. He took a step toward me, unsteady. A breath laced with some kind of alcohol — hard, neat, and recent, by the odor — gusted toward me. “Tell me why she was there.”
I held a hand out, palm toward the ground. A sort of That close is good. No closer. “John, I don’t kn —”
John swatted my hand away, and at that gesture, I saw Cole move restlessly. “Don’t lie to me. I know it’s you. I know it is.”
This was a little easier. I couldn’t lie, but this didn’t require one. “It wasn’t me. I didn’t have anything to do with her being there.”
The clerk said, “Good conversation to take outside!”
Cole opened the door. Night air rushed in.
John seized a mighty handful of my T-shirt at the shoulder. “Where’s Grace? Why out of everyone in the world, why my sister, why Grace? Why them, you sick —”
And I saw in his face or heard in his voice or felt in that grip on my shirt what he was going to do next, so when he swung at me, I lifted an arm and deflected his blow. I couldn’t do any more than that. I wasn’t going to fight him, not over this. Not when he’d swallowed so much sadness that his words slurred.
“Okay, outside,” the clerk said. “Conversation outside. Bye! Have a nice night!”
“John,” I said, my arm throbbing where his fist had landed. Adrenaline pumped through me: John’s anxiety, Cole’s tension, my own readiness feeding it. “I’m sorry. But this isn’t going to help.”
“Damn straight,” John said, and lunged for me.
Cole was suddenly between us.
“We’re all done here,” he said. He was no taller than either me or John, but he towered. He was looking at my face, judging my reaction. “Let’s not make things ugly in this man’s store.”
John, an arm’s length away, on the other side of Cole, stared at me, eyes hollowed out like a statue’s. “I liked you, when I first met you,” he said. “Can you imagine that?”
I felt sick.
“Let’s go,” I told Cole. I said to the clerk, “Thanks again.”
Cole turned away from John, his movements wound tight.
Just as the door swung shut, John’s voice slid after us. “Everybody knows what you did, Sam Roth.”
The night air smelled like gasoline and wood smoke. Somewhere, there was a fire. I felt like I could feel the wolf inside me burning in my gut.
“People just love to hit you,” Cole said, still all energy. My mood fed off Cole’s and vice versa, and we were wolves, both of us. I was buzzing and weightless. The Volkswagen wasn’t parked far away, just at the end of the parking spaces. There was a long, pale key scratch on the driver’s side. At least I knew running into John was no coincidence. A fluorescent reflection of the convenience store glowed in its paint. Neither of us got in.
“It has to be you,” Cole said. He’d opened the passenger door and stood on the running board, leaning over the roof at me. “The one who leads the wolves out. I’ve tried; I can’t hold a thought while I’m a wolf.”
I looked at him. My fingers tingled. I’d forgotten the milk inside the store. I kept thinking of John swinging at me, Cole charging between us, the night living inside me. Feeling like I did, right now, I couldn’t say, No, I can’t do it, because anything felt possible.
I said, “I don’t want to go back. I can’t do that.”
Cole laughed, just a single ha. “You’re gonna shift eventually, Ringo. You’re not totally cured yet. Might as well save the world while you’re at it.”
I wanted to say, Please don’t make me do this, but what meaning would that have to Cole, who had done that and worse to himself?
“You’re assuming they would listen to me,” I said.
Cole lifted his hands off the roof of the Volkswagen; cloudy fingerprints evaporated seconds after he did. “We all listen to you, Sam.” He jumped to the pavement. “You just don’t always talk to us.”
• GRACE •
Saturday, Officer Koenig came to the house to take us to the peninsula.
We all watched him pull into the driveway, peering out the living room windows. It was thrilling and ironic to be inviting a policeman over after trying for so long to avoid them. Like Mowgli asking Shere Khan in for some tea and crumpets. Koenig arrived at Beck’s house at noon, dressed in a crisp maroon polo shirt and jeans that I thought he’d probably ironed. He drove a pristine gray Chevy truck that he may have ironed as well. He knocked on the door — an efficient Knock. Knock. Knock that somehow reminded me of Isabel’s laugh — and when Sam opened it, Koenig stood there with his hands folded neatly in front of him as if he were waiting for his date.
“Come on in,” Sam said.
Koenig stepped into the house, still with one hand professionally holding the other. It seemed like another lifetime that I’d seen him las
t, standing just like that in the front of our classroom as a bunch of high schoolers assaulted him with questions about the wolves. Olivia had leaned over to me and whispered that he was cute. Now here he was in the front entry, and Olivia was dead.
Olivia was dead.
I was beginning to understand that blank look Sam got when someone said something about his parents. I didn’t feel anything at all when I thought Olivia is dead. I felt numb as Sam’s scars.
I realized that Koenig had spotted me.
“Hi,” I said.
He took a deep breath, as if he were preparing to dive. I would’ve given almost anything to know what he was thinking. “Well, okay, then,” he said. “There you are.”
“Yes,” I replied. “Here I am.” Cole stepped out of the kitchen behind me and Koenig’s eyebrows drew down over his eyes. Cole smiled back, a hard, certain smile. I watched recognition slowly dawn on Koenig’s face.
“Of course,” Koenig said. He crossed his arms and turned to Sam. No matter how he moved his arms or stood, something about Koenig gave the impression that he would be difficult to knock over. “Are there any other missing persons living under your roof? Elvis? Jimmy Hoffa? Amelia Earhart? I’d just like to have full disclosure now, before we go any further.”
“This is it,” Sam said. “To the best of my knowledge. Grace would like to come with, if that’s okay.”
Koenig considered.
“Are you coming with us, too?” he asked Cole. “Because if so, I’ll have to make room in my cab. Also, it’s a long drive. If you have a small bladder, I’d use the facilities now.” And that was that. Having established the ground rules for the day — I was a part-time wolf, Cole was a missing rock star — it was down to business.
“I’m not coming,” Cole replied. “I have man’s work.”
Sam shot Cole a warning look. It was a look I thought probably had something to do with the kitchen finally looking like a kitchen again and Sam wanting it to stay that way.
Cole’s reply was enigmatic. Well, sort of. Whenever Cole wasn’t being completely flamboyant, he always seemed mysterious by comparison. “Bring your phone with you. In case I need to get ahold of you.”
Shiver Trilogy (Shiver, Linger, Forever) Page 81
