Calm down. Breathe. Think.
Lucy’s palms pressed flat against the door. Her spine was rigid. Her vision blurred, then focused. Her eyes made a slow, thorough sweep of the shadows. The sliding glass doors were still shut; no invisible presence alerted her instincts to danger. Long minutes crept by. Finally she forced herself over to the nightstand and took the flashlight from the drawer.
The bright beam of light was a lifeline.
Still shaking, Lucy went into the bathroom and locked the connecting door to Angela’s room. Then she sat down on the edge of her bed and gripped the flashlight to her chest.
Damn them! How could anyone be so mean, so heartless? Hadn’t she been through enough? Would guilt and blame cling to her for the rest of her life?
Yet she couldn’t figure out how they’d done it, how they’d managed to rig the whole scenario. Even with high-tech knowledge, wouldn’t someone have had to get into the house to pull it off? Maybe they’d caused the power outage, too. But how had they managed to bypass such a sophisticated security system? It just didn’t make any sense.
Unless . . .
Lucy’s breath caught in her throat. She squeezed the flashlight tighter, so tight that her fingers ached.
No! No, what happened back there in Angela’s room couldn’t have had anything to do with psychic powers or gifts or curses. Her body hadn’t signaled her like it so often had in the past. She hadn’t seen visions; there hadn’t been a feeling or impression or a warning too overwhelming to ignore. What had happened just now wasn’t like anything she’d ever experienced. So, no. No! It couldn’t have been just me.
Yet no matter how much she argued with herself, she couldn’t quite shut out the whisper in her mind. The persistent little whisper that kept nagging her, trying to get through. What if it’s not a joke? What if it’s real? What are you going to do?
Moaning softly, Lucy lowered her head and cradled it in her arms. No, no, there’s a logical explanation, it’s a horrible trick, and Florence just forgot and left the window open! Because she couldn’t bear to think otherwise. Because the sound of Angela’s voice and the prospects of Angela’s fate were just too chilling to imagine.
Imagine? Maybe I did imagine it. Maybe I had a memory lapse or blacked out or hallucinated. One of those things that people with head injuries are supposed to do.
Helplessness engulfed her. She couldn’t call the police—they’d never believe her. She couldn’t tell Irene—her aunt would put her straight into the hospital. So who? Dr. Fielding with his comfort-coated skepticism? All Lucy knew for sure was that she couldn’t stay here a minute longer. She had to leave, and she had to leave now.
Leading with the flashlight, she hurried downstairs, yanked her coat from the closet, and stopped to check the battery backup on the security system.
And that’s when she remembered she didn’t have a car.
What time is it anyway?
She looked at her watch, surprised to see that it was after seven. Surely Matt should have been here by now—surely he would have rung the doorbell when he dropped off the car.
Lucy pulled aside the front curtains and peered out at the driveway. The red Corvette was sitting there, parked about halfway down, covered with a thin layer of snow.
That’s strange . . .
Grabbing her purse, she slammed the door behind her. But as she cut across the lawn and got closer to the car, she began to slow down.
The last thing in the world she wanted to do right now was drive that thing. Not after what had just happened upstairs. Not after what she’d just heard.
Lucy stopped. She stared at the Corvette and felt tiny prickles of apprehension creep along her spine. Maybe she should call a cab. She had no clue about taxi service here in Pine Ridge—or the drivers. And right now she didn’t trust anybody. Not anybody. Not even myself.
She took her time going around the sports car, brushing off the feathery snow, shining her flashlight in all the windows. She told herself she was being silly; she told herself she was being safe. When she tried the handle, the door came open, unnerving her even more.
Why didn’t Matt lock it? Why didn’t he at least tell me he was here?
Climbing inside, she noticed the air was slightly warm, as though the heater had only recently been shut off. She closed the door and began hunting for the key.
Both visors were empty. Lucy ran her hands along the floor mats, then rummaged nervously through the glove box. She searched the backseat area but found nothing. Maybe it wasn’t here at all. Maybe Matt had forgotten to leave it. Leaning her forehead on the steering wheel, she tried to stay calm. Snow was thickening on the windshield, and the car was getting cold.
On a whim, Lucy bent down and began groping beneath the seats. Far back under the driver’s side, her fingers made contact with something soft and bulky, like thick cloth. It had been wedged in so tight, it took several minutes of intense pulling to finally work it free.
Lucy stared down at the bundle in her hands. By the glow of her flashlight, she began to open the heavy folds of fabric. A blanket of some kind . . . a blanket that seemed familiar . . . covered with dead leaves and pine needles and stained with mud . . .
And with something wrapped inside it . . .
“No,” Lucy whispered. “Oh God . . .”
Most of the jacket was burned away—just charred holes and black tatters—yet Lucy recognized it at once. Remembered the way it had looked on Byron the very first time she’d met him . . . and in that last split second before the crash.
She needed air. She couldn’t breathe. The car was too small, too suffocating, and she clawed at the door, but it wouldn’t open.
She didn’t even notice the car key as it fell out of the blanket. Or when it landed on the floor at her feet.
She only saw the snowflakes turning to ashes as she slumped forward over the steering wheel.
11
“Lucy,” the voice was saying. “I’ve got you, Lucy—you’re safe.”
Someone was holding her.
She could feel strong arms around her, and her head was tilted sideways, resting on somebody’s chest.
“Let’s get you inside,” the voice murmured.
I know that voice.
“Lucy? Just relax . . . just lean against me.”
Yes . . . yes . . . I know that voice, but I can’t quite place it . . .
For a split second of panic, Lucy thought she might be back again, back in the places of her nightmares, back in the shadowy cave, the cold wet woods, the deserted road. But then, as her eyes began to open, she could see a world of pure white, and a door with a large brass knocker that looked vaguely familiar.
“Nobody’s answering,” the voice was telling her now. “Where the hell’s your aunt?”
Lucy barely managed to shake her head.
“Then what’s the code?” the voice asked. “Lucy, can you give me the code?”
The code . . .
Weakly, she squinted up into a face. A worried face, but calmly reassuring as well. His hair was sifted with snowflakes, and as a gust of wind hit the two of them, he drew Lucy closer into his warmth.
“Matt?” she whispered.
“Do you remember the security code, Lucy?” he asked her again. “I need to get you inside.”
Her head was beginning to clear. She realized they were on the front porch, and that she was shivering from head to toe. With sudden clarity, images of the blanket and burned jacket burst into her mind, and she immediately began to struggle.
“Hey, calm down,” Matt held her tighter. “I told you, everything’s okay—”
“No, those things in the car!”
“What things?”
“In the car—the blanket, Byron’s jacket—you must have seen them—”
“Lucy, I didn’t see anything but you. What are you talking about?”
“He put them there! He must know where I live—how can he know that?”
“Ssh . . . Listen to me—”
“Why did you leave the car unlocked? Why didn’t you make sure no one was following you? You must have led him straight here!”
“Stop it, Lucy, you’re not making any sense.” The shake he gave her was gentle, but firm. “Whatever this is about, we’ll discuss it. I promise. But right now we need to go inside without setting off the alarm and looking like two half-wit burglars.”
“But I want the police to come! They need to get fingerprints and DNA—”
“Lucy. Tell me the code.”
The tone of his voice got through to her at last. It took her several minutes, but she was finally able to recite the correct numbers in their proper sequence. Then Matt turned the key, stepped into the house, and—following Lucy’s garbled directions—disarmed the system.
“Where’s the couch?” Pausing at the foot of the stairs, he raised a quizzical eyebrow and looked for a place to set her down. “Couch, chair, or bed. Your choice.”
But Lucy was babbling again. “The blanket? It was the one I took when I was trying to escape. The police will have to believe me now.”
“Where would you be the most comfortable?”
“No, no, I can walk.”
“Don’t argue with me.”
Seeing the determination on his face, Lucy pointed to a doorway. “The den’s through there. But you’ve got to call the police, Matt. He had Byron’s jacket, don’t you understand? The same one Byron was wearing when we crashed! How could he have Byron’s jacket? And I lost that blanket in the woods, so how did he find it? Why is he doing this to me?”
“Hush, Lucy.” Carefully Matt lowered her to the couch, then began unbuttoning her coat. “Take this off and wrap up in something warm.” He pulled the wool afghan from one end of the sofa and tucked it snugly around her. “I should probably take you to the emergency room. You’re half frozen.”
“Don’t call a doctor—call the police! Haven’t you heard a single word I’ve said?”
“What about tea? Do you like tea?”
Frustrated, Lucy grabbed his sleeve. “Listen to me. You’ve got to get that stuff from the car. I didn’t have any evidence before, but now I do, and if he’s out there right now watching us, the police might be able to catch him!”
“If who’s out there watching us?” Matt demanded, easing himself from her grip. But as Lucy grew more agitated, he knelt down in front of her and took both her hands in his. “Yes, okay, I’ll go out to the car. And if it’s necessary, I promise I’ll call the police. But first I’m going to fix you something hot to drink so we can get your blood flowing again.”
“You’re wasting time!”
“Time? Well, speaking of time, just how long were you lying out there unconscious in the car?”
“I don’t know. What time is it now?”
Matt glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel, then double-checked his watch. “Your clock’s wrong. Mine says about eight-thirty.”
“That can’t be right.” Lucy stared at him in amazement. “I couldn’t have been out there for nearly an hour.”
“An hour? People have frozen to death in half that time!”
“It wasn’t that cold. In fact, the car was still warm inside.”
Now it was Matt’s turn to look surprised. “That’s impossible. I brought it over about five o’clock.”
“But I’m sure it was . . .” Her voice trailed off as something began to dawn on her. “Matt, the electricity’s on.”
For the first time since they’d come in, she noticed the glare of the foyer light, the glow from surrounding lamps, the stuffy heat and muted hum of the furnace. Matt was staring at her as if she might clarify her remark with some earth-shattering revelation.
“It wasn’t on before,” she murmured.
“So that explains why your clock’s wrong.”
“Someone shut it off.”
His expression grew more puzzled. “Shut your clock off?”
Before he could question her further, Lucy threw the afghan aside and stood up, only to feel Matt’s hands on her shoulders, pushing her down again.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“To the car. I’m telling you, someone shut off the electricity in this house tonight. And someone deliberately put stuff in the car. And if you’re not going to help me, then I’ll do it myself.”
“Okay, okay. Hold on.” Sighing in defeat, Matt turned toward the hall. “I’ll go.”
“A blanket. And a jacket. They’re both in the front seat.”
“Right. But in the meantime, I want you to stay here and cover up again.”
Lucy did as she was told. She sat huddled beneath the afghan, her mind spinning in a dozen different directions. Questions pounded at her brain. She could feel her body beginning to thaw, but fears and suspicions sent a different kind of chill to her heart.
She heard a door slam and looked up to see Matt poised in the threshold. He was holding the car key in his hand.
The car key and nothing else.
“Where are they?” Lucy’s voice rose hopefully. “You found them, didn’t you? In the front, like I said?”
But when Matt didn’t answer, the chill deepened inside her.
“No,” Lucy whispered.
She saw him hesitate . . . saw the concern and sympathy in his eyes.
“Lucy—” he began, but she cut him off with an angry shout.
“No! Those things were there! I didn’t imagine them—I’m not crazy!”
“Of course you’re not crazy.” Matt spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I don’t think that, Lucy. Nobody thinks that—”
“Everybody thinks that!”
“You’re wrong. Please don’t get upset. Just tell me what’s going—”
“Maybe he did it at school! He could have broken in, right? In the student parking lot, when no one was looking? Can you tell if anybody broke in?”
“Who are you talking about? Nobody broke into your car at school—”
“How can you be sure? Did you check?”
“Lucy—”
“Then why did you just leave the car out there in the driveway where anyone could get in? Why didn’t you come to the door and tell me you were here?”
“I did go to the door. I rang the bell over and over, but nobody answered. You said you might be with a friend tonight. I figured you’d gone out.”
Was he telling the truth? Maybe the power outage had affected the doorbell. Had she been asleep?
“And I tried to call, too,” Matt went on, “but nobody ever picked up. So I decided to drive by again, just to see if you’d gotten home.” When Lucy didn’t comment, he took a step toward her. “What’s going on, Lucy? What’s this all about?”
Lucy kept silent. She wasn’t delusional! She could still see the scorched remains of Byron’s jacket; she could still see the blanket with its crumbled, dead leaves. She’d used that blanket—she’d touched that jacket. No delusion could ever be that real!
“I’ll get them myself,” she muttered.
Before he could answer, she marched determinedly toward the hall. But halfway across the room, as a thought suddenly hit her, Lucy stopped and turned back to face him.
“Where was the key?” she asked.
Matt’s frown was puzzled. “On the floor of the driver’s seat.”
“No,” Lucy corrected. “I mean, where did you leave it when you brought the car over?”
He didn’t even hesitate. “On the front porch. Under the mat.”
12
It was strange, he thought, how a person’s possessions could still retain such a part of them after death.
Like Angela’s car, for instance.
It still smelled of her, even now. A smell so ripe and reckless, he could have found it anywhere in the world without any effort at all.
Expensive perfume . . . cigarette smoke . . . strawberry lip gloss and nail polish. Sex and desperation. Longing and sheer bad luck.
Smells that wafted so strong on t
he wind, even the snow couldn’t dull them.
Sometimes he could still taste her eagerness.
But those memories were becoming more and more of an irritation to him. Taunting him when he yearned to be filled. Tormenting him when he ached to be satisfied.
Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so hasty.
Perhaps he should have kept her longer . . . drawn out the deception more slowly . . . built the suspense to a more shocking and shattering climax.
At least . . . until Lucy was his.
His and his alone.
Ah, Lucy . . .
She was rarely out of his sight anymore . . . never out of his thoughts.
And she so innocently, so sweetly, unaware.
Believing him to be merely an errant breeze, blowing cold across her cheek.
Or the subtle stirring of a shadow coupling with her own.
Or the deep, impenetrable night gazing back at her beyond her sliding glass doors.
How could she know that he was the reason for her emptiness? The longing and restlessness she couldn’t seem to absolve or understand?
So making use of Angela’s car tonight had been gratifying to him in many ways.
Reminding Lucy of their special bond. Their past together that she so wished to forget . . . their inevitable future she could not yet begin to imagine.
And dispelling those last lingering scents of Angela, once and for all. The car belonged to Lucy now, and it should smell like Lucy.
And there was no smell stronger than fear.
He preferred to think of it as a sort of exorcism.
One more move in his Game.
The Game Lucy would never win, no matter how many clues she might unravel, no matter how far ahead she believed herself to be.
The Game with Lucy as his prize.
But that wouldn’t happen for a while yet.
Not when the mere playing of the Game was so much fun.
Especially when one played without rules.
13
“How could that key have ended up in the car if I didn’t even know where it was?” Lucy’s eyes were wide and fearful. “Doesn’t that prove anything to you?”
Rest In Peace Page 7
