Even the video on pregnancy in Health (which prompted all the boys to make retching noises and all the girls to cross their legs beneath their short skirts and declare that they would never, under any circumstance, subject themselves to such a painful and humiliating procedure and that's exactly what adoption was for, thank you very much) couldn't rouse Val from her thoughts, even long enough to be nauseated.
I'm an idiot. I should cancel.
But she didn't have his phone number — he had never offered it, and she hadn't asked.
Why didn't he give it to me?
Maybe his plan sucked. Maybe he had one of those Go-Phones. When they had talked about his family he'd implied that he paid for everything himself, out of pocket. But still.
If I meant something to him, he'd want me to be able to contact him. I mean, even James's number is in my cell phone.
The bus dropped off Val a block from her house and she fretted the whole walk home. As she walked through the door she caught a glimpse of herself in the foyer mirror and winced, wondering if she should change into something a little less ridiculous. But then he'd know that she had changed for him, which was precisely what she had been trying to avoid in the first place. Her reflection's face fell.
I really do look like a dork. No wonder people laughed at me.
She poured herself a glass of water she didn't drink and ended up spending the next hour and fifteen minutes pacing. At five o' clock sharp the white Camaro pulled up in front of Val's house. She wrote her mother a note on the fridge, grabbed her bag, and latched the front door behind her.
Gavin reached over to unlock the door for her. He was wearing a fitted leather jacket, which he definitely hadn't been wearing earlier, and she realized with an unexpected lurch that his arms were just as muscular as they had been in his archery photo on the school's website.
“Good afternoon,” he said. And was it her imagination or was there an edge of anticipation in his voice?
“Hi.”
“I like your outfit.”
“Are you making fun of me?”
His lips quirked. “Perhaps a little. No track uniform today?”
She gulped. “No.”
“How disappointing.” He flipped the blinker on. “I'm surprised your mother let you come out to play with me.”
“What?”
“She didn't seem to care for me.” His eyes met hers briefly as he turned to signal over his shoulder.
“I didn't tell her,” Val said, surprising herself with her boldness. He didn't have to know about the note she'd left taped on the fridge. “She doesn't know.”
“Naughty girl.” And he smiled to himself, as if he found that thought, and the images which accompanied it, particularly pleasing, in a way that made Val feel slightly less foolish about the knife with the broken handle secreted away in the pocket of her shorts.
Just in case, she'd told herself, feeling as if she were mad.
As before, he parked inside his garage though it wasn't raining. “There have been some problems with vandals in the area,” he explained, though she hadn't asked. “They cruise around the neighborhood stealing things — petty theft.”
“I don't think they'd steal your car.”
The moment she said the words she realized how that sounded, but instead of looking offended he laughed. “Not for the car alone, perhaps, but I keep some valuable things in there.”
“Like what?” Like a body?
He gave her a measured look. “I'm a dealer.”
“Of drugs?” Val blurted.
“Of antiques.” He located the house key and fitted it in the lock. “I buy, sell, and trade.” He pushed open the door and waited.
She squeezed by, thinking over what he'd said. That fit in with his possessive, acquisitive nature. It was logical that he'd want to own things, as well as people. He probably considered them on the same scale. If he even is the stalker, she reminded herself sternly albeit without much gumption. You don't have proof yet. Distantly, she heard herself say, “You're kind of young.”
Gavin shrugged. “It causes clients to underestimate me.”
I won't be making that mistake, she thought.
“Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Water?”
The way her stomach was jumping around, putting anything into it, even liquid, seemed like a bad idea. Val started to refuse and then realized that his waiting on her would buy some extra time to think. “Coffee, please.”
“How do you take it?”
“Um — no milk. Some sugar.”
“All right. Go ahead and sit down.” He gestured expansively. “Make yourself comfortable. I won't be long.”
Take your time. “No rush,” she said, trying to smile. He left, and it was as if a weight had been lifted from her lungs. She sat down at the chessboard. The pieces were set up from another game. Black had more pieces but White had the king backed into a corner — something even Val, with her minimal experience on the board, knew wasn't good.
She couldn't recall much from the previous lesson. Most of what she'd learned had flown right out of her brain when he'd kissed her. Oh, god, that kiss — she'd barely remembered her own name. Val quashed that thought, grimacing when she felt her cheeks glow. She knew how the pieces moved. Vaguely. She remembered what castling was. Vaguely.
She knew how to kiss. Vaguely. But, as with chess, Gavin was vastly more experienced in that field, as well. Who had he been kissing? If the other girls in school shared Lisa's views of him, he would be hard-pressed to find one willing to date him. Or maybe not. He'd changed her mind swiftly enough.
Chess. You're supposed to be thinking about chess.
The pieces on the board slowly came back into focus as her thoughts cleared a little. She thought she might be able to remember the fundamentals of the game once she got into the swing of things, but that wasn't the difficult part of chess. The difficult part of chess was anticipating your opponent's moves and building a suitable defense and offense tailored to each individual's specific style of play.
Val glanced at the stairs. Both on and off the chessboard.
A sound from the kitchen made her focus guiltily on the aforementioned. On the edge of the table was a leather journal. The cover was scuffed and faded and looked quite old. One of his antiques? She opened it up, after darting a quick look at the kitchen, revealing yellowed pages. Queues of numbers and letters formed large columns that marched on for entire pages. She flipped through them, frowning. Was it some kind of code? If so, there was no key.
“It's chess notation, Valerian. Hardly confidential.”
Val jumped and the book fell to the floor with a thud that made her start all over. It was as if he'd read her mind. “I wasn't — ”
“Spying?” He set their coffee on the table and bent to pick up his journal. Her reaction had appeared to entertain him, if his smile was anything to go by. “I see. Very subtle.”
She folded her arms and tried to look composed. “You write down your games?”
“I do, yes, but this isn't mine; it's my father's. I was studying a few of his winning games. He was a chess player,” he added, casually.
“He was?” Was he a stalker, too?
Gavin set the journal aside. “Mm. A very good one, too, though I think I may be better than he was now. I'm a bit out of practice.”
“Really,” said Val. “What was his name?”
“Something Spanish. He was from Spain. The resemblance is supposed to be quite close, though I've only the word of others on that.” He leaned his head on his hand, watching her sip her coffee. Almost as an afterthought, he added, “Of course, chess wasn't the only skill he had mastered — if my mother is to be believed.”
Val choked on her coffee.
“But then again, one cannot rely entirely on stereotypes to shape one's world view. Even if they are generally true. Experience is everything. Don't you agree, Val?”
She couldn't look at him. “I don't know.”
“Hmm
. No, I suppose you wouldn't. Well,” his tone lost some of its edge. “Do you prefer White or Black?”
“Excuse me?”
“Which color would you like to play?”
“Oh. Um. Black.”
“Interesting choice.” He rotated the board so that her chosen color was on her side. Since he made no move to do so himself, Val restored the pieces to their proper places. She couldn't shake the feeling that he was testing her, though what the test was, and what the implications were, she had no idea. He offered no comment when she finished so she assumed she had passed.
For now.
She wished he would stop looking at her like that, though.
“Your move,” he said softly.
He'd moved one of his pawns. The one in front of his queen. Right. White goes first.
“You are jumpy, aren't you?” he said, as she moved the pawn in front of her rook with a shaking hand. “Always so edgy. Perhaps I shouldn't have given you that coffee.”
“No — I'm just nervous.”
He moved his bishop. “Are you planning something treacherous, Valerian?”
Val nearly choked again. “Why do you say that?”
“I get the feeling you're looking for something.” He toyed with the chain around his neck and looking at it made Val want to blush. “Something that should concern me.”
She bit her lip and did not respond as she moved another pawn. As if he expected this move he immediately brought out his knight. Val retaliated passively by moving another pawn, avoiding the one he'd set out before. With a slight shake of his head, Gavin moved the knight again and she stared at the board, trying to figure out what he was doing. He rarely moved the same piece twice in a row unless he was rallying an attack.
Is he after my king?
Of course he was. That was the entire point of the game. Stupid question.
Val glanced at his face. He arched an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“Nothing,” she muttered.
Somewhere within the recesses of the house, a grandfather clock chimed the hour.
“You know, you never answered my question.”
She looked up from the board again. “What question?”
“Are you planning something?”
“No!” she said, her voice too high.
“Not even on the board, Val?” His lips parted into a smile. “You're blushing, by the way.”
Val clapped a hand to her face. It felt hot. Grudgingly, she moved the pawn in front of her king up two squares, giving her king room to escape if he had to. No way would she allow him to get pinned, the way he had in the last game that had ended so gruesomely.
She really did wish he would stop looking at her. That cool amusement stabbed at her heart with a dozen icy knives each time their eyes met across the table. Once or twice she found herself staring at his shirt which, in his casual slouch, was pulled taut over his lean chest.
Both his attire and his careless posture seemed scandalous when paired with what he had insinuated earlier about his father. Had Val pursued that line of thought further, she might have suspected that he was trying to seduce her — but she was too focused on getting upstairs.
“Careful,” he said, when she reached for another pawn.
“What? Why?”
He didn't elaborate.
And then she saw the danger. She started to move her rook to castle, but Gavin caught her by the wrist. “I'm afraid you can't do that. I have you in check,” he drew her attention to the king, “And you can't castle out of check. Ever.”
She couldn't believe he'd trapped her so quickly.
He released her, smiling contentedly. “It's called a fork. There's no way out, so you may as well decide which piece you would hate least to lose.”
She stared at his knight with a feeling of panic, her skin still tingling where he'd brushed her as if his touch had left a brand. She moved her queen to take his knight and he captured the offending piece with his bishop, setting the black queen on his side of the table.
“That was a very bad move, my dear. The worst, actually. You should have let me take the rook.”
“I didn't want you to take any of them.”
Gavin laughed. “You can't protect all the pieces. That is not how the game is played.”
“I can try.”
“My, my. Such an idealist. You need to learn how to be more cold-blooded if you are to beat me at this game.”
Val moved another pawn. “How?”
“By being prepared to sacrifice everything, at any cost, in order to win.”
It's been long enough, I think. I've drunk more than enough coffee to make my break without being suspicious.
“That sounds pretty heartless.”
“It's a heartless game.”
So they agreed on something.
“Running away from me again, Val?” Val's heart stopped. For one horrible, irrational moment, she thought he'd used his chess master intellect to read her with the same uncanny accuracy he used on the chessboard. But no, he was talking about the game, always the game, moving his pawn closer towards the one she had just moved.
“Of course I am,” she said. “You just took my queen.”
“Ah, yes. Well. Just remember,” he told her. “If you run from me, I will pursue.”
The game went on, her taking some of his pieces, him taking even more of hers. There was no question who would win; it was only a matter of when. Gavin had, in a brief amount of time, captured both knights, a bishop, and a rook. Val watched the board with slightly glazed eyes, watching her pieces being taken from her one at a time, and then sat up abruptly.
His queen was open, and her remaining bishop was in the perfect position to take it.
Was it a trap? His face, when she looked at him, revealed nothing. The perfect poker face; he'd probably beat her at that game, too. It had to be a trap. He was far too good to make such a mistake. And yet, she wondered. Because everyone, even a master, could make foolish errors ….
Then she saw it.
A pawn, a simple pawn, which he had sneaked over to her side of the board several turns ago. She hadn't paid it much mind at the time since she was so busy thwarting attacks made by more principal pieces, and it had steadily been advancing this entire time. If she took his queen, the pawn would promote and she would lose the game. If she took his pawn, he would take her bishop, and she would lose the game.
She was damned if she did, damned if she didn't. In either case, it was checkmate in one.
That was when it clicked for her, staring at the glaring case of catch-22 that the board had morphed into. Her stalker was fond of such systematic annihilation, as well, pursuing her with an avidity that bordered on sadistic.
Val tugged at the hem of her shirt. “Where's your bathroom?”
That made him laugh again. A lighter laugh than before, less menacing, which made her wonder if she had imagined the sinister natures she'd attributed to him. But she knew she hadn't, and she wasn't sure which scared her more: his mercurial temperament, or his ability to hide it.
“Middle door,” he said, folding his arms behind his head. “Second floor. Don't be long.”
(If you run from me, I will pursue.)
The upstairs rooms were just as Spartan in décor as the ones downstairs. Despite the house's relative size, he didn't seem to go in for personal effects. Behind the first door was a closet, empty except for some winter coats and a handful of cleaning supplies.
The next door was the promised bathroom, which was spotlessly — almost obsessively — clean. She closed the door with a loud slam sure to carry down the stairs.
Behind the third door was a study. It must have been a bedroom, originally, because the door off to the side linked to the room next door, which actually was a bedroom. Twin bedrooms.
Val looked around. An antique desk took up half of one entire wall, crafted from aromatic wood that brought to mind a medieval forest. The chair placed in front of it was anachronistically modern. On the she
lves of the desk were old books, some of which she recognized from class (including that hateful play, Titus Andronicus), others a mystery.
Against the far wall was a glass case filled with real butterflies, all of them long dead. Val's heart faltered as she stared at the limp, jewel-toned bodies with the silver pins neatly skewering their thoraxes, and her hands pressed against her own belly in unconscious sympathy.
Slips of paper beneath each specimen identified the genus in an elegant hand. Cupido minimus was the verdigris butterfly that seemed crafted from eyelet lace. Boloria selene had wings as bright and lovely as stained glass windows. Apatura iris was a large, beautiful butterfly with star-spangled indigo wings. There were many others, and Val now saw that the case bore an additional label at the bottom, in the same hand: Butterflies of Europe.
The penmanship was similar to the one she'd glimpsed in the chess journal, the capital Bs and As bearing the same sharp, hooked slashes through their middles. Was this collection also inherited from Gavin's father, then? What a cruel man he must have been to kill such helpless, innocent creatures. She ran her finger down the frame and then turned away, unable to look at them any longer.
Turning had brought her around to face the desk once more. The case of butterflies had settled things, in a way, giving her enough conviction to override her guilt. She sat in the leather chair and began to go through his drawers. There were a lot of office supplies, art supplies, and bundles of papers that looked like financial statements.
What did you expect? A written testimony of his guilt? No, not exactly, but something more helpful than — she glanced down at the paper — stupid tax returns. She scooted forward to replace the papers and lost her balance, her knee coming into sharp contact with the drawer. The pain was immediate and brought tears to her eyes, and she reached out to still the clatter.
Fearscape (Horrorscape) Page 12
