With the sunglasses on, I slouched down in the driver’s seat and craned my neck so I could see where I was going.
Right, not too suspicious, considering it was totally dark. My grandfather said crooks draw attention to themselves through their own guilty actions. I sat up and removed the sunglasses. I also kept my eyes straight ahead so on the chance I recognized anyone I would not immediately look the other way and slide down in the seat. That would be almost as obvious as speeding up or making a fast U-turn if I saw a police car.
Chapter 30. Sandbagged
I drove south on Pacific Coast Highway and headed for Palos Verdes Drive. It should have been too early in the year for the hot, dry Santa Ana winds, but they swept in from out of nowhere.
Dirt and grit skimmed over the woody. Leaves and loose paper tumbled across the road. Tall palm trees leaned eastward; their fronds ready to break off if the wind blew any harder.
The good part was that the wind cleared the air, and without haze, the stars shone brighter than ever. The bad part was that at night, not wearing sunglasses, my eyes would be stinging from grit blowing into them and tearing so badly it would be hard to see. Squinting your eyes half shut is not the best way to descend a rickety staircase zigzagging down the face of a steep cliff.
Twenty minutes later I turned off the main road. Signs were posted along the palisade where I parked; their warnings clear Danger—No Admittance Beyond This Point.
I had to push against the wind to get the car door open. Luckily, I did not have my hand on the door frame, or my fingers would have been crushed when the wind slammed the door shut.
As I approached the cliff, I leaned into the wind. At the guardrail, I turned north, and went parallel to the ocean. Ahead, a separate handrail marked the place where the stairs descend.
The ground near the edge of the cliff crumbles easily and it’s a sheer drop. Several times in the past hikers have gone too close to the brink and the ground gave way. The lucky ones fell where there is a promontory halfway down and landed on the level surface. The unlucky ones fell where there is nothing between them and the rocky shore.
I paused and scanned the beach far below. In the moonlight, the sand contrasted with the white foam left behind by surf; farther out, moonlight sparkled on black waves. Large rocks lined the bottom of the cliffs at varying intervals. In some places, the rocks extended far out onto the sand, but in other places there were no rocks and the cliff ended at a sharp right angle to the beach.
A pile of kelp had accumulated near the jetty. It’s a common sight; chunks of it break off and wash ashore at high tide and when the tide goes out mounds of it are left behind. It was near one of these I saw something lighter than everything else. It might have been no more than a raised patch of sand that caught moonlight at an angle and made it look different, but it was the only part that seemed out of place.
Keeping my head lowered so I would not to be pelted with flying sand, I started down the stairs.
The wind whipped my hair across my face and over my eyes, but it was the constant change of intensity that worried me most. This was the last place I wanted to lose my footing. If I was leaning into the wind when it stopped, I would be thrown off balance.
Gripping the handrail, I tested each step before putting my full weight on it. Even though the air was dry, the stairs were strewn with sand which made them slippery.
Patches of ice plant grow here and there on the cliffs. They help prevent erosion, but near the stairs the fleshy leaves grow over and around the steps. Ice plant is thick and pulpy; once it’s stepped on, it turns to mush and can send you skidding. You can also get tangled in the dead stems. Dried and twisted, they act like loose manacles, randomly wrapping themselves around the rough stairs, making them another tripping hazard even harder to see in the dark.
I went slowly. When I got to the bottom, I ran, my feet sinking into the sand.
From the text I’d received, and then the view from the cliffs, I knew it was Pamela, but seeing her this close was shocking.
She lay on her side, her face hidden by a tangle of hair and kelp. One arm had kelp wrapped around it and was stretched over her head as if she had been grabbing at something and trying to pull herself out of the water.
I hesitated, afraid to look, afraid to see her face blue and swollen. I dropped down next to her and pushed her hair away from her face.
“Pamela?” I leaned closer. She looked like she was asleep, but her eyes were barely open slits.
“Oh, no. No!” I could not tell if the hair around her mouth had gone down her throat, so I tried to pry the loose strands aside. When I touched her, I quickly pulled my hand away. Her skin felt like ice.
I stared at her, unsure what to do.
Moonlight reflected from her eyes. Her pupils dilated and her eyes became almost black. They stayed that way a few moments, then the black dilation slowly shrunk.
“Pamela, can you hear me?” When she did not answer, I touched her shoulder.
If anyone had seen me, they would have thought I was trying to wake a dead person. I nudged her shoulder, and this time she moaned and said something I could not understand.
Her body convulsed, her head turned to the side, and she vomited a stream of water. Then she rolled onto her back.
Relief flooded through me. I leaned back but in the next breath I sat up straight and carefully turned her on her side so if she vomited again, she would not choke.
Her arms and legs pulled in convulsively, and she retched. More saltwater dribbled from the side of her mouth. Her face was white and clammy. After that she seemed to breathe more easily but remained unconscious.
I had never seen a drowned person pulled from the water, but the way she looked matched Parker’s description of Willy. Had she gone through the same ordeal, and what was it? Would she have a better memory of it than he did?
It was while I paused, wondering if it was better to call the police first and wait for them to get there, or drag her farther away from the incoming tide and then call them, that I felt more than heard the presence of another person.
Without turning around, I saw a shadow looming on the sand in front of me.
Terrified, I froze. Neither of us moved, and it was in those moments of anticipation that another feeling slowly surfaced: anger. I wanted to know who had done this. Moving from kneeling to standing, even when you are ready to face an enemy, is not easy—I would know that later, and how to do it properly.
I did the only thing I could think of to keep from getting a knife in the back. I threw myself to the side and rolled.
My attacker moved in the same direction.
Breathing hard, I scrambled to my feet and faced the person. At the same time, I leaned forward, my back curved to avoid a knife thrust. I had never done such a thing in my life and don’t know why I did it then, but I had never been alone and protecting myself and another person from an attacker.
I looked the person in the face—and gaped in disbelief.
Shock replaced anger.
Off guard, she whacked the side of my head. I dropped to my knees and swayed. I knew I had to get up, but the rest of me was not cooperating. I fell forward, then slowly pushed myself onto my side so I would not smother in sand.
A shadow moved over me and blocked the moonlight.
I forced myself to look up and into the ugly face staring down at me, her lips parted in a wolfish grin.
Chapter 31. Informed
“You should have paid more attention to your lessons, Senorita, instead of interfering in things that do not concern you.” Mrs. Kaufman paused, and when I did not answer she said, “What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?” She chortled. “It does no good to lie there speechless; you always have plenty to say.”
Go to hell.
Mrs. Kaufman narrowed her eyes at me.
Had I said it out loud? It was unnerving to think my brain might be so fogged I had said something without realizing it.
I tried to glare ba
ck at her but could only blink because everything was blurry.
“I would be more polite, if I were you.”
“Look, Mrs.—Senora Kaufman.” I lifted my head, pushed myself up, and braced my arms so I would not fall over. “I don’t know what you’re talking about . . . or what you want”—you big, stupid—I stopped. Had she heard that, too? Apparently not because her expression stayed the same— “but Pamela needs help. We have to call the police. If you don’t mind—”
“Silly girl,” she said. “—mind? Of course, I do. It’s taken me far too long to get rid of you—all of you—but I had to start with that little tuba-playing freak.”
Abigail? Was she here? If she were and heard Mrs. Kaufman’s nasty remark, she would resent it, wouldn’t she? Maybe she would change her mind about whose side she was on.
“Abigail is waiting in the car as she was instructed to do,” Mrs. Kaufman said, smugly. “Unlike you, she is good at following orders. Even better, it makes her easy to manipulate. So needy, so desperate. Give her a good grade, tell her how special she is, how you need her help with an important project, and before you know it, she’s doing everything you ask.”
You rotten witch.
I pushed myself up straighter and was now in the unpleasant position of having to look up at her. Without turning, I tried to see what she had hit me with.
“The problem was,” Mrs. Kaufman went on, “Abigail was not much good at doing what I wanted, or anything else, I might add, and then she went and did something on her own.” Mrs. Kaufman took another step closer.
I dug my heels into the sand and pushed myself back.
“It wasn’t until you came along and interfered that she brought her game up a notch.”
Mrs. Kaufman’s big chest now loomed over me like a flouncy ledge. I wondered if I could sweep her legs out from under her the way I had seen Hattori-san do. As much as I wanted to try, this wasn’t the time for a first-ever attempt. She might fall on me if I did it wrong and I wouldn’t be able to get up.
“Even so,” Mrs. Kaufman said, “she was a failure, an absolute failure.” She paused and narrowed her eyes at Pamela who was beginning to stir. “As for that one,” Mrs. Kaufman sneered, “she’s not so awesome now, is she? The little princess.”
“Mrs. Kaufman, please. I don’t know what you’re talking about, but we need to get help. You’re a teacher. That means you have a code of ethics or rules you have to follow, right? ‘I swear to help all my students no matter how much I hate them.’ ”
“Code?” Mrs. Kaufman repeated. She threw her head back. Her shrieking laughter shut me up.
“I’ll make it as clear as possible,” Mrs. Kaufman said, “since you are so obviously obtuse. You befriended Abigail and that was a bad move.”
I pressed my lips together. I almost blurted out it was my mom’s idea, not mine, but that would be cowardly and irresponsible—even though it was sort of her fault. However, saying that the real reason I befriended Abigail, or tried to, was to get on my mom’s good side so she would let me get my driver’s license, was not the best thing to do considering how much Mrs. Kaufman already hated us.
“You see,” Mrs. Kaufman said, “Abigail knew all along you did not want anything to do with her, and that all of your friends knew it, too. It is not nice to be laughed at behind your back.”
She stared at me, as if waiting for something. I had the uncomfortable feeling she was now talking about herself and not Abigail.
“So, having no social graces,” Mrs. Kaufman said, “no idea of subtlety—and by that, I mean how much harm she could do short of killing you—she decided on the ultimate revenge: death; to soothe her wounded pride.”
“She tried to kill Pamela. I know that now.”
“No!” Mrs. Kaufman’s eyes widened. “That was incidental.” She stared at me again and waited.
“Abigail . . . tried to kill . . . me?”
“Yes. Very good.” Her voice scornful. “Meek and timid as she is, Abigail set out to kill you which was rather ambitious.” Mrs. Kaufman chuckled and wagged her head as if in disbelief at Abigail’s chutzpah.
“How did she do that?” I hated having to ask but at the same time I wanted to know what she meant. I also hoped that someone who lived around here—quiet and secluded as it was—had looked out a window and noticed the parking lot. It was the only place visible at night, what with all the landscaping and eucalyptus trees putting everything in shadow. The open ground with only one car—make that two cars; she must have driven—might arouse suspicion. I prayed that a nosy neighbor, an insomniac, anyone, had already called the police.
“How did she try to kill you?” Mrs. Kaufman smirked; the tip of her tongue touching the edge of her upper lip, as though enjoying the thought of explaining it all.
“The same way she got to Pamela. She used poison. Every time you left your backpack unattended—and you rich kids really should take better care of your things—she would quietly add a little something to your lunch.”
“Not Abigail.”
“No? Think again. Did you ever see Abigail near your backpack or your books? She wouldn’t have been obvious about snooping, but can you think of any reason for her to be there? Did she seem the type to hang around where she was not wanted?”
Mrs. Kaufman waited for the full meaning of her words to sink in.
I was too shocked to answer.
“I didn’t think so,” Mrs. Kaufman said. “You leave your things wherever you want to—a lunch table, a bench, a brick wall. Careless, wouldn’t you say? But when you do it a few times and no one steals anything, it gives you a sense of security. False security.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Is that so? You have been seeing things, haven’t you?”
“No. No, I haven’t.”
“Really? That’s not what Mrs. Gravenhurst told me.”
My face flushed. “That was supposed to be confidential.”
“Was it now. You have a lot to learn, but not much time left to do it.”
“Wait. It’s true I don’t have a logical explanation for what’s happened, but I wasn’t the only one who was at the mansion.”
“Do you expect me to believe you?”
“You’re full of crap anyway. I don’t care what you believe.”
“I’ll help you understand. In a short while the police will arrest Abigail. They will confiscate her things and what do you think they’ll find? A hallucinogenic substance. It’s a long-lasting drug, although its properties are not known by many. It is illegal, of course; there is no FDA approval—nor will there ever be. The same substance will be in your corpse, when they find you.”
“Impossible. I haven’t taken anything.”
“Not yet but you will.”
It is difficult to protest, when you want to deny something, but reason says your enemy could be right. Still, I would debate the issue as long as possible, if it meant keeping her talking until help arrived. Where the help would come from was another matter. However, I was saved the trouble of arguing further.
My arms were grabbed and pinned to my side. I tried to twist free, but a wet rag was pressed over my mouth and nose. I gasped once and a chemical smell burned my lungs. I twisted my head, or tried to, and remembered nothing more.
I don’t know how long I was out, but when I awoke my lungs were burning, my hands were tied behind my back and my ankles were bound tightly together. I struggled—and felt something hard force my head down.
Someone was pressing their shoe on the side of my head; gravel and dirt dug into my face as they held it against the floor.
Chapter 32. Hazed
“Don’t move, Olivia, unless you want me to grind my heel into your face.”
Abigail.
I stopped moving. Every swear word I knew bubbled to the surface, but I gritted my teeth. My predicament was bad enough; name-calling would make it worse. Since I was lying on the car floor, with my body twisted awkwardly over the axel, I could no
t even sigh dejectedly.
“She means it to,” called Mrs. Kaufman from the front driver’s seat, “so you’d better behave yourself.” She said it in the same voice you tell a child not to touch a hot stove.
“It’s not all your fault,” Abigail said, in her half-connected-to-reality way of speaking. She seemed to have adopted Mrs. Kaufman’s tone, like I had just burnt a piece of toast, after she had warned me not to turn the heat up too high.
“I know your mom asked you to be nice to me,” Abigail said sighing. “Can you imagine how humiliating that was to know someone’s mom begged them to speak to you? You didn’t want to be seen with me.”
“But things changed,” I said, my voice muffled because my face was being pressed harder into the floor mat.
“No, they didn’t,” she said, “you only agreed because you wanted your driver’s license.”
“Abigail, listen.” I lifted my head. “You don’t understand.”
She pressed down forcing my head back to the floor; her foot squishing my cheeks against my lips.
“I don’t want to hear it,” Abigail said. She paused, then continued her train of thought. “And then when that nasty bitch Pamela was so mean,” she added, her voice bitter, “I swore I would get even with all of you. I went to the library to get away from your crowd and that’s when I finally met the real her.”
Abigail’s foot relaxed.
Was the memory of that first meeting enough to cause such pleasant memories that she would let me get up? I hoped so. I worked my jaw to get the soreness out.
One of Us: The City of Secrets Page 22
