Pure (Book 1, Pure Series)

by Mesick, Catherine

  "So there have been developments?" I said.

  "I am going to call Mr. Neverov and see if he wishes to speak with you about his daughter. And that is all I am going to tell you," Ms. Finch replied sternly. "As I said, do not touch a thing while I am gone."

  Ms. Finch left the room, closing the door behind her.

  I had a feeling that Mr. Neverov would refuse to speak to me. I looked around the room. There were no papers or other kinds of evidence in sight. I had only a few minutes at most if I wanted to look around.

  I knew I probably shouldn't, but I hurried to the desk and began opening drawers. The first two contained labeled files, which I rifled through quickly.

  There was nothing about Irina in any of the files.

  In the third drawer, I found a clear plastic bag filled with white cloth. I opened the bag and pulled it out. I realized I was holding the white scarf Irina had been wearing the last time I'd seen her. There were rust-colored stains on it. I had a terrible feeling I was looking at dried blood.

  I quickly pushed the scarf back in the bag and set it on the desk, and then I turned back to the drawer. A folder and two long, flat books sat in the bottom. The folder was labeled 'Irina,' and I pulled it out and flipped it open.

  Inside were notes written in a small, neat hand. At the top of each sheet was written the heading 'From discussion with the police.' I scanned each one as quickly as possible. The first one documented the break-in at the school from the preceding Saturday night and the theft of the records and yearbooks. The next sheet documented the disappearance of Mr. Del Gatto, the one after that, James, and the one after that, Irina herself. I read over Irina sheet hurriedly.

  A cleaning woman had heard a crash, the back door had been pulled off its hinges, and Irina had not been seen after that. The door to her bedroom had also been damaged and her scarf had been found on the back lawn.

  There were no further notes. I glanced at the two long books. They were yearbooks from our freshman and sophomore years.

  I frowned as I looked at the yearbooks. I had forgotten about the break-in at the school. Was the theft of the records and yearbooks related to the disappearance of the school's students and teachers?

  I heard Ms. Finch's heels clicking down the hall toward me, and I quickly pushed everything back into the drawer and shut it.

  I had just made it to the other side of the desk when Ms. Finch entered the room.

  Ms. Finch raked suspicious eyes over me, and then cast about the office, looking for signs of disorder. Apparently, she didn't find anything to comment on.

  "I was unable to reach Mr. Neverov," Ms. Finch stated flatly. "Since I cannot confirm that you are, in fact, a friend of Irina's, you are not entitled to receive any news about her. I will escort you out."

  Ms. Finch twitched her hand in an impatient gesture, and I hurried out of the office.

  Ms. Finch marched me through the house, her heels clacking sharply on the floor, making me feel as if I were a prisoner being taken to a new cell.

  I was vastly relieved when we reached the front door, and I was shunted out.

  I hurried back to the car.

  "How was it?" GM asked.

  "I didn't really get to speak to anybody," I replied, pulling my seatbelt on. "Irina's father is away on vacation."

  "On vacation?" GM looked surprised. "Where?"

  "I don't know," I said. "GM, you'd come back from a vacation if I went missing, wouldn't you?"

  GM waved the question off. "Don't be silly, Solnyshko. I wouldn't go anywhere without you."

  I couldn't help feeling a rush of affection for GM.

  "Where to next?" GM asked.

  "Mr. Del Gatto's neighbor, Mrs. Hannity," I replied, feeling a pang of guilt. I actually expected this one to be the most difficult – I wasn't really going to talk to Mrs. Hannity, though I would ask her a few questions. Instead, I was going to use the visit as a cover to search the Old Grove where Mr. Hightower's body was found. I knew GM would never take me over there.

  I felt terrible about what I was about to do – but I had to do it.

  "And where is Mr. Del Gatto's neighbor, Mrs. Hannity?" GM asked, starting up the car.

  "She lives in those townhouses not too far from the Old Grove," I said. I gave her the address.

  GM gave me a strange look as she put the car into gear. "You are certainly doing a lot of consoling, Solnyshko, if you are consoling a teacher's neighbor."

  I winced. GM was right to wonder what was going on.

  I smiled at her weakly. "It's as much for me as it is for them."

  "I understand," GM said. "These are troubled times. You must do what you can to affirm your belief in human goodness."

  I felt even worse.

  GM drove over to the townhouses quickly. I was able to pick out Mr. Del Gatto's place even before we stopped in front of it. I had seen his house last year on Mischief Night – the night before Halloween when pranksters were known to go out. That night I had gone to the movies with Branden and Charisse. Afterward, Branden had heard that a senior with a grudge against Mr. Del Gatto had covered the teacher's house with toilet paper, and he had dragged Charisse and me out to see it.

  We had walked through the darkness to find it, and find it we did, all wrapped in toilet paper that stood out pale and ghostly in the night. Branden had been overcome with laughter.

  Mr. Del Gatto's house had been attached to its neighbor, and I remembered that the neighbor's part of the house had received the toilet paper treatment also. I recalled seeing plastic sheep that grazed peacefully in the neighbor's little patch of garden in the front, seemingly blissfully unaware of the assault on their home.

  I could see the sheep now, looking just as peaceful as ever.

  We drew to a stop, and I slipped off my seatbelt. "I'll be as quick as I can."

  I hurried up to Mrs. Hannity's door and knocked, my heart pounding. I hoped Mrs. Hannity would be home, and I hoped I could pull off my plan.

  As I waited on the porch, I glanced over at Mr. Del Gatto's door. I was surprised to see the same faint black smoke I had seen at Mr. Neverov's house swirling in grotesque shapes around Mr. Del Gatto's half of the house.

  I turned and looked over Mrs. Hannity's place. Her half of the house was free of the smoke.

  I turned back to Mr. Del Gatto's and watched the smoke, twisting and turning in on itself, like a tortured soul. It was hypnotic. The spell was broken when the door in front of me opened, and Mrs. Hannity looked out.

  Mrs. Hannity was wearing an oven mitt on one hand, and she had a cloud of white hair and wide, good-natured eyes – I had seen her around town before. "Yes, dear, what can I do for you?"

  It suddenly occurred to me that the twisting smoke might not be normal – maybe it was something only I could see. "Hi, Mrs. Hannity. I’m Katie Wickliff. Before I tell you why I'm here, may I ask you a question?"

  Mrs. Hannity's wide eyes registered mild surprise. "Yes, you may."

  "What's all that smoke on Mr. Del Gatto's porch?"

  Mrs. Hannity stepped out and peered over at Mr. Del Gatto's half of the house. "I don't see any smoke, dear."

  I felt a chill steal over me. I had been afraid of that.

  "It must just be my eyes playing tricks on me," I said. "I'm one of Mr. Del Gatto's students. May I come in and ask you a few questions about him?"

  Mrs. Hannity glanced over her shoulder. "Certainly, dear, but just for a moment. I'm baking for my church bake sale, and I'm very busy."

  I stepped inside gratefully. I was relieved to be past the first hurdle.

  Mrs. Hannity led me back to a very warm kitchen that was full of the scent of sugar and baking dough.

  Mrs. Hannity picked up a spatula and began moving chocolate chip cookies from a baking sheet that rested on the stove onto a cooling rack.

  "Would you like a cookie, dear?"

  "No, thank you, Mrs. Hannity. May I ask you what happened the night Mr. Del Gatto disappeared?"

  "That was
Monday night." Mrs. Hannity frowned as she worked. "I was in the kitchen here. I've never heard such a terrible racket in all my life. There was banging and crashing, and then a loud wrenching – I think that was Mr. Del Gatto's back door coming off its hinges. Then there was the most horrible screaming. You may not think it of me, but I'm very brave. I ran right outside to see what was the matter. Nobody was in the back, though – no intruder, no Mr. Del Gatto, no one running. There wasn't even any further screaming. It was as quiet in the night as if nothing had happened. All I saw was the door lying on the ground. I called the police right away. They're the ones who told me poor Mr. Del Gatto had disappeared without leaving any clues – they didn't even find any fingerprints – well, none aside from Mr. Del Gatto's own."

  "And that's all you witnessed?" I asked.

  "I'm afraid so," Mrs. Hannity replied. "Now, I really must get back to my baking. It requires precision and care, you know."

  "Thanks for your time, Mrs. Hannity," I said, feeling my nerves rising again. "Do you mind if I go out the back here?"

  It was an ordinary request, but I feared Mrs. Hannity would refuse and insist I go out the front. If that happened, GM was definitely going to see me, and there was no way I would be able to sneak out to the Old Grove.

  "Certainly, dear," Mrs. Hannity said as she began spooning a fresh batch of cookies onto the baking sheet. "Have a good day."

  I hadn't realized I was holding my breath until I started breathing again.

  "Thanks, Mrs. Hannity," I said and hurried to the back door. I knew I wouldn't have much time to search the Old Grove for clues.

  I ran out the door and across Mrs. Hannity's back lawn toward the forest.

  As I ran, I couldn't help but notice that Mr. Del Gatto's half of the lawn was full of black smoke.

  Chapter 10.

  As I ran through the trees toward the Old Grove, I seemed to be following a trail of writhing black smoke. I knew I was headed the right way, so I tried not to let it distract me. But there was definitely something unnerving about the twisting of the smoke – the shapes it formed were not familiar, but they were sinister – almost threatening.

  I hurried past a white farmhouse in a small clearing, and I wondered if that was the house that Bryony's grandmother lived in with her ghost.

  The smoke trailed ahead of me all the way to the Old Grove. There, in the circle of trees, I found myself standing in the middle of a thick cloud of the smoke.

  It swirled around me and rose above me in a column. I was startled to hear a faint whispering in the dark vapor. It was unintelligible, yet it seemed to draw me in, making me feel like I was drowning. I shook my head to clear it – I was letting my imagination get the better of me. I told myself that there was no whispering.

  Suddenly I had the feeling that I was being watched again. I looked around, but could see no one.

  I pushed through the smoky haze to examine the grove. My shoe caught on something, and I looked down to see a line of yellow police tape lying on the ground. Icy fingers began to run down my spine. I figured I must be close to where Mr. Hightower's body had been found. It was important for me to search the site where he had lain – I figured I might find something the police had overlooked – after all, they hadn't been searching for anything supernatural.

  I bent down close to the ground and brushed my hand over the dirt and the cold leaves on the forest floor. I doubted that I would find the place where the body had actually lain – the police would hardly have drawn a chalk outline of it in the dirt – but if I were close, a clue of some kind might jump out at me.

  I stayed close to the ground, searching for anything unusual. The smoke was thicker here, and it clouded my vision. I tried to brush it out of the way, but it remained stubbornly in place. I squinted through it as well as I could.

  Not too far from the base of a tree, I found a large patch of charred earth that extended in a circle.

  As I examined the burned ground, I heard a rustling in the tree overhead. I looked up, but I couldn't see what was moving in the branches through the haze of the smoke. Then above me, there was a short, sharp scraping sound, as if someone were striking a match.

  I watched the tree nervously for several moments, fearing that fire would rain down on me, before realizing how silly I was being. Who would climb a tree and light a match?

  I turned back to the burnt area. I ran a finger over it, picking up a smudge of dark soot. I remembered that Simon's brother James and his friend had been accused of setting a fire that had actually been set by two strange men. I wondered if this was the spot where the fire had been.

  I stood up. Nothing was really jumping out at me, and the black smoke was making it difficult for me to really search the grove properly – it was a complication I hadn't anticipated, and time was growing short. I decided I'd better get back to GM – maybe I would get another chance to search the grove.

  As I turned to go with the black smoke swirling around me, something fluttered down from the tree above, brushing softly against my cheek. I watched as a scrap of paper settled down by my feet.

  I picked it up. The scrap of paper was actually a black-and-white photo, and it was charred around the edges. The black edges of the photo were still warm, and the burnt scent rising off of it tickled my nose.

  I peered at it, puzzled. It was a picture from my sophomore yearbook: Mr. Del Gatto, Irina, James, and I were standing against a wall at school, all with strained expressions on our faces. I remembered the day well.

  Irina and I had been having an argument in the hall. Mr. Del Gatto had heard the raised voices and had come over to break things up and berate both of us. James, who was in danger of being late, had gone running by. Mr. Del Gatto had corralled him, too. Running in the halls was, after all, against the rules.

  Mr. Del Gatto had been lecturing all of us, when a student photographer had happened by and had asked to snap our picture, not quite realizing what was going on.

  Mr. Del Gatto had been thrown off by the appearance of the photographer and had let us all go after that.

  I had been out sick the day the formal yearbook photos were taken, just as I had been my freshman year, oddly enough, so this candid photo was the only one of me in the whole yearbook. I had been mortified when this photo had popped up originally. And as I looked at the photo now, I realized that the picture showed the first three victims of the recent disappearances – and it showed them in the exact order that they had disappeared: first Mr. Del Gatto, then Irina, then James. The only one missing was Mr. Hightower, but as a substitute teacher, he was unlikely to appear in any yearbook photos.

  And in his place in the lineup was me. An unpleasant thought struck me: could I be next?

  I looked back up at the tree. I couldn't see anything in the branches above me through the swirling smoke. Was someone up there – perhaps someone trying to warn me? Or had the photo been trapped up there somehow and had just now fallen down?

  "Hello?" I called. "Is anyone up there?"

  But there was no answer, and the smoke continued to swirl silently. The shapes it formed were still disturbing to me, and as I watched the smoke writhing, I sensed something purposeful in it. There seemed to be a lifeforce in the smoke – something vital – causing it, controlling it.

  I backed away from the smoke into the surrounding trees. The smoke did not follow, as I had half-feared it might, and once I was clear of it, I could see that it was concentrated in the open space of the grove. I looked over the whole mass of the dark, writhing vapor. There was a line of the smoke trailing back the way I had originally come.

  There was another line running deeper into the woods.

  I had seen the smoke at Mr. Neverov's house and at Mr. Del Gatto's – was it possible the smoke trail had something to do with Gleb? It certainly wasn't anything normal. I wondered if I already had the clue I had been searching for – the smoke. I had a strange feeling that the police wouldn't have been able to see it – just as Mrs. Hannity hadn't bee
n able to see it.

  I knew I should be getting back to GM, but I wanted to find out what was going on with the smoke. I folded up the yearbook photo and put it in my coat pocket.

  Then I followed the smoke trail deeper into the trees.

  I hurried along as fast as I could, dodging branches. I had been to these woods many times, so I knew them well. Up ahead, I knew there was a cave. I had an uneasy feeling that that was where the smoke trail led.

  Following an impulse I didn't quite understand, I grabbed for my neck, searching for the iron charm William had given me. I realized that my neck was bare – I had forgotten to put the necklace on that morning.

  I felt a brief stab of panic that I quickly pushed aside. I told myself that I was being foolish – there was no reason for me to be concerned about not wearing a necklace.

  I hurried on. The trees thinned, and I could see a clearing ahead. The cave soon came into view. As I had feared, the trail of smoke wound down into the cave mouth.

  I hesitated for just a moment, and then plunged into it.

  The cave was dry – not dank as I had thought it would be – and there was light to see by at first. I followed the smoke deeper into the cave, and as I moved further from the mouth, the light grew dimmer.

  As the light dimmed, the smoke changed, turning white and luminescent.

  I continued to follow the writhing white smoke, even after all the natural light had gone, feeling along the cold stone walls with my hands. Twice I scraped my fingers across sharp rocks, and shortly after that I stumbled badly, falling on the unforgiving cave floor. My elbow hurt, and I could feel that I'd torn the knee of my jeans.

  I got up and kept going.

  Eventually, I spied a bright light up ahead, and a thick, whispering voice filtered up to me. But I couldn't understand what the voice was saying, and I crept closer. I could see that there was a chamber up ahead.

  Concealing myself behind an outcropping of rock, I peered into the chamber.

  A large man, heavily swathed in furs, was sitting on a flat rock with his back to me, and there was a lantern on the floor in front of him that cast a harsh glare up toward the ceiling. The smoke that I had followed wound into the chamber – white in the darkness, black where it touched the light. It whirled in a ghostly, windless tornado, concentrating particularly around the man in furs. Across from the man, I could see the shoulder of a second figure – it looked to be another man – though I couldn't be sure. The face of the far figure was blocked by the bulk of the man in furs, but I was pretty certain that the second figure was the one doing the whispering. Now that I could hear better, the whispered words had a harsh, malevolent sound. I felt a chill steal over me.