“I’ve decided for sure it’s Stan Hurley doing this, David.” She needed to talk to someone. “I don’t know why, or even how he’s doing it. The police are looking for a costume. But I don’t have any proof. He acts like he’s angry at the whole world. He may have attacked you simply because you — you’re so good-looking.” She almost said “were.” He would be again, she hoped.
“People don’t just start attacking other people because they’re angry.”
“Yes, they do. You read about it all the time. Someone takes a gun into McDonald’s and shoots total strangers because a love affair broke up. Some man shot up the post office because he got fired.”
“Those people are already disturbed, psychotic.”
“Stan Hurley is disturbed, and weird besides.” Abby had made up her mind. Now she only had to prove it.
“I’ve got to run.” She leaned over and kissed David. “Get well, and try not to worry about losing your handsome dude status. I’ll come back soon.”
Not only was she clumsy physically, spilling that Coke all over David, but she left feeling everything she’d said to make him feel better was clumsy. But what could you say to someone whose face looked like barbed wire tracks? And David’s eyes hadn’t been damaged. He could see for himself how he looked.
Stan couldn’t possibly have hurt David because he was her boyfriend, could he? Out of jealousy? She had never given Stan Hurley any encouragement. If he liked her, she couldn’t do anything about it. When did liking someone turn into obsession?
A plan started to take shape in her mind. It was probably a dumb thing to do, but for some reason she felt partly responsible for Stan’s behavior. She’d hide and follow him tonight. She knew he’d be at the lab. He was there every night. He left after she did — and maybe he followed her. Maybe he’d followed her last night and when Quinton punched her out, it made Stan angry. He’d attacked Quinton.
Well, if Stan was following her, she’d turn the tables on him. At least she’d feel like she was doing something.
“Want to study together tonight, Abby?” Martin asked, stopping her later, after class.
“No, I — I have something else I have to do.” Her vagueness brought a question to Martin’s eyes. She hurried to answer it. “It’s important, Martin, but I can’t tell you about it. Don’t take this personally.”
He did, but he tried to be nice about it. “You went to see David, didn’t you?”
“Yes. He needs me right now, Martin. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. You’re a giving person, Abby. But don’t be a martyr. David wasn’t exactly thoughtful of you before this happened.”
Stress was getting to Abby. She took it out on Martin. “I think that’s my business, Martin. Don’t try to tell me what to do.”
“I wouldn’t think of it.” Martin said, biting off his words. Then he spun around abruptly and walked away from Abby. She’d never seen him so angry.
Abby watched him go. Why was everything that was happening today going against her? She liked Martin. And David had been breaking up with her for Sissy. Why did she feel so guilty over all this?
Control, Abby. You’re a control freak, remember? She heard her best friend’s voice from high school. She wished Carol were here right now. She could sure use a best friend to talk to.
Carol was brutally honest, like a best friend should be. Abby knew she liked being in control of her life. She liked order, too. She liked straight A’s, being on the honor roll, handing in all her work on time. Keeping her room clean. She liked working at the Quad Caf, wiping tables, filling salt shakers.
She sighed and sank onto a bench in the Commons. She wanted David to be the way he was again. Then she wouldn’t feel guilty breaking up with him, even though he was the one running after Sissy. She had wanted to protect Carrie from an abusive boyfriend last night. Who are you to think you can set the world in order, Abby, keep bad things from happening, fix them when they do?
Carol’s voice echoed inside her head again. Who are you to think you can catch this beast thing when the police can’t?
It could be dangerous.
But that was exactly what she was going to do.
Tonight.
Chapter 19
If Stan was nothing else, he was predictable. About nine o’clock, to be sure she didn’t miss him, Abby dressed in black and waited in the bushes beside Griswold Hall. As late as it was in the spring, it should have been warm, but it wasn’t. Rain had started to fall right after dinner. It had settled now to a cool mist and the dampness sank right through her warm-up suit, through her long-sleeved black T-shirt, and into her skin. In no time, she started shivering.
Right after ten, according to the luminous dial of her watch, Abby saw the familiar husky shape walk out of the front entrance. He wore a backpack, and in the dark he looked like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.
Stan glanced both ways, then started in the direction of Varsity Pond. Keeping to the shadows, Abby followed.
He carried a flashlight, so it wasn’t hard to keep up. He entered the woods and started looking around. It appeared he was searching for something.
Had he dropped something last night that would implicate him? He’d missed it today and figured it must be at the scene of his last crime?
Wind rustled the pines around the pond making them sigh and whisper. Abby glanced around, suddenly sure someone was in the woods besides her and Stan.
She saw no one.
But it was so dark, how could she tell?
She let herself be distracted for so long, she almost missed Stan leaving the pond and starting up the hill on the path west of the small grove of trees.
Hurrying to keep up yet stay hidden, she slipped on the wet grassy slope and thudded to her knees. She scrambled to her feet, limping a little until the pain went out of her left knee, and padded up the trail. At the top she slowed, stayed in the bushes, and peeked out. Stan was way ahead of her. But someone was on the path behind her.
She slipped farther into the underbrush and squatted down. Drops of water showered her, making her wetter than ever. Why hadn’t she worn a windbreaker or her poncho? Because your poncho is bright yellow, she remembered.
A couple passed her, arm in arm, sharing an umbrella, talking quietly. She waited a couple of seconds for them to get ahead, then stepped back onto the path.
Where was Stan? She practically ran so she wouldn’t lose him, pretending to be a jogger, passing the couple now that she knew if they saw her it wouldn’t matter.
In no time, she was breathing heavily, practically gasping for air. She wasn’t a jogger. She never wanted to be. But she gained the grounds of Abbey House just in time to see a shadow that had to be Stan slip around behind it.
Cutting across the lawn, she walked fast. She was gasping for air so loudly she felt she might as well yell, I’m here behind you. But Stan didn’t turn around.
She realized Stan was heading for the ruins of Peabody Gym. Why was he going there? The only connection she could make was that it was another place where the beast had been seen, where it had made its first appearance.
By the time she got to the burned hulk, she remembered the story. Cheerleaders dying in a wreck, people dying in the fire — the memory didn’t improve her mood.
Where was Stan? A light flashed at a corner of the ruin. There. She slipped through a patch of wet weeds and into the shadows. Peering carefully around the half wall, she could see enough to know Stan was searching here, too. She didn’t know what she had hoped to find out by following him, but she hadn’t expected him to be looking around in every place the monster had appeared.
What did that mean? Her best idea was still that Stan had lost something on one of his night adventures and needed it back, something that would say Stan Hurley was here. He’s the one turning into a fearful beast that attacks when he feels like it.
The sneeze came on without any warning. Even so, Abby tried to contain it, but the muffled blast of air sounded like
a rifle shot to her. She crouched and huddled close to the rough wall, which smelled of earth and scorched wood.
What would Stan say or do if he caught her following him? How did he turn into the beast? If he did so at will, or if anger made him change, would he hunt down whoever was following him and attack? If he needed the costume, did he have it with him? In that backpack he carried? Would he change into it to disguise himself and then find her?
She tried to make her body into an even smaller ball, hoping her dark clothing would keep her hidden. Expecting a light shining in her eyes in any moment, she hugged her legs tight to her chest and waited. He could hear her heart pounding, couldn’t he? It thudded until it reached her temples where it pulsed, making her feel lightheaded and faint. She couldn’t pass out. She forced herself to concentrate on keeping alert.
Think of a story. Think of a reason for being hidden here. If Stan found her, she could always say she had come out there to get a breath of fresh air. That she always walked at night when she needed to wake up and study for a few hours longer. It didn’t matter that now it was really raining. She loved walking in the rain.
Then why aren’t you walking? I — I stopped here to rest a minute. Oh, this was getting ridiculous. Uncurling, she stood up. Then she peeked back around the wall. She saw nothing. No light, no Stan Hurley, nothing but rain streaming down her face, hair stringing in her eyes.
So much for being a private detective.
Wetter than she’d ever been in her life — at least when wearing clothes and not a bathing suit — she sloshed across the field and towards the Quad. The people in the lobby looked at her as if she had three heads.
Carrie stared as she pushed open the door to their room and stood for a second dripping. “Abby, you’re wet.”
The understatement of the year. “Get me a towel, will you, Carrie?”
Abby buried her face in the fresh scent of the thick, soft, terry cloth. She felt so foolish. And miserable. She sneezed again. She and Carrie still hadn’t really talked about what had happened with Quint, but that was the last thing on Abby’s mind now.
“Let me help you get those clothes off, Abby.” Carrie tugged at the T-shirt sleeves that had become a second skin. She peeled Abby’s jeans off where they wanted to stick tight to her legs. “You’re going to be sick.”
It was a good prediction. For three days she stayed in bed with a terrible head cold. It was the only thing she caught while chasing after Stan Hurley.
Carrie brought her soup and juice. Gina and Jerry brought her aspirin and decongestant. There was a three-day lull in Abby’s life.
But late on Thursday afternoon, she awoke dreaming she was falling, falling, failing … failing chemistry!
She sat straight up in bed. Oh my gosh, her extra-credit report was due the next day, Friday. Without it she wouldn’t fail, but she definitely wouldn’t get a decent grade.
Struggling to her feet, weak from lying in bed for three days, she pulled on the only close-to-clean clothes she could find. The thick, woolly sweatshirt felt good.
After a few minutes she realized she didn’t feel too bad. She had caught up on her sleep, shut out the world for a short time. Was it all due to her being sick? No, she had needed to escape. She blew her nose, ignoring how raw and sore it felt, popped a couple more aspirin, and gathered her chem book and her lab notebook.
Carrie wasn’t in the room. She had mothered Abby for these three days, but wasn’t there now to say, “Don’t go out. You shouldn’t get out of bed yet.”
The rain was over. The evening was warm and smelled of lilacs and honeysuckle. Abby was pleased that she could smell them. And she didn’t feel bad at all. If she could get her report finished quickly, maybe she’d see if any place was open and get something besides soup to eat. She felt starved.
Closer to Varsity Pond, the safe feeling she’d had curled in her bed started to seep away. A crunch of gravel behind her caused her to swing around and see who was behind her. No one.
It was awfully dark, so she stayed on the lighted paths. But taking the shortcut to Griswold Hall was too tempting. It was only a few yards across the grass and around the grove of trees by the lake. People had made such a habit of taking this route, a dirt path was cut into the lawn.
On her left, in the woods, leaves rustled. She hurried even more, trying to see into the shadows. A limb cracked as if someone had stepped on it. How could she have forgotten about the beast?
She ran, expecting to feel hot breath at her back. She dashed into the lighted area ahead, looking back just to make sure.
Ooof! She collided with someone. Her book and notebook flew from her hands. Her purse bounced, popped open, spilled its guts on the walk.
“Hey, watch where you’re going.” A guy she didn’t know grasped both her arms, keeping her from falling.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I — I —”
He took a better look at her. “Well, maybe I don’t mind your running into me after all. Why haven’t I noticed you before?”
This was not the time or the place to flirt with anyone.
“I’m really sorry.” Abby started picking up things and placing them back in her purse. He helped. “Please, you don’t have to help me. I’m — I’m just clumsy.”
He stood looking down at her. “Nice running into you anyway.” He left her alone.
She reached the lab with no further incident and was relieved to find it empty. Placing her book and notebook on the counter beside her station, she paged through the notebook, the paper crackling in the stillness. Where was her special project page? Impatience made her page through the book furiously.
It took a few minutes for her to focus and calm down. Finally she found what she was looking for, bent the other pages around the spiral so only the list of chemicals she needed lay in front of her. She walked to her locker, spun the dial on the lock, got out her apron, and tied it on.
She got out a mortar bowl, stared at the list of chemicals again. Three days away made her feel strange here, as if this were a foreign land and she didn’t belong, didn’t speak the language. Gathering the chemicals, walking back and forth, lining them up before her, helped her slip into a routine.
Soon she lost all sense of time and the feeling of not belonging. She perched on her stool, measured and added each ingredient. Then, almost down to the last vial on her list, she froze, measuring spoon in midair.
She was no longer alone. Someone stood behind her.
A low voice said, “I thought you might be back tonight. Where have you been? I’ve missed you.”
Chapter 20
“What are you doing here?” Abby backed away.
“The same as you, working on extra-credit projects.” Stan laughed. “Why are you so surprised? Or disturbed by the idea that I’m here? You’ve been following me around, haven’t you? Well, here I am.” He held out both arms as if to hug her. His grin made her shudder. “For someone who wouldn’t go out with me, you’ve certainly paid me a lot of attention.”
She stepped back again. “That’s not true.” It was, but she wasn’t going to admit it. “You’ve been following me. Every time I look up, there you are.”
“You could say you’ve been the center of attention in several recent strange and disturbing circumstances. Anyone would be fascinated by your behavior.”
What could she answer to that? Stan was right. “If someone was attacking all your friends, you’d be concerned, too.”
“True. I guess I would. But as you may have observed, I don’t have a huge following of friends. I prefer it that way, however. I like being left alone. And I would appreciate your doing that in the future.” Stan moved towards his table.
The nerve. He was telling her to leave him alone. She wasn’t going to let him walk away. “What project are you working on?”
“I don’t think you’d understand it if I told you.”
Anger replaced fear inside of Abby. The hand still holding the quarter teaspoon of chemicals s
hook until she dumped it into the brew she was mixing.
It took her three tries to ignite a match and light her Bunsen burner. The small jet of gas roared to life. She placed the dish over the flame and stumbled over her stool as she hurried to get the last ingredient. At least she was close to the mixture she had spoiled once and had had trouble duplicating.
Keeping her eyes on her own experiment, she tried to forget that Stan was on the other side of the room. But since only the two stations were lit, it was hard to ignore the glow of his lamp. She couldn’t avoid seeing him hunched over his counter, his hair sticking up in all directions, his glasses slipping down his nose, a frown on his face as he concentrated. He had certainly forgotten her.
Twice she glanced up. He was totally immersed in his work.
Her nerves kept her pacing. She stopped at the water fountain and let the cold water splash her cheeks, her forehead, her lips. Then she drank deeply. Wiping her face with the bottom of her apron, she noticed the odor starting to fill the room.
God, what was Stan cooking up? The smell was awful. Rotten, musty. She hurried back to her own mixture, which had started to bubble. The smell — the rotten smell — it wasn’t from Stan’s side of the room. The fumes came from the mess she was heating.
Quickly she flicked off the burner. A tiny memory flirted with her mind. The smell, this was the way it had smelled the day she spilled it. At least she knew she had matched that mixture.
With a padded glove she slid the dish off the burner onto a hot pad. At the same time a strange sensation crept over her. She felt slightly dizzy from the fumes. She leaned on the stool, slid the glove off, gripped the counter with both hands.
She stared, unbelieving. Her hands were sprouting coarse hair all across the back. Up and down the tops of her fingers.
Her fingers swelled slightly, bent at the joints. Her fingernails were growing longer, curving into razor-sharp claws.
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