It Begins

by Richie Tankersley Cusick

“I don’t know anything about it,” she said quickly. Too quickly? Because she could see the way he was looking at her now, that quizzical expression on his face, as though he knew she was lying, as though he knew and was waiting for her to confess …

  She backed away, trying to put distance between them. “Sorry. It’s not mine.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad.” Matt shrugged. “I found it on the floor near the altar. I just assumed it must be yours.”

  He gazed down at the necklace he was holding.

  A single strand of tiny green beads.

  “No,” Lucy said again breathlessly, “no, it’s not mine.”

  “Well, I guess I’ll just leave it, then. Just in case whoever lost it comes back.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  She hurried down the walkway, and she didn’t once look back.

  But if she had, she would have seen him still standing there … watching …

  Watching her … even as he slipped the necklace casually into his pocket.

  19

  Lucy couldn’t get into the car fast enough.

  She locked the doors and fumbled the key into the ignition, turning it, pumping the accelerator, but the engine only coughed uselessly.

  “Damn!”

  Leaning forward, she rested her head on the steering wheel and alternately struggled to catch her breath and not give in to tears.

  So Byron had been at the church. He must have been; otherwise, how would the necklace have ended up there? Yet she couldn’t imagine him leaving it behind. Even from her brief encounters with Byron, it was obvious the necklace was important to him, that it tied in somehow to that girl in the cemetery. And Lucy had definitely experienced something when she’d handled it yesterday—and Byron had definitely known.

  What if something’s happened to him?

  A million thoughts ran through her mind. Could he have left it as a message to her? A warning? Or could it even have been some sort of trap? But a trap for what?

  Like so many other things these last few days, it didn’t make any sense to her, didn’t fit into any concept of logic or reality.

  Lucy groaned and lifted her head. As she reached out again for the key, she suddenly saw a movement in the rearview mirror. With a shocked cry, she spun around just as Byron clamped a hand down on her shoulder.

  “Ssh … it’s just me,” he said tightly. “Look, I really need your help.”

  Furiously, Lucy flung his hand away, then fixed him with a glare.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing!” she shouted. “You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

  “Then lock your doors next time.” He frowned back at her. “Are you listening to me? The necklace is gone.”

  “What?”

  Byron’s jaw stiffened. “It was gone when I got home last night.”

  “After the Festival?”

  At Byron’s nod, Lucy gave him a puzzled look. “But I just saw it.”

  “What do you mean you just saw it?”

  “In there. Matt has it.”

  “Who?”

  “Matt … uh … Father Matt,” Lucy stammered.

  “Who’s that?”

  “The priest. The new priest at the church.”

  “What new priest?”

  Lucy bristled. “How should I know? Father Paul’s new assistant—he’s here helping out because Father Paul broke his leg.”

  “So that’s who was in there,” Byron muttered. “Well, did you get it from him?”

  “No, I didn’t get it from him. It’s not my necklace. Why would I get it from him?”

  Facing forward again, she redirected her glare to his reflection. She saw him rub a hand across his forehead; she saw the visible strain upon his face.

  “Are you sure it was the same necklace?” He sounded almost accusing. “That just doesn’t make sense.”

  “He said he found it on the floor.”

  “But that’s impossible, I didn’t even have it when I was in the church.”

  Lucy couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her voice. “And speaking of that—why exactly weren’t you in there? If you were supposed to be meeting me?”

  “Because I heard someone come in. Because I didn’t know who it was, and I wasn’t sure it was safe.”

  “Well, you were right. It wasn’t safe. But, hey, it wasn’t you being scared to death, so why were you even worried about it?”

  “What do you mean?” His glance was sharp. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know what happened!” Lucy could hear herself getting louder, could hear the edge of hysteria in her voice, but couldn’t seem to stop herself. “I don’t know why I even came here today! I don’t know why I’m even speaking to you! Get out of my car!”

  “Drive,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Just drive. I’ll tell you where.”

  “No, I’ll tell you where! Nowhere! I’m not moving one inch till you get out of this car.”

  “I’m not getting out until we talk.” She felt his hand on her shoulder again. His voice softened, tired. “Please. You have to listen to me. You’re the only one I can talk to.”

  Lucy lowered her head. She chewed anxiously on her thumbnail, then shot him another look in the mirror.

  “I can’t go. The car won’t start.”

  Byron stared at her a long moment. Then a faint smile played at the corners of his mouth.

  “You flooded the engine, that’s all. Try it again.”

  This time when she tried to start it, the car sprang to life. Grumbling under her breath, Lucy headed off down the street.

  “So what happened in the church?” Byron asked again. He’d scooted closer to her now, leaning in between the bucket seats, and Lucy could feel the faint pressure of his arm against hers.

  “If I tell you,” she answered wryly, “you won’t believe me.”

  “I doubt that. Turn here.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Someplace private.”

  Lucy cast him a sidelong glance. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. Why should I even trust you?”

  “Because you have to trust somebody. Because I’m guessing your life’s suddenly been turned upside down.”

  Lucy tried to keep her expression blank, tried to ignore her shiver of apprehension. “I’m not sure that’s an answer.”

  “Okay. Then for the same reason I have to trust you,” Byron replied flatly. “We’re the only ones who know about the cemetery. The only ones who know that something happened.”

  Lucy gave a terse nod. “So you’re telling me that what I saw wasn’t the fraternity prank I heard about. That what I saw was—”

  “Real. Yes.”

  “So that girl…”

  “Was murdered.”

  “But… by who?”

  “That’s why we have to get the necklace back. So you can tell us.”

  “So I can tell us? Tell us what?”

  “Who killed her.”

  “Oh, now, wait a minute—”

  “Hey, watch the road,” Byron warned, as the car veered sharply into the wrong lane. “I’ll tell you everything when we get to where we’re going. Even the stuff you won’t want to hear.”

  Lucy gripped harder on the steering wheel. “And how do I know you didn’t kill her?”

  She hadn’t known she was going to say it; the words burst out before she could stop them. She felt his steady gaze upon her, and her heartbeat quickened in her chest.

  “Just drive,” he said tersely.

  Yet with a start, Lucy realized how very sad he sounded.

  Following his directions, she drove several miles outside of town, then turned off onto an isolated road that followed the curve of the lake. After another half hour, they finally pulled up to a cabin nestled among tall green pines, with a breathtaking view of the water.

  “This is so beautiful,” Lucy murmured. “Is it yours?”

  “No. Somebody’s summer home.”

  “Somebody’s?”r />
  “It’s locked up now for the winter, but I have the key.”

  “And how did you manage that?”

  Byron turned and glanced out the back windshield. With a twinge of uneasiness, Lucy wondered if he was afraid they’d been followed.

  “Just park the car,” he told her. “Over there behind those trees.”

  It wasn’t until they were inside—door securely locked and bolted—that Byron seemed to relax a little. The cabin was very cold, and as Lucy stood rubbing her hands together, Byron went into the adjoining room, returned with a quilt, then motioned her into a rocking chair beside the fireplace.

  Lucy sat. “Will you please just tell me what’s going on?”

  “Do you promise to believe me?”

  “Probably not.”

  She thought a reluctant smile might have tugged at his mouth. He tossed her the quilt, then waited while she snuggled beneath it.

  This is insane, Lucy thought. This is completely insane. With everything else that’s happened to me, I can’t believe I’m sitting here in a cabin in the woods with some stranger who’s asking me to trust him. If he murders me right now in this rocking chair, then I guess I deserve it.

  As Byron leaned down over her, her breath caught in her throat. His stare held her for an endless moment and then he slowly straightened.

  “You still don’t trust me. I see it in your eyes.”

  Lucy didn’t miss a beat. “I don’t believe you can see anything in my eyes. When I first saw you in the cemetery, you knew my mother had died, that I was alone. But you go to school with Angela—anyone could have known that.”

  “You’re right. Anyone could’ve known, because Angela told everyone you were coming. Except…”

  “Except what?”

  Byron stepped closer. “Except I didn’t know what you looked like. I’d never seen any pictures of you … never heard any descriptions. And I didn’t know when you came to the cemetery that morning, that you were Angela’s cousin.”

  Again that tiny shiver of apprehension; again Lucy tried to ignore it. “So … what are you trying to prove? That you have some sort of supernatural power? That you can know things about people just by staring at them?”

  She wanted to laugh, to make light of it, but she suddenly realized that Byron had taken her hand, her right hand, that he was lifting it toward him and placing it over his heart.

  “What do you feel?” he murmured.

  And without warning, a whole range of emotions surged through her—warmth … gentleness … fear … pain … sorrow—all in a split-second rush that made her numb, that made her dizzy—anger… loss… love—

  With a cry, Lucy jerked her hand from his grasp and cradled it against her chest, staring at him with wide, shocked eyes.

  “You’ve been given a gift,” Byron said solemnly. “And your life will never be the same.”

  20

  “Do you think this is easy for me either? Having to say all these things to you—somebody I just met? And knowing how crazy it all sounds? And knowing—understanding, even—that the last thing in the world you want to do is believe me?”

  Byron stopped … shook his head. There was bitterness in his tone.

  “And why would you believe me? I mean, why would anyone believe any of this?”

  Lucy couldn’t do anything but stare. She watched as he crossed to the other side of the room, as he began pacing, slowly, back and forth between the fireplace and the door.

  “That night at the cemetery,” Byron’s voice was low. “Try to think, Lucy. Try to remember.”

  But still Lucy sat there, paralyzed.

  “Remember when I told you that something had been passed on?” Byron asked her.

  At last she managed a nod.

  “This gift you have … I think it was passed on to you from the girl who died. I suspected it … but I wasn’t really positive till you picked up the necklace in class yesterday.”

  As if from a distance, Lucy heard herself ask, “I don’t understand. Not about any gift … not about the necklace—”

  “It was her necklace. She never took it off. So I know the only possible reason she did was to leave a clue behind. To try and tell me who killed her. To tell you who killed her.”

  “No. No … wait a minute. This is too much, this is—”

  “True.” Byron paused and shot her a level glance. “It’s true, and no matter how much you want to forget about it, you can’t. You have a responsibility now. You have—”

  “A responsibility to who?” Lucy’s voice went shrill with anger. “I don’t have any responsibility to anybody—not to you—not to—”

  “She had powers,” Byron insisted. “She had powers nobody understood—and most people didn’t believe in. And she used them for good, and she used them to help others when she could. But at the same time, she suffered for them her whole life. And now—now she’s given them to you.”

  Lucy’s lips parted soundlessly. For a second, Byron seemed to recede into some black void, then reappear again at the side of her chair.

  “She could sense things,” he said urgently. “See things that had already happened—sometimes even things that hadn’t happened yet. By touching. Do you understand?”

  Lucy shook her head. She wished he would stop talking, would leave, would just go away, but he knelt on the floor in front of her, where she couldn’t ignore him.

  “It didn’t happen every single time—that’s not the way it worked. But when it did happen, it was very powerful. She could never anticipate when the visions might come—sometimes they came from a person, sometimes from an object, just some little thing you’d never even think about.”

  Again Lucy shook her head. “So these visions she’d have … what were they, exactly?”

  He stared at a spot beyond her, deep in thought, choosing his words carefully. “When she tried to describe it to me, she always said there weren’t complete pictures. More like … like quick images or feelings. Sometimes colors or smells or sounds. She said it was like all her five senses had been peeled open, and raw, and they just kept absorbing all these impulses, with nothing to protect them.”

  His focus shifted back to her. Lucy saw his face through a fine mist and realized that tears had filled her eyes.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered. “Yes … it is like that …”

  “You mean … like when you held the necklace?”

  Without answering, she began to rock … a slow, gentle rhythm of self-comfort.

  “Why’d you go there that night?” Byron asked quietly.

  Lucy shut her eyes … tried to will the pain away.

  “Please tell me, Lucy.”

  And so she did … recounting every moment from the time she’d left the house till Angela picked her up and took her back to Irene’s. She told him everything, still feeling as though this were all some strange, distorted nightmare … still wishing she’d wake up, safe and warm in her mother’s home. Still wondering why she was taking a chance with this mysterious young man she didn’t know … why she was here trusting him and believing him, and in some painful way, feeling so grateful for his company …

  And when she’d finally told her story, she realized that he’d taken her hand … spread her fingers wide apart … was gazing down at the tiny crescent scar upon her palm.

  “She had a scar just like this,” he said, not meeting Lucy’s eyes. “In the same spot … on the same hand.”

  “It hurt,” Lucy acknowledged numbly. “When she grabbed me … the pain I felt was unbearable—not like anything I’d ever felt before.”

  Nodding slightly, Byron placed her hand on the arm of the rocking chair. “I was supposed to meet her that night. She’d been away, and I hadn’t seen her in nearly a year. Then I got this message from her—just out of the blue. Something important, she said. She told me to come alone, she’d be waiting at the old church. I could tell from her note that she was really scared. Only … she never showed up.”

  �
�So … I just happened to be walking past there at the same time?”

  “I think the person following you that night was me.”

  Byron rocked back on his heels, his expression thoughtful. “I’d just gotten to the church when I saw you running away. And it was storming so bad, I couldn’t really see anything. For a minute I thought it might be her, so I went after you—but then you turned under the streetlight. And when I realized it wasn’t her, I went back.”

  “And that’s when I ran into the cemetery. Because I thought you were stalking me.”

  “I should have known it was something bad.” Byron’s eyes were as hard as his voice. “When she didn’t show up on time, I should have left right away—I should have looked for her then. But I just kept thinking maybe it was the storm, she was having trouble getting there, but that she’d be there, just five more minutes, she’d be there …”

  He paused. Drew a sharp breath.

  “I don’t think I wanted to believe it. Even when I got in my van and started driving around, looking for her. I didn’t want to believe something had happened to her. And that’s when I saw you again.”

  “Me?”

  “You were coming out of the cemetery, and you ran across the street to use the phone. And you looked terrified.”

  Lucy’s heart gave a sickening lurch. How easily those feelings of terror returned, just from talking, just from remembering. She watched as Byron stood up and walked to the window. He propped his hands upon the sill and leaned forward, his shoulders stiff with tension.

  “I knew,” he mumbled. “I mean, there you were, scared and muddy and soaking wet—and suddenly I just knew. I knew it had something to do with her.”

  For several long moments there was quiet between them. Only the patient creak of the rocking chair upon the wooden floor. The muted songs of birds outside the windows. Until at last Byron spoke again.

  “I tried to get over to you … to see if you needed help. But by the time I got the van turned around, you were gone. So I went back to the cemetery. And I looked for her.” Byron’s head lowered. “I never found her.”

  Lucy stopped rocking. She stared at his back with a puzzled frown. “But when I saw you the next morning—the things you said—how could you have known those things if you never found her? If you weren’t actually there?”