Instinct

by Mattie Dunman

  “Wait, check what out? You’re not going to spy on Phillip or something are you?” I ask worriedly, thinking she is just determined enough to try something so ill-advised.

  “No, I’m not going to spy on Phillip. I won’t even see him tonight, I promise.”

  My skin is buzzing like crazy at the blatant lie. “Bullshit.”

  She gives me a startled look and a flush creeps up her neck. “Ok, fine. I called him and told him I wanted to talk. I just want to see what I can find out.”

  I shake my head violently. “Nicole, that’s a terrible idea. You have nothing to go on.” Nicole waves the journal at me but I just brush it aside. “That doesn’t count. That’s hearsay. It’s an entry in a teenage girl’s diary. That’s less than nothing from a legal standpoint. What can you possibly use against him?”

  Tears brighten Nicole’s eyes and she pulls her lips in tight, as though sucking in all the words she really wants to say. A bevy of expressions flit across her face; fury, morphing into frustration and culminating in despair.

  “But what can I do? I can’t just let this go! He is responsible for her death, I know it.”

  The frantic gleam in her eyes makes me extremely nervous. It’s the kind of look you see in the eyes of a cornered animal, one who is out of options and ready to strike out at the next thing that comes near, even a helping hand.

  Leaning forward, I take her wrists in my hands, steadying the fine trembling fluttering over her arms. “I believe you, Nicole, I really do. But this is not the way. You have to stop taking all of this on yourself. It is not your fault. Miranda was troubled, there were other things going on in her life. You couldn’t have prevented what happened,” I say in a low, clear voice, pushing with all my willpower for her to accept what I’m telling her. Never before have I wished I could influence people in the way Cole insinuated, but now I hope he was right.

  Nicole just shakes her head. “You’re wrong, Derry. Miranda wouldn’t be …gone if I had been there for her. And it makes me sick seeing Phillip walking around, smiling, laughing, hitting on you, acting like she never existed. I hate him!” She is drawing in huge breaths, sucking in air like a drowning person and for a moment an intense feeling of dread slams into me, a bone-deep certainty that something dangerous and insidious is clawing its way up between us; an iron fist dragging us apart inexorably.

  “Nicole, I will do everything I can to help you find out what happened. Even though I never knew Miranda, I feel like I did because of you. And I want to see the truth about her death come out too. The truth is very, very important to me.” I sigh, wishing she understood just how important the veracity about Miranda’s death is becoming to me. “But this is not the way. Please, please promise me you won’t meet with Phillip. Let me help you,” I beg.

  Nicole’s face is wet with tears and I can feel the battle she is waging between her common sense and the need to assuage her guilt, but after a moment she nods. “You’re right,” she whispers, defeat clear in her tone. “I promise. I won’t see him.”

  My skin is quiet and I breathe a sigh of relief, feeling as though I’ve dodged a bullet. “Thank you,” I say, squeezing her wrists lightly before I let her go. I smile encouragingly and stand, abruptly realizing just how cold the stone bench has become. “Now can we go before a snowman forms on my head?”

  Nicole laughs and brushes off the snow that has accumulated on her own coat. “Yeah. Thanks, Derry. I don’t know what got into me.”

  “What are friends for?” I ask, bumping her with my shoulder. We walk back up the hill to the store in companionable silence, the swiftly falling snow washing away the heat of our tears.

  We part ways at the store, Nicole heading for her Mom’s waiting car up the street, me standing outside, fighting to gain control over the turmoil in my head.

  That glimpse of Miranda’s diary was like brushing up against a hot iron; it burned all the way through, and I had no doubt it would leave a scar. The thought of looking at those pages again leaves a sticky nausea in my gut, but part of me, the part always concerned with understanding the real story, commands me to take another look. I resist for a moment and then give in, knowing I won’t be able to think of anything else.

  “Nicole, hang on!” I call, running to catch up as she slides into the passenger seat. Her mom gives me a friendly wave as I reach them, her smile genuine.

  “I’m so relieved Nicole finally has a new friend,” she says pleasantly, her real greeting lost on me. I return her smile and mumble hello.

  “What’s up?” Nicole asks, her brows furrowing together.

  “You’ve already read that book we were talking about earlier, right?” I ask carefully, casting a pointed glance at her mother. Nicole catches on quickly and nods. “Can I take it for a bit? Maybe I can find something you missed.”

  Nicole takes the journal out of her bag, shielding it from her mother’s view. Her fingers stroke the buttery leather binding hesitantly, and I know that she is loath to give up this tangible memory of her best friend.

  “I’ll be careful with it, I swear,” I whisper solemnly. She glances up at me, a painful blend of fear and regret in her eyes.

  “Okay,” she yields, handing the journal over to me in a rough movement, as though she is afraid of changing her mind if she holds it a moment longer. I take the book from her and tuck it carefully in my own bag with a sense of foreboding. Nicole gives me a weary smile and finishes climbing into the car.

  “I’ll call you later,” she says, and then I am alone on the street, watching the car disappear up the street and over the hill. A sudden wind whips around me, the cold biting sharply beneath my skin, settling low in my stomach, a frozen fist of ice that weighs me down all the way home.

  Chapter 9

  By the time I crawl into bed a little before midnight, Nicole still hasn’t called. I check my phone a dozen times, some nagging feeling of disquiet tapping at my brain, but there are no messages. I call her twice and send several text messages, but nothing.

  Miranda’s journal lies unopened on my desk, the smooth leather cover gleaming dully in the moonlight that leaks through the blinds. It waits, disapproving, accusing, but even though I spent most of my evening staring at it, I hadn’t the courage to crack the cover. I promise myself that I’ll do it tomorrow, when I’ve rested, when I’ve recovered from what I’ve already learned.

  I sink into sleep in stages, my mind drifting over my conversation with Nicole earlier, and it morphs into an entirely different discussion the way real life dissolves in a dream, the subconscious dragging up all sorts of details and nuances initially missed. The desperate light in Nicole’s eyes takes on a feverish intensity in my dream, and her promise to me rings hollow. Her fingers are crossed in her lap, the tips lengthening until they form a stranglehold around my neck, choking off my protestations. A shrill keening comes from Nicole’s throat, so piercing I try to clap my hands over my ears, but it only grows louder, more insistent.

  I groan, coming slowly awake, realizing that the sound from my dream is coming from under my pillow. Rubbing my eyes groggily with one hand, I knock the pillow aside and look in surprise at my cell phone, wondering how on earth it got under there. Shaking my head, I glance at the clock, seeing it is a little past one. The caller ID announces Nicole. With a frown and increasing anxiety I pick up and hesitantly answer.

  “Hello? Nicole?”

  “I’m afraid I’m going to die!” Nicole’s voice is a harsh whisper. I am immediately on the alert, my eyes opening wide, pulse pounding wakefulness through my veins.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I was right, Derry. I was wrong about what he was doing, but God help me I was right,” she pants, her breath coming in short gasps. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, throwing the blanket off me, prepared for action, whatever it may be.

  “What are you talking about? Where are you calling from?” I demand, nearly frantic with worry.

  “I’m over by the rafting center, down fr
om the gas station across the Shenandoah Bridge. He tried to take the phone from me after I played Miranda’s message,” she explains, the sound of tears clear in the quaver of her voice.

  Dread settles like lead in my belly. “Nicole, what did you do? What’s going on?”

  “You were right, and I know I promised, but when I told Phillip I didn’t want to meet he said he had something to tell me. About Miranda. I couldn’t help it, Derry, I had to see him.”

  My veins feel like ice. “Why didn’t you call me? Damn it, Nicole, are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

  “He was pissed, and he tried to grab me, but I ran. You’ve got to come get me, Derry. He’s looking for me.”

  In a flash I am off my bed and shoving my feet in my shoes, not bothering to tie the laces or change my clothes. Every nerve ending is firing, propelling me out the door as though my body knows something I don’t. “I’m coming right now. Where do I find you?”

  “I’m going to move, I’m too visible here. Meet me at the river access, where the boats are loaded. I can hide down there.” She gasps shortly and her voice is filled with urgency. “I gotta go now, I can hear him. Come get me, Derry.” She draws a shaky breath. “I’m scared.”

  “I’m on my way,” I whisper as I creep down the stairs, hoping my movements don’t wake Mom.

  “Hurry,” Nicole whispers, and the line goes dead. I am frantic now, caution lost in the need to get to her as quickly as possible. I still don’t understand what has happened, what made her break her promise to me, but I am absolutely positive time is a factor right now.

  I swipe Mom’s keys from her coat hanging on the outside of the closet door and slip out the front, closing the door softly behind me. I have a license, but Mom hardly ever lets me drive or have the car on my own, and despite the gravity of the situation, a thrill passes through me, adrenaline shot with excitement at breaking this long-standing rule.

  It takes me an agonizing ten minutes to reach the place Nicole directed, a narrow dirt road just past the bridge over the Shenandoah where one of the locally run rafting centers hides in the trees. Squinting through the snow that blankets the uneven gravel, I keep going until I find a sloping track between the trees used to take small rafts and kayaks down to the water. The Torino shudders and slips over the wet mess of the ground, but I go as fast as I can, my certainty that every second counts mounting. I don’t realize I’m crying until my vision becomes so blurry I have to wipe my eyes.

  Finally, I reach the bottom of the track, hurling the car into park and looking around. Nothing happens. Nicole doesn’t come bounding out. Thinking she might be afraid I’m Phillip, I flash my lights three times, pause, and flash again. Even though we didn’t agree on any signal, I can’t imagine Phillip doing anything like it.

  Silence meets my efforts. The wind has died down and the world is bathed in white, strangely luminescent, the snow reflecting the faint moonlight peeking through the heavy cloud cover, dappling the surface of the sluggish water with a radiant shimmer. It is like being trapped inside a snow globe, but there is no sense of wonder or magic. Just a ponderous, unnatural quiet that fills me with misgiving.

  I hesitate another moment and then get out of the car, immediately hunching over as the chill hits me. In my rush, I hadn’t bothered to grab a coat or anything warm, so I am shivering in my thin pajamas, mentally cursing Nicole if she’s playing some kind of bizarre prank.

  But I know she’s not.

  “Nicole,” I whisper, wondering if I’m being stupid, worrying about being quiet. But even my soft murmur seems to fill the space as though I’d shouted, the sound reflecting off the snow and water, hanging in the air like slowly drifting snowflakes. I call for her a few more times, and then trudge through the thickening snowfall, drops of melting ice slithering inside my shoes, encasing my feet in a freezing film.

  I spend nearly five minutes searching for her before I realize something unsettling. Mine are the only footprints. No one else has been to this spot, not since the snow began earlier today.

  Nicole isn’t here.

  Unsure of what to do, I huddle in the car, clutching my phone in hand, waiting for it to light up and Nicole to tell me not to worry, she’s home safe and sound, it’s all been a terrible misunderstanding. We’ll laugh about her failed espionage tomorrow, and she’ll promise not to do anything so stupid again. Everything will go on as normal.

  Another five minutes pass and there is nothing, and I must now face the possibility she hasn’t made it to our rendezvous because Phillip caught up with her. Even knowing how certain Nicole is about his responsibility for Miranda’s death, it’s hard to believe he’d really hurt her. But she might be trapped in some heated argument with him, and things could get out of hand.

  Feeling as though any decision I make is going to be the wrong one, I start the car and begin backing it up the hill, planning to look for her back at the rafting center where she called.

  I make it halfway up when the slope becomes steeper and the car begins to protest, the wheels whining with effort against the slick ground. I gun it, hoping that the Torino’s long history of being an indestructible tank will work in my favor, but the wheels find no purchase and the car begins a listless slide down the hill, toward the water. Acknowledging defeat, I swing the car sideways so it won’t drift straight into the river, and it comes to a halt just before the bank. I slam it into park, pulling the emergency break and hang over the steering wheel, out of breath as though I have run a mile. Panic seizes me, and the cold is barely noticeable as I jump out of the car and begin the climb, feet skidding against the treacherous blend of snow and mud. It is like trying to ascend a stream of swiftly moving water, fighting the current the entire way.

  By the time I make it up to the rafting center, I am soaked with a disgusting blend of mud and sweat. Despite the frigid air, I am burning up, my adrenaline pumping overtime. All I can think of is finding Nicole. There’s no way she would have ditched me or skipped our meet.

  Something has happened. I know it.

  I waste precious minutes looking around for any sign of Nicole, but the snow has wiped everything clean and I know already, in my core, that she hasn’t been here in a while.

  Tucking my hands under my arms, bent over like an old woman against the chill, I drag myself up to the main road, planning to head for town. My teeth rattle inside my mouth and I suck the air in quick sips, my throat burning, face hot.

  There is no one on the road, and I pause for a moment to tie my shoelaces. The last thing I need is to fall and injure myself before I can find help, or Nicole. My fingers are so frozen that the joints won’t bend, and tying my shoes becomes a fierce battle of will. When they are finally no longer a danger to me, I begin to run, my cold limbs warming up, moving more loosely as I pick up the pace, fleeing back in the direction of town.

  I have no idea how much time passes. The road goes on forever, the snow is pounding down on me, each flake heavy as iron, sticking to my unprotected skin until I feel as though I am made of frost, trapped in an endless circle, doomed to run with my terror and the cold forever. It is a shock when I emerge onto the bridge, the streetlights glaringly bright after the odd twilight I’ve been caught in. I stop, clutching my sides, gasping for air, the change in scenery waking me from whatever trance I’ve been in. I raise my hands to my face and realize with despair that is nearly incapacitating I have left my phone in the car.

  I can’t call anyone for help. I missed that window.

  No cars are in sight, the landscape is silent, even the sound of the river moving beneath me muted, as though it is afraid of being noticed. Defying the lethargy creeping through me, the urge to curl up into the fetal position and wait for rescue, I force myself on, maneuvering through the concrete embankments that separate the road from the narrow pedestrian walk. Clinging to the safety rail along the side, my steps slipping on the icy sidewalk, I make it halfway across the bridge before I collapse, my lungs burning, the cold so intense, so deep that any
further movement is impossible. I crouch there on the sidewalk, one hand on the railing, knowing that if I let go, I might not get back up.

  The sound of the water fills me up. It is louder here out in the middle, suspended over the river. In my exhaustion, I feel as though I am balancing on a string, one false move enough to send me pitching over, down into the dark.

  Nicole’s terrified voice sounds in my head, her last command to ‘hurry.’ Gathering what little energy I have left around me as a barrier against the insidious cold, I lurch to my feet, hanging onto the railing like a lifeline. I stare down at the river, fighting for the strength to keep going, my eyes just drifting over the surface, too blurred with tears and fatigue to really take anything in. I start moving, pulling myself along with the rail, each step a monumental achievement. Even if I manage to find Nicole, I don’t know what I’ll be able to do for her in my condition.

  I am nearly across the bridge when I see it.

  Just below, caught on an outcropping of rock that slices into the path of the river, there is a dark smudge, strangely shaped. Why this has grabbed my attention among the dozens of other shadows I don’t know, but now that I see it, I cannot tear my eyes away. Straining my eyes, I try to focus, to understand why this smudge seems so important, but it is too far and too dark.

  A quick wind strikes me from behind and I shiver uncontrollably. The sky lightens for a moment, the clouds pushed aside by the sudden wind and a shaft of dim light settles over the smudge, transforming it into a familiar shape.

  “No,” I gasp, and all my exhaustion melts away. I limp as quickly as I can, hurrying over the bridge and taking a right, down an access road that leads to a parking lot, down toward the smudge. I stumble a thousand times, as though my legs know I’m staggering toward a nightmare.

  Car lights glimmer around the turn and I run towards them, waving frantically, no longer caring who finds me. The car slows as it approaches, one headlight flickering faintly, and then comes to a halt in front of me, the lights blinding, preventing me from seeing who is inside. While I flinch from the light, the car growls to life and swings around me, the driver a dark blur, and the car is gone, up the road and out of sight before my vision rights itself. I stand staring after it in disbelief, wondering who the hell would drive away after seeing a teenage girl in pajamas flailing around on a deserted road in the snow.