Crescendo h-2

by Becca Fitzpatrick

  “Is the point of this call to make me jealous?”

  I put my ear to the door. It sounded like Scott was opening and closing cabinets in the kitchen. For all I knew, he was hunting for prescription drugs or beer. He was going to be disappointed on both counts, unless he had unrealistic hopes of getting high on my iron pills. “I’m not trying to make you jealous. I don’t want to go alone.”

  “So tell him you can’t go.”

  “The thing is … I kind of want to go.” I had no idea where this sudden desire had come from. All I knew was that I didn’t want to spend the night alone. I’d put in a full day of homework, followed by spinning, and the last thing I wanted was to stay home tonight and check off my list of weekend chores. I’d been good all day. Make that good my whole life. I deserved to have some fun. Scott wasn’t the best date in the world, but he wasn’t dead last, either. “Are you coming or not?”

  “I have to admit, it sounds a lot better than conjugating Spanish verbs in my room all night. I’ll call Rixon and see if he wants to come too.”

  I hung up and did a quick inventory of my closet. I decided on a pale silk cami, a miniskirt, opaque tights, and ballet flats. I sprayed perfume in the air and walked through it for a light, grapefruity scent. In the back of my mind, I wondered why I was spending the time to clean up for Scott. He was going nowhere in life, we had nothing in common, and most of our brief conversations including flipping insults at each other. Not only that, but Patch had told me to stay away from him. And that’s when it hit me. Chances were, I was drawn to Scott because of some deep-rooted psychological reason involving defiance and revenge. And it all pointed back to Patch.

  As I saw it, I could do one of two things: sit home and let Patch dictate my life, or ditch my Sunday-school-good-girl self and have a little fun. And even though I wasn’t ready to admit it, I hoped Patch found out I’d gone to battle of the bands with Scott. I hoped the thought of me with another guy drove him crazy.

  Mind made up, I flipped my head over, dried my hair just enough to give my curls definition, and breezed into the kitchen.

  “Ready,” I told Scott.

  He gave me the second full-body scan of the night, but this time I felt a lot more self-conscious. “Looks good, Grey,” he said.

  “Right back at you.” I smiled, going for chummy, but I felt nervous. Which was ridiculous, since this was Scott we were talking about. We were friends. Not even friends. Acquaintances.

  “Cover charge is ten bucks.”

  I stood there a moment. “Oh. Right. I knew that. Can we stop by an ATM on the way?” I had fifty dollars’ worth of birthday money sitting in my checking account. I’d already allocated the money to go toward the Cabriolet, but it wasn’t like withdrawing ten was going to kill the deal. At the rate I was saving, I wouldn’t be able to buy the Cabriolet before my twenty-fifth birthday anyway.

  Scott tossed a Maine driver’s license on the counter, with my yearbook photo copied onto it. “Ready, Marlene?”

  Marlene?

  “I wasn’t joking about the fake ID. Not thinking of backing out, are you?” He grinned like he knew exactly how many points my blood pressure had shot up at the thought of using illegal ID, and he’d bet all his money that I’d back out in five seconds. Four, three, two …

  I swiped the ID off the counter. “Ready.”

  Scott drove the Mustang through the center of Coldwater to the opposite side of town, down a few winding back roads and across the railroad tracks. He pulled up in front of a four-story brick warehouse overrun with weeds that twined up the exterior. A long line of people waited outside the doors. From what I could tell, the windows had been covered from the inside with black paper, but through the cracks between tape jobs, I saw the slice of a strobe light. A neon blue sign above the door glowed with the words THE DEVIL’S HANDBAG.

  I’d been to this section of town once before, in the fourth grade, when my parents drove me and Vee to a haunted house staged for Halloween. I’d never been to the Devil’s Handbag, but I was certain just by looking at it that my mom would have rather I kept it that way. Scott’s description of the place bounced up from my memory. Loud, unrehearsed music. Loud, unruly crowds. Lots of scandalous sex in the bathrooms.

  Oh boy.

  “I’ll let you out here,” Scott said, steering to the curb. “Find us good seats. Close to the stage, in the center.”

  I climbed out and walked to the back of the line. In all honesty, I’d never been to a club that required a cover charge before. I’d never been to a club, period. My nightlife consisted of movies and Baskin-Robbins with Vee.

  My cell sang out Vee’s ringtone.

  “I hear warm-up music, but all I see are train tracks and some abandoned boxcars.”

  “You’re a couple blocks away. Are you in the Neon, or on foot?”

  “In the Neon.”

  “I’ll come find you.”

  I pulled out of the line, which was growing by the minute. At the end of the block, I rounded the corner, heading toward the tracks Scott had driven the Mustang across to get here. The sidewalk was cracked and uneven from years of disrepair, and with the streetlights placed few and far between, I had to watch my step to keep from snagging my toe and tripping. The warehouses down the block were dark, their windows vacant eyes. The warehouses gave way to abandoned brick townhouses splashed with graffiti. Over a hundred years ago, this had probably been the hub of Cold-water. Not so anymore. The moon cast an eerie, translucent light on the graveyard of buildings.

  I folded my arms close to my body and walked faster. Two blocks away, a form materialized out of the smoggy darkness.

  “Vee?” I called ahead.

  The figure continued toward me, head down, hands pocketed. Not Vee, but a man, tall and slender, with broad shoulders and a vaguely familiar gait. I didn’t feel especially comfortable passing by a man alone on this stretch of sidewalk and reached for my cell in my pocket. I was just about to call Vee and get her exact location, when the man passed under a cone of streetlight. He was wearing my dad’s leather bomber jacket.

  I stopped short.

  Completely unaware of me, he climbed a set of steps to his right and disappeared inside one of the abandoned townhouses.

  The hairs on my neck rose. “Dad?”

  I broke into an automatic jog. I crossed the street without bothering to look for traffic, knowing there was none. When I made it to the townhouse I was sure he’d entered, I tried the tall double doors. Locked. I shook the handles, rattling the doors, but they didn’t give. Cupping my hands around my eyes, I peered through one of the windows flanking the door. The lights were off, but I could make out lumps of furniture covered in pale sheets. My heart was beating all over the place. Was my dad alive? All this time—had he been living here?

  “Dad!” I called through the glass. “It’s me—Nora!”

  At the top of the staircase inside the townhouse, his shoes vanished down the hall. “Dad!” I yelled, pounding the glass. “I’m out here!”

  I backed away, head tilted up, looking at the second-story windows, watching for his shadow to pass by.

  The back entrance.

  The thought floated to the surface of my mind, and I immediately acted on it. I jogged down the steps, slipping into the narrow passageway cutting between this townhouse and the next. Of course. The back door. If it was unlocked, I could get inside to my dad—

  Ice kissed the back of my neck. The chill tiptoed down my spine, momentarily paralyzing me. I stood at the end of the passageway, eyes fastened on the backyard. Bushes swayed docilely in the breeze. The open gate creaked on its hinges. Very slowly I backed away, not about to trust the stillness. Not about to believe I wasn’t alone. I’d felt this way before, and it had always signaled danger.

  Nora, we’re not alone. Someone else is here. Go back!

  “Dad?” I whispered, my mind darting.

  Go find Vee. You need to leave! I’ll find you again. Hurry!

  I didn’t care
what he said—I wasn’t leaving. Not until I knew what was going on. Not until I saw him. How could he expect me to leave? He was here. A flutter of relief and nervous excitement bubbled up inside me, eclipsing any fear I felt.

  “Dad? Where are you?”

  Nothing.

  “Dad?” I tried again. “I’m not leaving.”

  This time there was an answer.

  The back door is unlocked.

  I touched my head, feeling his words echo there. Something was different about his voice this time, but not noticeably enough to place a finger on it. Slightly colder, maybe? Sharper? “Dad?” I whispered at the faintest volume.

  I’m inside.

  His voice was louder now, a real sound. Not just in my head this time, but in my ears, too. I turned toward the house, certain he’d spoken through the window. Stepping off the flagstone path, I tentatively laid my palm on the windowpane. I desperately wanted it to be him, but at the same time, the goose bumps popping up all over my skin warned me it could be a trick. A trap.

  “Dad?” My voice wavered. “I’m scared.”

  On the other side of the glass, a hand mirrored mine, five fingertips aligning with my own. My dad’s gold wedding band was on the ring finger of his left hand. My blood pumped so hard I felt dizzy. It was him. My dad was inches away. Alive.

  Come inside. I won’t hurt you. Come, Nora.

  The urgency in his words frightened me. I clawed at the window, trying to locate the latch, desperately needing to throw my arms around him and stop him from leaving again. Tears streamed down my cheeks. I thought about running around to the back door, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave him, even for a few seconds. I couldn’t lose him again.

  I splayed my hand on the window, harder this time. “I’m right here, Dad!”

  This time, the glass frosted at my touch. Tiny fibers of ice branched across the glass with a brittle, crackling noise. I jerked away at the sudden cold that shot up my arm, but my skin was stuck to the glass. Frozen. Crying out, I tried to free myself using my other hand. My dad’s hand melted through the windowpane and closed around mine, holding me so I couldn’t run. He jerked me roughly forward, the bricks snagging my clothes, my arm impossibly vanishing into the window. My terrified reflection stared back, my mouth open in a startled scream. The only thought pounding through my head was that this couldn’t be my dad.

  “Help!” I yelled. “Vee! Can you hear me? Help!”

  Thrashing my body side to side, I tried to use my weight to break free. A piercing pain sliced into the forearm he held captive, and an image of a knife burst into my mind with such intensity that I thought my head had split in two. Fire licked my forearm— he was cutting me open.

  “Stop!” I shrieked. “You’re hurting me!”

  I felt his presence flex across my mind, his own sight eclipsing mine. There was blood everywhere. Black and slippery … and mine. Bile rose in my throat.

  “Patch!” I screamed into the night with nothing short of terror and absolute desperation.

  The hand dissolved from around mine, and I dropped backward to the ground. Instinctively I clutched my wounded arm against my shirt to stop the bleeding, but to my amazement, there was no blood. No cut.

  Gulping air, I stared up at the window. Perfectly intact, it reflected the tree behind me, which swung back and forth in the night air. I scurried to my feet and stumbled out to the sidewalk. I ran in the direction of the Devil’s Handbag, turning to glance over my shoulder every few steps. I expected to see my dad—or his doppelgänger—appear from one of the townhouses, holding a knife, but the sidewalk stayed empty.

  I faced forward to cross the street and saw the person a half blink before I slammed into her.

  “There you are,” Vee said, reaching out to steady me as I choked back a scream. “I think we missed each other. I made it to the Devil’s Handbag and backtracked to find you. Are you okay? You look ready to throw up.”

  I didn’t want to stand on the street corner any longer. Reflecting on what had just happened at the townhouse, I couldn’t help but be reminded of the time I’d hit Chauncey with the Neon. Moments later, the car had returned to normal, leaving no evidence of an accident. But this time it was personal. This time it was my dad. My eyes burned, and my jaw quivered as I spoke. “I—I thought I saw my dad again.”

  Vee folded her arms around me. “Babe.”

  “I know. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real,” I repeated, trying to reassure myself. I blinked several times in succession, tears staining my vision. But it had felt real. So very real …

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  What was there to talk about? I was being haunted. Someone was messing with my mind. Toying with me. A fallen angel? A Nephil? My dad’s ghost? Or was it my own mind betraying me? It wasn’t like this was the first time I’d imagined seeing my dad. I’d thought he was trying to communicate with me, but maybe this was a self-defense mechanism. Maybe my mind was making me see things I refused to accept were gone forever. It was filling the void, because that was easier than letting go.

  Whatever had happened back there, it wasn’t real. It wasn’t my dad. He would never hurt me. He loved me.

  “Let’s go back to the Devil’s Handbag,” I said, exhaling shakily. I wanted to distance myself from the townhouse as quickly as possible. Once more I told myself that whoever I’d seen back there, he wasn’t my dad.

  The echoing clash, clang, and whine of drums and guitars warming up for the show grew louder, and while my panic was slow to subside, I felt my heartbeat slowing down. There was something reassuring about the idea of losing myself inside the swarm of hundreds of bodies packed inside the warehouse. Despite what had happened, I didn’t want to go home, and I didn’t want to be alone; I wanted to slip into the center of the crowd. There was strength in numbers.

  Vee grabbed my wrist and brought me to a halt. “Is that who I think it is?”

  Half a block up, Marcie Millar was climbing into a car. Her body looked poured into a little black scrap of fabric that was short enough to show off her black lace thigh-highs and garter belt. Tall, over-the-knee black boots and a black fedora completed the outfit. But it wasn’t her outfit that had caught my attention. It was the car. A shiny black Jeep Commander. The engine caught, and the Jeep pulled around the corner and out of sight.

  CHAPTER 9

  “HOLY FREAK SHOW,” VEE WHISPERED. “DID I JUST SEE that? Did I really just see Marcie climb into Patch’s Jeep?” I opened my mouth to say something, but it felt like someone had stuffed nails down my throat.

  “Was it just me,” Vee said, “or could you see her red thong peeking out from under her dress?”

  “That wasn’t a dress,” I said, leaning back against a building for support.

  “I was trying to be optimistic, but you’re right. That wasn’t a dress. That was a tube top stretched down around her bony booty. The only thing keeping it from springing up around her waist is gravity.”

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” I said, the nails-in-the-throat sensation spreading to my stomach.

  Vee pushed down on my shoulders, forcing me to sit on a square of sidewalk. “Deep breaths.”

  “He’s going out with Marcie.” It was almost too horrific to believe.

  “Marcie puts out,” said Vee. “That’s the only reason. She’s a pig. A rat.”

  “He told me there was nothing going on between them.”

  “Patch is a lot of things, but honest isn’t one of them.”

  I blinked down the street where the Jeep had vanished. I felt the unexplainable urge to storm after them and do something I hoped I’d regret—like choke Marcie with her stupid red thong.

  “This is not your fault,” Vee said. “He’s the jerk who took advantage of you.”

  “I need to go home,” I said, my voice numb.

  Just then a police cruiser came to a stop near the club’s entrance. A tall, lean cop in black slacks and a dress shirt angled out. The street was heavily
shadowed, but I recognized him immediately. Detective Basso. I’d fallen under the jurisdiction of his job once before, and I had no desire for a repeat performance. Especially since I was fairly certain I wasn’t on his list of favorite people.

  Detective Basso shouldered his way to the front of the line, flashed his badge at the bouncer, and walked inside without slowing.

  “Whoa,” Vee said. “Was that a cop?”

  “Yes, and he’s too old, so don’t even think about it. I want to go home. Where did you park?”

  “He doesn’t look much over thirty. Since when is thirty too old?”

  “His name is Detective Basso. He questioned me after the incident with Jules at school.” I loved how I kept referring to it as the incident, instead of what it really was. Attempted murder.

  “Basso. I like that. Short and sexy, just like my name. Did he frisk you?”

  I gave her a sideways look, but she was still gazing at the door he’d gone through. “No. He questioned me.”

  “I wouldn’t mind being handcuffed by him. Just don’t tell Rixon.”

  “Let’s go. If the police are here, something bad is going to happen.”

  “Bad is my middle name,” she said, linking her arm through mine and drawing me toward the warehouse entrance.

  “Vee—”

  “There are probably two hundred people inside. It’s dark. He’s not going to pick you out of the crowd, if he even remembers you at all. Probably he’s forgotten you. Besides, he’s not going to arrest you—you’re not doing anything illegal. Well, aside from the whole fake ID business, but everybody does that. And if he really wanted to bust the whole place, he’d have brought backup. One cop isn’t going to take down this crowd.”

  “How do you know I have fake ID?”

  She gave me an “I’m not as dumb as I look” glance. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

  “How are you planning to get in?”

  “Same as you.”

  “You have fake ID?” I couldn’t believe it. “Since when?”

  Vee winked. “Rixon is good for more than just kissing. Come on, let’s go. Being the good friend you are, you wouldn’t even think about asking me to break out of my house and violate the terms of my grounding for nothing. Especially since I already called Rixon, and he’s on his way.”