Flawed Plan

by Amabel Daniels

  “Okay, okay,” another male voice said from further down the hall. “This better be good.”

  Around the janitor, Davis, and the escaping chickens, Bill strolled into view.

  Bill!

  Yes, just the man I needed to see. Help!

  I must have perked up because Tim growled and approached me. I kept my attention on his hands, namely them not moving for his gun, and backed away.

  “I don’t have time to be called out on some silly childish pranks, all right?” Bill huffed this to Davis. “What’s the matter here? Chickens?” He rolled his eyes. “Funny. So round them up and take them outside.”

  “This is a mess, Bill,” Davis complained.

  As the two discussed the prank, which the principal blamed on me, Tim stalked closer and closer to me. “You think this is fun?”

  “Tim, it’s him.” Ashlyn clutched him by the elbow as he neared me. The adults were too far down the hall now and not even paying attention to us.

  “It’s not him!” Tim whisper-yelled. “He’s dead, Ash. And this is the last little trick you play on us, Harding.”

  I shot a glance to Bill and Davis and swallowed hard. My heart raced in my chest, maybe so loud the policeman finally tuned out the principal long enough to check where we were.

  “Hey, Renee?” Bill said, his brows slanting as he eyed me against the wall, Tim walking too close, caging me in. “Do you know anything about this? Vensel? Stand back from her.”

  “I’m done with this, Harding,” Tim whispered through clenched teeth. He was so close. Too close. Right in my personal space as though he could reach out and strangle me. “You say one word to the cop and I’ll—”

  “Shoot me?” I whispered back. Right in front of them? There would be no way to get out of that, no matter whose son he was. I still wasn’t taking that chance. In fact, I was taking that as my out.

  Maybe my eyes gave away my intent, but I darted to my right to run away. Tim grabbed hold of me, well, my backpack, and I let it go, sliding my arms out as I took off.

  Dammit. I was running away from Bill, my only help.

  Damn, damn, damn!

  Now what? My brain demanded direction as my legs operated on instinct. I ran. Fight or flight, well, I was flying the heck out of there. I vaguely registered footsteps coming after me on the checkered floor, but they didn’t follow me outside. Whoever it was pursuing me.

  I didn’t—couldn’t—stop running until I was clear off the school property, all the way down Main, and nearly outside the fine perimeter of Crimson Falls proper.

  White puffs of breaths hung in the air as I panted. Only then did I spin to see who’d followed me. I nearly sagged down to the cold ground on my knees when I saw I was alone.

  No one. No one had followed me. Not Tim chasing me with his gun pointed my way. Not Ashlyn wailing about paranormal figures coming to get us all. Not Meg whining about the inconvenience of being pranked back.

  Davis, hell, that old man couldn’t run two feet, much less the near mile I did.

  And Bill, he hadn’t cruised by in his police car yet.

  Biking was excellent cardio exercise. And it seemed I had the stamina for a good mile sprint, too. But I was not deluded enough to think I’d gotten away on my speed alone.

  I walked, refusing to stay still and be a sitting duck. I had no idea where to go, but I had to move, despite the ache in my feet from running in too-worn shoes and the chill of the wind from not having a coat on.

  They’d let me go? Tim wouldn’t. He’d hunt me down again and take care of business for good. I had no doubt. If Tim failed, then Davis would probably try to suspend me or some nonsense. I didn’t care, other than the fact he might be calling Mom. She’d know that I wouldn’t cause trouble, and normally was the target of trouble, but I didn’t like the idea of Mom being dragged into this at all. The further away she was from even the Vensel name, the better.

  Now, Bill…

  Maybe I should stop walking. Stand still and wait for the cops to get me. Then I could finally, finally, explain this all and give him my letter—

  “No!”

  I didn’t have my letter. Just as I had no coat warming my back, my bag was gone, with it, the letter inside it.

  My letter was gone. Last seen in my bag, which was in Tim’s hands.

  I stomped to a stop and hunched over, my hands covering my face.

  How could I have let it get into his hands? He’d see it and read it. Know exactly how I planned to screw him and his bully buddies over.

  Oh my God, I was beyond hope now. I just had to find Bill and stay with him. Pray to any superpower that would listen to make him believe me and keep me, everyone, safe from Tim.

  Should I call the school? Alert them that there was an armed weapon on the premises? I refused to shirk from any more responsibility. But…how would I call? Walk back into town and find a pay phone, and risk Tim spotting me? Even if I called in, it couldn’t be anonymous. While my hearing impairment was partial, the speech impediment made my voice too unique.

  No. I couldn’t alert them. Even if I did, good ol’ Tim would get out of trouble for bringing a firearm to school, anyway. I had no doubt about that.

  One foot after the other, I resumed walking, if for no other reason than to calm my adrenaline rush and to keep warm. I couldn’t even go home since my house key was in my backpack too.

  So lost in the fear and anxiety storming my thoughts, I let out a true, honest-to-God scream when something suddenly rustled from the woods along the highway and darted out across the street.

  Just a chicken.

  A chicken!

  I almost ran after it once it crossed the road in front of me.

  This wasn’t Florida or some warm place where chickens were common to be feral or loose. In the cold autumn season, chickens around here would be warm in a coop, like at Jackson’s family’s farm. Or…in three lockers at High.

  As little stock I placed in zombies and curses, I put even less in coincidences.

  A chicken? Here? Now?

  I shook my head. There had to be an explanation. The only local source for poultry was at Jackson’s family’s farm, which…

  Where exactly was I? I slowed my walk and spun, surveying my surroundings. I wasn’t on that ill-fated River Road, which was the direct route to Jackson’s house, but I was hoofing it on a parallel country road. Maybe three miles from Jackson’s?

  If a chicken had been transported from the Gault Farm, for the bizarre purpose of being stashed in a high school locker, it was feasible one could have gotten loose and ran off between the farm and school.

  Now I felt almost sorry for the bird that crossed the street, out of its element.

  There, I was nearer the ground of logic. My speculation could solve the enigma of a random chicken dashing across a country road in October. But who would have put those birds in the lockers? Who would have gone to the farm?

  It all tied into those chickens—well, to Jackson. All these misgivings that had made Tim target me had to do with egging Jackson. The three bullies knew I was aware of their hands in Jackson’s death. Among the four of us, it was a shared fact. Only…maybe someone else knew.

  And it was past time to figure out who.

  Sighing before I upped my speed, I altered my path. I’d jog through the mostly thin woods that stood between the highway I was on and River Road. Before long, I increased to running again, making my way as fast as I could to the Gault Farm.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Quiet countryside was the last thing I needed as my backdrop. Too silent. Too still. Since I couldn’t hear most bird calls, nature was like an oppressively quiet blanket around me. Even though the sky was light, it was gray and brooding, like more rain wanted to dump.

  It wasn’t the ideal mood for running to Jackson’s farm to snoop.

  Snooping. That was the extent of my plans so far. I wasn’t sure what I could find here. Not Jackson, I knew, with a twisted sinking of my stomach. I doubted I coul
d run into anyone else either. Mr. and Mrs. Gault were supposed to be returning tonight, where they could receive news that their son had drowned in the river.

  As I crouched in the fading shadows of the woods bordering the farm, I took stock of the animals. Roosters strutted in their pens. Hens pecked the ground, just a few, though, as most were likely in the coop. No humans as far as I could tell.

  Yet, I knew someone had to be there. The chickens were tended to. I could see fresh feed scattered on the packed dirt.

  Jackson’s uncle was supposed to be here somewhere, and he was the reason I chose to sneak, truly, crouching down and waiting for movements or sounds to alert me.

  Jackson never spoke much about his uncle, and I never saw the man whenever I’d come out to visit my friend here. When I’d come as a guest, I’d hang out with Jackson in the loft of one of the older barns, the place where he’d jam on his guitar. Or, we’d do homework or watch TV in the big farmhouse. I’d even sat in for a few dinners with Jackson and his friendly parents.

  But I’d never seen this uncle figure.

  Bill had said he’d found him passed-out drunk when he’d come by to tell the family the news of Jackson’s Vette in the river. That jibed with what my friend said of the man. Moody. Often drunk. Maybe some PTSD from the Gulf War. Or something about getting fired from his last job for being so wasted all the time…

  I tucked my lower lip between my teeth but didn’t bite down. Thinking. If I ran into Jackson’s uncle…I’d ask him for help, dammit. I had a psychotic teenager looking out for me with a gun. Another even crazier girl who believed his nephew was back from the dead to haunt her. And a third whiny classmate who seemed annoyed by this whole mess she and her friends had caused!

  I was done with dealing with this on my own. Sure, I was limited. No one seemed to like me in town, merely tolerating me. Plenty would dismiss my word. Jackson’s uncle would fall into neither of those categories. He didn’t know me, and if he was as aloof and crabby as he sounded to be, living out here on the farm and keeping only chickens and himself for company, he wouldn’t have heard all the hoopla and judgment about me to begin with.

  Satisfied I might be able to count on this uncle for help, I stood up straighter and headed toward the farm compound. Birds made minimal noise as I approached. Did they remember my smell? I’d helped Jackson tend to them some summer nights. I wasn’t a total stranger out here. But, heck, they weren’t dogs. I had no clue what kind of sense of smell chickens had.

  Past the primary coops and yards, I walked along more packed earth. This was an open area, more like a lane toward the multiple buildings. Still, I kept my eyes open for non-aviary movement and my ears peeled for sound. Even sounds I could hear.

  There was nothing. Just me in organic Chickenville. I’d expected Jackson’s uncle to perhaps spot me from the farmhouse, but that structure looked vacant. No lights shone through the windows, no smoke came from the chimney.

  Okay, there were three more buildings to search. For what, I didn’t know. As long as I was out here, and not near Tim, I had to be safer, though.

  The first barn was where they kept machinery, feed, equipment, and other sorts of tools for the trade of rearing chickens. Crates of empty egg boxes and cartons lay flat in stacks on plastic-wrapped pallets. A couple of trucks sat in the far corner, the logo for the farm emblazoned on the passenger door. Nothing here.

  The next barn was where I’d spent the most time with Jackson, watching him play rock ‘n’ roll up in the loft. Slowly, I trespassed this mostly empty facility and climbed the steps to his music “room.” Nothing seemed out of place, and the sameness of the space almost brought me to tears. Never again would he bring the Angus Young’s guitar riffs to life, Robert Plant’s lyrics to sound. All the sweatshirts draped on the chairs would be boxed up for donations. His instruments would be sold. Tears welled as I mourned the loss of his brilliance, his charm, his friendship. I stood there and tried to recall the warmth his smiles would always bring me, and I shuddered when all I had for consolation was the truth he’d never be there to groan at one of my lame jokes.

  No more Jackson. For anything.

  I ground my teeth and set off to search the third and final building. Action of any kind was better than sinking into the despair of loss again.

  This last barn had an actual closure to it. The other two were more open, the wide double pallet doors partly ajar. Here, I had to slide the slab of wood over enough to ensure I could squeeze in. Smells were the first to hit me. Not the stale scent of feed or the pungent ink odor from the printing on the egg cartons. Nor could I detect a lingering hint of Jackson’s aftershave which lingered in his music area. Something else was in here, and I groped the dark wooden walls near me for a light switch. Anything. I’d entered a nave of a sort, but I could see bare lightbulbs hanging down from the high ceilings further in. Walls—or maybe they were old stall partitions?—blocked my vision from the bulk of the cavernous barn.

  I stepped carefully, slower, not at all sure what I could find here. I’d located and passed by all the pertinent equipment and belongings expected of a chicken operation.

  Oh, no.

  What I smelled was coppery.

  Blood?

  My stomach twisted as I considered the very real possibility of what the Gaults kept in here. Something to explain the metallic scent I could nearly taste on my lips.

  Machinery, I was betting.

  Was I trespassing into a slaughterhouse?

  I winced as I moved further through the dark space, aiming for the lights near the middle.

  I reached the end of the wall stopping me from seeing the reason for this weathered farm structure, and I sucked in a breath to hold.

  Around the other side of the wooden stall wall, I saw the very last thing I’d ever expected. And suddenly, my gut instincts proved right.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Headlights. Fenders. Car doors. A stack of steering wheels. Tires propped along a rack.

  A warehouse of car parts and displays of tools stood in front of me.

  Sleek curves of shiny metal filled my eyes, but nothing captured my attention as much as the circular logo of its namesake.

  Blocky letters of Chevrolet and the cursive-y script of Corvette.

  I didn’t stumble upon a car or two. There was a stockpile of parts and cars in here. Ten standing on jacks, a couple half-built. The majority had their hoods up and their engines bared.

  All classic Vettes.

  “You lost?”

  I screamed. Maybe it was a deluge of all the screams I’d been bottling in since Wednesday. Or I was jumping on the Ashlyn train of believing in the afterlife. Because in front me stood Jackson.

  Once I let my lungs gasp in air after my reaction, I swallowed hard. I could feel my neck clench from the action as I still gripped my collar. I’d been so startled, I fisted my shirt. Like that would protect me.

  As I reclaimed oxygen to counter this new adrenaline rush of terror, I studied the guy raising a brow at me.

  No, not Jackson, but they could have passed for twins. Give or take some wrinkles. And shorter hair. Add a few more inches, too. Jackson hadn’t risen from the dead to scare me in this barn full of classic cars. Whoever this was, though, had to be related. They had the same striking light blue eyes.

  “Not…really,” I said. Probably too quietly of a tone after my gut-wrenching screech.

  He shrugged and continued rubbing something in his hands. I couldn’t tell what his grease-stained finger held, but he was wiping it smooth with the discolored rag in his other hand. “You’re that girl he used to bring around.”

  I’d already figured out he was Jackson’s uncle. Too many resemblances for them not to be kin. And he was aware of who I was, which stood to reason he’d spotted me here before.

  Used to.

  Did that mean he knew Jackson was dead? Used to bring me around, as in, he wouldn’t be bringing anything around anywhere anymore? Bill must have told the uncle about
Jackson’s death, though Mr. and Mrs. Gault weren’t home yet.

  “Yeah,” I said, needing to speak somehow.

  “Want to give me a hand?” he asked.

  Huh?

  My face must have shown my question because he strode off with a slight stumble, waving me to follow him toward a car.

  “Hold that tube up.” He issued the demand from where he leaned into one of the car’s engine space. “Don’t have my third hand available.”

  Was that a joke? “Oh.” I took the pointed-at piece and lifted it so he could fit some other part into its space below. “You restore Vettes?”

  He snorted. “Collecting them is a rich man’s hobby.”

  And by his slovenly appearance, that meant…okay, he fixed them up then. Affluence wasn’t wafting off him. Whiskey and sweat were, though.

  I’d never wondered how Jackson obtained his Vette nor how he’d gleaned the knowhow to make it run so smoothly. Maybe the one he’d loved so much was a hand-me-down from his uncle.

  “There.” He straightened, and I let go of whatever I’d needed to hold out of the way. “Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  “The boy would help me if he could, but I know that’s not gonna happen anytime soon.”

  I followed behind him as he walked-slash-tripped to a workbench. Tools, hardware, and not a few bottles littered the surface. He grabbed the long-necked container closest to him and pulled a deep drink.

  I swallowed. He knew. He wouldn’t have said that if he didn’t know Jackson was dead.

  “Hey.” He cocked his head and frowned at me. “Why aren’t you in school?”

  He just now thought of that? I paused before answering, feeling pity at the glazed-over disinterest in his bloodshot eyes.

  “Uh,” I mumbled and then cleared my throat. “Some kids were picking on me…and…”

  Not really true, but how could I explain this? How could I tell this man that I was being threatened for knowing how his nephew died? His attention was so sluggish and scattered, I didn’t feel the hope that he’d be much help. His actions spoke of a despondent type of mourning, like he’d accepted Jackson’s death and there was no point to touch on the topic.