I sat on the cold tile so long that the chill spread from my butt to my hips, but I was too freaked to move. Serge was a crazy bastard. However, I’d never counted on him being so close to the line of murdering psychopath. I didn’t know if he was planning on revisiting our talk, maybe adding in some physical persuasion, and figured the best thing to do was wait until he left. Of course, short of going into the boys’ locker room I had no way to find out if he’d gone. The smart thing: wait.
Sixty minutes came and went. I wrapped my arms around my chest and gave him an extra half-hour, just in case he’d decided to blow dry his hair. I’m not a coward, but I’m not stupid either. A hundred and fifteen pounds of freaked-out girl is no match for two hundred and thirty pounds of lunatic. From the boys’ change room, I heard the sound of locker stalls being opened and closed.
Then I heard the footsteps.
I swallowed.
They were coming my way.
I tried not to hyperventilate and to think of three deadly things I could do to protect myself. Unfortunately, I didn’t think smacking Serge with the paddleboard would render him unconscious or powerless. Nor did I know how to make a proper fist. On the plus, my long hair was pulled back in a braid that reached my waist, and I’d seen a Kung-Fu movie where a girl had used her braid like a whip. I jumped to my feet and did a practice head-whip. Instead of helping me find a useful defensive move, it gave me a head rush and whiplash. I winced in pain and grabbed my neck.
A figure appeared.
Fear made my vision blur, but the height difference between this person and my tormentor assured me it wasn’t Serge.
“Maggie?”
The sudden rush of relief left me swooning. I grabbed hold of the wall to stabilize myself. “Oh, hi, Mr. Donalds.”
“What are you doing here?” He had a soft, high voice that suited his delicate bone structure and hairless, round face.
“I was watching the practice.”
He looked at his watch. The overhead lights cut through his thin, blond hair and shone off his pink scalp. “It’s been over for a few hours.”
“Oh. I guess I was watching the water. Very calming.” I pushed my shoulders back, thinking that would work out the kink in my neck. Pain shot down my back and made me grimace.
He frowned and set the mop and bucket on the floor. “Are you okay?”
I nodded and reinjured myself.
His frown deepened. “Are you sure?” He came over. “Can I help?”
The only way he could help me with Serge was if he threw himself in front of the bully and offered himself as fodder while I ran.
“Did you hurt yourself?”
“I twisted my neck.”
He blinked. His gaze ran from one end of the pool to the other, searching the barren walls and randomly scattered paddleboards, probably trying to figure out how I could have injured myself in an empty room. “Why are you here so late?”
“Oh.” I glanced—gingerly—down at my watch. It was nine o’clock. “I guess I lost track of time. Um, is the school empty?”
He nodded. “Yeah, everyone cleared out.”
That should have made me feel safe, but it didn’t. Visions of Serge lying in wait by my car gave me the heebie-jeebies.
From behind his bifocals, he peered at me. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, I’m good. It’s—”
“Serge.”
“How did you—?”
“I saw the video.”
Man, even people I barely knew were aware of Serge’s grudge.
He gave me a small smile and patted my shoulder. “Why don’t I walk you out?”
We walked to my car and after I’d climbed in and locked the doors, he went back inside.
I started the ignition and let the vehicle warm up. The night was cold and frosty—a typical fall evening where my breath came in thick clouds and steamed the windshield. I checked my watch. Nine-fifteen. I didn’t have to be home for another hour and a half.
Nancy was probably over, and since it was Friday I knew freshly made bread was waiting. But I didn’t want to head home. Dad could read me too well, and I didn’t want to relive the subtle rejection from Craig or the not-so-subtle threat from Serge. I had three-quarters of a tank and nowhere to be.
After a stop to grab a burger and shake at The Tin Shack—Dead Falls’s answer to fast food—I drove to Widow’s Peak. Then I remembered it was Friday and every couple went to that hill to make out. Seeing rocking cars was going to take the taste out of my chocolate shake. The road was too narrow to do a U-turn, so I had to crest the hill before I could turn around. I didn’t pay attention to the cars until I saw a too-familiar hatchback. Craig’s car. And it was rocking hard enough to need new shocks.
“Babysitting. Yeah, right,” I muttered as I drove by and repressed the urge to rear-end his car. I swung my vehicle around and left Craig to the rear-ending business. At the bottom of the hill, I idled by the stop sign and watched frost and fog creep along the road while I wondered why I’d believed Craig could ever see me as girlfriend material.
I debated turning on the radio. Dead Falls is too small to have a proper radio station and too far away from any of the bigger towns to borrow theirs. Instead, we have Harriet the Heat—a sixty-year-old camp cook who broadcasts music from her iPod and waxes philosophical about hot flashes, bioidentical hormones, and a thousand uses for cream of mushroom soup.
Nancy said listening to Harriet had helped her to lose fifteen pounds. “Believe me,” she’d said, “after listening to that woman talk about vaginal creams—their textures, prices, and applications—the last thing I wanted to do was eat.”
I eyed the dial as though it were a snake waiting to bite. The radio could be mindless company. It could also be my psychic undoing.
As if it heard my thoughts, the radio clicked on.
My mouth went dry, my skin tightened, and my heart felt as though paddles had been applied.
On the other side of the radio wasn’t Harriet with her smoked-unfiltered-cigarettes-since-the-womb gravel voice. Instead, it was the static—the weird, whispering kind that made my intestines twist and tighten.
“Maggie.”
The voice crawled along every vertebra on my spine and left it tingling.
My clumsy fingers flipped the switch.
It didn’t work.
Of course not. It never worked. When The Voice came through, there was nothing to stop it.
“Maggie.”
A normal person would have run. A normal person would have launched themselves from the seat and raced for help.
I wasn’t a normal person, and The Voice did more than freak me out. It had weight, this whispery, silvery murmur, and it held me shackled and imprisoned. I had no more ability to free myself from the driver’s seat than I’d had of escaping Serge at the pool.
The Voice went silent. It filled the space.
I flicked on the signal light. Home was on the right. I went straight on Miller’s Avenue.
I did a U-turn.
The voice disapproved and punished me by pressing its damp weight on my chest. “Maggie. He’s coming.”
I grunted but pushed on. If I could make it home…if only I could make it home. I passed the turnoff for Widow’s Peak, and pressed the accelerator to the floor.
“He’s coming for you. Maggie. Ohhh, Maggie.”
The shakes started next. They rocked me from side to side, made my abdominals clench and my teeth chatter. My fingers lost heat, turned ice-cold.
Still, I drove. The pressure increased until it felt as though a giant was standing on my chest. My hands went numb. To control the steering wheel, I had to use my forearms. The nausea hit. Whatever it was that controlled this side of me did not want me going home.
I pulled to the side of the road and wiped the sweat off my face. Fumbling in the dark, I found my cell and called Dad. “Hey,” I wheezed, letting my voice shake because there was no point in lying. “My chest hurts.”
There was a sharp pause. Then, “How does it hurt?”
In the background, I heard Nancy say, “Who’s hurt?”
“Giant on my chest hurt.”
The silence grew pointed ridges. “Where are you?”
“It’s not where I am—it’s where I should be.”
“Is that Maggie?” Nancy asked, her voice tense. “Is she hurt? Did someone hurt her?”
“No,” Dad’s voice moved away from the phone. “She’s fine.”
“Then why are you asking her if she’s hurt?”
I smiled despite the stomach pain that cut me in half. Trademark Nancy. A cop, interrogator, and nurturer, combined.
Dad ignored her and said, “Tell me where you are, I’ll come get you.”
Muffled rasping filled my ears. Nancy’s voice came over the line. “Maggie. What’s going on?”
She didn’t know about me—not this. “I think my milkshake was old, or maybe I’m coming down with something.”
“I knew it!” She turned from the phone.
I couldn’t hear what she said, but I got the general tone, and sent up a prayer for Dad.
“Where are you? I’m coming.”
“Um—”
“Maggie.” Concern mixed with cop Don’t-Screw-With-Me attitude.
Now what? If it had been Dad, I’d have told him I was heading to the old lumber mill and he would have known. What was I supposed to tell Nancy? And if she came with Dad to the mill, how would I explain any weird discovery made?
“Maggie! Answer me!”
Roll in pain and vomit, or face the unknown? I hate the taste of a milkshake coming up instead of going down. “I’m by the lumber mill.”
“We’ll be there, soon.”
“Okay.” I ended the call.
As soon as I turned the car around, the pressure eased. My car rumbled to the mill, and with every passing kilometer the pain in my abdomen lifted. Heat and warmth returned to my fingers, my muscles turned from hard cement to pliable tissue, and my lungs found space to breathe again.
I turned left off the road. The barren trees creaked in the wind, leafless skeletons of the branches butted and rubbed together, and clattered like bones. There was only a pickup in the lot, though even if it had been packed full, I still would have known this was the vehicle I was destined to find. It glowed, an angry orange-red only I could see, and spewed raw-edged flames skyward.
The psychic fire burned so bright and hot that I didn’t realize who the vehicle belonged to until I was right beside it.
Then the sick, nauseous feeling returned.
Serge.
I pulled my car next to his. My tires crunched on the gravel. I put my head on the steering wheel and hoped if I clicked my heels this would all turn out to be a dream. There was only one thing I could do.
I shut the engine off, pocketed the keys, and got out of the car. “Serge? Can you hear me?”
Of course not. Purple fog rolled from the jambs of the door. “Serge?” Yeah, because calling his name slower and louder would really help. The tips of my ears went cold and frosted air broke the barrier of my jeans. I crossed to the driver’s side. A darkened shaped slumped in the seat.
I pulled the sleeves of my jacket over my fingers and tried the door. It opened and the interior light came on. Serge’s half-naked body fell out the door. The purple vapour swirled into the air. I put my jacket to my mouth, tried to breathe through the stink of vomit and human fluids seeping down his jeans. Gingerly, I reached out and felt for a pulse.
I may have been wrong before, but this time there was no mistake.
Serge was dead.