7 Souls (19 page)

“Ugh, that
bitch
…” All of Joon’s muscles contracted at once as she violently clutched her Dolce winter hat in her fists. “That
bitch
.”

“What?” Amy looked a little shocked by Joon’s reaction. “Who? What’s wrong?”

But Joon was already elbowing her way back through the crowd, laboring skate by skate, making her way to the stone and marble steps that led out of Rockefeller Center and down to Fifth Avenue. Now she understood. Now she knew why he’d left in such a rush. Because she knew Mary. She knew how she operated. All Mary had to do was drop the hint to him that she was leaving. That was all Mary had to do, and she knew it. She knew he would follow.

Joon only got as far as the top of the icy steps—just in time to see Mary standing alone in a swirl of snow and sleet on the corner of Fiftieth and Fifth. She had one arm crossed over her immaculate white parka for warmth, and the other barely raised in the air, half heartedly trying to hail a cab when she knew there wasn’t an available taxi for miles. She was still holding Patrick’s hot chocolate in her hand.

A gleaming black limo drove up through the heavy traffic, sloshing through the gray water, past a Salvation Army Santa cheerfully ringing his brass bell. It pulled up next to Mary, and Patrick emerged from the sunroof like the world’s most beautiful jack-in-the-box—like Mary’s knight in snowy armor. He said something to Mary, and she threw her head back and laughed in that particular singsong way that made all the boys her slaves. It was the laugh that made them feel like she’d already had sex with them at least twice, even if she’d never touched them.

At that moment Joon shut her eyes tightly, and she actually made a wish. A cold, hard wish, like a desperate little girl wishing on a star.

Mary, please don’t get into the limo. Please, just this once, don’t take a boy away from me. I’ll forgive you for all the others
,
if you’ll just leave me Trick. Just once, show me our friendship means something to you. Show me that you haven’t conveniently forgotten I exist again. Please. I’m begging you. Don’t get in…
.

But of course Mary got in. Of course she did. Giggling and innocent, and completely heartless.

Joon raised her skate off the ground and stomped the blade down into the icy stone with all her might. It sent a bolt of exquisite pain through her shin, a pain she almost welcomed, because it was physical, unlike the pain in her heart, which she knew wouldn’t fade, which would grow and spread and hang over every day to come.

(pain)

M
ARY’S TEETH WERE CHATTERING
as she clenched her jaw against the pain in her arms.
Joon’s right
, she thought miserably, still reeling from the overwhelming force of her memory—
Joon’s
memory—the entire sordid night that had come into her head all at once. The pain in her arms was nothing compared to
that
feeling: that dull, anticipatory ache of losing something, losing someone you care about, of seeing it all beforehand and not knowing how bad it will get but knowing it won’t stop at unbearable, it will go
right past
unbearable and just stay there, forever, morning to night, every day from now on.

Mary was crying, Joon’s exquisitely applied mascara running down her cheeks. Patrick had dumped her that morning—the memory (the
real
memory) was still vivid.

At least Patrick had done it fast and hard—it only took five minutes, from the trepidation she’d felt when she’d first seen him standing on the sidewalk waiting for her, to the final shock as he did the deed and walked away.

Fast and merciful
, she thought,
just like one of those movies where somebody prays for a quick death
.

Not at
all
like what Joon had gone through.

Gone through because of
me, Mary added miserably.

And he hadn’t even meant it!
The breakup pain had lasted—what? Maybe twelve hours? Twelve hours of indulging her pain like a little girl.
Twelve hours without Patrick and I couldn’t even function
. How could she have possibly endured what Joon had gone through that December night, and all the time since? Watching her and Patrick parade their relationship like models in a sexy jeans ad, taking every opportunity to rub Joon’s nose in it? Endlessly talking to Joon about Trick, and, at the end of every day, going back to the Peninsula and settling onto one of the plush hotel couches while Joon went home alone?

The savagery of Joon’s memory—the depth of the pain Mary had caused her best friend—was amazingly strong, like being kicked in the stomach and having to smile and ask for more.

And then she’d gotten him back—and forgotten all about it.

But it was even worse than that, Mary realized bitterly, swaying in the darkness on the fraying rope that burned her wrists like hot metal shackles. She’d actually
made jokes
about Joon and Patrick’s breakup, right to Joon’s face, as if Joon had nothing better to do than laugh at the merry whimsy of her life.
And it wasn’t the first time
, Mary realized miserably.
Going back through the years, how many boys did I—

She stopped thinking about it, because something was moving.

She could barely see it, straight ahead—but she was sure of it. The memory hadn’t taken any time, she realized; exactly like when she’d been Scott, the whole thing was
there
, just as with any vivid memory.

In the center of the black shape of the house, a pale rectangle of light appeared, widening slowly, revealing a silhouetted figure.

That’s me
.

Of course it was. As soon as Mary had realized where she was, and had identified the glow of the Mercedes’s headlights, she understood what was about to happen. Once again, she was looking at herself, earlier in the day, watching herself do exactly what she remembered doing.

Behind Mary, framed in the dim doorway, another shadowed figure appeared.

It’s Amy
. The silhouettes of the two girls were immediately, completely recognizable. Mary would have known Amy anywhere. It was clearly her.

Straining to listen, Mary could just make out their distant voices through the whipping wind and the rain.

“I can’t,” Amy was yelling—her voice drifted through the wind, barely reaching Mary where she hung from the fraying rope. “Oh, Jesus, don’t make me go out there—”

Go with her!
Mary pleaded mentally. She remembered what had happened to Amy … what had happened to both of them.

In the distance, barely visible in the farmhouse’s doorway, Real Mary said something inaudible, and Amy’s voice got more anguished. “Don’t … me here,” Amy’s thin, high voice carried over the wind. “Don’t leave me here alone.”

If I can hear them, they can hear me
, Mary realized, breathing painfully through her nose and trying to scream again. The bandage over her mouth made it impossible, but she squealed and moaned desperately, kicking her legs and wriggling to get their attention.

Real Mary was already moving, wading forward into the dark rain, moving closer to the hole she couldn’t see.
“I’m coming!”
she called out—Mary could hear her voice clearly, now.
“I’m coming, Joon!”

No, no, no
, Mary thought desperately, watching herself start wading into the tall weeds.
Stay there, idiot! You’re going to fall into the hole—you’re going to get trapped!

The rain kept falling, freezing her to the bone like an endless cold shower. Tipping her head back again, Mary stared upward, following the ropes as they climbed above her, impossibly high, converging like high-tension cables flanking a desert highway, vanishing into the blackness of the trees, far above.
Can’t climb
, she thought desperately.
No way up—no way down
. As she stared upward, trying again to scream—and hearing her own muffled moaning, recognizing Joon’s voice—the ropes twanged like guitar strings, vibrating like a rush-hour subway platform.

“I’m coming, Joon!”
Real Mary was bellowing, straight ahead, back at the farmhouse’s back door.
“I’m coming! I’ll be right there!”

Lightning flashed brilliantly then—a long, extended multiple flash like a fireworks display—and suddenly, Mary got a clear view of something she hadn’t seen before. Another big surprise.

Below the edge of the embankment—the steep, ragged cliff where the tall weeds ended and the ground dropped away. There was a flat shelf of rock, like a recessed butte set into the earth well below the cliff’s edge. The shelf was wide and relatively dry; it was sheltered from the rain, she realized, by the overhanging curved wall of earth, clogged with tree roots and rocks. The stone shelf wasn’t that far down—just about five feet below the tips of her dangling feet.

Someone was
down
there, Mary saw.

The lightning was like a Times Square movie-premiere klieg light. It was so bright that, for a half second, she had an unobstructed view of the figure that stood back against the edge of the embankment, completely out of sight of the farmhouse.

A boy in an oversized bright yellow Patagonia raincoat.

Scott Sanders.

Mary’s eyes—
Joon’s
eyes—widened as she stared incredulously. Scott was standing
right there
, just a few feet away, gazing critically up at her, frowning in concentration. A coil of rope lay on the wet rock ledge next to him, along with a giant flashlight and his ever-present red book bag.

Scott again
, Mary thought.
Jesus, did he tie me—Joon—up?

Scott was holding something in his hand—a small device—but she didn’t recognize it. Beside him, on the rock face, was what looked like steel netting from a construction site, holding a thick pile of cinder blocks.

“Amy!”
Real Mary was screaming.
“Amy, where are you?”

She tried again to scream, but, again, all she could do was moan and squeal. The bandage on her mouth made it impossible to speak.

Mary remembered watching Joon squirm and buck and moan, from right over there—from exactly where Real Mary’s shadowy figure was moving forward.
It’s just like Scott, in front of school
, she realized, astonished.
The exact same thing. This is
me,
warning myself
.

“I can’t find Amy!” Real Mary sobbed. “Joon, hang on—”

No, no, no
—Mary shook her head frantically, trying to signal Real Mary to
stay put;
she was about to drop into the—

Crack!
Even hanging from the rope above the stream, Mary could hear the force of the impact as Real Mary dropped into the hole in the ground.

Below her, Mary could just make out the dim yellow of Scott’s oversize raincoat as he moved, reacting.

“Joon!” Real Mary screamed. “I’m trapped—I can’t move!”

Below, out of Real Mary’s view, Scott was moving again. Mary barely heard an electronic click just as she saw a red light flashing on the device in Scott’s hand.

Another click sounded, far above her—tilting her head back again, Mary saw a tiny flash as sparks detonated on the rope above her, and the rope started to come apart.

Some kind of trick
, Mary thought.
He put something up there, on the rope, so he could just press a button—some kind of clever Scott gizmo
.

It was incredible, amazing.
This was a setup. It was done on
purpose.
Scott was deliberately faking me out—making it look like the rope was breaking
.

“Don’t move, Joon!” Real Mary screamed, from her spot planted halfway in the ground. “Jesus, don’t—”

Scott fumbled with whatever he was holding and another tiny light flashed and the rope broke.

This is it
, she thought, squeezing her eyes shut.
I’m dead—

Mary felt the sickening nausea of sudden free fall as she dropped straight down—and then something grabbed her, roughly pulling her, and she felt a blast of pain as she tumbled forward, Scott’s arms around her waist as he pulled her on top of himself. She rolled, banging her kneecaps against the wet stone as she and Scott tumbled backward.

She was safe. She was on solid ground, her knees and scraped shoulder blades screaming in agony, raising her head, her hands still bound to the rope that now draped across the stone like a limp snake.

Up above, out of view, back toward the farmhouse, Real Mary was screaming.

Scott stood up, letting go of her, and then he lunged to one side and pushed against the steel netting, propelling the pile of cinder blocks so they toppled over the edge of the narrow embankment. After a moment, the entire cluster of steel and cement dropped into the stream, making a very loud splash.

That’s what I heard
, Mary marveled. I
can’t believe it. He completely fooled me
.

But why?

Scott had returned to her side. She stared up at his shadowed face, hidden behind the hood of his ridiculous yellow raincoat. Scott was kneeling on the wet stone, mud smeared on his khaki trousers, fishing in his red book bag. He pulled out the soft silver cloth Mary had seen before
(When I was him
, she remembered) and, as he unfolded it, Mary suddenly recognized it as a space blanket—the kind that marathon runners draped around themselves after a race.

He was prepared for this
, Mary realized, as Scott sidled over to her, producing a gleaming Swiss Army knife. He flicked on a flashlight (looking around critically first, to make sure the light wasn’t visible from up by the house), then leaned to cut the ropes, freeing Mary’s ankles.

“You okay, Joon?” Scott whispered.

Mary nodded.

“Good. I think I pulled my back out.” Scott was helping her to her feet, draping the metallic blanket around her. Mary was too astonished to react—she just shivered, staring at Scott as he stooped to gather all his belongings, including the flashlight and the knife and what she now saw was a plastic controller from a child’s remote control toy.