Blood Brothers (5 page)

As Lucy moved back to survey her work, she realized the young man was watching her. He was half lying, half sitting against the wall where she'd left him, but she'd been so involved in what she was doing, she hadn't been paying attention. His stare was fixed, his eyes glazed. She reached over and felt his brow.

“What's your name?” she asked gently.

His lips moved in a soundless response. As Lucy leaned in closer, he tried again.

Jared?
Had he said Jared?

“Jared,” she repeated softly.

His stare didn't waver. His eyes didn't blink.

“I want you to rest now,” Lucy soothed him. “I want you to try to sleep while I go home for a while.”

Could he even hear her? Was he past the point of understanding?

“You'll be okay here. I'll come back as soon as I can, and I won't tell anyone about you. I promise.”

She thought he might have attempted a nod. Very carefully she lowered him onto the pallet, then piled more layers of drop cloths on top of him. She wouldn't bother with his clothes right now, not till she had fresh ones to replace them with. In the meantime, she prayed he'd be warm enough.

She started to reassure him again, but saw he was sleeping—either that or he was blessedly unconscious. She felt his forehead, then lifted his left hand to place it under the covers. The sleeve of his jacket had worked partway up his arm, revealing long, taut ridges of vein . . . sinewy cords of muscle . . . scars and calluses of hard work. And something else she hadn't noticed before.

It looked like a tattoo.

Or . . . what was left of one.

At some time there had been an intricate design, only now it was practically obliterated by the puckered remains of a burn. The scar was large—much wider than the slash on his face—and had seared into the tattoo, melting away both flesh and ink, leaving most of it illegible.

Puzzled, she bent down for a closer look.

The first thing she focused on was the snake. Or at least . . . it
appeared
to be a snake, some sort of reptilian creature, at any rate. Only half of its head was visible, and smoke seemed to be curling from its mouth. Most of the snake's body was seared away, but upon closer examination, Lucy thought it might be impaled on something—a spike, maybe, or a sword.

She ran her fingers lightly across the images, along Jared's arm. As if by touching those distorted figures, they might somehow speak to her and tell her what she longed to know.

Lucy checked his heartbeat one last time.

Then she climbed out of the cellar and chained the doors behind her.

Lucy broke all speed limits driving back to the house.

You left him there. You didn't call a doctor. You saw how bad that wound was, how dangerous, how deep. There's no way
anybody
could ever survive something like that. Are you out of your mind?

The Corvette squealed around a corner. Forcing herself to slow down, Lucy glanced in the rearview mirror, relieved that no other cars were behind her. The last thing she needed right now was to get stopped by the police. It was going to be hard enough sneaking into the house and gathering all the supplies she needed without Irene's knowing.

She turned onto Lakeshore Drive, her mind spinning faster than her tires. Maybe she'd have to tell someone. Yes, she
should
tell someone. Maybe Matt. After all, he was a priest—priests
had
to keep secrets, didn't they? Wasn't that part of their job? No matter how bad those secrets might be, no matter how crazy?

Yet how could he
not
be related? With those eyes and that hair and that voice? With Byron's face gazing back at her, hovering just below the surface, like a displaced phantom?

What person in her right mind would do what you've just done?
Think
about it, Lucy—think about what you've
done
!

Lucy hit the brakes and leaned her forehead on the steering wheel. Her chest was tight; her stomach heaved in dread. She should do something. She should call for help right now. Her cell phone was right next to her, tucked inside her purse. All she had to do was dial. Jared would be taken care of—she'd never have to see him again. And if he survived, he probably wouldn't remember anything he'd said to her, anyway.

But
she
remembered.

That's
why she was doing this.

Even though it made no sense, even though she wasn't sure she even believed him, she would do what Jared asked of her.

Lifting her head, Lucy took a deep breath and started off again. Past all the homes of the rich and privileged. Past the sweeping lawns and tennis courts and four-car garages, until at last she reached Irene's street.

As she neared the house, Lucy's heart plunged to her toes. What looked like a police car was parked in front, and she could see her aunt and a bulky man in uniform talking together at the front door.

For a moment, she couldn't even move.

Her first thought was that someone had discovered Jared lying in the church cellar.

Her second thought was that Irene would glance down at any second and discover the headstone hidden in the shrubs beside the porch.

Lucy's hands were slick with sweat. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel and tried to stay calm. From the serious look on Irene's face, something was definitely wrong, and Lucy's mind struggled for an answer.

Angela?
Had the search for Angela come to a tragic end? Or was it something else—some other bad surprise that would once again turn Lucy's world upside down?

But she couldn't escape now—she'd already been seen. She swung the car into the driveway. The man in uniform had turned to stare at her, and Irene was waving at her to get out of the car.

Lucy took a deep breath. Like a robot, she turned off the engine and opened the door. Even from here she could see how grave the man's expression was, how tightly Irene's hands were clasped together. Why wasn't anybody saying anything? What was going on?

Nervously, she shut the car door. She started around the front of the Corvette, then froze as she caught sight of her shoes.

With all she'd had to deal with this morning, there'd been no time to think about her appearance or the alarm it was sure to cause. She'd cleaned up a little before leaving the cellar, but now she stared in horror at her bloodstained clothes and hands, realizing there was probably blood on her face, as well. Her sweater and scarf were missing. Her coat was gone. She looked like she'd come from a slaughterhouse.

As her aunt's gestures grew more insistent, Lucy began walking again. By the time she reached the front door, she'd managed to come up with a few lame excuses that she quickly blurted out.

“I'm okay, but there was an accident.”

Irene's spine slowly stiffened. “An accident? While you were driving?”

“No. Not a car accident.”

“Then
what
? Where are you hurt?”

“I'm not, I'm fine.”
Sound calm, Lucy. Sound convincing.
“It was someone else who got hurt, and I . . . I just tried to help.”

In her customary reaction to all things emotional, Irene looked supremely annoyed. “What on earth happened?”

“I went . . . jogging.”

“Jogging? With the car?”

“I used the track at school. A lot of kids go over there early to run. One of the girls fell on some broken glass.”

Lucy could feel two pairs of eyes raking her over. She managed an apologetic smile.

“Her cuts were pretty deep—a few of us finally got the bleeding stopped, but it took a while. And she was shivering so bad, I just gave her some of my clothes.”

The brawny cop hadn't said a word. He stared at Lucy with a neutral expression and blocked her way inside. After a tense pause, Irene finally nodded.

“This is Sheriff Stark, Lucy. He wants to talk with you.”

“With me?” Lucy's heart plummeted again. “Well, I really have to get ready for school—”

“This won't take long,” the sheriff assured her.

Hugging herself, Lucy looked up at him with innocent concern. “Okay. Sure. What do you need?”

“It might be more comfortable if we all go inside.”

Irene hadn't moved from the doorway. From the way she was regarding Sheriff Stark, it was clear she found the intrusion offensive. “As I said before, Presley, I fail to see the purpose of any of this.”

Lucy glanced from her aunt to the officer. Her stomach was churning again, and she was starting to feel faint. Whatever this was, it couldn't possibly be good. Whatever this was, it could only mean delay and disaster for Jared.

“Well, you know how it is,” Sheriff Stark said smoothly. “Just trying to do my job.”

He stepped aside to let Lucy pass. Irene led the way to the living room and motioned them all to sit down.

“So, Lucy.” The sheriff was smiling at her now. A forced, practiced smile that wasn't the least bit sincere. “First off, don't feel like you're being singled out. We'll be interviewing all the Pine Ridge students over the next few days.”

Nodding, Lucy shifted uneasily in her chair. She knew she should understand what he was talking about, but her mind had gone totally blank.

“I just want to ask you a few questions,” the sheriff continued.

Again she nodded, returning his smile for good measure.

“How well did you know Wanda Carver?”

The smile froze on her lips. What was this about? Why was he asking her about Wanda Carver?

Lucy thought a moment, then heard herself answer, “Not well. Just from school.”

“So you weren't a close friend of hers?”

“No.”

“Didn't hang out with her or anything like that?”

Lucy shook her head.

“But you did
know
her.” A statement, not a question. The sheriff fixed her with a level stare.

“Well . . . I knew who she was.”

“This is ridiculous,” Irene fumed. “I don't see how any of this could possibly be beneficial—”

“Irene, please,” Sheriff Stark cut in.

Silence filled the room. An uncomfortable silence that settled heavily on Lucy's shoulders. She watched the sheriff lean toward her and clasp his beefy hands between his knees. “Lucy, did you have any contact with Wanda Carver on Wednesday?”

Lucy gazed back at him. Contact with Wanda Carver? Her mind flashed a picture of the girl's face, then went vague and confused. She had to get back to the church, back to Jared in the cellar. From some far-off place she wondered if she looked as dazed as she felt.

“I . . .” She had to think a minute. She had to try to remember. “I saw her in the hall at school.”

“And what happened?”

“Happened?” It was obvious Sheriff Stark was after something—dropping hints and expecting some sort of response. Lucy glanced over at her aunt, but she read nothing in those flint-gray eyes. “Nothing happened. She gave me a flyer.”

“A flyer?”

“Information about the candlelight vigil. For Angela.”

“And then what happened?”

“I went to class.”

“And did you
say
anything to Wanda?
Before
you went to class?”

Lucy felt trapped. Why was the sheriff so interested in what she'd said to Wanda that day? How did he even know about it? And what made the event so important that he'd come here to the house to ask her about it?

“Do you remember, Lucy?”

But it was all getting clearer now. Running back to Wanda, warning the girl to be careful. Feeling so foolish about it, but still taking the chance. Feeling responsible somehow.
Wishing Wanda had listened . . .

Lucy's mouth was dry. She ran her tongue slowly over her lips.

“Lucy,” the sheriff said, “there are some stories going around. Now, I know how rumors get started and how they can get out of hand. But some kids are saying you threatened Wanda Carver that day before she died.”

All the blood drained from Lucy's face. She held on tightly to the arms of her chair. “Threatened her? What are you talking about?”

“This is outrageous,” Irene said. “I think this interrogation has gone far enough.”

But the sheriff lifted a restraining hand. “Irene, a young girl has been murdered, and—”

Had
she
gasped out the word, Lucy wondered, or had Aunt Irene? Or maybe they
both
had, Lucy decided, because Irene was looking every bit as shocked now as Lucy was feeling.

The living room walls seemed to tilt and sway as her brain struggled desperately to compute. Even Irene's composure had temporarily faltered—Lucy could see her aunt staring at the floor and fingering her expensive pearls with quivering fingers.