Deadly Little Lessons (23 page)

The locks turn. He’s back for his tape. He takes the tape recorder and then slides a folded-up paper bag through the hole: my cue to empty the litter.

I unfold the bag, wishing I had a shovel. I tip the litter box, but it’s too heavy to manage with one hand while trying to keep the bag open with the other. Once again, the gravel spills out onto the ground, making me want to hurl.

“What’s the problem?” he asks.

“I could use a spoon, or even a cup.” After the last time I changed the litter, I made a makeshift shovel out of an old box of crackers, but I can’t seem to find it now.

“Hold on.”

I hear him move toward the exterior door. I lower my head so that I can see through the hole. He’s left the door wide open—most likely while he goes to search for something. I shine my flashlight into the doorway, able to see the set of stairs. It’s so close and yet so far away.

O
N MY WAY BACK TO THE DORM
, I check my phone. There’s a text from Dad, telling me that he’s made another video. As soon I get into my room, I log on to my computer to check it out.

“Hey, Camelia,” Dad says, waving to the camera. “Just thought I’d tell you that I was at the bookstore today. I passed by that book you liked when you were little…the one with the dancing chicken who wore mismatched socks. I think I must’ve read it to you at least a couple times a day for a full year. Anyway, I couldn’t resist buying it.” Dad pauses to pull the book out of a bag. “I thought I might read it to you again for old times’ sake. So, here goes.…”

Watching Dad read one of my favorite children’s books takes me back to when I was six years old, snuggling beside him with my stack of books, along with Miss Dream Baby, my favorite doll. I grab my phone and call him.

“Hey, there,” he says, picking up on the first ring. “Did you get my latest video?”

“I did.” I smile.

“Weird?” he asks.

“More like wonderful. I miss those days.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Me, too. So, how’s everything going?”

“I’m learning a lot.”

“Well, I’m happy for you,” he says.

“Thanks,” I tell him. “For everything.”

“You don’t have to thank me, Camelia.”

“I love you, Dad,” I say, without even thinking.

“I love you, too. More than anything.”

We say our good-byes and I promise to call him in a few days, feeling more together than I have in a long time. I lie back on the bed, determined to get some rest, but when I close my eyes, I can still see the flames from my hallucination in the pottery studio. And I can still hear the man’s screams. They drown out Sasha’s voice.

I replay the scene inside my head: the ceiling fan toppling down; the support beams consumed by flames; the wall of fire growing closer, hotter, bigger, stronger. I take a deep breath and refocus, picturing the underground room and the wall of steel, flashing back to the moments before the man was hit over the head. He’d crouched down in front of the hole in the steel door as if inspecting it or checking things out, making me think that he wasn’t Sasha’s captor. I open my eyes, able to hear the grunt he uttered when he was hit over the head. As hard as I try to deny it—and as much as I try to come up with another explanation—the voice sounded a lot like Ben’s.

I reach for my phone and call him, but it goes right to his voice mail. I roll over in bed, feeling my stomach churn, beyond nervous about where he might be. I check my e-mail, hoping to find a message from him, but there isn’t one. And so I click over to Neal Moche’s page, desperate for inspiration.

From the Journal of Neal Moche


I can’t get that key ring out of my head—the one that I envisioned when I touched that guy’s girlfriend. Tommy is his name; I know because I asked one of his coworkers, claiming that I thought we might’ve gone to middle school together. Why he has a W tattooed on his wrist (I spotted it that first time in the pretzel line) is just another mystery to me.


Maybe it stands for his last name; the coworker didn’t seem to remember it.


Normally, I’d have walked away by now, especially since it doesn’t seem like the stakes in this are particularly high. But since bumping into Tommy, I’ve been overwhelmed by this weird sense of duty—like I have to see this through, like my future somehow depends on it.


I know that that doesn’t make any sense, but the sooner I solve this puzzle, the quicker I’ll be able to move on to more important things.


Like my girlfriend. I went to see her recently, and I know more than anything now that we’re meant to be together. There isn’t a single doubt in my mind.


The crazy thing? I spent years trying to convince myself that my heart was bulletproof, that I was immune to emotion, that I didn’t want to be—couldn’t ever be—touched, never mind loved.


But then I met her, and touched her, and eventually let her into my heart. I was never able to look back after that, despite how hard I tried to push her away by keeping secrets or distancing myself by traveling around.


I recently visited her at the college where she’s staying, and we spent some serious time together. For the first time, I told her that I loved her, and she actually said it back.


I want to be with her, but I also need to solve this—to see what it means for me, what the bigger picture is. And so I’m going back to that guy’s house to find the key that will unlock this puzzle once and for all.


M
Y HEART FEELS LIKE
it’s about to explode, because the similarities are too big to deny. The
W
on the guy’s hand. The recent trip he made to see his girlfriend at a college. The secrecy that scared her away, not to mention the fear that kept him from getting close. And the scar on the girl’s neck.

This blog is being written by Ben.

I scroll back through past entries, remembering having read something about the time he bumped into that guy at the park—how he pictured a cross-shaped tattoo. I reread the second-to-last entry, where he describes the visit to the guy’s house, and sees that the cross tattoo on Tommy’s girlfriend’s neck is actually a scar—what sounds like a burn—just like the
W
on Tommy’s hand.

Just like the
t
shape that I sculpted.

The cross must actually be the letter
t
. Ben and I are working on the same case—only, from two different angles. Were those
his
screams I heard in the fire? And is that where he is right now?

I close my eyes, picturing the man’s hand from my most recent hallucination—when he lifted the trapdoor that led to the underground room. The idea that it could’ve been Ben is far too overwhelming.

I reread the last blog entry, noticing that it was written today. He must be there right now. I try his number again, but he still doesn’t pick up. My fingers trembling, I fish Detective Tanner’s card out of my desk drawer and dial her number.

To my surprise, she actually picks up. I tell her all about the blog and stress what I know about the letters
t
and
W
. “It was just like what I envisioned,” I tell her, “when I sculpted the letter
t
.…”

“The money clip was actually reported stolen three months ago,” she tells me. “We did a thorough analysis of it, including where the clip was purchased and made, the composition of the metal, the jeweler who designed it…”

“And?” I ask, trying to anticipate the outcome.

“The owner was an older man, eighty-six, who could barely get out of his apartment—not exactly the profile of the guy working at the Blue Raven.”

“So, maybe the guy working at the Blue Raven stole it.”

“Maybe.” She sighs. “Only, I checked out your story. I talked to the bartender you spoke to.”

“Brooke?” I ask, my pulse racing.

“She denied ever talking to you. She denied knowing anyone named Tommy. And when I asked the manager, he had no record of anyone named Tommy working there within the past two years.”

“They’re lying,” I snap. “I had another vision. There was a fire. And someone got drugged. Please, you have to help me. You have to go there. I think my boyfriend might be in danger.”

“Go where?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I mutter. Tears roll down my cheeks. “There was a thick forest and an old tractor. It was underground somewhere, but there was also a house, and lots of barren farmland.” My chest tightens until I can barely breathe. I know I’m not making any sense.

“It sounds like you need some rest,” Tanner says. “Why don’t I call you later, when I know you’ve gotten some sleep?”

“Didn’t you check out my past?” I ask, noticing that I’ve thrown off my sheets in frustration.

There’s a long pause, and then she promises to call me in a little while. “Would it make you feel better if I personally checked in on your boyfriend?”

“Please,” I say, knowing that she won’t be able to find him, but that at the very least she’ll be looking.

“I’ll call you in a bit,” she says, before hanging up.

I hang up, too, realizing that she never even asked for my boyfriend’s name, that she isn’t taking me (or my powers) seriously, and that she has no intention whatsoever of helping me out.

A
CCORDING TO BEN’S E-MAILS
, he’d been in Washington, D.C., before he came to see me, and then he’d driven north. I’d assumed that he was on his way back home, but maybe he stopped in Rhode Island en route. Was that when he bumped into Tommy at the park? Is that what kept him in the area for longer than he’d wanted?

With no leads as to his whereabouts, I do a Google search on abandoned Rhode Island farms that border wooded lots. It doesn’t take long before I find the old Strappley Farm. It’s been closed for fifteen years. I do an image search, knowing that I’m probably grasping at straws. Hundreds of photos pop up, some of which show the Strappley Farm when it was bursting with cornstalks and apple trees.

But others reveal what’s happened after years of neglect. Everything looks dead. A dilapidated garage sits at one corner of the property, and outside it is the broken-down tractor with missing wheels.

Exactly what I envisioned.

I scroll down to look at more of the images, trying to figure out where an underground room might be. And that’s when I spot the house. A tiny shack of a place. It borders the same woods as the farm, but it’s on the opposite side.

I scribble the address on my hand, pocket my cell phone, and then hurry to Wes’s room. The door is locked, but luckily his roommate’s there.

“Can I help you?” he asks, giving me the once-over.

I push past him to get to the minifridge. The keys are right on top, behind the half-eaten bag of pork rinds. “Thanks,” I say, snatching the keys.

I run down the hall and plow down the stairs, bursting out the doors and scurrying across the parking lot to Wes’s car. I get in and peel out, anticipating what awaits me at the farm, and hoping I’m not too late.