First Date (12 page)

“Sparks—what do you want?” Chelsea cried, feeling her throat tighten in fear.

Stepping toward her, he looked so big. So dangerous.

He took a step nearer, then another. His dark
eyes, she saw, were watery. His normally pale face was flushed.

He giggled.

Is he trying to frighten me? she wondered.

If so, he's doing a good job of it.

She reached a hand under her apron into her jeans pocket and searched the pocket until she felt Agent Martin's card.

“Sparks? Are you okay?”

He giggled again, a high-pitched sound, almost an animal sound. He took an unsteady step toward the counter.

“Come here,” he said, his eyes staring into hers but not quite focusing.

“Sparks—you've been drinking,” Chelsea accused, backing up till she hit the wall.

“A few beers,” he said with an awkward shrug. “Come here. Be friendly.”

“No. Go away,” she insisted. “I mean it, Sparks.”

He shook his head. His expression became angry. “Hey, give me a break,” he said, leaning against a counter stool. “I can tell you like me.”

Staring at Sparks, wondering what he planned to do, Chelsea thought of Agent Martin's warning. She remembered the look on the FBI agent's face when she asked if Sparks was dangerous.

Yes, he's dangerous. Very dangerous.

What has he done? What crimes has he committed? They must be really horrible if the FBI is after him, she decided.

“Hey—come here,” Sparks repeated more forcefully. As he leaned over the counter toward her, she could see that his forehead was covered with drops of perspiration.

“Sparks, please—” she started.

A grin spread across his face. He dived toward her, clumsily bumping into the counter.

“Ernie!” she screamed. But the fry cook wasn't there.

Gripped with panic, Chelsea turned and ran toward the kitchen. Just past the doorway she stopped and turned around.

Sparks was shaking his head as if confused, as if trying to clear his mind. “Hey—I'm just playing!” he called. “Just kidding around. Come here!”

Ignoring his plea and gripped with fear, Chelsea ran, sliding on the long, black rubber floor mat that ran the length of the kitchen. She headed toward the back door. Once out in the alley, she could run around to the front of the building and find help. It was still early, a little before seven-thirty, and the streets of the Old Village should have people on them.

“Hey, give me a break!” Sparks cried, stopping at the kitchen door, raising his powerful arms, pressing
his hands against the doorframe, blocking the door. His eyes quickly surveyed the room.

“Go away! Leave me alone!” Chelsea screamed.

She grabbed the back door and pulled. It didn't move.

Her eyes went down to the heavy metal bolt. It was latched and locked. She was trapped.

“Hey, I won't hurt you,” Sparks said, moving unsteadily toward her. “I'm just playing. Don't you want to play?”

“Sparks—please—go away!” Chelsea pleaded. She tore off the apron and tossed it to the floor. My only way out of here is to run right past him, she decided. He seems so unsteady, maybe it won't be too hard.

She took a deep breath and ran right at Sparks.

His eyes went wide. His grin grew wider. He reached out, intending to tackle her.

Chelsea dodged away from him, nearly banging into the still-sizzling grill.

Laughing loudly, he dived for her.

She made it past him.

Then she heard a
thud,
followed by a loud
hiss.

She turned and saw that he had landed up against the steaming hot grill, his hand flat against the top surface.

He opened his mouth in a silent scream. Then finally the sound came, and he howled like a wild animal.

“My hand! My hand!” he shrieked and dropped to his knees in pain.

Chelsea stopped at the doorway.

“My hand! Oh—the grease! It's
killing
me!” Sparks howled. He rolled into a ball on the floor.

I've got to help him, Chelsea decided, hurrying back into the kitchen. I've got to help him—then call the FBI.

She got him to his feet and pushed him to the sink. “Here, Sparks,” she said, turning on the faucet. “Cold water. Keep the hand in cold water. I'll call nine-one-one. I'll get an ambulance.”

Uttering a low moan, his eyes shut tight from the pain, he obediently held the burned hand under the cold water. “Huh? Where are you going?” he managed to ask.

“To call an ambulance. I'll be right back.”

Chelsea ran to the front, picked up the phone on the end of the counter, and reached for the card in her pocket.

I'll call Agent Martin first, she decided. Then I'll call 911.

Her hands trembling, Chelsea pushed in the numbers on the card. Pressing the receiver to her ear, she glanced back through the kitchen door.

Sparks was still at the sink, cradling his burned hand in his other hand, his face twisted in agony.

The phone rang once. Twice.

“Come on! Pick up!” Chelsea pleaded aloud, watching Sparks.

“Agent Forrest,” a deep voice on the other end of the line said.

“Is—uh—Agent Martin there?” Chelsea whispered, cupping her hands over the mouthpiece so that Sparks couldn't hear.

“No, he's out” was the brusque reply. “Can I help you?”

“Yes. This is Chelsea Richards. At the All-Star Café. Please—”

Holding his hand, Sparks stepped, up behind her.

“Oh!” Chelsea cried out, startled.

Had he heard?

“Did you reach them? Are they sending an ambulance?” he asked, his voice weak, his face twisted in pain, sweat pouring down his face.

“Sparks—go back and put cold water on your burn,” Chelsea said, speaking into the phone so the FBI agent could hear Sparks's name. “I'm getting you an ambulance, Sparks.”

There was a brief silence on the other end. Then Agent Forrest said, “We'll be right there. Keep him there. We'll bring an ambulance too. Are you in danger?”

“I don't think so,” Chelsea replied uncertainly.

“We'll be right there.”

The line went dead.

Sparks slumped into the nearest booth. He was moaning softly, resting the burned hand palm up on the table.

Chelsea clicked on all the lights. She stepped around the counter and stood over the booth.

“Are they coming?” he asked.

She nodded. “Let me see the hand.”

She lowered her head to examine it. It was red and swollen. The skin had peeled in several places, and the open wounds were oozing. Pieces of skin were charred black where hot grease had clung.

After a few seconds Chelsea had to look away. She took a deep breath, forcing down a wave of nausea.

“Pretty bad,” she managed to say.

To her surprise, he climbed to his feet. “It's not so bad,” he muttered, avoiding her glance. “Maybe I'll go.”

“No!” she cried, louder than she had intended.

He turned his eyes to her, his face filled with suspicion.

“The ambulance will be here any second,” she told him. “You've got to get that treated. It's a really bad burn.”

He stumbled toward the door. “No. It'll be okay. I'll go home and put a bandage on it.”

“No—please,” Chelsea pleaded.

She had to keep him there. She had to make him
stay until the FBI arrived. He was dangerous. Very dangerous. She couldn't let him go free.

“Here,” she said, shoving a glass under the soda dispenser. “Drink this. Sparks, please. Sit down.”

He hesitated, then turned back to her. She held up the glass of Coke. “Here.”

“Hey, a free drink. This is my lucky night,” he said bitterly.

Chelsea heard a siren outside.

Hurry. Please—hurry! she thought.

“Here, Sparks.” She held the glass out to him.

“I've got to go,” he said, raising his good arm and wiping the perspiration off his forehead with his jacket sleeve. “I'm kind of dizzy. Got to lie down.”

“It's from shock,” she said. “Sit down. Come on, Sparks.”

The siren grew louder.

What's taking so long? she wondered. It seems like hours.

“Come on, Sparks. Drink this. It'll make you feel a little better.”

He accepted the drink. “Hey, I was only kidding around,” he said. “Just playing, you know?”

“I know,” Chelsea said, eyes on the door.

Hurry! Hurry!
she thought.

“I had a few beers, but—”

“Take it easy,” she urged. “Drink the Coke. Please.”

He had taken only a few sips when the front door burst open and two white-uniformed paramedics rolling a stretcher hurried into the room. “Where is he?” one of them, a tall, lanky young man with bright red hair, cried. He pointed to Sparks. “You?”

Sparks set the glass of Coke down carefully on the counter. He turned to the tall paramedic. “Burned my hand,” he said quietly.

“Oooh—how'd you do that?” the other paramedic asked, staring at the hand, making a disgusted face.

“Just lucky,” Sparks said dryly.

“Can you walk okay?” the tall paramedic asked.

Sparks nodded.

“We'll take you to Shadyside General.”

“Wait—” Chelsea started. Where was the FBI agent? She couldn't let them leave without him.

To her relief a man in a long, black overcoat appeared in the doorway. “Agent Forrest,” he said, introducing himself loudly, holding up a badge and an ID card. His eyes went across the room to Chelsea. “You okay?”

Chelsea nodded. “Yes. I'm okay. But I'm glad you're here.”

Sparks groaned in pain, then turned groggily to Chelsea. “What's going on?”

Agent Forrest pocketed his badge and stepped up
to the paramedics. “Take him to the hospital. I'll ride with him.” Then he said to Sparks, “I'm Agent Forrest from the FBI. I just want to ask you a few questions.”

“What's going on?” Sparks repeated, dazed and confused. He stared hard at Chelsea, trying to focus his eyes.

She looked away.

Forrest put a hand gingerly on Sparks's shoulder. “Let's get that hand looked at. Then we'll have a little talk.”

“What have I done?” Sparks demanded. “What's this all about?”

He was still protesting as the two paramedics led him out the door, followed by the FBI agent. Agent Forrest disappeared, then poked his head back in. “You sure you're okay?”

Chelsea nodded.

“Want me to stay while you lock up?”

“No. I'm fine, really,” Chelsea insisted. “I'll close up, then go straight home.”

“We'll need to talk to you later,” Forrest said, then disappeared again.

Chelsea exhaled loudly, slumping back against the wall.

Suddenly she heard footsteps scraping across the kitchen floor. “Who's there?” she cried, startled.

Ernie poked his head in from the kitchen window.
“What's going on out there?” he asked. “Ready to close up?”

“Ernie—where were you?” Chelsea demanded.

He pointed toward the back door.

“Yeah. Let's get out of here,” Chelsea said, sighing.

It didn't take long to close up. Ernie left, taking a bag of leftover fried chicken with him.

Chelsea watched him leave, then started to click off the lights. Her heart was still pounding, she realized. She felt trembly all over. Her fear lingered, even though Sparks had been captured.

“Oh!”

She cried out in surprise when she saw the dark figure standing in the doorway, outlined by the streetlight outside. In her fear it took her a few seconds to recognize him.

“Will!”

He gave her a shy smile and made his way toward her. “Sorry I'm late.”

“Oh, Will—I'm so glad to see you!” Chelsea cried.

Without hesitating, she ran around the counter and into his arms.

The startled expression on his face quickly faded, and he hugged her back, holding her tightly. “I'm glad to see you too,” he said.

Tonight is the night, he told himself, inhaling the
aroma of stale grease in her hair and feeling a little queasy.

He closed his eyes as he hugged her.

Tonight is the night, he thought.

Tonight is the night Chelsea dies.

chapter 18
 

A
s Will, sitting close to Chelsea on her couch, listened to her story, it was all he could do to keep from laughing.

He wanted to stand on the couch, raise his arms high in the air, and whoop for joy.

The stupid girl had turned the wrong guy over to the FBI. And now here she was, babbling on a mile a minute, telling him how frightened she was, how scary that poor clown had looked coming after her, how glad she was to see Will.

What a laugh, he thought.

She doesn't know what fear is—yet.

The house was empty except for them. Her mother was working all night, Chelsea had told him. Her father was still in the hospital.