Last Seen Alive (32 page)

Rusty reared up slightly, then nearly screamed as he felt warm blood flowing from his scalp into his eyes. His
eyes.
He lifted his right hand and gingerly touched his forehead, where he could feel the long slice about an inch above his eyebrows. His stomach roiling, he tried to wipe some blood away from his eye area, then place his hand tightly over the laceration to prevent more blood loss. Still, he could feel the warmth seeping between his fingers.

Supported by one elbow, he tried to rise even farther, hoping he could clamber to his feet. He could make it into the house, he told himself, even with his eyes closed. And the phone was right next to the sliding glass doors. Thank God. He could make it to the phone—

“Going somewhere?”

Rusty nearly screamed as a voice rumbled above him. He stifled back the embarrassing sound. An instant later he thought that might have been a mistake—maybe someone would come to his aid if he screamed, no matter how girlish he sounded. Then, intuitively, Rusty knew that screaming would end his life instantly.
“Please,”
he murmured.

“Please, what?”

“Please don’t hurt me.”

“Please don’t hurt me,” said the voice in a mocking, mincing tone before returning to normal. “Did Nancy say please? No, I’m sure she didn’t say anything when she fell. That rock knocked her into immediate unconsciousness.”

Rusty tried to swallow and couldn’t. His throat muscles worked as he tried to stifle humiliating tears. His eyes were filling up again with blood and he tried wiping them clear so

he could at least look his attacker in the eye, at least be that much of a man, but there was too much blood. Too much.

Someone stooped down beside him. “God, you’re a mess. And after all that plastic surgery, too. What a heartbreak, kid.” Suddenly Rusty felt something sharp, surely a long shard of glass, slide neatly along his neck, under his ear, and around to his throat. “You should be glad you’re going to die, Rusty, because believe me, no plastic surgeon can help you now. You’re going to look like the goddamned monster you are.”

Rusty collapsed back onto the cold, stiff grass. A monster. He’d tried so hard to make his parents love him, always to be polite, to work hard at a job he hated, to
act
as a good person, even if he knew many people would find his peccadilloes disgusting. He even had spent thousands of dollars and undergone painful surgeries to look like the handsome son his father wanted. And it was all going to end here in his own backyard with him slashed, bloody, and repulsive.

Rusty could feel blood spurting from the carotid artery in his neck. He closed his eyes, oddly surprised that he didn’t care that he was bleeding to death. In fact, he was oddly peaceful, almost glad that it would soon be over.

Yes, death would be a gift, he thought almost giddily in his last moments of consciousness. Death would be the wonderful gift of freedom, because he wouldn’t have to
try
anymore.

Deirdre had expected to feel a rush of exultation if she managed to free her feet of the duct tape. When it finally gave way and she pulled her feet apart, though, all she’d felt was exhaustion. I’m going to sleep now, she thought dully. I’ve worked for hours and I’m cold, worn-out, and
so
sleepy. I deserve to sleep.

“Don’t sleep!” an ephemeral voice nearby seemed to order urgently.

But I’m so tired, Deirdre mentally answered the urgent if ghostly voice. I’m too tired to move.

“Don’t give up. Stay strong for a while.”

Deirdre moaned, thinking, I don’t know you.

“Trying to help. Chyna trying to help.”

Chyna? Deirdre wondered. “Chyna Greer?”

“Chyna … trying to find you.”

Deirdre shut her mind to the voice, marshaling her energy, her focus. She lay facedown, still as death, for a moment. Then she took a deep breath, rolled onto her left side, pulled her knees to her abdomen, rolled back to her original position, and rose up on her knees. Then she placed her right foot on the floor and slowly, stiffly, stood up, weaving for a moment as she tried to get her balance on stiff, cold legs she hadn’t used for probably close to twenty-four hours. At least, Deirdre hoped it had been at least twenty-four hours, because that would mean it was night again. She was afraid to try to escape in the day. She believed she could only get out here, wherever
here
was, and make it to safety in the dark. If her abductor happened to be close by, he could be on her in minutes if it were light out. Night was her only refuge, her only hope.

If only I could have gotten my hands free, Deirdre thought in frustration. Then I could have gotten this duct tape off my eyes and seen where I was going. Escaping blind is impossible. No, it
might
be impossible, she said mentally, trying to adopt a bit of the confidence of the ephemeral voice she’d heard earlier. The voice had urged her to make an effort to escape because Chyna Greer was trying to help her. Deirdre was aware that the voice might have only been a hallucination, but it had still given her a morsel of faith. At this point, she was willing to believe someone like Chyna actually might be able to find her. Deirdre didn’t know why she thought this, except that when she’d met Chyna, she’d felt something. What was it? Some kind of weird kinship?

You’re losing your mind, Deirdre thought as she staggered around the building that held her captive. But if I’m going to die, it doesn’t matter if I lose my mind, she mused. It doesn’t matter one bit.

Abruptly she banged into a piece of equipment. She and it crashed to the floor with a clatter. She had no idea what she’d fallen over, but the sound it had made against the concrete let her know it was metal. She would have tried to discover what it was if she’d had use of her hands, but she wasn’t going to waste precious energy rolling over and exploring the object with her bound hands. All that mattered was that she wasn’t seriously hurt. She was shaken up and something had jabbed at her right thigh, but she didn’t think she’d even been cut. She was lucky. Lucky.

I’m lucky, she kept telling herself as she slithered off the metal object and managed to get her footing again. I’m a very lucky girl. I will get out of this. I
will
get out!

“The Whippoorwill Grille?” Chyna asked as Scott pulled into a gravel parking lot. A long wooden building sat in front of them. Every window glared with a neon beer sign. Country music roared from the inside. A few people stood on the long porch outside, holding beer bottles and laughing uproariously. “Isn’t this a madhouse?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never been
here,
either?” Scott asked in feigned shock.

“I haven’t.”

“Boy, you really were all work and no play when you were a teenager.”

“I was not! But this place has a bad reputation. You’re always reading about patrons getting in bar fights and Hell’s Angels come here when they’re in town, and there’s even a wet T-shirt night.”

“Yeah. It’s great. Got your T-shirt on?” She looked at Scott, slightly shocked. “Close your mouth, Chyna. I didn’t bring you here to compete. Besides, this isn’t even wet T-shirt night.”

“Well, thank goodness!” Chyna exclaimed. “Do you really want to go in here?”

“Yes, I really do. You’ll enjoy it, Chyna. Don’t be such a prude.”

“I am
not
a prude.”

“Then come in with me, have a couple of beers, dance to some music, and forget your troubles for a while.” She hesitated. “Look, not only isn’t it wet T-shirt night, I don’t even think we have any Hell’s Angels here presently, not that there’s anything wrong with them. In fact, they usually make things even livelier.”

“I’m sure,” Chyna said drily. “What about Michelle?”

Scott looked in the backseat. “She’s sound asleep. Snoring even.” Chyna double-checked. He was right.

“I don’t know …” Chyna still demurred.

Scott sighed hugely. “Well, if you’re going to be a stick-in-the-mud, we can go back to your house and brood and wait for more eerie phone calls.”

Chyna was already opening her door. “Not on your life, Scott Kendrick. I’d even compete on wet T-shirt night rather than go home right now.”

“That’s the spirit!” Scott said enthusiastically.

When he opened the roadhouse door, Chyna was hit by a barrage of light, cigarette smoke, the smell of beer, and the sound of loud music. She looked around to see a country band playing on a dais. The lead singer was obviously trying to be the next Shania Twain, with flowing brown hair and a midriff-baring top. She seemed oblivious to the fact that even heavy makeup couldn’t hide that she was in her late fifties, and her short top revealed a wide, flabby waist whose loose skin hung over the top of her tight pants and jiggled when she bounced along to “Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under?” Nevertheless, she looked thrilled to be singing her heart out, and at least a third of the crowd inside danced to her music with abandon and sang along with her.

“Wow, have I been missing
this
all these years?” Chyna said into Scott’s ear so he could hear her over the noise.

“Yeah, you have. Great, isn’t it?”

Chyna started to say something sarcastic, then noted Scott’s happy expression. She hadn’t seen him look this jovial, this carefree, since she’d come home. “Actually, it

does look like fun,” she yelled back at him. “Shoulder your way up to the bar, cowboy, and get us a drink.”

“Is beer okay?”

Chyna had never been fond of beer, but she doubted if this place served Cosmopolitans. “Beer it is. I want to fit in.”

“Oh, you do,” Scott reassured her. It was meant as a compliment, but Chyna glanced with sudden insecurity at her silk and wool blend slacks, blue cashmere sweater, and designer suede jacket. She also remembered that this morning she’d slipped in her diamond stud earrings, last year’s Christmas gift from her mother and each a full carat. Did she really look like all these other people with their worn jeans and flannel shirts?

Suddenly she realized she’d really meant what she’d said to Scott: “I want to fit in.” She’d never felt like she fit in anywhere with her visions, her hearing of voices, her brushes with other people’s experiences. Ever since she’d been old enough to realize her “sixth sense” made other people uncomfortable, even made them think she was something of a freak, she’d constantly been on her guard. She’d tried to hide from the things her mind told her that no one else knew. She especially tried to hide her “power,” or whatever it was, from everyone except Zoey, gone long ago, and now Scott, who she knew didn’t completely believe she wasn’t just hyperimaginative, no matter how hard he was trying.

No, tonight Chyna wanted to forget the bizarre side of her life and just have a good time with all these “regular” folks with their beer and country music. She’d never been in a place where so many people looked like they were having a wonderful time.

Scott came back with a pitcher of beer and two glasses. “I see a table over there in the corner,” he shouted above the din. “Let’s grab it. Everything else is taken.”

He barged ahead of Chyna, holding the pitcher high so beer wouldn’t slosh out as people bumped into him. When they did, Scott said, “Excuse me,” the dancers said, “Excuse me,” and everyone smiled. Well, no fights yet, Chyna thought. No one looked as if they were spoiling for a fistfight, either.

Who’d told her not much went on at this place except fighting? Ned? Her mother? Chyna couldn’t remember. And it didn’t matter, because she saw Scott moving smoothly, deftly dodging flying elbows and feet stomping to the music. He wasn’t limping anymore. His shoulders didn’t have that slight droop she’d noticed when she first saw him down by Lake Manicora using the walking stick. Maybe the precrash Scott was coming back, she thought, almost afraid to hope for such a miracle. Maybe his spirit had been too strong even for disaster to crush.

Once they were seated, Scott poured two glasses of beer, each with a large, foamy head. “A lot of people tell you to pour slowly so you get as little foam as possible,” he said loudly to Chyna, “but actually, you get rid of a lot of the carbon dioxide in the foam. Therefore—”

“You get less gas,” Chyna said wryly. “How romantic.”

Scott grinned. “That piece of information usually reduces women to putty in my hands.”

“I take it that piece of information, as you call it, is one of your tried-and-true seduction lines.”

Scott frowned. “Well, it’s
one
of my best.”

“I guess you don’t date a lot, then.”

Scott made a face at her. “I suppose you’d rather hear about your beautiful eyes and silky hair.”

“I wouldn’t go for that one, either.” Chyna took a sip of beer. “And
please
don’t say you really admire me for wanting to help people by going into medicine.”

“I’ll bet you’ve heard that statement a lot.”

“Yes. Usually from guys who follow up by asking if I’ll make a lot of money when I’m a full-fledged oncologist.”

“Then my approach that had nothing to do with your beauty or your self-sacrifice or your money should have been a real change of pace.”

“Oh, it was. I congratulate you on your unconventional approach to the so-called fairer sex.”

“Thanks. I don’t like to be obvious.”

Chyna reached for her glass of beer just as a woman jostled the table. She apologized profusely and Chyna smiled

and told her it was nothing, although beer had splashed on her new suede purse.

Scott made a face when the woman turned around. “Sorry.”

“I’m sure I can find some genius who knows how to remove stains from suede,” Chyna said, smiling, as she took the purse from the edge of the table and hung it on the arm of her chair next to the wall. A piece of white paper fluttered from a side pocket and Chyna reached to the floor and retrieved it. When she rose, her smile was gone. “ ’Deirdre Mayhew. Five-five-five one-two-one-two. Any time after eight
P.M.
’ “ She sighed. ”I never called Deirdre, Scott.”

“You never got a chance.”

“But—”

“But what? If you’d called her, she wouldn’t have been abducted? That’s ridiculous.”