Rest In Peace (3 page)

My blood? Oh God
. . .
how bad am I really hurt?

With cautious fingers she touched the swollen places on her forehead, the ragged edges of split skin, the crustiness in her hair. She choked down a fresh wave of horror and stumbled to her feet, then pulled the blanket around her and began to run.

She had no idea where she was going. She simply plunged into the woods, ignoring the dizziness in her head, the weakness in her knees. Her body felt like a stranger's body as she tried to drag it through the forest, tripping over the soggy blanket, crawling through the mud and underbrush, forcing herself up again. She could see her breath—short gasps of pain hanging frosty in the air—and her nose was running, and her tears seemed to freeze upon her cheeks. Her heart thudded in her ears, and every clumsy footstep seemed to echo around her, causing her to look back in terror, certain she was being followed.

But run
where
?

Lucy was completely lost. Like a liquid dream, minutes flowed into hours, and then into no time at all. The woods were endless. With so many twists and turns, she wondered if she might even be going in circles. It was definitely growing darker. She couldn't feel her feet anymore. As she glanced down to see if they were still at the end of her legs, she realized that the blanket had fallen off, though she didn't remember dropping it.

She tried to hold her jacket around her, but her arms had gone numb. Through the steady rush of rain, she was aware of trees like phantoms, and the dying brilliance of fallen leaves, thick cushions of pine needles, and the ups and downs of hills that went on and on.

She wanted to give up.

To collapse and simply lie there, to close her eyes and drift away.

Better to die out here than back in the cave. Better to die on her own terms than at the hands of some maniac.

She paused a moment, breath sharp in her ribs, trying to peer off through the dense maze of trees. Surely there was a house out here somewhere—a farm, a cabin? Surely there must be a pathway or a road? She thought about screaming for help, but decided against it. She doubted anyone could hear her above this rain, and if her captor had returned by now to find her missing, she couldn't take the chance of giving herself away.

Lucy turned slowly in all directions.

There must be a way out—there
had
to be a way out!

And then her body went rigid with fear.

Had she seen a shadow just now . . . off to the side of her . . . slipping through the woods?

Seconds crept by but she couldn't move, could scarcely even breathe. Of course she'd imagined it. The rain was playing tricks on her. It was just leaves swirling to the ground, branches swaying in the wind, some startled animal taking cover between the trees.

Rallying her courage, she forced herself to go on. Then stopped again, almost immediately.

She
hadn't
imagined it—she was sure this time!

A dark silhouette through the foggy rain, just a glimpse as it glided up the incline about twenty yards away, then vanished behind some rocks.

Lucy's heart ricocheted into her throat. A bear? Yet it seemed too graceful, too fast to be a bear. And the vague, unsettling shape of it . . . something so dangerous . . .

So familiar
...

The low stone wall behind Irene's house
. . .
the woods, the deserted road at the Fall Festival
. . .
the large, murky figure darting in front of Byron's van
. . .

“Oh God,” Lucy whispered. “Oh God, please help me!”

In sheer panic she began to run. Mindless now with terror, exhausted beyond reason, she stumbled deeper and deeper under cover of the forest, never even noticing the sudden glimmer of light just ahead of her. As Lucy plunged through the trees, the ground disappeared without warning.

There was a dreamlike sensation of falling, of floating, before she suddenly slammed back to reality and rolled down the side of the hill. The earth was soft where she landed, but her body screamed on impact. She lay there, too stunned to move, her breath completely jolted out of her. Against her icy cheeks, the flow of blood felt warm and almost comforting.

Cautiously, Lucy tried to lift her head. She was lying in tall dead weeds, and as she moaned softly and squinted through her pain, she imagined she could see a dirt road not five feet away.

Her head fell back again. She closed her eyes against the rain and tasted blood trickling into the corners of her mouth.

And then she heard a sound.

A sound like an engine, like a car.

Tears came to her eyes, and she pinched the skin on her arm, pinched it hard to make herself wake up, because she knew she couldn't bear one more nightmare, one more disappointment.

But the sound was still there.

And it was coming closer.

With her last ounce of strength, Lucy dragged herself onto the road. She tried to lift one arm, tried to give a feeble wave as the car bore down on her. She knew the driver probably couldn't see her through the rain, through the dusk, and as the headlights blinded her, she braced herself for the shock.

There was a loud squeal of brakes, a wet skid of tires.

And then a door opening . . . hands on her shoulders, turning her over, rearranging her jacket, smoothing back her hair.

Arms lifted her. Carried her without the slightest effort, then settled her gently onto the backseat.

And then, as she finally surrendered to blissful unconsciousness, Lucy heard soft words whispered through the dark.

“Remember to look both ways, Lucy. It's a dangerous road you're on.”

3

“My meeting will probably run late tonight, Lucy. Will you be all right here alone?”

Startled, Lucy glanced up to see her aunt standing in the living room doorway. With one quick movement, Lucy managed to hide the piece of paper she'd been holding, slipping it underneath some magazines stacked beside her on the couch.

“I'll be fine.” Lucy forced a smile, even though her heart gave a sickening clench.
Of course I'll be fine, I'm used to it; even when you
are
here, I'm still alone
. But still, she couldn't keep from asking, “Are you sure everything's locked?”

“The house is completely secure, I've told you before. And I'll set the alarm on my way out.”

But it didn't matter
how
many times Irene had told her, Lucy never felt entirely protected, never entirely safe. She merely
pretended
each time to be reassured by her aunt's promises, because she knew Irene would never believe her if she told the truth. Neither Irene nor anyone else would ever believe that something, or someone, was after Lucy. Sometimes Lucy wasn't even sure she believed it herself, yet the nagging dread was always there, like a shadow over her shoulder.

And anyway
, Lucy told herself,
where else could I go?

Her aunt turned to leave, hesitated, then faced her again.
Like a robot
, Lucy thought,
more cold and withdrawn than ever
. As though Angela's disappearance had added a final layer of distance to those steel barriers around Irene's heart. Lucy couldn't help wondering how differently things might have turned out if that relationship between stepmother and stepdaughter hadn't been so strained. But speculations were pointless, and now she watched curiously as her aunt's lips twisted into a tight semblance of a smile.

“Did Dr. Fielding mention your going back to school?” she asked, and Lucy nodded.

“Yes. On Monday.”

“He feels it's best for you to get back into a normal routine. I agree with him.”

“He called me this afternoon.” Irene seemed to be struggling for conversation. “He says you're doing well. He says you're coming to terms.” Another uncomfortable pause, and then she straightened. “You should eat. Fix yourself something in the microwave. There's pizza. Angela always . . .”

Abruptly her aunt walked away. Lucy waited for the sound of the back door to close, then jumped up and went systematically around the house, checking windows, double-checking that shades were drawn and curtains were closed, inspecting locks and deadbolts and the security system. Then, as satisfied as she could be that the house was impregnable, she sat down again and pulled out the paper she'd hidden.

Angela
, Lucy thought miserably,
where are you?

She stared down at the crumpled poster. A poster of Angela, just like the ones she'd seen plastered all over town.

With a weary sigh, Lucy snuggled deep into the couch and leaned her head back against the cushions. No one had seen or heard from Angela since that Saturday night of the festival, the night of Lucy and Byron's accident, that strange and fatal night just over a week ago.

Things like this don't happen.
How many times had Lucy told herself that in the days following the tragedies?
Things like this happen only in movies. Happen only to strangers. Things like this don't happen in real life, not to normal people.

But I'm not normal anymore
, she had to remind herself now for at least the hundredth time. Not since she'd wandered into the cemetery that night and found Katherine. No matter how much she tried to pretend, nothing would ever be the same again, and it had taken Byron to convince her of that.

Byron
. . .

She'd cried buckets of tears, cried until she couldn't cry anymore. The guilt was more than she could bear—the doubts, the regrets, replaying those last moments of Byron's life. Her heart and soul felt empty. So empty, in fact, that she often found herself wondering if maybe
she
had died, too, and that this strange half existence was but a lingering dream. Her salvation had become a cold sort of numbness, a distancing of herself from both memories and emotions. This was the only way she'd been able to survive.

The only way she would
ever
be able to survive.

Reaching over, Lucy lifted a mug of cocoa from the end table, then tested the foamy marshmallows with her tongue. The chocolate was sweet and hot, but did little to warm the chill inside her. As she took a cautious sip, her gaze returned to the small poster she'd placed in her lap.

MISSING: HAVE YOU SEEN ANGELA?

Looking back at her was a color-copy image of Angela's face, taken from her senior class photo. Those perfect cheekbones and flowing black hair, that model-perfect smile.
I wonder where that smile is now? I wonder if she even
can
smile?

Lucy fought off the familiar waves of guilt and set her mug back on the table. Then she put the poster aside, drew both knees up to her chin, and wrapped her arms tight around them.

“Not your fault,” Dr. Fielding would say if he could share her thoughts now. “Circumstances beyond your control,” he'd remind her, and “You can't keep torturing yourself.”

Good old Dr. Fielding. Aunt Irene's personal choice of prominent friends, who was supposed to be helping Lucy through the nightmares, helping her to readjust, helping her to come to terms with all that had happened.

Except Dr. Fielding didn't know the half of it.

And Lucy knew she could never tell him.

 

“It's only been a week, Lucy,” the doctor had reminded her in their session just that afternoon. “These things take time. Often, quite a lot of time.”

And Lucy had given her dutiful nod and tried to listen politely. Because how could Dr. Fielding even
begin
to have a clue as to what she was going through? How could she even
begin
to tell him everything that had happened to her since she'd first come to Pine Ridge?

“Like I explained to you in the hospital, you might experience dizziness or light-headedness—possibly fainting spells. You may become disoriented or suffer memory lapses. There could be flashbacks pertaining to the accident, or you might even experience panic attacks.”

“Great,” Lucy had responded. “That certainly gives me something to look forward to.”

But Dr. Fielding had smiled his kind smile and patted her on the shoulder. “These occurrences are all very common with a head injury, Lucy—nothing to be overly concerned about. The important thing is to accept the fact that even if they
do
happen, you really are okay. And you really
are
going to get better.”

“But you still think I made everything up.”

She'd watched his face, that carefully controlled doctor face, as he'd steepled his fingers beneath his chin and studied her from his leather chair.

“I think that trauma-induced memories are very tricky things,” he'd answered, as she'd known he would.

“I'm not lying about what happened.”

“I know you're not lying. I believe that
you
believe everything you've told me. And it's still amazing to
everyone
how you could have survived that accident, much less survived for three days afterward.”

Lucy's hands had twisted in her lap. “I told you. I was in a cave. But I don't know how I got there.”

“And those are three days and nights still unaccounted for,” he'd sighed. “The police didn't even know you'd been with Byron until your aunt came home the next day and reported you and Angela missing. And even then, it took time to track down witnesses at the Festival who saw you and Byron leave together. After that, search parties combed that entire area around the accident site. Hundreds of people, even scent dogs, spread out for miles. No one discovered a cave. There wasn't a house or a trail or a single clue. But you must have found shelter somehow, somewhere. It's a total mystery. And nothing short of a miracle.”