Scorpion Shards (2 page)

“You
can't
help me, okay?” said Deanna. “That's the point.” He tapped his pencil on the desk. The eraser fell off the end and rolled onto the stained floor.

I hate this place,
thought Deanna.
I hate this room, I hate this man, and I hate my parents for making me come here to hear the
same questions the other shrinks have asked, then give the same answers, and have nothing change. Nothing. Ever.

A woman's voice wailed outside, and Deanna jumped. She couldn't tell whether the sound was a shriek, or a laugh.

“I'm afraid,” said Deanna. “I'm afraid of dying.”

“Good. That's a start.”

Deanna began to rub her pale, slender arms. Behind her and beneath her, the springs within the padding of the chair poked and threatened her through the fabric of the worn upholstery. “At first I was just afraid of walking outside alone. I thought it would end up being a good thing, because it made my parents move us to a better neighborhood—but it didn't stop when we moved. I started to imagine all the terrible things that could happen to me.” She leaned forward. “That was two years ago. Now I see myself dying every day. I see my body smashed if our house were to collapse. I see a man with a knife hiding in the closet, or the basement, or the attic in the middle of the night. I see a car with no driver leaping the curb to pull me beneath its wheels . . .”

“You think people are out to get you?”

“Not just people. Things. Everything.”

The shrink scribbled with his eraserless pencil. Somewhere deep within the building a heater came on, moaning a faint, sorrowful moan.

“And you imagine these awful things might happen to you?”

“No!” said Deanna. “I
see
these things happening to me. They happen, I feel them—I see them—It's REAL!” Deanna reached up and brushed cool sweat from her forehead. “And then I blink, and it—”

“And it all goes away?”

“Sometimes. Other times the vision doesn't go away until I scream.”

The shrink in the cheap suit loosened his tie and put his finger beneath his collar. He coughed a bit.

“Stuffy,” he said.

“I'm not safe going out,” said Deanna. “I'm not safe staying in. I'm not safe here—because what if the stupid light fixture above my head right now is slowly coming unscrewed and waiting for the perfect moment to fall and crack my skull?”

The shrink looked up at the fixture, which did, indeed, seem loose. He leaned back, unfastened his collar button and took a deep breath, as if the air were thinning. He was becoming frightened, Deanna noted—just like everyone else did when they were near her. She could feel his fear as strongly as her own.

“I think I might drown,” Deanna said. “Or suffocate. I always feel like I'm suffocating. Have you ever felt like that?”

“On occasion.” His voice sounded empty and distant. He seemed to shrivel slightly in his chair.

Deanna smiled. Feeling his fear somehow made
her
fear begin to diminish. “I give you the creeps, don't I?”

“Your mother is very concerned about you.”

“My mother can take a flying leap, if she thinks
you
can help me.”

“That's not a healthy attitude.”

“You know what?
I
think you're gonna screw me up worse than I was before. Can you guarantee that you won't? And are you sure this stuff is
all
inside my head? Are you
certain
? Are you?” Deanna waited for an answer.

If he said he was sure, she would believe him. If he swore up and down that he could take away the darkness that shrouded her life, she would believe—because she wanted to believe that it was a simple matter of her being crazy. But he didn't answer her. He couldn't even look at her. Instead, he glanced down at his watch and breathed a sigh of relief.

“Is my time up?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“F
ORGIVE ME
, F
ATHER, FOR
I have sinned.”

“Tell me what your sins are, my son.” The priest on the other side of the confessional sighed as he spoke. He must have recognized Dillon's shaky voice from the many times Dillon had come to confess.

“I've done terrible things,” said Dillon, cramped within the claustrophobic booth.

“Such as?”

“Yesterday I broke a gear in the cable house—that's why the cable cars weren't running. This morning I shattered the glass roof of the Garden Court Restaurant.”

“Dear Lord.” The priest's voice was an icy whisper. “I can't give you absolution for this, Dillon.”

Dillon stiffened, suddenly feeling as if the booth had grown smaller, tighter, pressing against him. “Please,” he begged, “no one was hurt—the news said so—
please
!”

“Dillon, you have to turn yourself in.”

“You don't understand, Father. I can't. I can't because it wouldn't stop me. I would find a way to escape and wreck something else—something even bigger. It's not like I want to do this stuff—I
have
to. I don't have a choice!”

“Listen to me,” said the priest. “You're . . . not
well
. You're a very sick boy and you have to get help.”

“Don't you think my parents tried that?” fumed Dillon. “That kind of help doesn't work on me. It only makes me worse!”

“I . . . I'm sorry, I can't absolve you.”

Dillon was speechless in his terror. To go without forgiveness for the things he was forced to do—that was the worst nightmare of all. He gripped the small cross around his neck,
holding it tightly, feeling the silver press into his palm.

“But I'm not guilty!” Dillon insisted. “I have no choice—I'm
poisoned
! I'm
cursed
!”

“Then your penance is taking this confession to the police.”

“It's not their job to absolve me!” screamed Dillon. “It's
your
job. You're supposed to take away my sins, and you can't judge me! You can't!”

No answer from the priest.

“Fine. If you won't absolve me, I'll find a priest who will.”

Dillon flung the cherrywood door out so hard, it splintered when it hit the wall. A woman gasped, but Dillon was past her, and out the door as quickly as his anger could carry him. The wrecking-hunger was already building again, and he didn't know how much longer he could resist it. He had half a mind to throw bricks through the stained glass window of the church, but it wasn't God he had a gripe with. Or was it? He didn't know.

He had told the priest his name a week before in a moment of weakness, and now it could very well be his ruin. Would this priest betray the secrecy of the confessional and point a finger at Dillon?

Dillon didn't want to find out. He would have to leave tonight and find a new place to wreak his havoc. He had worked his way up from Arizona without getting caught, and there were still lots of places to go. There was a freedom in feeling completely abandoned by life, Dillon tried to convince himself. It was easy to keep moving when every city was just as lonely. When every face in every crowd was just as uncaring.

But there had to be one more feeding—just one more before he left. It would need to be something grand and
devastating—something that would put the wrecking-hunger to sleep for a while.

Are you proud of me, Mom and Dad?
he thought bitterly.
Are you proud of your little boy now?
He thanked God that they were dead, and hoped they were far enough away from this world not to know the things he had done.

N
OT FAR AWAY
, D
EANNA
Chang climbed a steep sidewalk, trying to forget her appointment with the psychiatrist. She didn't dare to look at the people she passed—they all eyed her suspiciously, or at least it seemed that they did—she could never tell for sure. It made her want to look down to see if her socks were different colors, or if her blouse was bloody from a nosebleed she didn't even know about. Now that she was outside, her claustrophobia switched gears into agoraphobia—the fear of the outside world. It wasn't just that her fears were abnormal—they were unnatural, and it made her furious. She had had a warm, loving childhood—she had no trauma in her history—and yet when she had turned twelve, the fears began to build, becoming obsessions that grew into visions, and now, at fifteen, the world around her was laced with razor blades and poison in every look, in every sound, in every moment of every single day. The fear seemed to steal the breath from her lungs. So strong was the fear that it reached out and coiled around anyone close to her; her parents, the kids who had once been her friends—even strangers who got too near. Her fear was as contagious as a laughing fit and as overwhelming as cyanide fumes.

As she reached the corner, her fear gripped her so tightly that she couldn't move, and she knew that she was about to have another waking-vision of her own death. That it was only in her mind didn't make it any less real, because she felt every measure of pain and terror.

Then it happened: Confusion around her, loud noises. She blinked, blinked again, and a third time, as she tried to make the horrific vision go away. But the vision remained. The driverless car leapt from the curb, and it swallowed her.

D
ILLON WATCHED FROM THE
top of the hill, his horror almost overwhelming the wrecking-hunger in his gut. His eyes took it in as if it were slow motion.

The truck was hauling six brand-new Cadillacs to a dealership somewhere. A few minutes ago, Dillon had jaywalked across the street. He had searched for the chains that fastened the last car onto the lower deck of the truck and picked the locks with the broken prong of a fork. Another human being could have spent all day trying to figure out how to pick those locks—but chains, ropes, and locks were easy for Dillon. He was better than Houdini.

He had clearly anticipated the entire pattern of how the event would go, like a genius calculating a mathematical equation. The car would spill out of the transport truck; the bus driver behind it would turn the wheel to the right; the bus would jump a curb; cars would start swerving in a mad frenzy to get out of the way of the runaway car; many fenders would be ruined—some cars would be totaled . . . but not many people would get hurt.

Maximum damage; minimal injury. This was the pattern Dillon had envisioned in his unnaturally keen mind. What Dillon did not anticipate was that the driver of the bus was left-handed.

Dillon walked up hill and watched as the truck lurched forward, got halfway up the steep hill, and then the last car on its lower ramp slid out and down the hill. Horns instantly began blaring, tires screeched, the escaping Cadillac headed straight for the bus . . .

 . . . And the bus driver instinctively turned his wheel to the left, instead of the right—
right into oncoming traffic.

That simple change in the pattern of events altered everything. Dillon now saw a new pattern emerging, and this time there would be blood.

Horrified, he watched as car after car careened off the road into light posts and storefronts. People scattered. Others didn't have the chance.

Dillon watched the driverless car roll through the intersection and toward a corner. A man ran out of the way, leaving a solitary girl directly in the path of the car—an Asian girl no older than Dillon, who stood frozen in shock. Dillon tried to shout to her, but it was too late. The driverless Caddy leapt the curb, and the girl disappeared, as if swallowed by the mouth of a whale.

For Dillon Benjamin Cole, it was a moment of hell . . . and yet in that moment something inside him released the choke-hold it had on his gut. The hunger was gone—its dark need satisfied by the nightmare before him. Satisfied by the bus that crashed deep down the throat of a bookstore; and by the ruptured fire hydrant that had turned a convertible Mercedes into a fountain; and by the sight of the girl disappearing into the grillwork of the Cadillac. Dillon felt every muscle in his body relax. Relief filled every sense—he could smell it, taste it like a fine meal. A powerful feeling of well-being washed over him, leaving him unable to deny how good it made him feel.

And Dillon hated himself for it. Hated himself more than God could possibly hate him.

A
HOSPITAL WAS AN
indifferent place, filled with promises it didn't keep, and prayers that were refused. At least that's how Dillon saw it ever since he watched his parents waste away in
a hospital over a year ago. The doctors never did figure out what had killed them, but Dillon knew. They had held their son one too many times . . . and they died of broken minds. Insanity, Dillon knew, could kill like any other disease. Dillon had watched his parents' minds slowly fall apart, until the things they said became gibberish, and the things they did became dangerous. In the end, Dillon imagined their minds had become like snow on a television screen. With thoughts as pointless as that, sometimes a body knows to turn itself off and die.

Now, as he stepped into the private hospital room with a bouquet of flowers, Dillon barely recognized the girl in the bed. He had only seen her from a distance—before the Cadillac had taken her down, and then in the aftermath of his awful accident, when she was whisked into an ambulance and taken away. How could he expect to recognize a face he had seen so briefly? And yet he had seen that face long enough for it to haunt him for the rest of his life unless he paid this visit.

Her name was Deanna; he had found that much out. She was half-Asian; an only child. The nurse at reception had asked if he was family, he told her he was a cousin. Once inside the room, he told her mother that he was a classmate. He sat beside the mother, chattering lies about a school and teachers he had never heard of, and then the mother got up to make some calls, leaving Dillon alone to keep a vigil for the girl. For Deanna.