Siren (18 page)

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"Great. Your car or mine?"

He looked at me. "Are you sure you want to come?"

Was I sure? Did that mean he wasn't sure? Had he decided he had enough to worry about without worrying about me, too?

"Don't get me wrong--I'm thrilled if you do. But the last time didn't exactly go well." He glanced toward the harbor, a small sliver of which was visible from the parking lot, and then turned back to me. "And I won't let anything happen to you."

When my heart raced now, I knew it wasn't because I was afraid.

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CHAPTER 13

"SORRY, FOLKS. I haven't seen anyone who matches that description."

"That's impossible," Simon said, opening and holding out his cell phone. "He called from this number less than an hour ago."

Ernie, the stout owner of the Bad Moose Café, breathed heavily and wiped his hands on a stained dish towel as he leaned forward. "That's us."

"And you don't recall anyone asking to use your phone today?"

"Kid," Ernie grunted, "look around. Do you think I'd actually
forget
someone asking to use the phone? That kind of thing makes for a big occasion around here."

Simon and I glanced around the tiny restaurant. It was empty except for an elderly couple in a corner booth.

"Be nice, Ernie," a waitress said, coming out of the kitchen with a tray of half-empty ketchup bottles. "Remember what we

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talked about? About how one little smile can mean the difference between returners and one-timers?"

Ernie flashed us a quick, fake smile before throwing the dish towel over one shoulder and disappearing into the kitchen.

"Pardon him. Ernie still believes that
food
is the only thing people care about when they go out to eat." The waitress put down the tray and smiled. "Let's try that again. Welcome to the Bad Moose Café. I'm Melanie. What can we do for you today?"

"Melanie," Simon said, "we're looking for my brother. He called from here about an hour ago. Do you remember anyone asking to use your phone?"

She squinted as she considered this. "Nope ... but that might be because we weren't around for him to ask. Ernie's been engrossed in
The Ellen DeGeneres
all morning, and my pesky nicotine addiction takes me outside a few times every hour."

Hurry, Vanessa...
.

"Did you happen to see him?" I asked. "He's sixteen, just under six feet tall, with dark blond hair and brown eyes."

"There's only been one boy in here today besides Ernie and Mr. Mortimer." She winked at the elderly man in the corner. "Couldn't say how old he was, but his hair was dark brown--definitely not blond--and kind of messy. At least from what I could see of it, since he wore the hood of his sweatshirt up the whole time."

"Did you notice anything else?" I asked.

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"Just that his girlfriend made me feel as pretty as a rock," she said, heading for the couple with a pot of coffee. "I swear, once my shift's over I'm renewing my subscription to Jenny Craig, dyeing my hair black, and ordering colored contact lenses."

My breath caught. I couldn't even look at Simon. "What color contact lenses?"

She gasped and brought one hand to her chest. "Silver."

Simon and I stood so close I could feel his entire body tense.

"And not just, like, dull silverware silver." She held up a fork from the table. "Pretty silver. Magical silver. The silver of Christmas tinsel."

"Did they happen to say where they were going?" Simon asked.

"They didn't say a word. He ate, she didn't, and they were gone when I came back from my second cigarette."

"Thank you for your help," I said, before hurrying after Simon.

As we got in the car and sped out of the parking lot, I tried to stay calm and keep my head clear. I didn't know how I was hearing her, and whether I should listen ... but Justine had told us to hurry. If I could just stay open, maybe she would tell us which direction to hurry
in
.

"She's not saying anything," I groaned softly after a few minutes.

Simon glanced at me. "Who?"

I stared out the passenger's-side window, wishing the dark

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green blur of pine trees flying by would rewind and reverse. I hadn't meant to refer to Justine out loud; the words were out of my mouth before my brain had even registered them. Would he think I was crazy if I told him? Would he think I was as scientifically impossible as the Winter Harbor storms, or the smiling victims? And wouldn't he be right if he did?

"She talks to me," I said reluctantly.

He glanced through the windshield, then back at me. "Who?"

"Justine." My voice sounded normal, but I knew what I said sounded crazy. "Not all the time. Not even every day. But it started after she died, as soon as I got back to Winter Harbor."

The Subaru slowed. "What does she say?"

I felt like crying when he didn't automatically make the judgments he would've been justified to make. "My name." Now that it was out there, there was no point in holding back. "And she talks about Caleb."

His fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

"She hasn't said much, but it's like she's trying to guide us to him."

"How?"

"So far she's said that he has to want to be found, that he
does
want to be found but can't see past the light ... and that he's getting tired."

"Tired of what?"

"I don't know. She's not always forthcoming. Like now--she said we had to hurry, but she left out why, or where."

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Simon was silent as he stared straight ahead. I looked out the window, thinking that I better make the most of this trip just in case it was the last we took together.

"Vanessa--"

"I know it's crazy," I said before he could. "I know it sounds like I've lost it, and maybe I have. I mean, most normal people aren't terrified of the dark and the ocean and heights and flying, and being alone. Some people might be afraid of one thing, but I'm afraid of
everything
. It's not normal.
I'm
not normal. So this--hearing my dead sister talk to me from somewhere above--is probably par for the course. It's like I've maxed out on everything in the world there is to fear and have started making up my own. So now I can start fearing that, too--whatever else my twisted imagination is capable of."

These words, like the ones I'd initially spoken about not hearing Justine say anything, were out before I could consider the damage they'd do.

"Vanessa ...," he said again, his voice softer. "I was going to say that it must be very difficult. To hear her like that, when you miss her so much."

Outside, the long line of trees was broken by a gas station, a coffee shop, a post office.

"And you're not crazy."

We passed the school, a market, a dentist's office. The buildings grew closer together as we entered downtown Springfield.

"In fact, I think you're--"

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"Simon." I twisted in my seat and craned my neck to look behind us. "Turn around."

"What?" A sharp edge replaced the softness in his voice. "Did you see him?"

"No." I turned to him and could already feel the headache starting. "But we just passed a red Mini Cooper."

He swerved onto the shoulder and made a wide U-turn so fast the tires squealed across the road.

"There." I pointed to the car. It sat on the side of the road, nowhere near any of the surrounding businesses.

He slammed on the brakes, skidded onto the shoulder, and threw the car into park.

"Are you sure it's hers?" he asked as we sprinted across the street. "It looks abandoned."

He was right; the car was parked haphazardly, its nose tucked in the woods and its back end sticking out on the small strip of grass between the trees and the road. If I hadn't been staring out the window, we would've driven right by.

"I'm sure." The pain in my head grew stronger with each step.

We stopped by the car and peered in the windows. The interior was immaculate, except for the passenger seat, which was filled with clothes, makeup, and empty water bottles. A crystal perfume bottle hung from the rearview mirror. An atlas opened to the state of Maine sat on the dashboard.

I lingered by the passenger's-side door as Simon started into

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the woods. I closed my eyes and pictured Justine. I saw her blue eyes, her smile, her hair. I tried to hear her voice, willed it to sound from somewhere outside my head so that we could either follow its instructions or the direction it seemed to come from.

But she was silent. The only sounds were of birds singing, cars passing, Simon crunching through leaves and sticks ... and the drumming in my head. It banged louder, faster, as I headed into the woods.

"This is ridiculous," Simon said ten minutes later. "There's no trail. How do we even know they're in here? We're walking in circles, and they could already be gone."

I stopped. "Simon."

He looked at me, then followed my gaze to the dead tree standing a few yards away. A victim of age, disease, fire, or some combination, it looked like a skeleton rising from the leaves. And hanging from one long, gray, leafless limb was a hooded maroon sweatshirt.

Reaching the tree, Simon lifted one sleeve and turned it toward me so that I could see the Bates logo.

"The leaves are flattened," he said, looking down and away from the tree's narrow trunk. "They kept going."

He started jogging, and I hurried after him, terrified and relieved when I had to press both hands to my forehead against the searing pain. As we ran, Simon glanced behind him every now and then to make sure I was okay. Soon the pain was so powerful I could barely see past the bright white dots distorting my vision, but I assured him I was fine.

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Until she laughed.

I dropped to my knees, my chest pressing against the tops of my legs. I closed my eyes and grabbed at the ground, my fingers digging through leaves and into the cold dirt. I'd never heard Zara laugh, and the sound was like nothing I'd heard before. It was like one long high note hitting a glass prism and shattering into a million high notes--some short, some long, some loud, some soft--that shot out into the atmosphere at different angles until they completely drowned out all other noise.

It was also like a grenade detonated in my skull.

I kept my head lowered and focused on breathing. She didn't laugh again, and after a few minutes the pain dulled enough that I was able to open my eyes.

"Simon," I whispered. He stood a few feet away, staring into a cluster of trees. When he didn't hear me, I lifted my torso and crawled toward him.
"Simon."

My nervousness gave way to alarm. Whatever he saw through the trees was so bad he hadn't noticed I was no longer behind him. I climbed to my feet and shuffled as quickly and quietly as I could. He didn't turn around once--not even when I stood next to him.

I stepped closer and peered through the trees.

Zara. She wore a short white skirt that lifted away from her legs in the breeze, and a fitted white tank top. Her feet were bare. The outfit was so unlike the tight black skirt, black tube top, and stilettos I'd seen her in that day at her house, I was

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almost relieved. Serial killers didn't wear all white the day they decided to off their next victim, did they?

"Beautiful."

My head snapped toward Simon. He was still staring, transfixed, like Zara was a flawless, translucent pendulum swinging in front of him.

"She's beautiful ... isn't she?"

I turned back, my face burning. How could he think that at a time like this? He wasn't some random teenage guy whose every thought careened around the same track. He was
Simon
. Mr. Weatherman. Mr. Science Guy. How could he of all people get caught up in hormones, emotions, or whatever, when Caleb sat only a few yards away?

And how could I suddenly wish I'd put more thought into my appearance that morning so that I had the same hypnotizing effect?

I watched Zara sit near Caleb on top of some large rocks surrounded by trees. She leaned back on her palms with her legs stretched out before her. She faced him while he faced forward, his back to us. I couldn't see his expression, but it was clear by the way he sat--perfectly straight and still--that he was uncomfortable.

She leaned forward and shifted to her knees. She crawled toward him, the white skirt flitting around her tan legs, her dark hair falling over one shoulder. She watched him as she moved, her silver eyes like stars, and smiled, apparently anticipating the reaction she knew would come.