Rest In Peace (16 page)

Lucy took her backpack from the car and locked the doors. Then she followed Matt to his Jeep and got in.

“How come you're out this late?” Matt asked curiously as they wound their way out of the neighborhood. “Not that this is
late
, of course—but late for Pine Ridge.”

Lucy stared at the dashboard. The heater was on, but hadn't had a chance to warm up. Unconsciously, she held her hands out toward the vents.

“I was studying with a friend. Her family has this old bookstore in Pine Corners.”

“Dakota Montana, right? Yeah, I've been to that bookstore—it's pretty amazing. You could spend hours poking around and still not see everything.”

“I saw Byron,” Lucy said.

Her eyes widened slowly as she realized what she'd said.
Oh God
. . .
why did I do that?

From the corner of her eye, she caught Matt's quick glance. “You . . . what?”

Should she pursue it? Go into detail? Hadn't she acted crazy enough around Matt for one night?

“I was looking out the window. And I thought I saw Byron,” she mumbled at last.

“Oh. You
thought
you saw him.”

Lucy shut her eyes. “I
did
see him.”

An uncomfortable silence settled between them. Lucy opened her eyes again, and focused on her outstretched hands. When Matt finally spoke, his voice was gentle.

“Where? Where'd you see him?”

“Don't talk to me like that.”

Matt was surprised. “Like what?”

“Like you'd talk to some three-year-old with imaginary friends. I'm not making it up. And I'm not crazy.”

“Lucy—”

“No. I'm tired of people not believing me. I'm tired of people treating me like I belong in a mental institution. And you know, it's all such bullshit. Everybody says
talk
about it—get it
out
so you can move on with your life. But when I
do
talk about it, everyone says oh dear, she's
hallucinating
. It's the
head
injury, it's the
pain
medication.”

“Lucy—”

“Out of all the houses I could have picked to ask for help tonight, why was it
that
house? And do you know what happened when Mrs. Dempsey made me go into that bedroom? Byron's grandmother
knew
me! She wrote my name on her slate! How could she know me, she's never even seen me before!”

“Well, maybe—”

“No. Just listen to me. If you don't believe when I
tell
you things, then maybe you'll believe something you can
see
. Maybe you'll believe
this
.”

Furiously, Lucy dug into her backpack. She found the notebook she'd wedged in there earlier, and yanked it out, spilling papers all over the front seat. As Matt kept one eye on her and the other on the street, she started flipping through the pages.

“So you think it's all just in my mind? Then what do you think about solid proof? What do you think about messages written in blood?”

Matt pulled over to the curb. He put the Jeep in park and gave Lucy his full and silent attention. As Lucy kept turning the pages of the notebook, her movements grew more frantic. She got to the end, and a look of confusion struck her face. Immediately she began flipping backward, then forward again, then back. Jerking up the notebook, she turned it sideways and shook it violently, trying to dislodge any loose papers that might be stuck inside. Confusion turned to disbelief. Disbelief turned to desperation.

“Lucy,” Matt said quietly.

“No! It was
here
! Someone put it in my notebook, and it was
here
! I
saw
it! It can't be gone—there's no
way
it could be gone! I had it with me every minute, and then I locked the car!”

But then she remembered.

She remembered placing her backpack behind the counter at the bookstore. Going off with Dakota for a tour. Not checking the backpack again when they'd sat down to study. Not checking again after she'd gone to search for Byron and Dakota had gone in search of her. Just assuming the notebook was still there, exactly where she'd left it.

“Someone must have taken it,” she murmured now. “Someone must have taken it at the bookstore. That's the only place it could have happened.”

But maybe it had happened while she was inside the Wetherly house. Maybe someone had broken into the car, then locked it up again. Anyone could do that . . . an expert could do that. Someone who enjoyed playing mean, cruel tricks could do that or . . .

Someone who follows me. Someone who watches. Someone who hides in the shadows of a cave
. . .

She looked beseechingly at Matt. “It said, ‘very soon.'”

And she suddenly realized that Matt had ahold of her hands and was leaning toward her, his brow creased with worry, his eyes full of sadness and sympathy.

“What did, Lucy?” he asked her.

“The message. The warning. It was in my notebook when I opened it this morning. It said, ‘Very soon, Lucy.' And it was the color of dried blood. In fact, I'm
sure
it was dried blood—it
looked
like dried blood . . .”

Her voice trailed away. She felt Matt draw her closer, and as all the strength drained out of her, Lucy pressed her head against his chest.

“I don't know how it got there, Matt,” she whispered. “And I don't know how it disappeared.”

She closed her eyes and kept very still. She could feel the warmth of his jacket and the strong beat of his heart. She could feel the steady vibration of the car, and the rush of heat from the vents.

She could feel Matt smoothing back her hair.

She could feel his arms starting around her, and his sudden hesitation, and the way he shifted away from her then, ever so slightly.

“Lucy.” His voice was low. “I want you to have this.”

Lucy drew back. She watched Matt reach up and remove a chain from around his neck. He stared at it for a moment, then eased it carefully over her head.

“What are you doing?” she asked, surprised.

The chain was thin, but sturdy. It slid into place, its small, round medallion resting lightly upon the front of her coat.

“Someone gave me this a long time ago.” Matt smiled faintly, as though remembering. “It's helped me through some pretty rough times. Maybe you could give it a try.”

“Oh, Matt . . .”

Lucy didn't know what to say. Lifting the medallion, she held it up close, trying to see the design. In the dim interior of the Jeep, it appeared to be carved with some sort of pattern, but one that Lucy didn't recognize.

“It's an ancient holy symbol,” Matt explained.

“It's beautiful. But, Matt, I can't keep it.”

“Why not?”

“Because it's special to you. You can't just give it to me like this.”

“But I just did. And now I hope it'll be special to
you
.”

Then, before Lucy could protest, he switched his attention to the steering wheel.

“Better get you home,” he said quickly.

And it wasn't till much later, when Lucy was lying awake in bed, that she realized she'd never even asked him what the symbol meant.

21

She dreamed she was back at the tomb.

Back in the old cemetery, standing outside the Wetherly mausoleum.

She was alone.

And someone was following her.

In the nightmare, Lucy looked back over her shoulder, into the pitch-black night, through the wind-lashed trees, beyond the pounding rain. Thunder shook the ground beneath her feet. Thunder loud enough to wake the dead.

She pressed her face against the wrought-iron gates of the family crypt. The gates were locked, but she wrapped her hands tightly around the tall spikes and began to pull. Lightning flashed overhead, throwing the graveyard in and out of shadow. And with every stab of lightning, she caught just a glimpse of the tomb's cold interior, the leaf-littered floor, and the catacombed walls.

Terror rose inside her. The terror of being stalked, the terror of imminent danger.

The rain fell harder.

The air reeked of death.

Without any warning, the gates swung open. Yet Lucy remained on the crumbling steps, powerless to move.

“Byron,” she called, “Byron, please help me!”

And then a voice—
his
voice—faint and sad and empty, from somewhere she couldn't see . . .

“Keep away,” he warned her. “There's no one in this place.”

 

Lucy shot up in bed.

Her heart was racing, and her nightgown was damp with sweat.

As she tossed back her covers, the last bits and pieces of dreaming clutched at her mind before fading and vanishing altogether.

She was out of breath. She swung her feet to the floor and padded barefoot to the sliding glass doors, parting the curtains and gazing out at the darkness.

Snow flittered against a velvet backdrop of night.

The pane felt icy to her touch, yet her body pulsed with heat.

That deep, insistent ache that made her want to moan, that ache that couldn't be filled.

Slowly she drew her nightgown off over her head.

She pressed her naked body to the glass, savoring the smooth, shocking cold against her skin.

How she longed to be out in that darkness.

Out beyond the backyard wall . . . out beyond those trees shining silver beneath the moon . . .

For some weird, unknown reason, the longing to be outside was suddenly—almost painfully—overwhelming.

Lucy started to unlock the doors, then remembered the security system was on. If only she could step out to the balcony, feel the snowflakes on her cheeks, the wind through her hair. The room was getting warmer; the walls were closing in. She couldn't stand being here one more second. Grabbing her robe from the foot of the bed, she slipped it on and tiptoed through the silence of the house.

She paused to disarm the security system. Her breath was coming faster now, her heart fluttering in anticipation. As though she were bound for some forbidden rendezvous. As though the night were her secret lover.

Without a sound, Lucy crept out the back door.

The wind loosened the sash at her waist, blowing her robe open and easing it down off her shoulders. It whipped around her as she spread her arms wide and embraced the cold.

Stimulating . . . invigorating . . . it made her feel strangely alive.

As though sorrow had never touched her . . .

As though she
belonged
somewhere . . .

“Lucy? What in heaven's name are you doing?”

The voice came from behind her. Startled, Lucy hastily tied her robe together and turned to see Irene hovering in the kitchen doorway.

“Lucy,” her aunt asked again, but more puzzled than angry, “
what
are you doing out here?”

“I . . .”

Lucy stared back in confused silence. Irene obviously expected some sort of answer from her, but the longer Lucy stared, the more she began to realize that she didn't actually
know
what she was doing out here. Out here in the cold and the snow, in the middle of the night.

“I . . . needed some air.”

It was the only thing her brain could come up with on such short notice. She shivered violently and realized she had nothing on her feet.

“Come back inside.” Irene's frown was colder than the temperature. “Honestly, Lucy, this makes me wonder if Dr. Fielding should increase your medication. Instead of acting so foolishly, why didn't you just adjust the thermostat?”

Lucy took the scolding in her stride.

She went back to her room, donned a pair of flannel pajamas, and piled more blankets on the bed.

And then she stood there in the darkness, peering out through the sliding glass doors, hugging herself against the chill that lingered in her veins.

She stared off across the lawn and past the low stone wall, and she realized that something had changed.

Something about the night.

Something that made it different now . . . different in a way she couldn't quite understand.

Almost as though it had been alive before . . .

But now, it was only a dream.

22

“You haven't said three words since we sat down,” Dakota chided gently. “And you haven't touched your lunch.”

Startled from her reverie, Lucy gave her friend a guilty look. “Sorry. I just don't have much of an appetite, I guess.”

“I guess, too,” Dakota echoed. “Lucy, you have to start eating better—you need to keep up your strength.” Then, when Lucy didn't respond, she added, “Are you still worried about your notebook? I'll ask my dad about it, but I'm sure he'd have seen it behind the counter if you left it.”

She watched as Lucy picked up a napkin, folded it into fourths, then absentmindedly dropped it on the table.

“Is it your aunt?” Dakota tried again.

Lucy looked down at her plastic tray. “You know, it's a sad state of affairs when school cafeteria food looks better than what you get at your own house.”

“You didn't answer my question.”

“Okay,” Lucy sighed. “She caught me by surprise. Even though I should know better by now.”

“I can't believe it either. I mean, what kind of mother takes off like that when her daughter's still missing?”

“Dr. Fielding advised her to go. He said it would be therapeutic. He said she couldn't do anything here anyway, except worry and be constantly reminded that Angela's gone. And she can stay in touch with the private investigator anywhere.”