Rest In Peace (4 page)

Lucy had heard it all before. She'd told the police everything she could remember about her ordeal—the muffled sounds and shadows, the pools of blood, the dead rabbit, how someone had tried to camouflage the entrance to the cave, and how she'd finally escaped in spite of it. She'd told the doctors, too, and Aunt Irene, and even the private investigator her aunt had hired to search for Angela. But she knew they didn't believe her. Like Dr. Fielding, they all thought she suffered from delusions, the results of her head injury, exposure, and shock.

“But someone found me and brought me to the hospital,” she couldn't help reminding him. “And that was real.”

Dr. Fielding had conceded with a smile. “Yes. That was definitely real. Three days after the accident, someone left you outside the door of the emergency room. No one saw this person come or go, and no one's been able to find out who it was. If they could, it might help enormously in solving your disappearance.”

“I just wish I could thank him. I think of him every day, and I try so hard to remember something about him . . .
anything
about him.”

“Maybe you're trying too hard.”

“All I know is, he wasn't the one in the cave.”

“And how can you be so sure?”

“I can't explain it, but I just know. His voice was different.”

“Hallucinations can seem very, very real.”

Hallucinations?
Well, maybe she really
had
imagined it. Maybe she really
was
going insane.

“You remembered drifting in and out of consciousness,” Dr. Fielding had said, going over his notes once more. “And the will to survive is an incredible thing. It gives us the endurance we might never have under normal circumstances.”

“But what if I'm right? What if I'm right, and whoever I escaped from comes after me again?”

“You're catastrophizing, Lucy. Even if this person
were
real, how could you be any safer than you are right now, with all this attention being focused on you? No one would dare try to kidnap you twice.”

Lucy had bitten her lip in frustration. Twisted her hands even tighter in her lap.

“So if I wasn't kidnapped, then what did I do after the wreck? Just wander around for miles and miles? Find shelter in some place that doesn't even exist?”

“There was no serious frostbite on your feet; the hypothermia you suffered was relatively mild. Not nearly severe enough to suggest your wandering outdoors for any extended length of time. Your other injuries were consistent with those from a car accident, or from falling down a hill, as you described—scrapes, bruises, mild concussion, those nasty gashes on your head. No broken bones, incredibly. And the rest of the examination showed no evidence whatsoever of any sexual molestation.”

Lucy had turned her head away, and stared out the office window.
But someone took my clothes. And someone touched me. And something stung like fire, something I've never felt before
. . .

She still remembered the sensation. Remembered it all too clearly, though she hadn't been able to find any unusual marks on her skin; no tell-tale punctures, no secret scars, nothing intimate or the least bit intrusive. Yet a few times it had come back to her in the middle of the night, in writhing dreams, flushing her entire body with heat and a sense of perpetual emptiness.

Just remembering it in Dr. Fielding's office today had caused that strange, unsettling ache deep, deep within her. An untreatable ache that made her squirm restlessly in her chair.

“I'm very pleased with your test results,” the doctor had continued, not seeming to notice her sudden uneasiness. “Your stitches can come out in a week or two; your soreness, I'm afraid, will take a little longer. And I expect you to make even more progress in the days to come. But injuries take time to heal, you know.” His gaze was one of genuine sympathy. “Not just the physical ones, but the emotional ones, as well.”

The ache inside her had suddenly focused on her heart.

“You want me to talk about Byron,” she said quietly.

“I understand his funeral is this weekend.”

Lucy had swallowed tears, barely able to answer. “Tomorrow.”

“Are you going to attend?”

But the tears had only thickened as she shook her head. “I can't. There's no way I can do it.”

“Do you think it might help give you some sort of closure?”

“How can there ever be closure? I can't stop thinking about him. I can't stop thinking about his grandmother, and how she's going to manage now that he's gone.”

“Do you know his grandmother?”

“I've only heard about her. I know she's sick and that Byron took care of her. And I feel so responsible, and I keep thinking how can I possibly help her—”

“Lucy,” he'd said, cutting her off gently, “right now you're in no condition to take care of anyone. Right now you need to concentrate on yourself and—”

“Can we just not talk about it anymore?”

There'd been that uncomfortable silence between them then; that silence, Lucy knew, that always preceded some sort of lecture.

At last Dr. Fielding spoke. “I think there are certain things that each of us must work through in our own time, in our own way. Loss and grief are just two of those things. You know I'm always here to help you. Whenever you're ready.”

For one split second she'd almost given in. He'd looked so wise, so sincere, that the need to unburden herself had almost been more than she could bear.
Since you're so interested in knowing, Doctor, it all started when I went into the cemetery, found a murdered girl, was touched with a supernatural power, met Byron, and then found myself having weird visions and being watched and followed by some dark shadowy thing
. . .

She'd actually leaned forward. She'd stared into Dr. Fielding's eyes, and her fingers had gripped the arms of her chair.

“When I'm ready,” she'd finally answered.

She could tell he'd been disappointed. Yet he'd reached over and given her hand an encouraging squeeze. “With that said, I see no reason why you can't start back to school. I think a normal routine would be very beneficial at this juncture, offer some stability. People your own age . . . fun activities . . . anything to distract you from the terrible ordeal you've just experienced.”

“Byron's dead. Angela's missing.” These were the words she'd repeated so many, many times that she'd lost count. “It's all my fault.”

And once more, Dr. Fielding had given his tireless response. “None of this is your fault, Lucy. None of this was
ever
your fault. Life has its own agenda; it never asks our permission or approval. You're alive, and you're safe. And, believe me . . . that's nothing to feel guilty about.”

 

How simple he made it sound, Lucy thought now, shifting positions, slumping down on the couch. Had it been only six days since Angela slipped away from the Fall Festival with her invisible boyfriend—generating search parties and volunteers, police investigations and nationwide alerts, false leads and dead-end tips? Lucy could still recall her cousin's behavior that Saturday night—rebellious and excited, mysterious and hopeful with thoughts of love. Now Angela was just another teenage runaway, just another statistic, like millions of other girls that vanished every year.

Except there was nothing typical about Angela's disappearance—Lucy was sure of it. And there was no one—no one at all—whom she could share her suspicions with.

Byron whose funeral was tomorrow.

Guilt slammed into her with merciless force—the same guilt that battered her day after day, ripping her heart, wearing her down.

“
If you want to live
,” Katherine had told her, “
you mustn't tell anyone what you've seen here tonight
.”

The words of the murdered girl echoed through Lucy's brain. Katherine had warned her that night, and Lucy had chosen to ignore it; Katherine had warned her and died, yet Lucy hadn't really believed.

How could she have been so stupid? So irresponsible? How could she have dismissed Katherine's warning so easily?

Because Byron already knew what was happening
. . .
because Byron already understood the danger
. . .
because Byron was strong and brave and determined to take a chance
. . .

Lucy buried her face in her hands.

She would never escape the guilt. It would never stop tormenting her. And no amount of prayers or tears, no well-meant platitudes or rationalizations, could ever bring Byron back.

She'd felt so horribly alone before.

But that was nothing compared to now.

4

The whole world seemed to be weeping for Byron.

As if in keeping with Lucy's mood, the day dawned gray and bitterly cold. Mist hung thick in the air, and after several feeble attempts to break through, the sun sank despondently behind a mourning veil of clouds.

Lucy closed the sliding glass doors to the balcony. In spite of her warm room and layers of clothes, she dug through her closet and put on another sweatshirt. She hadn't been able to stop shivering since she'd woken up. She'd hardly been able to keep her thoughts straight.

“Are you certain you don't want to go to the funeral?”

Lucy spun around. She hadn't heard Irene in the hall, and now, as her aunt peered at her from the threshold, Lucy's stomach went queasy. Irene was dressed in conservative black, and her face was completely expressionless.

“I understand he's being buried in the old cemetery, but you needn't go if you feel uncomfortable,” the woman went on. “You don't even have to stay for the entire service. Apparently his grandmother requested a casket, but it won't be open, of course, and—”

She broke off, looking uncomfortable.

No open casket, no body
, Lucy's guilt taunted her.
Just charred remains
.

“I'm going to be sick,” Lucy whispered, and bolted for the bathroom. When she finally came out again, Irene had gone, and a morbid silence settled throughout the house.

For a long while Lucy sat on the edge of her bed. She stared at the clock on her bedside table and watched the slow, torturous passing of time. Less than an hour till Byron's final farewell. Her heartbeat kept time to the tick of the clock. Her chest was so tight, she could hardly breathe. On unsteady legs she went back into the bathroom and stood at the sink, running a cold, wet washcloth over her face.

She looked so pale. Empty and haunted. The way her reflection had looked when Mom died. As though this might be the way she was going to look from now on.

She ran one hand slowly through her long blond hair, wincing at the tiny stitches near her scalp and the ones high up on her forehead. No point using makeup, she decided—nothing could hide the dark smudges beneath her eyes or the hollow expression gazing back at her, and her face would be covered anyway. She wove her hair into a single braid and tucked it down the back of her shirt. Then, returning to her room, she opened the top dresser drawer and took out her jewelry box.

Sadly she gazed down into the jumbled contents. She sifted some tangled necklaces between her fingers, and she sorted through a clump of earrings and silver bracelets. And then she found what she was looking for.

A pin.

A tiny, gold, heart-shaped pin that her mother had given her on her thirteenth birthday.

It had always been special to her, something she'd loved and cherished.

And that's why she wanted Byron to have it now.

Tucking it into her pocket, Lucy hurried downstairs. She went straight to the coat closet in the front hall, where she pulled on an oversized jacket and a pair of thick raglan gloves. She wound a knitted scarf around her neck and up over her chin; she stuck a wool cap on her head and worked it down as far as it would go.

Lucy felt satisfied with her disguise. She wasn't exactly sure when she'd changed her mind about the funeral, but now that she had, she felt an urgency to get the whole thing over with. She was sure no one would recognize her, and especially at a distance. She didn't plan on staying long anyway, just long enough for everyone to leave the gravesite, so she could have one last moment with Byron.

Turning abruptly, she headed for the garage. Yesterday morning she'd found Angela's car key lying on her nightstand, along with a brand-new cell phone—emergencies only—and a note from Irene encouraging her to use the Corvette. It made her uncomfortable, remembering how Irene had confiscated that same key the night Angela disappeared. There was something about using Angela's car that stirred Lucy's guilt all over again—almost as though she were
betraying
her cousin—but the truth was, she needed a car, and Irene was seldom around to offer transportation.

So as she drove slowly through the wet streets, her thoughts were focused on how ironic fate could be. The fact that she was using Angela's precious car only because Angela was missing. And the fact that she was going to the cemetery, where so many things in life ended—but where so many things in her life had begun.

The place where she'd first met Byron.

And now, the place where she would tell him good-bye.

Lucy had no trouble finding the old church that adjoined the town's even older burial grounds. By the time she arrived, the solemn cortege had wound its way along a narrow dirt lane through the graveyard and come to a respectful stop behind the hearse. Parking her car around the block where it wouldn't be noticed, she ducked her head and slipped in the back way.