The Light (Morpheus Road) (16 page)

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The sound of a car horn blared from outside. Sydney had arrived. Small miracle.

"Is there anything I can do?" Britt asked.

"I have no idea," I replied. "Everybody's hoping he'll just turn up with some dumb excuse."

"What do
you
think?" she asked.

I didn't answer. I wasn't sure what I thought.

Sydney strode into the shop. She had only been waiting a grand total of ten seconds and was already annoyed. "Do you seriously want to walk back?" she asked.

"Sydney, this is Britt. She saw Cooper the night he disappeared."

Sydney looked Britt up and down as if appraising her. Britt was the opposite of Sydney. Where Sydney was tall and thin with long dark hair, Britt couldn't have been much more than five feet tall with a sparkling, friendly smile. Sydney's cold assessment of Britt bordered on being rude.

"Sydney's Cooper's sister," I said, trying to fill the dead air.

"I know," Britt said. "Hi. I hope he's okay."

"Of course you do," Sydney said, and turned for the door.

I gave Britt an apologetic shrug and followed Sydney. I really didn't want to walk back to the house.

Britt called, "Let me know when you hear something, okay?"

"Absolutely," I said, and ran after Sydney.

Outside the marina Sydney strode for her car but stopped short when she saw that somebody was in her way. It was the guy in the green shirt who needed the boat repair. He was leaning against her car like he owned it. Draped casually over his shoulders was a sweatshirt.

"This your ride?" he asked, trying to sound all casual and cool. "Cute. Who makes it? Matchbox?"

He laughed at his own joke.

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"Who are you?" Sydney asked, surprisingly friendly . .. for Sydney.

"Cayden Reilly," he said as if it was some big announcement that would make everybody gasp. "And who might you be, sweet thing?" he asked without unfolding his arms.

Sydney held out her hand for Cayden to shake.

"My name's Brittany!" she declared with a big smile and a bright giggle.

Uh-oh. That wasn't good.

Cayden snickered as if he thought it was silly to have to shake her hand. He shrugged, but he took it. Wrong move. Sydney gripped his hand and took a step forward until her nose was inches from his. When she spoke, it was with a cool, sinister whisper that made my own blood run cold . . . and I was nowhere near her.

"And I step on turds like you," she said while squeezing his hand so hard, I could swear I heard his knuckles crack.

"Heeey," he squealed in agony.

Sydney kept her eyes locked on his and continued to squeeze until she felt as if he'd had just a little bit more than enough. She let him go, yanked his sweatshirt off his shoulders, and used it to wipe the spot on the car where Cayden had been leaning. She checked her work, dropped the sweatshirt onto the ground, and yanked the door open to get in.

"What is your problem?" Cayden whined, trying to recover. Too late. His cool was destroyed.

Sydney didn't bother to answer. She gunned the engine and took off. I was so stunned by the scene that it didn't hit me for a few seconds that she'd left without me and I was going to have to walk back to the house. The guy named Cayden looked at me sheepishly. Not only was he totally humiliated, but there had been an audience. Me.

He scoffed as if trying to save face. "Witch," he muttered, and jogged back to the docks.

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The guy deserved it. Ron was right. Cayden was a weenie and probably used to getting his way. I knew guys like that. I'd engraved a lot of sailing and tennis trophies for them. He learned that messing with Sydney was a very big mistake. Part of me hoped that she would circle back and pick me up, but to be honest, I was just as happy not to have to be in the same car as her just then.

I heard the sound of a loud engine whine to life. Looking down at the water, I saw Cayden on a Jet Ski, flying away from the dock. Since he was still in the marina and close to shore, he was breaking all sorts of water rules by opening the throttle like that, but he probably needed to show some macho after having been totally humiliated.

I didn't mind that Sydney had ditched me. I wanted time to think. I tried to put myself into Cooper's brain. If he were upset about something, where would he go? What would he do? Was he trying to get away from something? Or run to something else? It bothered me that I didn't have a clue. I thought I knew Cooper better than that. It was one more indication that the two of us were going in different directions.

The long walk back began along the row of stores that lined Main Street. I got maybe halfway along the crowded block when I saw something that made me stop short. A small, unpaved alley ran between two buildings that was barely wide enough for a single car to get through. Standing alone, beyond the buildings near a green Dumpster, was a man with long, unkempt gray hair and several days' growth of beard. He caught my eye because everybody else in this bustling little tourist trap was hurrying somewhere, but he stood stock-still. He was maybe thirty yards from me, but even from that distance I could see that he was staring at me. I looked around, thinking that there was something else he might be focused on, but there was

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nothing. This guy was locked in on me. My first instinct was to keep walking. After all that I had been through at home, the last thing I wanted was to have some strange old homeless-looking river rat staring me down. I would have kept going if not for one thing. As grungy as this guy looked, he was wearing a clean, bright red jacket. The logo on the front was unmistakable. It was an intertwined
D
and
G
over a football. It was the logo of the Davis Gregory football team. I knew that jacket. It was Cooper's.

"Hey!" I screamed.

The guy instantly took off running, and I sprinted after him.

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Chapter 12

The guy may have been old, but he was fast.

I ran up the alley to the back of the building and only caught a brief glimpse of the red jacket as he skirted around a parked SUV and disappeared into the sea of cars and vans.

"Stop!" I yelled, as if that would have helped. What did I think he would do? Stop running and turn around to say, "Sorry, I didn't realize you wanted to speak with me. If I had known, I wouldn't have run to get away from you. What can I do for you, young man?"

Needless to say, that didn't happen. I followed him and got around the SUV to see . . . nothing. I was behind the row of stores facing a mess of Dumpsters and old signs . . . but no guy in a red jacket. I didn't go any farther. When I started chasing him, I reacted without thinking. Now I was thinking. What would I do if I caught him? Grab him by the jacket and intimidate him into telling me where he got it? Not likely.

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Another thought crept up that was more disturbing. What if the guy was a hallucination? Was it possible that I so desperately wanted to find Cooper that my mind had created a character in Coop's jacket? If I caught him, would it turn out to be Gravedigger? I didn't want to go there. In fact, I didn't want to
be
there. A short block away there were dozens of people with ice-cream cones and crying kids, but back there I was feeling very alone. I took one last paranoid glance around, then turned and sprinted back for the alley. I kept looking over my shoulder, hoping the guy in the red jacket wasn't following me. I made it back to Main Street with nothing more to show for my efforts than a stitch in my side and another piece of a confused puzzle.

It was a long, hot walk back to the Foleys' house. I kept expecting to see Sydney pull up in her VW to rescue me. Didn't happen. The next time I saw her was back at the house. She was lying on a lounge chair on the dock, reading a book. In a red bikini. Actually, it was only the top half of a bikini. She still had on her jean shorts and I knew why . . . if she had worn the bikini bottom, she would have revealed her swirly tattoo. Too bad.

I dragged myself down to the dock and stood behind her chair. "Thanks for the ride," I said, trying to drip sarcasm.

She didn't look up from her book. "You were supposed to help me with the groceries."

"You didn't give me the chance."

"You took off to meet the freckle girl. You're lucky I tried to find you."

"It wasn't my fault that obnoxious guy leaned on your car," I countered.

"If I didn't have to come looking for you, I wouldn't have had to deal with him."

It was a battle that couldn't be won, so I gave up.

"Where are your parents?"

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Sydney shrugged. I was getting frustrated. I wanted to tell somebody about what had happened, but the only person available was Sydney. She would have to do.

"I saw a guy in town wearing Cooper's football jacket."

She finally looked up from her book. "How do you know it was Cooper's?"

"What are the odds of a homeless-looking guy wearing a Davis Gregory football jacket up here?"

"Everybody around here looks homeless to me," she said caustically. "And people come up here from Stony Brook all the time."

"It was Coop's," I insisted.

"So tell the police," she said dismissively.

She put the book down, pulled off her sunglasses, and strode to the end of the dock. I have to admit, I watched. She didn't break stride and dove into the water gracefully, still wearing her jean shorts. She surfaced and swam straight out until she reached the wooden float that was anchored about twenty yards beyond the end of the dock. She climbed the ladder and lay down on her back to let the sun dry her. It was an impressive display. Why did she have to be such a witch? I saw that she had been reading a thick SAT study guide. She may have been a witch, but she was a driven witch. The summer had barely begun and she was already prepping for next year's SATs . . . and from what Cooper told me, she had already taken them once and killed them. I guess you don't qualify for valedictorian without working at it.

I, on the other hand, was done with studying for the summer. I went back to the house and grabbed a Batman graphic novel from my pack. Getting lost in Gotham seemed pretty appealing while I waited for the Foleys to get home. I took a beach towel from the porch and brought it down to the water's edge. It was a beautiful day. I didn't want to spend it inside. Besides, I didn't mind checking out Sydney every

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once in a while. So long as we didn't have to speak to each other, we got along just fine. I laid the dark blue towel out on the grass and sat down to begin pretending all was right with the world. My plan was to immerse myself in the world of the Bat. I'd already read that volume a few times, but for me that was, like, nothing. I don't just read graphic novels. I study them. Every nuance. Every twist. I want to understand the choices that were made by the artist as to what story elements should be told through pictures or through words. Some people think it's a waste of time. Okay,
most
people think it's a waste of time. They aren't me. I've liked comics and graphic novels since before I could read. I saw no reason to stop just because I wasn't a little kid anymore.

I don't know if it was the sun or the fact that I had been going pretty much nonstop, but I started getting drowsy. I put the book down and rested on my elbows. Looking around, I saw Sydney still on the float, dragging her fingers lazily through the water. I really wished she didn't have such an attitude. I wanted to like her.

I felt a slight wind kick up. It was so soft that it didn't even move the branches of the trees that hung over the lake. It was like the breeze had floated in just for my benefit. It was only strong enough to kick up some dandelion seeds. The spores floated through the air in a soft, dancing storm of gray that bounced and fluttered around me. I lay down on my back to watch the show. It was hypnotic. I let my mind wander to another time. Another place.

It was called the National Felt Company and it had been around since the Civil War. The sprawling brick factory looked like a medieval fortress. I passed it twice a day on my way to school and back. In third grade we went there on a school field trip and got a tour. That's how we found "the bales."

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Behind the factory was a warehouse they used to store leftover felt. They rolled it up and tied it together in bundles that were about the size of a bale of hay.

The place was huge. It had to be three stories high with hundreds of the colorful bales stacked everywhere, filling the massive space. The building was ancient, and so was the door to get in. Cooper had no trouble figuring out how to get past the crack security lock (a cotter pin) and gain entry. There were no guards. Who was going to steal leftover felt? Each bale probably weighed a hundred pounds. But they were soft, which made playing on them a blast. We'd climb the mountain of bales and move them around to create slides, tunnels, and cliffs. It didn't occur to us that we were trespassing. We were only eleven and we weren't breaking anything. How could we? It was felt.