Blue Is for Nightmares (24 page)

I run into the house headfirst, my forehead smacking against the spotlight hanging down from the partial roof. A splattering of color-spots shoots in front of my eyes, nearly blinding me. But when the colors fade, I'm able to see. It's just like in my dream, like I've already been here. I stand in a large open area, framed in by tall planks of wood. Ahead of me is a long hallway with adjoining rooms to the left and right.

I take tiny steps across the boards, looking for some sign of Drea. Through a grid of wall planks, I can see a blanket laid out on the floor in the other room, with another spotlight hanging over it.

I walk closer. There's a picnic set up. A wicker basket sits in the middle of a red and white checked blanket, with a loaf of French bread and a wine bottle stick ing out. An assortment of fresh lilies sprouts from a crystal- cut vase.

Wind combs through the skeleton of the house and distracts me, blows my hair back. My gaze floats over to the corner of the room. A navy blue backpack is slouched against the wall. I approach the bag slowly, as though something alive is lying dormant inside. I pick it up, unzip the main section, and look inside. But it's too dark to see anything clearly.

I sit down with the bag and aim the flashlight into the opening. There's an empty can of Diet Coke. I pull it out, noticing a kiss of salmon-pink lipstick against the rim. Drea's favorite shade.

The next item, a half-eaten bar of dark chocolate--the kind Drea always buys from the machine in the dorm lobby--with plastic wrap around the teeth marks for protection. And her physics lab notebook, the one Chad sometimes borrows.

I can see one more item, sitting at the bottom. Its shadow makes a sort of looplike shape against the nylon fabric. I reach my hand in and pull it out. Drea's pink bra, the one that got stolen from the washroom.

My body shakes. I bite down on my tongue to keep from screaming out.

Amber's cell phone rings in my pocket. I answer as quickly as I can get my fingers to work.

"Hello?" I whisper, still shaking, barely able to keep the phone in my hands.

"Where the hell are you?"

'Amber--" I gasp, tripping over my breath.

"You were supposed to meet me in my room. The police are here too. I called Officer Tate.

We've been here, waiting for you--"

-No, they're coming here. She's coming here. I told her."

"Yeah, well, I told her you were coming to meet me instead. Wait, what's the matter with you? Is something wrong?"

The floorboards creak. I peer in the direction of the main room, noticing that the spotlight has been shut off. Footsteps make their way across the boards in one of the rooms. I click the phone off, stuff everything back into the bag, and jam the flashlight into my pocket. I stand, cemented in the center of the room, hoping the darkness will hide me.

I'm all alone. No one is coming.

thirty-thr-ce

The sound of footsteps moving toward me fills my ears. I stretch my arms out and spread my fingers to try and find the doorway that will lead me into the main room, the one I entered.

Despite the growing ache, I place all my weight on my bare foot with each step to avoid making noise, but then my ankle makes a loud popping sound.

I close my eyes, clench my fists, and remain still, trying not to breathe. I wait several seconds, but there's only silence.

Slowly, I creep toward the wall and pad my fingers across the planks to try and find the doorway opening. When I do, I stop in what I imagine is the middle of the room, trying to remember whether the front door is to the left or right. The blackness intensifies, shrouding my senses, making my head spin. I want to scream.

The footsteps continue toward me in the darkness, but then they stop; I'm sensing he's just inches away now. I press my body against the planks of wood, trying to squeeze myself through the open gaps to the outside. But it's no use. I can't fit. The only way I'm getting out is through the front door.

"Stacey?"

My chin shakes. Should I speak? Should I answer? I grip the protection bottle so tightly I think the glass might shatter.

"Stacey?" he repeats. "Is that you?"

"Yes."

He clicks the spotlight on over our heads and it takes several seconds before his image is more than a blur of light mixed with black. And then it hits me. The way he's looking at me-1---head sort of cocked to one side, eyebrows, arched, lips pressed together. It's him. The face in my nightmare. The one I saw but couldn't remember.

Donovan.

The sketch. The phase of the moon. The face in my dream. His constant obsession with Drea, and all the stuff in the backpack. Donovan.

He stands in the middle of the room, just below the spotlight. "You scared the shit out of me," he says. "I went

back to look for you, but you were gone and I are you all right?"

Teeth clenched, jaw stiff, I manage a nod.

"I think the coast is clear if you want to leave," he says. I nod a;ain, but don't move.

"Well?' he says. "What's wrong?"

I roll niy shoulders back and clench the protection bottle, reminding myself of strength and empowerment. "Where's Drea?"

"Drea?' The skin between his eyes gathers in a wrinkle, as though he's genuinely confused.

"I'm not leaving without her."

"You don't want to stay here, Stacey. Trust me. I know we haven t been the best of friends, or even friends for that matter. But you need to trust me on this. It's best if we both leave together.

I'll explain when we get back. But like I said before, I'm not leaving you out here alone."

I study his face for some sign of deceit. But his eyes don't flinch once. They stay locked on mine, making me almost believe him.
Almost.

A bubble of energy explodes in my chest. "Tell me where Drea is.
Now!"

"I told you, I don't know what you're talking about, but I think you better leave before it's too late."

"Tell me," I say, "or I'm not going anywhere."

"No!" he shouts. He lunges toward me, his hands at my shoulders, and pins me up against the wall.

I grab the protection bottle from my pocket, wrap my hands around the base, and thrust it into his groin--hard. Donovan stumbles back, lets out a short grunt. But it isn't enough. He grabs around my neck and presses the back of my head against a wooden plank.

"Donovan," I gasp, trying to swallow, feeling every muscle in my neck work.

The protection bottle tumbles from my fingers.

His hands lock tighter. Until I can't breathe at all, until my world falls silent.

I feel my lips part, my tongue fall forward, my eyelids twitter.

"Time to go home,
now!"
He releases his grip on my neck and I feel my knees give way. Down to the ground. My hands grasp around my neck. Coughing. Gasping. Trying to fill my lungs with breath.

The protection bottle is lying on the ground just inches away. Still gasping, I reach forward and snag it, and then stand to meet Donovan eye to eye. I can feel the grit of my teeth. I clench the protection bottle and, with all my might, whack it against the side of his head.

Donovan's head snaps back. He yelps and folds to the ground, the flashlight shooting from his hand. I snatch it up and run.

I know it will only be a matter of time before he rebounds and comes looking for me. I reach into my pocket for Amber's cell phone, but it isn't there, just the tiny flashlight. I stop, feel around in my other pockets, pull at the lining. Nowhere. Did I drop it? Stuff it in the backpack by accident?

I continue to run, wiping at the drool from my eyes-- tears mixed with cold air. The panting of my breath seems even louder than the breaking of sticks under my feet as I run. It feels like broken glass under my wounded, bare foot, like I might not be able to go on.

And then, right below my stomach, a sting, a pulling.

I have to pee.

I aim the flashlight in my random path, its beam illuminating pieces of forest in long and narrow clips. The urge grows more painful with each step. I need to find some place to go. I stop a second, behind a tree, and cross my legs.

I have to trust my body, what it's telling me, where it will lead me. I hold my hand between my legs and fight the urge to give up. What does this mean? What can it tell me? And then it finally hits me the place my body is propelling me to go is the same place I'll find Drea. S HDN.
She's
hidden.
Drea will be hidden inside.

I hobble back in the direction of the construction site. I need to get there, get her out, and flee this forest, before Donovan kills us both.

thirty-rour

I find the porta-john--an eight-foot-tall, celery-green, fiberglass box--just behind the construction site. It's been tipped onto its side.

I prop the flashlight against a rock, on the ground, angling its beam toward me. Then I -squat down and feel around the sides of the box. The door faces sideways. I pull at it, noticing a long steel rod wedged into a finger-sized loophole beside the lock on the outer edge of the box. The rod rests over the door crack, pinning the box closed.

"Drea," I whisper into the door crack.

No response.

I pull at the rod, trying to dislodge it out from the loop, the urge to pee now suddenly quelled.

"Drea," I whisper again, "can you hear me?" I grip my hands around the rod, hard, but my fingers just slide across the metal with each pull.

I want to cry. I want to be sick. But I can't do either. There isn't time. Drea is depending on me. I have to depend on myself.

I search the ground. There has to be something. A rock. I need a rock. There, in the flashlight's beam, I notice one, about the size of a softball. I pick it up in both hands. Look at it. Feel its ample weight, the nice smooth side.

I squat back down, raise the rock high above my head, and strike the end of the rod. It moves about three inches through the loop. Another foot to go.

I repeat the action, over and over again, watching the rod slowly inch its way from the door crack. Wondering where Donovan is, if he can hear me. The muscles in my arms quiver. Only three more hits. Maybe four. But the next couple times, the rod doesn't seem to budge at all. I close my eyes, try to control my panting, and direct my breath into my arms to give them strength. I raise the rock, one last time, and whack the end of the rod. It skates through the loop.

Finally, the door is free.

I throw the door open. There she is. Fetal position. Eyes wide, like a cat. Her hair, tousled and dirty over her face. Thick pieces of duct tape over her mouth, around her wrists and ankles.

The raw, foul stench from the box slaps me across the face, make my stomach wince. I grab her wrists and slide her toward the opening. I can hear her sobbing beneath the tape. Her head quivers, like she's scared and cold at the same time. I grab a corner of the tape, by her ear, and pull until her mouth is free, until her sobs are unleashed.

"Drea," I plead, "you have to keep quiet." I look around. No Donovan yet.

I fumble with the tape around her ankles for the end, where I can pull, but I can't get my fingers to work fast enough. Drea continues to sob thick, hungry sobs, like she can't get enough breath.

She scrunches her knees up and down, like that will release the tape. "Drea," I breathe, you need to keep still."

I find the end of the tape. I yank on it and start unraveling layer after layer from around her ankles. I glance over my shoulder again. Still clear, though I can sense him getting closer. Drea wriggles her feet back and forth as I get closer to the end. "Stop," I whisper. "You're making it harder."

She wails out even louder. He must have heard us by now.

I free her ankles from the tape, stand up, and grab at her arms to pull her up. She won't budge.

Dead weight. "Drea, come on," I plead.

She focuses down and shakes her head, just keeps on crying.

"Drea, please. I need your help. He's coming, don't you understand? He killed Veronica. We could be next."

She curls her knees into her chest and tightens her eyelids shut to block me out. I take a deep breath in, squat

down, place one arm under her knees, the other around her back, and try to pick her up cradle-style.

I wrestle to stand up, putting all the weight in my legs, but the bottom of my foot feels like it's tearing open; there's a burning, itching sensation boring into my arch. I take a step and end up falling down against my back,- Drea toppling over me, crying even louder now.

I reach into my pocket for the protection bottle. I position it in her hands and watch her fingers, soiled and bloody at the nubs, wrap around the base.

"Remember strength," I whisper. 'And safety."

This seems to calm her a bit. The tears slide down her cheeks with less energy and her eyes cool down into a blank stare.

Straight ahead, just beyond us, I notice a shifting in the bushes. I slide Drea off me and grab the flashlight. I beam the area, but can't see anything. There's only one thing left to do.

I clutch my hands under Drea's arms from behind and start to drag her away, the heels of her boots digging into the earth, as if she's trying to anchor herself in place.

I drag her backwards as fast as I can, trying to check over my shoulder for direction. I search up into the sky for the North Star to make sure I'm leading us back to campus, but the treetops have blocked the view, made it darker. I lead us into an area laden with tall, overgrown bushes.

Drea looks back at me and her mouth arches wide in a scream. Loud. Crazed.

A blade presses against my neck, forcing me to drop her.

"Don't you wish you had gone back to campus, now?" Donovan breathes. He holds me in a headlock, the point of the blade needling into my skin.

"No!" Drea shouts. She lifts her arms toward her head, like she wants to cover her ears, block everything out, but her bound wrists make it impossible.

"Donovan--" The ball in my throat bobs up and down beneath his grip. "Drea--she needs help, a doctor."

"You did this. This is your fault." Donovan releases the headlock and pushes me to the ground; I land smack on my butt. "Hands behind your back!" he shouts.