Figment (15 page)

“Is he still there?” I sobbed, trying to look behind me. I couldn’t see beyond the bushes, though. Jeremiah could be right there, just a few feet away.

“What? Who?” Oliver tried to pull me back. “Zoe, wait.”

“No!” I ripped my hand from his restraining grasp. “You don’t understand.” My voice was a hoarse whisper. “Please, Oliver, we’re in danger. Please, it’s this man—which way did we come?” I looked around frantically for the little footpath we’d taken in, but in my panic, I couldn’t find it.

A stick snapped sharply just beyond the screen of bushes.

“Oh my God, he’s here!” The fear leapt up into my throat like a wild animal, snarling and grabbing at me.

“Here, it’s over here!” Oliver pulled me beyond the bushes, and we leapt over a little creek. The footpath was just beyond, twisting its way deeper into the woods.

We ran down the path, our shoes slipping in the mud. My breath rasped in and out of my throat. I threw a quick glance behind me. Nothing. Had we lost him? I didn’t dare stop running.

Huge tree trunks flashed past us, watching like mute sentinels. I could hear Oliver breathing heavily behind me, cursing as he stumbled over the branches lying across our path. We were almost out of the woods now. I spotted a clearing ahead, the fog lying in wisps over tall grass. “Oliver,” I gasped. “Quick, what’s that? Is there a place to hide?”

“It’s a little meadow. There’s nothing there. We’re at the edge of the gardens now.”

Then I heard a rustle behind us and whipped around. Jeremiah was running down the path toward us, his suit and loafers incongruous in the woods. He was approaching fast.

Oliver whipped around. “He’s catching up!”

There was no time to hide anywhere else. We burst into the clearing and, without speaking, dropped flat on our stomachs. Oliver threw his arm over my back, and we lay still.

The waist-high grass closed in around us, whispering over our heads. I tried to quiet my breathing. The grass made a little hollow around us, like a tiny room. It was utterly silent in there except for the rustle of our clothing against our skin. I pressed my face to the dank dirt and prayed that Jeremiah wouldn’t be able to see the grass above us moving. Or that some errant dog walker wouldn’t give us away. I strained to hear Jeremiah, but the rustling of the grass hid any other noises. Any minute now, I might see his face looming over me.

But there was no one else around. The minutes stretched out. Oliver’s arm was heavy over my back.

After a long time, Oliver raised his head and looked at me. Our faces were only a few inches apart.

“Is he gone, do you think?” I whispered.

Oliver motioned me to stay down and then slowly sat up, raising his head just above the top of the grass. I waited, holding my breath. I watched him scan the clearing. Then, slowly, he stood up. “I think we lost him.” He reached down and pulled me up off the ground.

I rose, resisting the urge to cover my head with my hands. I’d never felt so exposed, as if a sniper were perched in one of the trees, waiting for a clear shot. Which might not be far from the truth, actually. There was no Jeremiah, though. Slowly, the fear drained away, leaving only a dull sort of relief. I heard the rush of traffic just beyond the trees.

“Okay, what the hell was that?” Oliver’s face was dirty from lying on the ground, and he had grass stuck in his hair and to his clothes. “Can you be honest with me for even one second? Who was that? Why do you have guys chasing you through Kensington Gardens, Zoe?” His mouth was set in a hard line as he stared at me.

I put my hand out. “Oliver—”

“You know, I’m really sick of this shit. All this sneaking around. You acting weird and never explaining why. I’m sick of all these secrets. The stuff with your accident, the weirdness in my room the other day—last night at the party—” He seized my wrist and held it up. “You think I didn’t see this?” He held up his hand as I opened my mouth to respond. “Yeah, I’m not stupid, though you’ve certainly been treating me like I am. You want to tell me what the hell is going on? Otherwise, I’m walking away. Because, quite frankly, I can’t take this anymore.”

I looked at his face and saw that he was serious. “Oliver. Oliver.” I took both his hands, clenched into fists, in mine. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I will tell you. Okay? But not here. Can we get out of here first?”

He didn’t respond, just turned and walked to the giant fence as I trailed behind. It was bizarre to see traffic rushing past in both directions, people walking with briefcases and backpacks. A cop was even standing in the middle of the intersection, motioning with his white-gloved hands. I almost wondered if Jeremiah had been a dream. But no. Oliver had seen him, too.

I glanced at him as we picked our way along the fence line. He was looking ahead, his jaw set. It seemed best not to say anything yet. Let him cool off for a bit first.
We picked our way through the brushy scrub, ducking to avoid brambles, until we came to another big iron gate like the one we’d entered through and went out onto the busy street. I looked around. “Can we go in there? Please?” I said hesitantly. I pointed to a little juice shop half a block from the garden. “We can get something to drink. And I’ll tell you everything. I promise.”

Oliver nodded grudgingly. “Okay,” he said stiffly.

I felt better when I saw the minuscule, candy-colored space. There was no place for Jeremiah to conceal himself in there, and the big front windows afforded us a clear view of the street. We could run if we saw him coming.

We settled ourselves at the bright pink counter in front of the windows. “Two mango juices, please,” I said to the bald waiter. I turned to Oliver. “We have to get rehydrated after that run, right?” He just looked at me, stony-faced, and I looked down at the counter. “Sorry.”

After the bald waiter had set our juices down, Oliver turned to me. “Spill it.”

“Oliver, I’m in over my head.” I leaned over my straw and took a long sip. “I told you my boyfriend, Davis, came to London.”

Oliver nodded, his eyes narrow.

“But what I didn’t tell you was that he didn’t come just to see me. He was also running away.”

We sat there for over an hour while I told him everything: the credit-card scam and Davis’s role in it, the money intended for terrorist training, the people in Dubai or Miami who had sent Jeremiah, Davis’s faking his death, Jeremiah’s threats in the alley the night before, my need to find out the password. It all sounded incredible as I related it. I just hoped Oliver would believe me.

I felt wrung out when I finished but surprisingly relieved. Someone else knew the whole story now. I wasn’t in this totally alone. I sat looking out the windows, my hands limply encircling my empty juice cup.

The little shop was empty, and the bald waiter had disappeared to some unseen back room. Outside, the late-afternoon sun was sending long golden rays down the street, illuminating the concrete and asphalt like Raphaelite marble.

Oliver twirled his straw between his fingers. “Zoe, what kind of a guy is this Davis? I mean, messing around with hacking like that, then leaving you alone to deal with it?” He shook his head, looking me in the eyes for the first time since I started talking. “I hate to say this, but maybe your parents were on to something. This guy’s put you in danger. That’s not real love, you know?”

“Maybe—maybe you’re right.” I felt the tears rising and choked them back. But I couldn’t keep a few from trickling down to my chin. Even if Oliver was right, even if Davis had abandoned me, I knew I loved him way too much to let him go.

Oliver folded a paper napkin and gently touched it to my cheeks. “Let’s go home, okay? And get cleaned up. Not that you don’t look great covered in mud, but I think the dead beetle in your hair might be a little much.”

I laughed weakly and picked it out. “It’s the newest hair-accessory trend—didn’t you know?”

“I hadn’t heard that.” Oliver guided me out into the golden afternoon. “Maybe I should try one. On our next romp through the woods, of course.” He put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me in firmly. “I’m glad you told me, you know?”

“Yeah.” I leaned into his embrace. It felt good—safe and warm. “I’m glad, too.”

Once again, Davis and I are driving down the flat stretch of road toward the distant hills. “The money, Zoe. It’s about the money.” Davis’s face looms large in front of my eyes, bobbing like a balloon. “They’ve found me out. They want their money.” Once again, I watch him check his rearview mirror for that unseen car. I know I am dreaming, but all I can do is wait and watch, helplessly, as if I’m pinned to the car seat by some unseen force.

“Davis,” I ask. “Please, what do they want?” My aware-self is surprised to hear my dream-self speak.

He presses his foot on the accelerator, and the VW speeds up.

“Slow down!” I clutch the car door handle, feeling gravel slipping and spraying beneath our tires. But he isn’t listening, and the hills are fast approaching us. I know—my aware-self knows—what awaits us there.

Davis is talking rapidly now, lighting a cigarette with one nervous hand. “The guys are looking for me, Zo,” he says. “I’ve got to get away. Maybe Mexico, maybe Canada.” I wait for him to suggest faking his death, but he says nothing about that, just keeps talking. “They need to get into the account. But they need me for that.

“Zoe, listen, this is important.” Davis’s voice drags through the car, loud and slowed-down. “Listen to me
. . . listen to me . . .” he says, slower and slower until I can’t bear to hear him anymore.

We’re into the hills now, and the craggy black slopes rise steeply on either side. “Davis, no, no!” I scream, until I realize he can’t hear me, can’t see me. It’s as if I’m not in the car at all. Wildly, I thrash against the seat belt like a trapped bird. I grab the door handle to throw myself out—locked. Trapped. Breathless, I cling to the seat with both hands, waiting for the inevitable impact
. . .

I jerked awake, breathing hard, and found myself bolt upright in bed with the covers pooled in my lap. My hands were squeezing both sides of my head. My eyes were wide, unseeing, until I focused on the moonlight peeking through my partly drawn curtains, filling the room with a cool, ghostly light. The taste of bile, thick and sour, was in my mouth. I was shaking violently, freezing cold and soaked with sweat. I gathered my quilt up around my shoulders, trying to control my trembling muscles. Telling myself it was just a dream wouldn’t work. It wasn’t just a dream. I knew that now. It wasn’t just a nightmare.

I curled up in a little ball in the center of my bed, and, slowly, my body relaxed. Sleep, like a warm wave, threatened to creep up on me, and, again and again, I shook it off. No more. Please, no more. Please don’t make me go back there.

I pushed sleep away once more and, with an effort, threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. My infinity charm hung on the bedpost, and, on impulse, I picked it up and hung it around my neck. I pulled a T-shirt on over the tank top I’d slept in and quietly slipped past my parents’ darkened bedroom and out the front door.

A minute later, the elevator dinged softly, and I stepped out into the penthouse. I hadn’t been up there since Davis left, but nothing had been moved. The lumber was still stacked in the corners, covered in dust, and the plastic sheeting still hung from the rafters. I followed the mussed trail of our footprints to Davis’s corner. But nothing was there—no blanket, no backpack, no litter of takeout containers and drink cups. I expected that, but desolation overwhelmed me anyway, and I slid to my knees, fighting the sobs that rose in my chest.

One of Davis’s bare footprints was perfectly imprinted on the dusty floor, a little away from our corner. On impulse, I lifted my own bare foot and carefully pressed it down beside his. There we were, side by side. Just as we were meant to be. I knelt and, with my finger, drew a heart around our two feet.
Z + D
, I wrote in the dust. Silly, I know, but it made me feel as if he were a tiny bit closer. As I waited for the elevator, I looked back one more time at the heart gleaming in the dust.

*
* *

The next morning, my mother was loading the dishwasher when I appeared in the kitchen.

“Good morning, dear,” she greeted me.

“Hi,” I grunted, pouring a mound of bran flakes into my bowl and topping it off with milk.

My mother pushed the dishwasher door shut and sat down opposite me with a cup of coffee. “Did you . . . enjoy the gallery show the other night? I never got a chance to ask you.” She sipped from the mug.

I eyed her before responding. “Yeah, it was great,” I finally responded.
Keep it pleasant and neutral. “Oliver’s a really good artist.”

“Yes, his mother says he’s won several regional awards already.” She looked into her cup and twisted it around a few times.

She was working up to something.

“Oliver mentioned you seem tense these days. He said you’ve been going off alone quite a bit.” She offered a
slight smile. “And Dad found you . . . crying that night. Dad and I wondered if you were . . . thinking about what happened to Davis.”

If he really was dead, wouldn’t I be just a tiny bit sadder?
But I didn’t say that aloud. The last thing I needed was to have a big fight and be put on lockdown again. I forced what I hoped was a serious yet calm expression. “Well, I am thinking about it a lot,” I said soberly. “I just need some time to sort through it—alone.” I spooned up some bran flakes.