Immortal Mine (26 page)

“Then I hope you’re
planning to stay for a while,” I say. “Somehow, in the short time
I’ve known you, you’ve become...” I search for the right word,
“…
essential
to
me. I don’t know how I would have survived without you.”

Sam pulls me close again, and I relax into
his arms.

“I love you, Sam,” I say,
wondering how one annoying, frustrating, auburn headed boy has
managed to so completely derail all of my carefully laid plans in
such a short time. Then he leans down to kiss me again, and I
don’t
care
how,
just grateful that he did.

Sitting next to Sam in his truck as we drive
down the old, unused, mostly deteriorated road is something I
couldn’t have imagined six months ago when he first moved to
Goshen. A cloud of dust billows up behind us, surprising me. Though
only patches of snow line the road and fields, most of the ground
is still heavy with dampness. The past few days have been
unseasonably warm, which I suppose accounts for the dry layer of
dirt on the thin, cracked pavement.

An old building comes into sight. It looks a
little like the Bates hotel from
Psycho
, and just as I’m
about to remark on this, Sam turns into the nearly-non-existent
parking lot. New weeds sprout between the cracks of both the
parking lot and the sidewalk that runs in front of the rooms. A
sign out front proclaims the place for sale, and I glance at Sam.
Maybe this is his surprise that he promised me, that he’s going to
buy the place and refurbish it. He knows how important it is to me
to stay in Goshen, so maybe this is his way of letting me know he’s
in for the long haul. I’m going to have to tell him that there is
no point in buying the place. We have one small motel in town that
has six rooms. If they have one of the rooms occupied, they
consider the place to be overflowing.

Sam opens my door, helps me out of the
truck, taking my hand. I wait for the weird warmth that comes most
of the time when we hold hands, but it doesn’t come. I mentally
shrug as he leads me toward the somewhat creepy building, still
silent. I’m bursting with questions, but don’t voice a single one,
not wanting to spoil whatever surprise he has for me.

“So, is this the latest venture in the
Coleman dynasty?” I tease. He’s told me about the business ventures
that Shane has been involved in, which is how they’ve accumulated
their fortune. Shane is quite the business man, and neither he nor
Sam would have to work the rest of their lives if they chose not
to.

“I want to show you something,” Sam says,
pulling a key from his pocket.

“Okay,” I say, deciding he’s already bought
the building, so the least I can do is support him in his venture.
We stop in front of the door that has a number three hanging askew
on it. He unlocks the door, then turns to me.

“Before we go in, I want to tell you
something,” he says, looking decidedly worried. “I want you to
remember that I love you, and that no matter what happens,
everything is going to be okay.”

I feel the first tinge of uneasiness at his
words—and his expression. It’s the first time he’s said “I love
you” that hasn’t completely sent my heart skittering off into
bliss. He says it quite often, and I never tire of hearing it.

“Okaaay,” I say. I decide to question him,
in spite of the absolute trust I have in him. “Is everything okay,
Sam?”

He smiles and pushes the door open. Curious,
I step around him. The inside of the room is completely
refurbished, and quite nicely. It does not fit with the outside at
all. With a sick feeling, I begin to wonder if he thought... the
bed seems to loom in front of me. Sam and I have talked about this.
He knows I refuse to take any chance that might put me in the
dreaded category of “unwed, pregnant teen.” I turn to Sam, knowing
I have to stop this before it goes too far.

“No, it’s not…” he says, even as I say, “You
know how I feel…”

I laugh nervously. Sam smiles and places his
hands on my shoulders.

“I do know how you feel,” he says, squeezing
my shoulders lightly, “and I would never do anything that would
cause you to compromise your values for me. I didn’t really think
about how this would appear.”

I smile at him. I should have known better,
should have known Sam would never do anything to hurt me. I put my
arms around him, leaning against him.

“I know that, Sam. I shouldn’t have doubted
you.” I look up at him, and I’m rewarded with a kiss.

Sam pulls one of the chairs away from the
little table near the door, and nudges me, giving me the hint to
sit. He backs away, stopping near the bed.

“I want you to trust me,” he says,
desperation tingeing his voice. “Just stay there, just... wait. And
remember what I said before: everything is going to be okay.”

Excited again to discover the surprise he’s
promised, I wait. Then he pulls a gun from his pocket. Fear slides
up my spine at the sight.

“Sam, what—” Terror binds the words in my
throat as my mind races, trying to imagine what he plans to do with
the gun, here alone in this room—where no one knows we are.

“I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.” His
words are at odds with his actions as he opens the gun, turning the
back of it toward me. I can see a single spot of silver within the
cylinder. “Only one bullet,” he says, as if that should reassure
me.

I start to rise, unable to remain seated
like some resigned victim, dread coupling with the fear now. I have
that feeling I sometimes get when something bad is about to
happen.

“I think you should stay sitting,” he says
calmly, which is how insane people always sound, right? He doesn’t
sound crazy, but he’s also not putting the gun away. I begin moving
toward the door, slowly, trying to control my panicked breaths,
suddenly desperate to not be in the confines of this room, threat
heavy in the air. I can’t decipher where the threat is coming from,
my mind refusing to process that Sam could be the threat. It
doesn’t feel right, that he could be the danger here, but
something
is, maybe something
inside
him.

“Sam, I don’t know what you’re planning, but
I think this has gone far enough.” I try to speak as my mom used to
when she was trying to calm me down, firm but understanding. He
snaps the gun closed, and I flinch at the sound, cold clamminess
inching up my neck. I reach for the knob; if I can just open the
outside world to us, this surreal scene will disappear.

The knob turns, but the door doesn’t open,
and my panic ratchets up.

“Sam,” I say, trying to sound even more
stern, desperately trying to hide my abject terror. “Unlock the
door. I want to leave now.” Sam’s face changes a little at my
words, and for one second I think he’s going to capitulate. Hope
and relief comingle. I see the exact moment when his eyes harden,
determination shining from his face.

“Just trust me—” My stomach clenches at his
words, and he stops himself. “Just
give
me ten more
minutes,” he says. “Then I’ll let you out, and we’ll go home.”

“I don’t like this. I want to go now.” I can
hear the begging in my tone, but I don’t care. I suddenly,
desperately need to be out of here. I need
Sam
to be out of
here. Even as I think the words, he turns the gun toward his own
chest.

“No!” Instinctively I’d known this was his
intention, and terror suffuses every cell of my body. I take a step
forward, feeling as if I’m in a nightmare, feet stuck in quicksand,
despairing at the thought that I will never reach him in time.

“Everything will be okay,” he says again.
“Remember, Niahm, everything is not as it appears. Don’t forget
that.
Please
.” A loud, quick, explosion unlike anything I’ve
heard before fills the room, reverberating off the walls. I recoil
intuitively, the immediate ringing in my ears painful as my hands
come up to cover them. The deafening silence following is worse
than anything I’ve heard before. I’m crouched in the corner facing
the door, frozen, unable to move, overwhelmed by the smell of the
gun powder.

For long moments, I wait. There’s no sound
behind me, and I somehow know that if I turn around, my world will
be irrevocably changed. I’m gasping like a fish out of water,
unable to draw oxygen into my lungs.

“Sam.” The word is whispered—croaked,
really—from deep within my throat. I begin hyperventilating, horror
shrouding me, holding me in place. No sound, no movement in the
room. That scares me more than what I might see if I turn
around.

“Sam.” Louder this time as I lift my head.
Still no response. “Please,” I whisper, not sure what I’m asking
for—and all too aware of what I’m asking for. I take a breath, and
slowly turn toward him.

A scream rips from my throat at the sight of
Sam, covered in blood, lying at an unnatural angle next to the bed.
I’m propelled from my place on the floor before I’m conscious of my
intention.

“Sam!” I scream, collapsing next to him. I
shove my arms beneath his shoulders, pulling his limp form into my
arms. His eyes stare lifelessly at the ceiling, my heart
contracting with a grief that runs deeper than the grief I’d felt
at losing my parents. “Sam, please,” the words tangle over the
tears clogging my throat, “please, wake up. Wake up!” I command,
yelling, as if I can compel him by the force of my will alone. I
shake him, and he rolls bonelessly to the side. In desperation, I
look around.

My cell phone!

I awkwardly wrestle my phone from my pocket,
my bloody fingers slipping against the plastic. I shove the
realization of why my fingers are slipping from my mind; I can’t
deal with that particular horror right now, even as the despair
crawls up my throat, releasing as a half-choked wail. I have to get
help for Sam. I try punching the numbers, my slick finger unable to
make any kind of significant contact. Hopelessness engulfs me as I
force myself to my feet, and stumble into the bathroom. I grab the
white towel hanging by the sink, dropping it in my haste. A moan
escapes as I scoop it back up, wiping the phone quickly. I punch
9-1-1 and put it up to my ear, trying unsuccessfully to calm my
breathing enough to speak.

Nothing.

I pull the phone away from my ear. No
service.

“No,” I moan, running back out into the
room. I hurry from corner to corner, holding it above my head,
watching for a bar—any bar—to indicate coverage.

Nothing.

With a rage born of pure fear, I throw the
phone against the wall, where it shatters. Now what? I look around
desperately and see the chairs in front of the window. I pick one
up and slam it with all my might against the window, a surge of
hope filling me as the glass shatters. I grasp the curtains,
pulling them from their rod—

—only to see that the window is covered with
bars. A furious cry is followed by placing my head as near the bars
as I can get it.

“Help!” I scream repeatedly, knowing as I do
that no one is coming, no one is going to hear me. I scream until
my throat is raw, and the sound coming out is pitiful at best. I
scramble to the door, twisting the knob and pulling with everything
I have. It doesn’t budge, thick and sturdy, nothing like the doors
in the hotel in town. The key hole catches my eye, and I realize
that Sam probably has the key, that I should have looked there
first.

I rush back over to him, refusing to look at
him. I can’t look again, even though the sight of his motionless
face will be forever burned into my brain. I begin searching
through his pockets, revulsion thrumming through me at the act, as
if I were nothing more than a pickpocket, and Sam nothing more than
a random victim. It’s only my desperation to get him help that
propels my actions, even if I know deep inside that it’s already
too late.

“Where’s the key?” I demand of the universe
hoarsely when my search turns up nothing other than his truck key,
which is alone on his key ring. I rush around the room, tearing
open drawers, dumping their contents that seem as if someone lives
here instead of empty as they should be, ripping the bedding from
the mattress, then shoving the heavy thing to the side to look
beneath, pulling up every loose item in the room that I can
find.

Finally, dejectedly, with a sob wrenched
from the depths of my soul, I stop searching. In anger, I sweep the
lamp from the bedside table and send it crashing against the wall.
Tears sheet down my face unchecked as I collapse in the same
corner, next to the door, where this nightmare began.