It Begins (12 page)

“Absolutely. Our secret.”

Another relieved sigh. Angela stretched her willowy limbs, then hopped off the bed.

“Great. Good night, then.”

“Good night.”

Mildly amazed, Lucy watched her go. How did Angela do it, she wondered? How could she make something go away so easily—or not even exist at all—just by refusing to accept it?

But isn’t that what you’re doing?

“No,” Lucy mumbled to herself. “That’s different.”

Is it?

And in that very instant, razor-sharp images began strobing through her mind—images of Byron at the cemetery, Byron at the Festival, Byron trying to talk to her, to warn her about
something: “I want to help you … some things take time to believe in … we don’t have a lot of time … something happened … something important … touched you … was passed on to you … you need to understand…” As Lucy pressed her hands to her head, it was as if she could suddenly
feel
all those crazy puzzle pieces tumbling through her mind … falling into place … beginning to make a frightening kind of sense.

Could it possibly be true? Could there
honestly
be a connection between Byron’s warnings and the bizarre events that had begun to darken her life?

“… no reason in the world to trust me … have to meet me tomorrow …”

“You’re right,” Lucy mumbled again. “I don’t have the slightest reason to trust you.”

“Did you say something?” Angela asked.

Lucy jumped and stared at the door. Angela was back again, propped in the threshold, smoking a cigarette and frowning at her.

“I didn’t say anything,” Lucy muttered.

Her cousin shrugged. “You’ll need to get my car washed in the morning.”

“I will
?”

“Well …
yeah.
Irene didn’t see it tonight ‘cause someone picked her up and she didn’t go in the garage. But tomorrow she’ll probably be using her car—and if she sees the shape
my
car’s in, she’s bound to know we were out tonight.”

“But what about the damage? How are you going to explain all those scratches?”

“Vandalism
happens
in the school parking lot, Lucy.” Angela gazed down at the floor, her expression bland. “It happens all the time. So just take it to the car wash, okay?”

“And who was your servant this time last year?”

Angela rolled her eyes. “Very funny. Just do it?”

“No, I won’t do it. If she sees your dirty car, too bad.” Grumpily, Lucy stacked up her pillows and fell back on top of them. “And you can
stop
giving me all these excuses about Irene worrying—I heard you two this morning, and I know you’re grounded.”

Angela stared. A flush went over her face, though from anger or embarrassment, Lucy couldn’t tell. She hesitated a moment, as if trying to decide what to do. Then with a sound of exasperation, she tossed her cigarette into
the toilet, walked back to the bed, and flounced down on the edge.

“If you knew, then why’d you take me tonight?” she demanded.

“Because I thought it would help things between us. I wanted us to be friends.”

“That’s stupid. How could we ever be friends?”

“My point exactly. Which is why I’m not going to get your car washed tomorrow.”

“If Irene finds out I left tonight, she’ll cancel my credit cards!”

Lucy shrugged. She reached over and flipped off the lamp. Angela flipped it back on.

“Fine!” Angela pouted. “Look, if I tell you something
really
important and
really
secret about someone I met tonight,
then
will you wash my car?”

Lucy stared at her. Really
important?
Really
secret?
What could be more important than being stalked, than girls in graves, than hungry predators on lonely roads? What could be more secret than strangers with blindfolds, and painful visions, and disembodied voices in bathrooms?

She’d had enough. She switched off the light.

Angela switched it back on.

“Okay,” Angela sighed. “I’ll be your friend. Are you satisfied?”

“Angela, you don’t know the meaning of the word.”

The girl looked blank.
“Friend?
Or
satisfied?”

“Neither one. Now get out of here and let me go to sleep.”

This time when she reached for the lamp, Angela grabbed her arm. “I’ll tell her
you
took my car. I’ll tell her
you
stole my keys, and I didn’t know anything about it. And if you deny it, I’ll tell her you’re lying … that you … that you … sneaked out to meet somebody!”

Lucy gave a humorless laugh. “Yeah, that’s a good one, Angela, I’m sure she’ll believe
that.
And while you’re at it, be sure to tell her about the wild orgy I had out there behind the tents.”

It slipped out before she even thought.

She saw Angela’s eyes go wide, her face go red, saw her cheeks flinch as she drew in her breath.

“You bitch,” she muttered. “You were
spying
on me!”

“What? Angela, no—I wasn’t!”

Shocked at her cousin’s reaction, Lucy tried to take her arm, but Angela was already halfway across the room.

“I was joking!” Lucy insisted. “I was joking about
myself—
I don’t even know what you’re talking about!”

“The hell you don’t,” Angela said furiously. “How long did you stand there watching, anyway? And it
wasn’t
an orgy!”

“I wasn’t watching anything! I was just making fun of myself!”

She saw Angela turn toward her then, a range of emotions flickering over the girl’s face—indecision, guilt, embarrassment and the horrible realization that she’d just given herself away.

“Well … well … me, too!” she announced, with a forced little laugh. “
I
was just joking, too. I just wanted to see what you’d say.”

Lucy stared at her as though she’d lost her mind. “Okay,” she offered tentatively. “So we’re even, right?”

“Right.” The laugh again, almost brittle. “Okay, then. Great jokes. Goodnight.”

“Good night.” Lucy paused, then, “Angela?”

“What?”

“How late does Irene sleep on Saturdays?”

“Till around ten. Why?”

“I’ll get your car washed. But I want to leave early, just in case she gets up.”

“Like, how early?

“Like, before nine.”

It was no problem slipping out of the house the next morning.

Everyone else was still asleep, and since Angela had already given her the keys and explicit directions to the car wash, Lucy was away in no time at all.

The car wash hadn’t opened yet. Checking her watch, she saw that it was only eight-thirty, so she made a quick run through a fast-food drive-through, then sat in the parking lot, trying to digest both her food and her thoughts.

This is really stupid. Byron probably won’t even be there. And if I do go, and it really
is
another joke, I’ll never be able to show my face anywhere in Pine Ridge again.

But obviously he’d gotten there before her.

As Lucy drove slowly past the church, she noticed an old Jeep pulled alongside the curb in front, but not a soul to be seen.
Strange that Byron would park here in plain sight
, she found herself thinking. Especially since he’d made this meeting sound so secret and so mysterious …

Still, this
was
an abandoned church, and it
was
in an abandoned area—
not like there’s going to be anyone around here watching us or wondering what we’re up to.
Besides, seeing his Jeep out here in the open made her feel a whole lot safer.

Lucy parked, then made her way slowly up the crumbled walkway. The church had looked so spooky that night of the storm, and here in the daylight, it didn’t look a whole lot better. Like the original section of the cemetery stretching off behind it, tall weeds had taken over, and shadows lurked beneath the gnarled branches of giant old trees. The steps to the door were rotted. The belltower didn’t look at all sturdy. Several stained-glass windows were broken, and dead ivy crept over the walls.

It was very still. No breeze this morning, and frostily cold. Lucy’s breath hung in the air as she
glanced nervously back at her car. She’d parked close for a quick getaway. She told herself to go inside, then stopped with her hand on the door.
You’re doing it again—walking right into an isolated, unknown place—have you completely lost your mind?

When girls in
movies
did this, they always got killed, she reminded herself. But this wasn’t a movie, this was real life—
my life!
—and she needed answers, and right now it seemed that Byron was her
only
chance at getting those answers.

She saw then that one of the large wooden doors was slightly open. That there were muddy footprints on the steps, leading inside.

Very slowly Lucy inched open the door. “Hello? Is anyone here?”

The silence was unnerving. Again she glanced back over her shoulder, but nothing moved within those calm, black shadows.

“Byron?” she called softly. “Hello?”

Lucy strained her ears through the quiet. Had the door creaked then, just ever so slightly? As though someone might be pushing it from the other side?

Instinctively she released it and stepped back. “Hello?”

Why wasn’t he watching for her, why wasn’t he out here waiting to see if she showed up? It had been
his
idea, after all—if he’d wanted her here so badly, why wasn’t he coming out to meet her?

But it was very cold, she reasoned, and it made perfect sense that he’d probably go inside to wait. And these doors, made of such thick solid oak, surely muffled any sounds from outside.
Don’t be so paranoid … Angela knows him … apparently all the girls at school are in love with him … it’s not like he’s some total creep that nobody’s ever heard of …

Still, Lucy suddenly wished she’d told somebody where she was headed this morning.

Just in case.

Okay … here goes.

She took a deep breath and yanked hard at the door. As it moved on rusty hinges, a low groan echoed back through the vast interior of the church.

She smelled dampness and old stone. Cold, stale air, long unbreathed, long undisturbed.

Shivering, Lucy stood there a moment, her eyes trying to adjust to the gloom. As the door swung shut with a dull thud, she moved farther into the vestibule.

“Byron?”

The church was still sadly, hauntingly beautiful. In the muted stained-glass light, Lucy could see saints gazing down at her from niches along the walls, their painted faces filled with loving concern. Wooden pews stood empty, sifted with dust, and high in the rafters of the arched ceiling, doves fluttered gently as she passed beneath them. Lucy walked slowly up the center aisle. She could see the main altar ahead of her, draped with a dingy white cloth, decorated with arrangements of long-dead flowers.

Despite the eerieness of the place, Lucy felt strangely fascinated. She stopped before the altar, trailing her fingers over the musty cloth, over faded droplets of candle wax, over brittle chrysanthemum petals. Even her heart seemed to echo in here; she could hear the faint beat of her pulse.

God, it’s so cold …

Blowing on her hands, Lucy turned in a slow circle and glanced uneasily at her surroundings. Was it her imagination, or had the temperature dropped about ten degrees just since she’d walked through the door?
You
are
imagining things.
Yet as she blew once more on her hands, she could see her breath forming, a soft vapory cloud right in front of her face.

“Byron?”

Her own voice whispered back to her from the shadows.

The doves stirred restlessly with a muffled beating of wings.

“Come on, Byron, if you have something to say, you’d better say it—
now!”

This is stupid. He’s not here, and he’s obviously not going to show up, and all you’re doing is creeping yourself out.

With growing anxiety, Lucy gnawed on a fingernail.
Not again …
not again!
What did you expect, anyway? Haven’t you learned your lesson by now?

But she’d wanted this time to be different—she’d wanted so
much
to believe that Byron could help her. She’d wanted to
prove
to herself
once and for all that it wasn’t just her, that there were reasons and answers and explanations for the things that were happening, that she
wasn’t
just making up dreams in her mind—

Something’s here.

Lucy gasped as a sliver of dread snaked its way up her back and lodged at the base of her neck.

Something’s here!

Instantly her eyes swept over the walls and ceiling, the massive wooden cross above the altar, the partially shattered glass of the crucifixion behind it, the confessionals in the darkened aisles along the side …

The confessionals …

A soft sound slithered through the church. A sound like …
what?
A sigh of wind? A flurry of feathers? Or …

Breathing.

Lucy’s body stiffened, every nerve electrified.
No, it can’t be … there’s no one here
… no
one
… no
one …

Yet she could feel herself moving across the cold stone floor, moving steadily toward the confessionals, almost as though something were
drawing
her forward, some force against her will.
She tried to stop, but she couldn’t. Tried to resist, but the pull seemed only to grow stronger.

She stopped outside one of the doors.

Byron?

She tried to whisper, but the words stuck soundlessly in her throat. She could see the door cracked open, barely an inch, but she couldn’t see what was inside. And
yes—yes!—
there was the sound again … like the faintest breath, the most feeble attempt at a sigh.

Steeling herself, Lucy jerked open the door.

The space was cramped and narrow, murky with shadows, and as she stepped tentatively across the threshold, she could see the small priest’s window to the left, the bit of screen and gauzy curtain concealing it from the other side, the kneeler beneath it on the floor.