It Begins (15 page)

His focus shifted back to her. Lucy saw his face through a fine mist and realized that tears had filled her eyes.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Yes … it is like that …”

“You mean … like when you held the necklace?”

Without answering, she began to rock … a slow, gentle rhythm of self-comfort.

“Why’d you go there that night?” Byron asked quietly.

Lucy shut her eyes … tried to will the pain away.

“Please tell me, Lucy.”

And so she did … recounting every moment from the time she’d left the house till Angela
picked her up and took her back to Irene’s. She told him everything, still feeling as though this were all some strange, distorted nightmare … still wishing she’d wake up, safe and warm in her mother’s home. Still wondering why she was taking a chance with this mysterious young man she didn’t know … why she was here trusting him and believing him, and in some painful way, feeling so grateful for his company …

And when she’d finally told her story, she realized that he’d taken her hand … spread her fingers wide apart … was gazing down at the tiny crescent scar upon her palm.

“She had a scar just like this,” he said, not meeting Lucy’s eyes. “In the same spot … on the same hand.”

“It hurt,” Lucy acknowledged numbly. “When she grabbed me … the pain I felt was unbearable—not like anything I’d ever felt before.”

Nodding slightly, Byron placed her hand on the arm of the rocking chair. “I was supposed to meet her that night. She’d been away, and I hadn’t seen her in nearly a year. Then I got this
message from her—just out of the blue. Something important, she said. She told me to come alone, she’d be waiting at the old church. I could tell from her note that she was really scared. Only … she never showed up.”

“So … I just happened to be walking past there at the same time?”

“I think the person following you that night was me.”

Byron rocked back on his heels, his expression thoughtful. “I’d just gotten to the church when I saw you running away. And it was storming so bad, I couldn’t really see anything. For a minute I thought it might be her, so I went after you—but then you turned under the streetlight. And when I realized it wasn’t her, I went back.”

“And that’s when I ran into the cemetery. Because I thought you were stalking me.”

“I should have known it was something bad.” Byron’s eyes were as hard as his voice. “When she didn’t show up on time, I should have left right away—I should have looked for her then. But I just kept thinking maybe it was the storm, she was having trouble getting there, but that
she’d
be
there, just five more minutes, she’d
be
there …”

He paused. Drew a sharp breath.

“I don’t think I wanted to believe it. Even when I got in my van and started driving around, looking for her. I didn’t want to believe something had happened to her. And that’s when I saw you again.”

“Me?”

“You were coming out of the cemetery, and you ran across the street to use the phone. And you looked terrified.”

Lucy’s heart gave a sickening lurch. How easily those feelings of terror returned, just from talking, just from remembering. She watched as Byron stood up and walked to the window. He propped his hands upon the sill and leaned forward, his shoulders stiff with tension.

“I knew,” he mumbled. “I mean, there you were, scared and muddy and soaking wet—and suddenly I just
knew.
I knew it had something to do with her.”

For several long moments there was quiet between them. Only the patient creak of the
rocking chair upon the wooden floor. The muted songs of birds outside the windows. Until at last Byron spoke again.

“I tried to get over to you … to see if you needed help. But by the time I got the van turned around, you were gone. So I went back to the cemetery. And I looked for her.” Byron’s head lowered. “I never found her.”

Lucy stopped rocking. She stared at his back with a puzzled frown. “But when I saw you the next morning—the things you said—how could you have known those things if you never found her? If you weren’t actually there?”

“Because she told me.”

“She …” Lucy sat straight in her chair. The quilt slid down to her waist, and she impatiently pushed it aside. “What do you mean, she told you—what are you saying?”

“In a dream that night. She told me in a dream.”

He turned around to face her. As Lucy held his steady gaze, she slowly shook her head.

“You know something, Byron … you’re asking me to believe a
lot.”

“Haven’t you ever had a dream so real, you knew it was
more
than a dream?”

“Yes, but …” Lucy’s voice trailed off. Until that moment she’d almost forgotten her
own
dream of two nights ago … her mother at the window, sounding so sad …

“But what?” Byron persisted.

“I did have one like that,” Lucy murmured. “That night, after I got home from the cemetery. My mother came back to me. It was like … like she was trying to warn me about something.”

“What’d she say?”

Lucy’s voice faltered. “She said … that I was going to a place where … where she couldn’t help me.”

Byron gave an almost imperceptible nod. His eyes shone even darker.

“So your mother shows up with a warning. On the very night a dying girl touches you and leaves this scar on your hand. Doesn’t that seem a little more than coincidence?”

“Oh God …”

“When I finally went to sleep that night,” Byron said tightly, “I dreamed she was in a
grave. I saw the storm. I saw her covered in blood … and I saw her reaching out.”

“But. . . you didn’t see who killed her?”

“No. She was talking to me … she wanted me to know that she was gone. And that she hadn’t been alone when she died. She told me I should go to the cemetery the next morning and wait for someone. And then she said, ‘Help her … now
you
must help the one who helped
me
.’”

Lucy didn’t know how to respond. As Byron fell silent, his sorrow seemed to fill the room, yet at the same time she sensed his own defenses struggling to pull it back.

“So … what you’re saying,” she stammered, “is that I have these … these powers now. And
I’m
going to start having visions … and … and
feeling
things I don’t want to feel just because I
touch
something?”

But when Byron didn’t answer, Lucy’s tone grew almost pleading. “Are you absolutely sure? Are you positive it was her? I mean … maybe she didn’t even show up that night. Maybe she was never here in town. Maybe it was just some girl you didn’t know, who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time—”

“Lucy, stop,” he said tightly.

“But it could have been, right? I mean, it
could
have been a mistake and maybe she’s still alive somewhere, maybe she—”

“She’s not alive.”

“Then where’s her body? Where’s the grave? If she’s really dead, you would have
found
her—you would have found
something—”

“Lucy, stop!” His voice struck out at her, cold and final. “There are just some things you
know
, because every part of you feels it, because you have a bond with somebody that’s special and unique. And she and I had that kind of bond. So … no.
No.
It wasn’t a mistake.”

He raked a hand back through his hair. His face twisted in pain.

“She’s dead, Lucy. She’s dead.”

Lucy’s heart ached at the sight of him. “You really loved her, didn’t you?” she whispered.

A muscle clenched in his jaw. He turned stiffly back to the window. “Yes.”

“So … she was your girlfriend?”

“No. Katherine was my sister.”

“Your sister?” Lucy echoed. “The one who—”

She broke off, flustered, as he shot her a cold glance over his shoulder.

“Was crazy?” he finished sarcastically.

“I was going to say … the one who went away.”

“Well, you
have
been in Pine Ridge awhile. Time enough to have heard all the gruesome stories about my family, I’m sure.”

“I’m sorry.” Lucy’s cheeks reddened. “I haven’t heard that much.”

“It doesn’t matter. Actually, it’s not so bad, being part of the local folklore. People tend to leave you alone.”

“Is that what you want? To be left alone?”

He leaned back against the wall, folding his arms across his chest, fixing her with
another intense stare. “I guess that depends on who it is.”

Lucy dropped her eyes. She heard him move to the fireplace and sit down upon the hearth.

“Are you sure you want to hear the rest of it?” he asked pointedly.

“Can it get any worse?” She gave him a wan smile, and he almost—but not quite—returned it.

“These … powers … forces … psychic abilities … whatever you want to call them,” he began tentatively, “they run in our family. At least that’s what my grandmother says. When I was little, I thought she was magic. Sometimes she could tell us things before they actually happened.”

“What kinds of things?”

“Well … like when a certain neighbor was going to knock on our door—and then they would. Or who’d be on the other end of the phone before she even picked it up. Just simple things like that. She could tell you where to find things you’d lost… or that a storm was coming when there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. And I never thought it was strange. It was normal to me.”

Intrigued, Lucy leaned forward. “So
all
of you had psychic talents?”

“It was always so obvious with Katherine. From the time we were little, she was already having visions and seeing things nobody else could see. It was just a part of who she was. But mine was different. I was older the first time it happened. Probably around ten or so. And a woman—someone I’d never met before—had come to see my grandmother, and I remember she was so sad.”

He hesitated, as though reluctant to venture too far into the past.

“I remember she was sitting at our kitchen table, waiting for Gran to come downstairs. And I sat down across from her, and suddenly she just
looked
at me. Looked me full in the face, and her eyes were so big and so desperately unhappy.”

Byron’s voice lowered. A poignant blend of sorrow and awe.

“I stared right back at her. Right back into her eyes. Deep, deep into that terrible sadness. And I said, ‘I’m sorry about your little girl; I’m sorry she drowned.’ And I remember she tried
to smile at me, but she
couldn’t
smile—all she could do was cry—and I felt so bad for her.”

Again he paused. Then he met Lucy’s gaze with a level one of his own.

“There was no way I could have known about her
or
her daughter; she didn’t even live around there. Gran told me later that I’d had a glimpse of her soul.”

“Eyes,” Lucy murmured. “Eyes are supposed to be windows to the soul.”

“Some people say so,” he agreed. “I couldn’t explain it then, and I don’t even try anymore. But if that’s true—about windows to the soul—then the daughter she’d lost was the most important feeling in her soul that day. And I had a glimpse of it.”

“Is it like”—Lucy struggled for words—”looking beyond pain? Or seeing something that’s even deeper than grief?”

His shoulders moved in a shrug. “It’s nothing like Katherine could do—nothing that clear or sharp. No smells or sounds or things like that. It’s like … looking through a veil. There’s fog … mist … no definite features or details. Yet somehow I’m able to pull something out of it.”

“Like … through a curtain … or a screen?”

“Sort of, yeah. Lucy? What is it?”

But as the memory of the confessional flashed through her mind, Lucy hurriedly shook her head.
Not now. Not yet. This isn’t the right time …

“Nothing,” she assured him. “Tell me more about Katherine. About this gift of hers.”

“A gift sometimes. But also a curse.”

The edge was back in his voice, and Lucy felt a prickle of apprehension as he continued with the explanation.

“As she got older, she didn’t want to use it anymore, because it scared her too much. She’d get nervous and embarrassed because she never knew when the visions would hit her—how strong they’d be, or how frightening—and most people didn’t understand. Most people didn’t even
try
to. All they knew was that she was different, and that sometimes she acted strange. And so some people laughed at her, and some made fun of her. And others were just plain scared.”

Byron pressed both hands to his forehead … gently massaged his temples.

“But of course, she
couldn’t
just not use it
anymore—that was impossible. It’s not like a switch she could just turn on and off whenever she wanted. It was
part
of her; part of who she was. So it got to where she wouldn’t even leave the house. Gran and I were the only ones she trusted; home was the only place she felt safe.”

Lucy frowned, taking everything in. “But if that’s true,” she asked carefully, “then why did she end up leaving?”

She saw him tense … saw the briefest flicker of indecision over his face. She sat up straighter in her chair as her voice grew suspicious.

“There’s something else,” she accused him. “Something you’re not telling me.”

Byron stood up from the hearth. He pulled her from the rocking chair, then turned and strode purposefully to the door.

“Come with me,” he said. “And I’ll tell you the rest of the story.”

It was a relief to get out.

Despite the coziness of the cabin, Lucy was beginning to feel claustrophobic. As if every new revelation of Byron’s cast a dark, uneasy shadow over her heart and her mind.

The crisp, cold air felt wonderful. As they walked together toward the lake, the pungent fragrance of pines swirled through her head, almost making her forget, almost sweeping the doubts and fears away.

“It’s so beautiful out here,” Lucy murmured. She followed him to the shore, to the wooden dock stretching out over the water. A boat was tied at the end, bobbing peacefully upon the barely rippled surface, and with one smooth movement, Byron helped her down into the bow and slipped the rope free.