It Begins (9 page)

Lucy shook her head. “Of course not.”

“So come on!”

The door slammed between them, and Lucy gazed at it for a few seconds, wrestling with her conscience. It
would
be better than staying here in this room right now. And since she wasn’t supposed to know Angela was grounded,
she
certainly wouldn’t be the one in trouble if Irene discovered they’d gone out. Besides, Lucy
reasoned, doing this for Angela might help make a truce between them.

It was just the Fall Festival, after all.

And what could possibly happen to them at a Festival?

He’d been fascinated when he’d first seen her—that beautiful girl at the window.

He hadn’t been able to turn away, gazing at her through the trees, through the rain—he hadn’t expected anyone to be there, hadn’t even realized there was a house at the edge of the woods. Once his work was done at the graveyard, he’d needed a safer, darker sanctuary, and so instinct had driven him deep into the moonless shelter of the forest.

He often prowled after he’d killed.

City streets … neighborhoods … country roads … any convenient place to work off those lingering effects of restlessness and release.

He hunted unhindered. Undetected.
Unseen …

It amused him to stand over people while
they slept … people who didn’t know he was there, people unaware that their lives were in his power. With one quick decision he could determine if they awakened tomorrow, or if they languished for hours or days on end, or if their hearts stopped suddenly, midbeat, without the slightest warning.

Just as
his
heart had had no warning when he saw her there at the window.

He’d watched her curiously, the light glowing pale behind her, the outline of her soft, sweet curves beneath the flimsy fabric of her nightdress. At one point he thought she might have seen him, too, for she was peering at the woods, at the low stone wall … but he was always much quicker than a glance. He’d been a shadow for a while, and then a wisp of fog. He’d watched her unbuttoning her gown, the delicate swell of her breasts as she’d leaned forward against the glass, and then he’d been outside on her balcony as she’d slid open the doors and gotten drenched from the rain. He’d reached out and touched her cheek, but she hadn’t known; he could have gone inside with her, but he’d waited.

He didn’t need an invitation—not from her,
not from anyone—he went where he pleased, when he pleased.

How
he pleased.

But her sorrow had stopped him.

Like a fragile aura, it surrounded her and flowed from her—he could feel the palpable grief, the vulnerability and despair, and though it would have been so easy, so pleasurable, to take her then, he’d decided against it.

He’d taken the other girl instead.

The other girl had left her window open just the tiniest crack, and he’d slipped through the screen, slipped right inside on the cold, wet breeze, and he’d stayed till nearly dawn. Even in slumber she’d reeked of anger and rebellion, and he’d found this exciting, this wild, defiant nature so very much like his own.

She’d thought she was dreaming, of course.

When he’d pulled down her covers without the slightest disturbance … when he’d caressed her naked body with his eyes, his hands, his mind …

Her thighs had parted, her back had arched, such a delicious nightmare, inviting him to join her.

He usually came as a dream.

At least the first time.

A dream that lingered long past waking … like a deep, slow burning that could not be satisfied.

And when he’d finally left her, languid and sated with his memory, he’d waited in the woods behind the house.

He’d waited for the sun to come up and the house to be empty, and then he’d willed himself onto that balcony and let himself in through the sliding glass doors.

Her name was Lucy, he discovered.

Lucy …

He’d found it stamped on an airline ticket that she’d tossed on her dresser; he’d seen it written on a luggage tag still attached to a suitcase full of clothes.

Lucy. Lucy Dennison.

He hadn’t expected an interruption. He’d paused and listened, mildly annoyed, as the back door unlocked, as the kitchen cupboards banged open and shut, as the cleaning lady made her slow, labored journey up the stairs and down the hall.

But still, he’d had time to walk around Lucy’s room.

To touch Lucy’s things.

And, in those last few seconds before taking his leave, to lie down … smiling … in Lucy’s bed.

“Why don’t
you
drive?” Angela insisted as she opened the garage door.

Lucy paused beside the little red Corvette, her eyes wide with feigned innocence.
Good one, Angela—now you can honestly say you didn’t drive your car anywhere except back and forth to school.
“Me? Oh, no, I’d rather
you
did. I mean, if you’ve been having trouble with it—”

“The thing is,” Angela said quickly, “is that I’m sort of getting a headache.”

“Oh. Well then, maybe we’d better stay home.”

“I can’t. I mean, I shouldn’t. I mean, I promised my friends—you know, I’m supposed to be working one of the booths tonight at the fair, so I have to at least show up and help.”

Was she telling the truth? Lucy doubted it, but told herself it didn’t matter anyway. What
was more important right now was just getting out of the house and getting along with her cousin.

“So what exactly is this Fall Festival?” she asked, as Angela guided her through the neighborhood and toward the opposite end of town.

Angela slumped down in her seat and sounded bored. “It’s the school’s biggest fundraiser, and they have it every year.”

“That’s it?”

“It’s like a fair, okay?” The girl gave an exasperated sigh. “They do it every year. Anyone can participate, so the school rents space to set up booths and then we get to keep whatever money we make. Lots of people come in from other towns, and there’s, like, this little carnival, and they have food and stupid crafts for sale, and dumb games and prizes and stuff.”

Lucy was only half listening, driving with one hand, using the other to fiddle with the radio. “Sounds fascinating. So where do you work?”

“Hey, that’s my favorite station!” Angela complained. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I just wanted to catch the news. Just for one second, okay?”

“
One
.”

“Thanks. Now …
where
do you work?”

“Pin the nose on the scarecrow.”

“Really?” The announcer was highlighting the day’s local headlines. Fall Festival … daycare facility closing … fender bender on the old highway … “You make scarecrows?” No mention of dead bodies, no girls in open graves, no murders in Pine Ridge.
I couldn’t have imagined it
all,
could I? Did I imagine Byron, too? And the necklace in class … and the girl in the bathroom … and the scar on my hand—

“Watch out!” Angela yelped. “What is
wrong
with you?”

Startled, Lucy swung the car back to her own side of the road. “Sorry.”

“Well, it might help if you stopped looking at your hand and kept both of them on the steering wheel, for God’s sake.”

“Sorry.” Lucy’s brain struggled to reengage. “What were you saying about scarecrows?”

“I
said
, of course I don’t make scarecrows. It’s a
game.
You blindfold people and spin them
around, and then they have to stick this ridiculous nose on the scarecrow.”

“Like pin the tail on the donkey?”

“Exactly. And if you get the nose in the right place, you win a prize. Except we use velcro, not pins.”

“What kind of prize?”

Angela sighed. “A scarecrow doll, what do you think?”

“Well … it sounds kind of fun.”

“Yeah, if you have no
life.
Turn here.”

Lucy did as she was told. They followed a narrow strip of blacktop for about ten minutes, then turned off again onto an even narrower dirt road, this one winding off through thickly wooded countryside for several more miles.

“That’s it up there,” Angela finally announced.

To Lucy’s relief she saw the fairgrounds up ahead, a noisy carnival bright with lights and busy with activity. Across the road and a good walk away stretched a large unlit field where kids with flashlights directed traffic and motioned them to their parking spot.

“Okay,” Angela said, unstrapping her seat belt.
“Why don’t we just meet back here about ten-thirty?”

Lucy looked doubtful. “You’re sure that’s enough time to … to not worry Irene?” she remembered to say. “I mean, how can you know for sure how long her meeting will be?”

“Trust me. It’s a stupid disciplinary committee, and they never end before eleven. Night’s the only time they can get everyone together without having
other
very important meetings to go to.”

“What kind of discipline?” Lucy couldn’t help asking.

“A bunch of stupid frat guys. They’re always such jerks, and they’re always in some kind of trouble. I mean, you’d think they’d learn by now that it’s
not
cool to get drunk and act like total idiots in the cemetery.”

Lucy’s hand froze on the door handle. “What … about the cemetery?”

“Some guys went into the cemetery last night and got drunk and were messing around. And I guess somebody saw them and complained.”

It was all Lucy could do to keep her voice casual. “What were they doing, do you know?”

“The usual stuff, probably. Breaking things … stealing things … spray-painting the headstones … just your usual damage to private property. Oh—and I always love this one—making out with their girlfriends on the graves.”

“So …” Lucy could barely choke out the words, “it was just a … a joke?”

“Well,
they
thought it was. But they’re gonna get suspended and their fraternity will get put on probation.” Angela thought a minute, then gave a wry smile. “That’s the part Irene really likes. The punishment part.”

But Lucy wasn’t listening anymore. As she got the door open and climbed out, her mind was spinning with rage and disbelief.
A joke! Kids drunk and playing pranks!
No wonder there hadn’t been any news coverage … no murder investigations … no reports of missing girls … And all the agony she’d suffered … the terror … the guilt and regret and horror and—

“Are you coming?” Angela was waving at her from the other side of the car. “The Festival’s
this
way. God, I can’t believe they made us park way out here in all this mud!”

Yet that still didn’t explain her encounter with Byron that morning, Lucy reminded herself, following Angela through the field. Still didn’t explain the things he’d said … the things he’d known …

Unless he was part of the joke, too. Unless he was there last night with those other guys, and he guessed I might come back this morning, and he wanted to scare me into not saying anything …

“If you tell anyone … you could die … they wouldn’t believe you anyway …”

“Did you hear me?” Angela snapped.

“What? Sorry—what?”
Still doesn’t explain Byron … still doesn’t explain a lot of things—

“I
said
, let’s just meet back here at the car. Are you
listening
to me?”

“Yes,” Lucy murmured. “I’m listening. Ten-thirty. Here at the car.”

She felt betrayed. Mortified and furious at being the butt of such a cruel, twisted joke. How those guys must be laughing at her right now—if, in fact, they even remembered the sick charade they’d carried out last night.

“Okay,” Angela said. “See you later.”

They parted at the main gate, but Lucy
stood on the sidelines for a moment, taking everything in. It was after six now, and the Fall Festival was in full swing. Angela was right about one thing, she noted—it seemed the whole town had turned out for the event—the whole town and a whole lot more. The place was packed with people in the mood for fun. Lines were already long at the concession stands, and the air throbbed with loud music and the wild rumble of rides, the carousel calliope, and barkers hawking games of various skills and staminas. Lucy could smell food from every direction—hot dogs, doughnuts, cotton candy, barbecue. For the first time in hours she actually realized how hungry she was; she’d barely eaten anything since yesterday.

She bought a greasy hamburger and a watered-down Coke and ate while she walked. It had been years since she’d been to anything like a carnival, and it brought back happy memories of her childhood, of her and Mom off together on their special adventures. Despite the tasteless food and poignant memories, she actually began to feel better. And despite the
pain and embarrassment of her entire day, she felt herself almost smile.

She tossed her trash into a bin and kept walking, squeezing her way in and out through the crowds. The night was chilly, the breeze sharp but not unbearable in her flannel shirt and oversized parka. She was glad she’d opted to leave her purse at home tonight—with her money and ID tucked tightly into the pocket of her jeans, she felt a lot safer.
Safer … that’s funny.
For some reason, the irony of that nearly brought another smile to her face.

She paused at a booth selling candy apples. She bought one and bit through the hard, sticky sweetness, and then she headed back into the crowd.

The slow, shivery prickle at the back of her neck had nothing to do with the cold.

Lucy stopped, and three people ran into her from behind. She felt a sharp burst of pain as her upper lip split between the candy apple and her two front teeth.

Mumbling apologies, she worked her way over to a booth and stood with her back to the wall. She could feel the blood swelling from the
cut, and she wiped it carelessly with the back of her hand. Her eyes roamed anxiously over the teeming mobs of people.

Someone’s following me. I feel it.

Just like last night … when she’d run from those footsteps … when she’d run from one nightmare, straight into another …

She didn’t see anything suspicious, of course—in that solid mass of faces, how
would
she? And after all that had happened in the last two days, Lucy wasn’t even sure how much she could trust her own instincts anymore.