M.I.N.D. (21 page)

He crouches low and examines it. Whew. It's just a branch that looks like a shoe. It's actually quite interesting, I think giddily. He could probably sell it on eBay, along with those tortillas that look like the Virgin Mary.

I'm definitely losing it. Must get a grip!

At the tennis courts, he waits in the bleachers for what seems like hours. Swearing under his breath, he takes out his phone and checks the time—it's been fifteen minutes since he left me that message. “Where are you, bitch?” he mutters into the air. He taps in a command at the virtual keyboard, and an Internet site pops up. I recognize it immediately. It's that tracking site that shows those bright red stars. He taps in something else, then reads:
Access denied
. “Shit,” he says, and disconnects. Meanwhile, I'm still stuck.

He treks back to his car, opens the trunk. He's about to put away the gun when suddenly the tune to “He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother” spills into the air. I'm happy Ethan is calling me, but honestly, he could have picked a better time.

I feel a grin stretch across Brendan's face. He tucks the gun back into his belt and follows the ringtone—and there I am, fast asleep against the tree. “Now this is convenient,” he says, looming over my body. “Having one of your spells, Spass? How considerate. Thanks for making it so easy.” He pulls out the gun, then puts it back. “On second thought, feel like taking a little swim? No sense alerting the deer for nothing.”

The phone rings again.

He picks it up and sends Ethan to voice-mail. He pauses, then grins again. He tries to slide the phone open, but realizes it's locked. At which point he grabs my limp hand and presses my thumb against the screen.

Asshole. He wants Ethan to get
his
message.

Except he's out of luck. I never got around to figuring out that whole fingerprint thing, and at the moment I'm in no position to tell him my passcode.

“Shit,” he says again, and shoves the phone into his pocket.

He drops on top of me. “Sorry, Spass,” he says, wrapping his hands around my neck. “Just making sure you don't wake up. It makes drowning so much easier.”

No, don't! I mentally command. Brendan, stop!

What was it Leanne called it? Leakage! I need leakage! Except I need it to go from me to him, and I need him to think the thoughts are his.

Don't do anything stupid. Cassie was bluffing. Amanda didn't blab.

Come on, Brendan, get a clue!

He lowers his hands.

Yes! He's going to let me go!

“First things first,” he says, picking up the locket. He yanks it from my neck and buries it in his pocket.

So much for leakage.

“Nothing personal, Spass. Just covering my tracks.”

So it
is
the locket, I think through the haze of my fear. The locket's the
thing
. But how can it be the locket? What did I miss? Any fingerprints would have been all jumbled. Maybe he's worried about DNA. A stray hair? A flake of dandruff? Maybe there's a secret compartment. Maybe it's not so un-unique after all. I'd take it off and examine it again, but at the moment it's out of my hands—figuratively and literally.

His fingers go back around my neck.

He squeezes.

Coldness like steel spreads through his chest.

Precise. Methodical.

He presses harder.

My mouth is slack, and my skin is turning gray. His eyes fixed on my face, I watch as my life steadily drains away. Still, for someone who's about to be murdered, I look pretty calm. Though why wouldn't I? I'm not awake.

Oh God oh God oh God…

Around us, trees are swaying in the breeze. Rock-a-bye baby, I think absurdly.

The lullaby of death.

My mind goes all wiggly, like a TV when the cable goes down…

when the bough

       breaks

cradle will fall

       down will come

baby

       cradle
and

Suddenly Brendan is wrenched from my throat and the cable's back up. Two arms encircle him from behind, hoist him like a crane, then send him crashing back to the ground. Pain slices through his shoulder like a double-edged blade.

Oh, man.

I'm totally grateful I'm being rescued, but could he please go easy?

Brendan scrambles to his feet and reaches under his jacket.
He's got a gun!
I want to shout, but of course I can't. I'm about to will myself out—clearly, I'm no longer his target of interest—when Ethan makes a dive for his legs and the gun goes flying. Both boys go down, and in that instant, I get a whiff of lilac and drop into Ethan.

He pushes on top of Brendan and swings back an arm. A rush of adrenaline goes through him. But before he can make contact, Brendan yells out something in karatelese and lands a chop in Ethan's neck. Whoa. If I had eyes, they'd be stinging with tears. Ethan gasps and Brendan rolls over, and now Brendan's on top and he's choking Ethan.

I have to get out! I have to help him! Plus, I'm a little tired of watching myself getting strangled. Okay, so it's not my body, but it's still me.

What is it about guys in their harrowing moments? Why do they always have me on their minds?

Ethan breaks into a sweat. His heart feels like it's trying to burst from his chest, his eyes like they want to bulge out of his head. With an enormous grunt, he slams his fist into Brendan's chin. It must have taken his total concentration as well as his strength, because suddenly the throat that's mine feels like it's been trampled on by elephants and I know I'm back in me.

Brendan is rubbing his chin and Ethan is coughing. But the reprieve is short. Brendan lunges at Ethan and they go down again. Fists flailing, legs kicking, Ethan over Brendan, Brendan over Ethan, they roll along the path toward the hill that spills into the river.

And then they're gone.

“Ethan!” I croak, and run after him.

The moon comes out from behind a cloud. Perched on the edge of the hill, I stare down. Twenty or so feet below, the river is shimmering like a neon snake. They're still at it, grappling on the bank. They tumble into the water. They both go under, but only one comes up.

It's not Ethan.

My dress riding up above my hips, I coast down the slope on my butt. On the bank, barefoot and scared, I peer over the water. I don't see Ethan. Brendan is struggling to keep afloat, but it's a losing battle. He gets caught in an eddy and goes tumbling downstream. A scream echoes in the night as he spirals out of control, whirling away into the darkness.

Ethan's head bobs up. He goes tumbling too, but the swiftly moving water is pushing him closer to the shore. Ten, maybe twelve feet from the bank, he manages to grab hold of a crag protruding from the depth.

The longest ten to twelve feet there ever were.

Stay calm, I tell myself. Must stay calm! Must not obsess! If I get sucked into him all over again, I'll be no help to either of us.

And the river will claim us both.

The shore here is lined with trees, their long willowy boughs reaching over the water, dipping in like straws. I look frantically around for something…anything…that I can use to haul him in. And then I see the long, broken branch. I know it's crazy—he's about a foot taller than I am and a lot heavier—but don't I have to at least try? I pick it up, step into the river. “Ethan, grab it!” I command, extending the branch.

It doesn't reach. I step in deeper.

Water gushes around my knees. I step back.

A wave of pale foam buries his head, but I can still see his hands poking through the surface, hanging on to the crag. “Ethan!” I shout again. His head emerges, and I breathe with relief. But then a sudden wrench of water tears him loose and he goes sweeping away.

Shouting his name over and over, I race down the shoreline, the coarse rocky bed cutting into my feet. I stop at the junction and freeze. This is where the water bends. To the right are the falls, bubbling and roaring, cascading over boulders, splashing into the channel below.

In a creek just off the bank, Ethan is tangled in a mess of grass, and he isn't moving. I draw in my breath and step into the water. It's calm here, but the depth is deceiving and the ground beneath me falls away like sawdust. Water pours into my nostrils as my head goes under, and for a moment I can't tell up from down. Kicking my legs, I push to the surface and my hands find a stalk. I pull myself toward Ethan. Thankfully, the water here isn't as deep. I can stand, but just barely. I plow through the grassy jumble, the water frothing around my chin.

On a floating bed of stems and reeds, Ethan is unconscious, lying on his back. Across his forehead is an ugly gash. With my arm like a vice around his head, I swim on my back and pull him to shore. I'm amazed at how buoyant he is in the water. Amazed that I remember how to swim at all. When we reach the bank, I step out and grab hold of his shoulders. I try to haul him out of the water, but it's like trying to move a ton of clay.

“Ethan, wake up,” I urge. “Oh God, please wake up.”

His eyes pop open. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey.” I peer closely at his face. “Are you dizzy? Nauseous? You took a really bad hit.” I could write a book on concussions.

He sits up slowly, touches the side of his head. Blood, black in the moonlight, taints his fingers. “Whoa. Have I got a headache.”

“Join the club. Try the thumb-in-the-mouth thing. Trust me, it works.”

He gives me a hint of a smile. I smile back. “Maybe later,” he says, slogging out of the water. “Let's get out of here.”

I look behind me toward the falls. “We have to call someone. Brendan…”

“It's too late. He's gone.”

“We have to call anyway,” I persist. “Where's your phone? Do you think it still works?”

He checks his back pocket. “Sorry. It must have gone over the falls.”

He doesn't look sorry. I'm about to comment when I remember the locket. “Crap. He had the locket. That's what he wanted all along. And now it's lost in the river.”

Ethan doesn't reply, and I don't push it. We're both tired and wet and cold, and with heavy hearts, we start back for the hill. “Jeez,” he says when he sees me limping. He glances down at my bare feet, and with one smooth motion scoops me up in his arms.

“Ethan, don't be ridiculous. You can't carry me. You're injured.”

“It's my head, not my arms,” he says, but puts me down anyway. He turns around and crouches. “What are you waiting for? Hop on.”

I hesitate. Piggyback? I'm wearing a dress. A very short dress. But my feet feel like they've been shredded like coleslaw, so I pretend I'm wearing a bathing suit underneath instead of panties and climb aboard the Ethan Express. “My hero,” I say, holding on to his shoulders. “That was pretty quick thinking, back there in the woods. You saved our lives.”

“Yeah, well, you saved mine,” he says, pinning my legs with his arms.

“Just returning the favor. So how did you find me, anyway?”

“I wanted to give my parents some alone time with Amanda. I dropped by your house on impulse, on the way back from the hospital. Your mom told me where you were.” He glances at me over his shoulder. “I kept calling, but you didn't answer.”

What's with the look? It's not like I was ignoring him. I was asleep! “And then you tracked me online,” I say, feeling a little put out.

“Yup. Your little red star popped up bright and clear, right there on my phone.”

“I'm not sure how I feel about you tailing me,” I say as we bounce along. “You were spying on me.” Yeah, I know. Coming from me, it's almost funny. Plus, I should be grateful. And I am. But still.

“I wasn't spying on you—I was being careful. You didn't mention you were going to that dinner, which told me right off that you were up to something.”

I don't answer. I mean, really. Who does he think he is? At the foot of the hill we stop and look up. “It's too steep for piggyback,” I say huffily. “I can make it on my own.” I jump off his back, suppressing a yelp as my cut-up feet hit the rocky terrain.

“It's not a problem, Cass. Get back on. We can take the path.” He sighs. “Look, here's how I see it. You can stay mad at me or we can get out of here. Your choice.”

I start walking, but it's like treading on broken glass. “Fine,” I mutter, and climb back on. With my legs extended around his waist, he trudges up the winding trail. “Great view from here,” I mutter, brushing a twig out of his hair.

We travel the rest of the way in silence. “I need to find my purse,” I say when we reach the place in the woods where I took my little nap. This time when I climb off his back, I land easily. I never thought muck could feel so good. Shoes would be helpful too, I think as I scrounge around in the surreal light. I spot something shiny. I pick it up. It's a phone, but it's not Amanda's. “Is this yours?” I say, handing it to Ethan. “It must have fallen out in the scuffle. Now you can make that call.” He doesn't move. “Ethan, we have to. There's been…an accident.”

“What's the point?” he says. “It's not like it can wake Amanda up, and what about my parents? What good would it do telling them now?”

“What about that little girl's parents? Don't you think they deserve the truth? And what about Amanda? What about what
she
wants?”

He slides his phone into his pocket. “We don't have proof,” he says stubbornly. “Even if there
was
something special about that locket, it's gone.”

“Fine. You want proof, I'll get you proof.” I crawl along the ground, picking through shoots and leaves. “Maybe it fell out of Brendan's pocket in the fight, like your phone. If it did, I'll find it, even if I have to comb the entire woods.”