Authors: R. L. Stine
Startled, the twins froze.
Sliding over the desk on his stomach, Mark shot out both arms
in a desperate grab for the two boys. He tightened his fingers in their hair and
smacked
their heads together as hard as he could.
The collision made a
clonnnk
sound like wood smashing against wood.
Samuel grunted in pain, as the fire in his eyes dimmed like a car cigarette lighter dying.
Cursing, Daniel squirmed and tried to spin away.
Hold on. Hold on. You can do it.
Mark squeezed his fingers into their hair, and with a grunt of effort, smashed their heads together again with all his strength.
Without even a groan, their jaws went slack and their eyes rolled up. Mark loosened his grip on their heads, and they slumped to the floor behind the desk.
Gasping for breath, he lowered himself to the floor, then turned and motioned frantically to Elena and Ira, frozen in the aisle, gaping at him in shock. “Dad! How did you get in here?” Ira cried.
“Hurry! Out of here!” He hurried over to them and wrapped them in a tight hug. “You’re okay? You’re not hurt?” They nodded. Mark glanced at the twins, still unconscious, piled on top of each other on the floor. He knew they wouldn’t be out for long.
“No time! No time! I have to get everyone out.” He guided them urgently toward the open window and watched as they eased their legs over the ledge and disappeared over the side.
“I’ll be back!” he called to the cop thrashing in pain on the floor. “I’ll come back for you.”
He sucked in a deep breath, coughing from the smoke-filled air, and took off running down the long hall to the front doors, shoes skidding on the tiles. He grabbed the door handles, fumbled with the bolt that held them locked, shoved it aside, and flung the doors open wide.
Then he turned and tore back down the hall—all a blur of shadows, the walls, the rows of dark lockers, the classroom doors.
You can do this. Keep going. You can do this.
“Out! Everybody out!” His hoarse screams rang off the walls. “Everybody outside!”
Flinging open doors, he shouted at the kids sitting at the tables, on the floor, on window ledges. “Out the front door! Your parents are waiting! Out! Get moving!”
The halls were suddenly alive with jubilant shouts and excited kids stampeding to the doors. Whatever hold the twins had over these kids had ended, and they rushed to celebrate their freedom.
Heart pounding, Mark remembered the wounded cop. He dove into a classroom, careened off a wooden table, bounced to the window, and threw it open. Through billowing curtains of black smoke, he saw cops and feds in several windows down the row.
“Cop down!” he screamed. “There’s a cop down inside! He needs help.”
FBI agents and uniform cops swarmed to the window, and then black jackets were everywhere, in his window and at the door. They didn’t seem to recognize him or remember that he was a fugitive.
“It’s the twins! I knocked them out. But the cop was hurt. The twins did it. You have to take them.” Mark realized he must sound crazy.
A stern-faced cop grabbed Mark’s arm. “Just take us to the cop, okay?”
He led them into the hall, nearly silent and empty now. Trotted toward the classroom. Was this the right room? Yes. He saw the poster of the president with the blue arrow on his cheek. Black smoke billowed into the room from outside.
Pavano had pulled himself to a sitting position and was gripping his head with both hands to stanch the flow of blood. Two cops rushed to his side, one of them shouting into a radio-phone for help.
Mark waved the FBI agents to the front of the room. “The twins. It’s the twins. They’re the killers! I’ll explain later. Just grab the twins!”
He saw their skeptical looks. They hesitated, then moved toward him, suspicious. “Who are you, mister? How’d you get in here?”
Mark shook his head. “I’ll explain everything. But you’ve got to get these twins. I knocked them out. Get them. Behind the desk. Watch out . . . Watch out for the eyes.”
The agents drew their weapons and he stood back. He watched them go into a stalking stance as they approached the desk.
“The twins. They’re on the floor. I . . . I knocked them out. We got them. We
got
them!”
Two agents lurched behind the desk. They appeared to freeze, as if someone had pushed a pause button. Slowly, one of them raised his gaze to Mark. “No one here. No one.” He glanced at the open window. “We’re too late, I think. They got away.”
M
ark saw Lea walking determinedly down the middle of the Sag Harbor pier, eyes searching for him among the two rows of parked cars. He could see her distress from her body language, arms tensed at her sides, hands balled into fists, shoulders slumped, strides clipped and rapid.
He waited at the far end of the pier, the meeting place he had suggested that morning. Behind him, the water of the bay lapped darkly against the pilings below. The white yachts lining both sides of the pier stood as still as if on land, too big to be rocked by the gentle waves. One enormous yacht had a red Porsche parked on its wide stern and white-uniformed staff carrying breakfast trays to the main cabin.
Mark stepped out from behind a black Mercedes SUV, watching the pier behind Lea, making sure she hadn’t been followed.
The morning had started out cloudless and bright, but now the sky was leaden with acrid smoke. Mark glanced at his watch. Not quite eleven o’clock, and the pier was pretty empty. In an hour or so, as lunchtime approached, the parking spaces would all be filled. He watched men unload shrimp and lobsters from the back of a white panel truck and carry them across the pier into the small, shingled Dock House clam bar.
He took a deep breath, expecting to smell salt water. But sour smoke burned his nose.
That fire must still be out of control.
A man and a teenage boy walked past carrying fishing rods. The boy pointed to a spot on the side of the pier, but the man waved him off, and they kept walking. No one else in sight. Mark slid out from the SUV and called to Lea.
She stopped short, as if surprised to see him there. Then she came running, dark hair bobbing at the sides of her face, no smile for him.
“Lea—”
“Oh, Mark, here you are.”
He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against him. He wanted to squeeze her tight, hold her there for a long time. She was his old life, his good life, and he desperately wanted to hold on to her. He kissed her, then pressed his stubbly cheek against her face.
“Mark.” She pulled away, out of his arms. “I got your text. You’re okay? How did you get away from the school?”
“The FBI agents didn’t recognize me. I slipped out while they were searching the classrooms.” He held onto her. “Thank God the kids are okay.”
He felt her shudder. “I saw Ira and Elena. I talked with them. They’re fine. Roz took them home. It’s so wonderful, Mark. You got them all out.”
She raised her face to him. “The twins? Did you see them? Are they—?”
“They got away. I knocked them out, Lea. I . . . I slammed their heads together. I think it broke their spell over the kids. But they escaped. I don’t know where—”
“Oh, Mark . . . you were so brave, sweetheart. But . . .”
But?
He waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. When she raised her eyes to him, he could tell she was holding something back. She changed the subject. “Where did you stay all weekend?”
“At Nestor’s. In his poolhouse. The police came to the house, but they didn’t search the poolhouse. I hid in a tiny closet. But they never searched back there.”
Her dark eyes locked on his. “Thank God you’re safe. You look horrible.”
“I . . . haven’t slept much. I’ve been worried—”
She pressed a finger to his lips. “So much to tell you.” More tears welled in her eyes. “The twins. I’m so sorry. I should have listened to you. I didn’t know—”
A green BMW pulled in beside the Mercedes. Mark guided Lea away toward the Dock House.
“It’s our last morning, Mark.”
Her words sent a chill to the back of his neck. He squinted at her, unable to respond.
“Maybe we could try to have a normal morning, okay? Wouldn’t that be nice? A last normal morning?”
“Lea, what are you saying? You’re talking in puzzles. Tell me about the twins. What do you know about them? What did you find out?”
She ran a finger down his cheek. It made his skin tingle. He had rescued the children. They were safe. Why were her eyes so sad? What was she hiding from him?
“A normal hour or two,” Lea said. “Look how pretty it is. The white yachts, the pier stretching into the bay, the seagulls against the sky. This is one of my favorite spots in the Hamptons. It always reminds me of Sausalito. Remember that weekend in Sausalito? That restaurant down by the water? We were so young.”
He grabbed her shoulder. “Lea, you need to tell me what’s going on. Why are you talking about Sausalito? Why are you acting like this? You are really frightening me.”
She forced a tense smile and turned away. “I think the waffle cone place is open. Let’s get waffle cones, Mark, and maybe walk through town. You know. Like a normal couple. Just stroll aimlessly up and down Main Street and people-watch, the way we used to. We can do it, Mark. The police won’t be looking for you anymore.”
“No. Not till you explain to me.” He grabbed her by the arms and locked his eyes on hers, trying to see her thoughts.
She turned away, as if his stare was too much to bear. “I . . . I’m
so sorry, Mark. It’s all my fault, don’t you see. That’s why I feel so bad. I feel so bad for you, Mark. Especially for you. Because you’ve been so wonderful and loving and trusting. Yes, trusting. And I . . . I’ve ruined everything.”
“But—how? What are you
saying
?”
A sob burst from deep inside her. “Don’t you understand, darling? This is the last hour? It’s our last hour. Don’t you
see,
sweetheart?”
“No. It can’t be. Come here.” He tried to hug her but she stood rigid, her dark eyes finally coming to rest on his face.
“Don’t you see, Mark? I guess you can’t. I guess I have to say it. Okay. Okay. I’ll tell you. I died on Cape Le Chat Noir. I died there, honey. I’m so sorry. I died in the hurricane.”
M
ark felt a tingle of fear run down his back. Overhead, a seagull screamed as if reacting to Lea’s words. A burst of wind off the bay ruffled Lea’s hair.
He held onto the sleeve of her sweater. “Lea, you’re not making any sense. We need to get you home. The stress—”
“No. It’s true, Mark. I . . . didn’t want to tell you, darling. I suspected it all along. Didn’t you notice how different I was when I returned from the island? I suspected it. I fought it. I fought it every day. I hoped against hope. But I knew. I knew. And then Martha emailed me . . .”
“Lea, you’re not dead. You’re standing here with me. You’re just very distraught, and we need to find you help. I know several good doctors—”
Another seagull cry rang in Mark’s ears. He glanced up and saw two fat gulls circling them low overhead.
“I didn’t want to leave you. I didn’t want to leave Ira and Elena.” Tears glistened in her dark eyes and rolled down her cheeks.
“You don’t have to leave. I’ll take care of you.”
“No.” Her voice turned sharp. “No. You can’t. I have proof, Mark. I have proof right here. I know you don’t want to see it, honey. Telling you this . . . doing this to you . . . it’s like I’m dying again.”
“Stop saying that!” He didn’t mean to sound frantic. How had she become so delusional? Did she see something unspeakable on the island?
Is that why her mind has snapped?
Lea fumbled with her small black leather bag. Some makeup tubes and a mirror fell out. The mirror shattered on the asphalt.
Seven years bad luck,
Mark thought. But he immediately scolded himself for having such a superficial thought when his wife was in such distress.
She pulled out some folded-up papers and uncreased them with trembling hands. She made no attempt to wipe away the tears that glistened on her face.
“Here. Oh, here. I’m so sorry. Martha sent these. I’m so sorry, Mark.” She pushed the papers at him. Photographs, he saw.
“This is proof?”
She nodded.
He raised the first photo to his face. Black-and-white, very grainy. His eyes focused on a scene of destruction. Fallen houses. Debris everywhere. And then his eyes settled on the two blond boys standing forlornly in the foreground.
“The twins?” He gazed over the photo at her. “Samuel and Daniel? Taken after the hurricane?”
“Oh, Mark.” A long sigh escaped her throat. “Yes. The twins. Taken after the hurricane . . . but a different storm, Mark. A different storm. The hurricane of 1935.”
The papers nearly flew from his hand. “Lea, please. You’re not making sense.”
“The second photo, too. I
am
making sense.” She struggled to pull out the second sheet for him. “Martha is a photo researcher. I told you that. She found these photos from 1935. Then she emailed me, Mark. Yesterday. She emailed me all the details. She found the truth, Mark. You won’t like it, sweetheart. It’s all so sad and horrible. You won’t like it but you have to hear it now.”
Mark took the photo and gazed at the twins standing bare-chested in the midst of the rubble. “I don’t believe it,” he said softly, “but let’s say it’s true. What does it mean, Lea? Tell me.”
She nodded, tangles of hair, wet from tears, falling down the
sides of her face. “There’s a ritual on Le Chat Noir. It’s called
Revenir
. It means
return
. It’s performed by a priest.” She stopped and pushed his hand away. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not crazy, Mark. I
wish
I was crazy but I’m not. Just let me finish.”
He took a step back, the photos fluttering in his hand. “Okay. Sorry.”
“The priest who performs the
Revenir
rite can bring back the dead. It sounds insane but I saw it. I saw it done. I didn’t believe it when I was there. But it’s true. He brings back the dead, Mark. And in that hurricane of 1935, the priest brought back the twins. The twins died in the hurricane, and the priest brought them back. But—”