Please, God. I snap open the phone. “Luke?” I push a button and his voice fills the cabin.
“Where are you? I have some really important news. It wasn't—”
“—Charmin toilet paper in the school bathrooms like we'd thought? I
knew
it.” I keep my eyes trained on Jared.
Get rid
of him,
he mouths. He moves the pistol closer.
“Um, Luke, sweetie, we'll talk about the story for the paper later, okay?”
“Bella, are you—”
“In fact, right now I have to let you go because I'm working on the
other
article. But I miss you.” Please
find this believable, crazy boy
with waving firearm.
“Talk to you soon.” I start to disconnect, but Luke's voice stops me.
“Bel, just one more thing. The piece you're writing tonight. Would that happen to be the bird-calling story or maybe the one about the dangers of making out in SUVs?”
“Hang up,” Jared hisses. “Now.”
“Bird calling!” My voice is chipper and light. “That's the one.”
My lifeline to Luke is lost as Jared rips the phone from my hands and throws it across the room. “That's enough.” He gestures to the paper. “Start writing.”
“And then you're going to kill me?” Anger begins to replace fear. Who does this guy think he is?
“No, I'm not going to kill you.” He reaches into the pockets of his cargo shorts and extracts a plastic bag. “But these pills will.”
I
would like to say that when I faced death I had all sorts of deep, inspirational thoughts. That poetry sprang from my lips, and God imparted timeless wisdom into my soul. That I greeted my imminent demise with grace and sweetness.
“Jared, you're a
moron!
Do you realize Fred Flintstone is in this bag? Are you planning on killing me with way too much vitamin C?”
He grabs the ziplocand looks inside. His face flushes red. “I didn't mean to grab those. There are just a few in there. I raided a bunch of medicine cabinets this week.” His voice shakes like he's running out of steam.
“At least tell me what I'm taking. Besides a prehistoric multivitamin.”
His eye twitches, as if I've offended him. Like I'm really worried about his feelings at this point. “Most are from my parents. The white ones are my mom's migraine pills. Those will make you really sleepy. And that's a good thing.” Is he reassuring me or himself? “These purple ones are Dante's acne prescription.”
My pulse slows. The roar in my head ebbs.
And some measure of peace fills me—because I don't think this is going to kill me.
Basically I'm going to take a really long nap and wake up with clear skin.
Jared continues to take the pills out and set them on the table. “My stepdad's antidepressants. Those are pretty good for stress.”
I should probably eat those first.
And his blood pressure meds.” He sneers and I wonder how I ever thought he was cute. “Maybe if he'd back off on me, his numbers wouldn't be so high.”
“I can't imagine him finding any fault with
you.”
Hysterical laughter bubbles up like lava.
“Stop it!” He waves the gun like a slippery fish.
“Are these—“ I pick up a pill and inspect it close. Then double over in giggles. “Birth control? You took somebody's birth control pills?” And this guy's in AP? “Is there a high risk of pregnancy on the way to the Pearly Gates?”
“I just grabbed stuff, okay?” he shouts. “Clearly I'm not cut out for this.”
“No, hey.” I touch his arm. “I think you're doing a swell job.”
“Stop laughing.” His hand cracks across my cheek.
My smile disappears and I taste blood.
“Oh, I'm sorry. Bella, I didn't mean to—“ He rests the gun on the table, his hands grabbing my face, holding my cheek. “Please forgive me, I—”
I dive for the gun. My hands inches away. I can almost feel the cold metal on my fingertips.
“No!” He pushes me onto the floor, overpowering me with his strength. When I pull myself back up, the gun is firmly in his grip. “Get back in the chair. You have a letter to write.”
“There's still time to back out of this. You don't want to kill me.”
“I'm not killing you. You're killing yourself.”
“And if I don't take the pills?”
His jaw locks. “I'm responsible for the Brotherhood. Nobody is going to get in my way. Bella, you can either do this the easy way or the painful way. If you don't write the letter and swallow the pills, I will put this gun to your head and pull the trigger.”
“And you'll go to prison for the rest of your life.”
“No, I won't. I know exactly what I'm doing.”
Yet he doesn't look certain at all. He looks scared—mixed with a little psycho. And a dash of nuts.
I must stall him. Surely Luke got my hint that we were at the cabin. And
surely
he went for help. Like Jake. Or the police. Or the National Guard.
“You realize Luke knows, don't you?”
“I suspected.” He waves away the idea, like it's not worth discussion. “I'll deal with him later tonight.”
“With what? Vitamin E and cough drops?”
Jared points the gun inches from my nose. “Enough talking! Pick up the pen.”
It's not so much that I'm scared he'll actually pull the trigger. It's more about being scared of his shaking hands
accidentally
pulling the trigger. I don't want to die with an ugly eye. Even mortician's makeup can't hide this bruising. Nobody will walk past my casket and say, “Oh, doesn't she look natural?” They'll say, “It looks like markers pooped on her face.”
“You need to start downing the pills. It will take awhile for them to kick in. Start with the white ones first.”
For a full twenty seconds I don't move. I study the room. The distance to the door. The location of the nearest heavy object. The number of steps to the kitchen for a knife.
“Eat them!”Jared pounces on the table, grabs a handful of pills, and forces them into my mouth. I bite his hand, and he yelps. Then smacks my other cheek. “Get them out from under your tongue. Swallow them!”
He cocks the gun.
I force them down and my earlier confidence begins to fade. God,
please help me.
Jared passes me his water bottle. “The letter should be simple. Make it to your mother. Tell her that you've missed New York so much that you can't go on. You're miserable.”
What a coincidence
—so
are you.
“You miss your dad. Your friends. Your boyfriend.” He stops. “You're cheating on your boyfriend with Luke?”
“Yes.” My head bobs spastically. “I... um, just love the menfolk. Can't get enough of them.” I can't stop nodding. “Love me some boys.” And if I
don't
walk out of here alive tonight, they'll know something's up by my mention of Hunter in the letter. Like I'd miss that two-timing sleaze.
He gestures to the paper with his weapon, and I pick up the pen.
Dear Mother,
This freak of nature is holding a loaded—
Jared rips the paper from the table and shreds it to pieces. He slams down a new piece. “I'm warning you, Bella.” He thrusts another handful of pills into my palm. I somehow choke them down.
“How are you getting home?” I ask. “It's not like you can take my car.”
His smile is something from a Stephen King novel. “Brittany Taylor.”
“Oh.” I scrape a film off my tongue with my teeth. “Isn't she sweet.”
In between forced servings of meds, I scribble out my first paragraph, telling my mom how much I miss New York and that Truman brought me nothing but pain. Next I include instructions for taking care of my cat and other hints that this letter was forced.
I look up from my work and the room tilts to the left. That's not good. “Have you ever considered medication?”
I close my note, my writing growing sloppier by the letter.
I love you.
And then I add a line in case these really are my last words to my mother.
You were the best mom ever. Be happy with Jake. And tell Dad I
love him—and he needs a new decorator.
I lift my pen. “What if these things don't kill me?”
Jared taps the barrel of the shiny gun.
I grab a few more white capsules. “I'm sure these will do me in nicely.”
“Sign the note.”
“I don't feel so well.”
He pops some red tablets past my teeth, leaving my mouth so full I have to breathe through my nose.
God,
I'm sorry for everything I've ever done. Forgive me for the way
I treated Budge. For not giving Jake a chance. For hating every one of
the bimbos my dad brings home.
I'm vaguely aware of tears slipping down my cheeks.
Forgive me for not getting involved in church here. For not being a
good friend to Lindy. And for watching
Sex and the City
reruns.
“I...” Why won't my tongue work? “Can't... finish.”
Jared places the pen in my fingers and picks up my hand. Together we make the first letter of my name.
The room swirls and twirls. Nap. I need to lay my head down. Oh, what pretty lights I see! I want to go to the pretty lights! Here I come! Who's that giggling? Is that me? Oh, I love to giggle!
“Hold the pen still!” Jared roars in my ear. But I don't care! “Finish the letter or I'll—”
A loud crash explodes to my right. The door.
And Luke's there. He's calling out something.
“Bella!”
How nice of him to come and visit. Helleww, Luke!
Look how fast he runs. Like a linebacker. Or is it a quarterback? A quarterliner?
Wait. The gun. Jared's raising the pistol.
Oh. That's not right.
Must. Stop him.
But so tired.
My legs—they're in cement. So heavy.
Focus, Bella.
Focus. Move. Eye on the target. God,
give me strength.
With all that I have left, I throw my body toward Jared. “Noooo!”
My limp form flops.
Flails.
Falls—right into Jared.
The gun goes off. So loud. Hurts my ears.
Luke dives onto Jared, his fist plowing through my captor's face.
Jared rolls over. He's out.
“Bella!” Luke scoops me in his arms. I hear more giggling. I think it's me. The sound—so far away.
His hands are all over me.
So not appropriate, young man.
He lifts them to his face. Blood.
Ick, whose blood?
“Luke . . . “ The pretty lights are fading. It's getting dark. “No party tonight.”
He pushes the hair from my face. “You saved my life. I came here to rescue you, and you saved my life. We got onto Jared's MySpace page from Zach's computer. Jared filmed every initiation. It was all there. I'm sorry I couldn't get to you in time.”
I reach out a hand and pass my fingers over his lips. “You know, you're really not so bad. Hey . . . wanna make out?”
Luke's mouth smiles. His eyes don't. He holds me closer. Tighter. “Maybe later.”
A siren. Why do I hear sirens? Maybe there's a parade. I do so love a good parade.
“Hang on, Bella. Please. Stay with me.”
“Luke.” Can't get my voice above a whisper. “The story—I want b a c o n the story.”
“Bella Kirkwood . . . I think you just
became
the story.”
The blackness pools all around me. Snuffs out the twinkling lights.
It pulls me down.
And I let it take me away.
T
he casket is covered in a spray of wildflowers.
The soloist sings “I'll Fly Away.” No instruments, just a voice.
There is sadness. Yet also a reluctant peace.
Sun filters through the trees, the light coming through the branches like a band of halos.
Death would have its day.
So life can begin again.
“Hand me a tissue,” Budge says, his tie a stiff knot at his throat.
“I have something in my eye.”
With my good arm, I reach into my purse and pull out a Kleenex. He takes it and gifts me with a rare, small smile.
“Friends and family”—the pastor takes his place in front under the canopy—“we are gathered here today to celebrate the life of a son, a friend, and a football hero. Zachary Epps was this—and so much more.”
My left shoulder throbs where Jared Campbell's gun left a bullet. It was just a week ago, but when I close my eyes, I still see it there, fresh and new in my mind. Though parts of it are foggy, like the ambulance ride. Getting my stomach pumped. The surgery to extract the bullet. But I remember the fear. And the chaos.
The preacher finishes and asks if anyone would like to say a few words.
Some of his teammates stand to their feet. Noticeably absent are Dante, Reggie Lee, that Adam guy, and, of course, my favorite kidnapper, Jared, who's looking at the world through some metal bars right now.
Next to speak is Kelsey. She still looks no wider than a pencil, but her voice is mighty and carries to the few hundred gathered. She speaks of love and loss and all that Zach was to her.
“Anyone else?” The preacher scans the crowd as Kelsey sits down. “Let us pray, then.”
“I'd like to speak.” Beside me Budge stands. I hear him swallow, and I say a quick prayer for him.
“Last year I lost my best friend. He loved his girlfriend, and he loved his family. And he loved that car.” The crowd laughs, sharing a memory. “It could have been any of us. He made a mistake and got caught up. But the real Zach Epps would've wanted us to forgive. And live. Because if Zach knew how to do anything, it was live life to the fullest. And to be who we are—not who others want us to be.” Budge blinks at moisture in his eyes. “I'll always carry that part of my friend with me. Always.”
I can't help but smile as a small group from the Truman band breaks into “Free Bird.” Only in Truman. But it fits.
I merge into the line and shake hands with Zach's family. When I get to Kelsey, she pulls me into a hug. “Thank you,” she says. “Thank you.” Tears flow unchecked, and she waves a hand in front of her face, unable to speak.
I hug her again. I don't need her words. Just the hope that she's going to rejoin the living. And I think she will.
Exiting the canopy, I spot Lindy with some friends, and I walk to them.