The Night Walker (Nightmare Hall) (5 page)

But … she
had
gone to sleep angry. She did remember that. Angry at … ?What was it that had made her angry?

Oh. She remembered now. The story about what had happened to Tobie. She’d been upset about that.

But that had nothing to do with Carlie or Donner.

Quinn got up and walked over to the dresser mirror. As she picked up a hairbrush and began slowly brushing her straight brown hair, she could see Tobie moving from bed to closet and back again. The expression on her face was sad.

Was she thinking about Carlie and Donner? Or about something much, much worse … was Tobie thinking now about what had happened to her before she ever came to Salem?

“Could I borrow your blue denim skirt?” Tobie asked suddenly, turning toward Quinn. “If you’re not going to wear it, I mean.”

In the mirror, Quinn watched as her cheeks flamed scarlet. As red as the paint on the skirt Tobie was asking to borrow. “It’s … it’s in the laundry,” she stammered.

“No, it isn’t. I washed it last week with my stuff. I remember because I was really careful to take it out of the dryer at exactly the right time, so it wouldn’t wrinkle. I know how you hate to iron stuff.”

“Yeah, I know, but I was going to wear it yesterday, and then I spilled nail polish on it. Sorry. You can wear my navy skirt if you want. It’s clean.”

“Darn. Thanks anyway, but that skirt’s too dressy. I want something I can wear with socks. I’ll just wear jeans.”

Socks.

Quinn glanced down at her feet. She’d forgotten about the clean white socks she’d been wearing to bed every night. If she’d left her bed last night, the bottoms wouldn’t be snowy white anymore, would they? Wasn’t that why she’d begun wearing them in the first place … thinking they’d tell the story? And now, when she was worried, she hadn’t even bothered to check them out. She’d forgotten.

Her heart pounding loudly in her chest, she hurried back to the bed and sat down. She didn’t want to look. She
did
want to look. She did, she didn’t …

She lifted her foot and twisted her leg sideways.

The soles of her socks were still clean. Pure, snowy white.

Letting out a deep sigh of relief, Quinn let her foot drop.

She hadn’t walked in her sleep last night. She hadn’t left her bed, her room, hadn’t left Devereaux and found a huge can of paint and carried it up to the tower and dumped it on people.

Of course she hadn’t.

But … if she hadn’t gone wandering last night … if she’d stayed in her bed from the moment she got into it until Ivy and Suze arrived this morning … if that was true, then …

Where had the red paint come from on her white blouse and blue denim skirt?

Deciding she couldn’t stay in her room all day and go crazy wondering what was going on, Quinn dressed quickly in jeans and a gray university sweatshirt. She snaked one foot under the bed to drag her sneakers forward.

The left one emerged, lying on its side. The foot went back in and pulled out the right shoe.

It wasn’t lying on its side. It was sitting upright, laces untied.

But it was no longer the all-white shoe she had discarded the night before.

Now, like the white blouse and the denim skirt, the white sneaker wore huge ragged splotches of bright red, as if it were bleeding.

Quinn stared down at the shoe, her mouth hanging loosely open, her blue eyes silvery with unshed tears. And she knew why her socks were still as clean as when she’d donned them the night before.

Because if she
had
gone somewhere in her sleep last night, she hadn’t gone in her socks.

This time, she had put on her shoes.

Q
UINN HAD NO IDEA
how she got through her classes that day. Everywhere she went on campus, people were talking about Carlie and Donner. There were a dozen different theories about why it had happened. Someone knew a girl who had a thing for Donner and was jealous of Carlie … maybe
she
had done it. There was this guy on the basketball team who had been following Carlie around … maybe
he
had done it. Someone knew a practical joker who was always looking for stunts to pull and probably thought dumping paint on people would be a hoot. Maybe
he
had done it.

It was all speculation. No one knew anything for certain. Security guards in Salem uniforms were everywhere, asking questions. But no one seemed to have any definite answers.

Quinn was haunted by the dreadful possibility that she might be the one person on campus who had the answer.

She met Ivy and Tobie for lunch, but none of them ate anything. Tobie’s face was pale and pinched-looking, and Ivy looked tired, her usual energy riot in evidence.

They were on the way out of the dining hall when Quinn spotted Simon coming toward them. She could tell by the look on his face that he’d already seen them. His mouth was as straight-edged as a ruler, his cheeks slightly flushed. He was carrying a package from the mall sports shop.

New sneakers probably, Quinn thought testily. The better to run away from Quinn Hadley.

He passed the trio with a mumbled “hey.” But Quinn, red-faced, had taken only a few steps when he called out softly, “Quinn? See you a minute?”

“Go ahead,” Ivy urged as Quinn hesitated. “Catch up with us later.” Then she grabbed Tobie’s elbow and pulled her away, leaving no room for Quinn to argue.

When she turned to face Simon, he was standing under a huge old oak tree, its new leaves just starting to emerge. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. After what happened to Carlie and Donner, I thought you might be a little shaky.”

“It was awful,” she admitted. Then she remembered the abrupt way Simon had left her life and became angry all over again. “But I really don’t see how my feelings concern you. I mean, you’ve made it very clear that you’re not interested, right?”

Instantly, she wanted to kick herself. Hadn’t she
promised
herself that she wouldn’t ask him what had happened? And now here she was, making a big deal out of a simple question from him. Fool!

“
I’m
not interested?” Simon’s thick, sandy eyebrows married in a frown. “I’m not the one who wrote the letter, am I?”

It was Quinn’s turn to look puzzled. “Letter? What letter?”

Simon withdrew a brown wallet from the inside pocket of his light blue windbreaker. “The letter you wrote telling me you didn’t want to see me or talk to me. I have it right here.” Unfolding the wallet, he reached in and pulled free a sheet of bright pink paper folded into a small square.

Quinn didn’t own bright pink stationery. But the paper in Simon’s hand did look vaguely familiar. “That’s not from me,” she said.

“What are you talking about?” Simon asked. “You signed it. See,” unfolding the letter and pointing, “right there!
Quinn.
You’re the only Quinn on campus as far as I know, and you’re definitely the only Quinn who would be writing to me.”

“Let me see that.” Quinn stretched out a hand and Simon gave her the letter. She read the typewritten note quickly.

Simon,

I know we’ve had a lot of fun, but now it’s time to move on. I don’t want to be tied down to just one person and you shouldn’t, either. As for staying friends, that never works. Let’s just say we had a good time and leave it at that, okay? I see no point in any further contact between us. Have a good life.

Quinn

“I never wrote this,” she said quietly. “And you should have known I didn’t. It doesn’t sound anything like me, Simon.” She quoted: “ ‘
I see no point in any further contact between us’?
Simon, I would never say something like that. It sounds like I’m firing an employee, not ending a relationship. Besides,” she added, lifting her head to look Simon squarely in the face, “I
didn’t
want to stop seeing you, so why would I write this in the first place?”

“You didn’t write this?” Simon asked. “You didn’t
write
this?”

“I didn’t write it,” Quinn repeated softly. “I wouldn’t have. Why didn’t you
ask
me?”

“Because,” he tapped the pink paper with one finger, “you said
not
to.”

“Well, you could have
fought
a little harder,” Quinn said tartly. “Are you that easy to get rid of?”

“If I were,” he responded just as tartly, “I wouldn’t be standing here now, would I?”

Good point.

Relenting, Quinn dropped her books on the ground, smiled, reached up, and wrapped her arms around Simon’s neck.

She couldn’t see his face then, to see if he was returning the smile, but it was clear that he was returning the hug.

And a minute later, he punctuated the hug with a man-am-I-glad-you’re-back kiss.

Which Quinn returned with a heartfelt how-could-you-be-so-dumb kiss.

A few minutes later, they were sitting on the low stone wall encircling the fountain on the Commons.

The only thing Simon knew about the letter was that it had been pushed underneath the door to his room. He’d found it when he came home one afternoon.

“I’ve seen that paper before,” Quinn told him. “I just can’t remember where. Why would someone do something so mean?” She glanced at Simon. “Who were you dating before I came along?”

“No one special. Although …” Simon grinned, “there is this tall blonde in chem class who smiles at me a lot.”

Quinn rolled her eyes. “I’m serious. I want to know how this happened. It was a really mean thing to do, and I can’t think of anyone who hates me that much.”

“Maybe,” Simon said thoughtfully, “it was the same person who set off that stink bomb and went after Carlie and Donner. Someone who hates to see any couples happy together.”

As bizarre as the thought seemed to be, Simon had a point. But his mention of Carlie and Donner caused a small snake of uneasiness to slither up her spine as she remembered the paint-stained clothing hidden in her room.

Should she tell him? He knew about the sleepwalking. Maybe he could reassure her, convince her that she hadn’t been anywhere near the tower when that paint rained down upon Carlie and Donner. But what if he didn’t? What if he thought that maybe she
had
done it?

Poor Simon. He didn’t know what he was getting into, dating a somnambulist. Fancy word for a real pain-in-the-neck condition. And maybe it was worse than just annoying, or frightening. Maybe it was dangerous.

She wasn’t going to let it spoil her reunion with Simon. She’d worry about the hidden clothing and shoes later. Right now, for a change, she was going to relax and have fun.

She did just that. They walked over to the stadium to watch football practice and afterwards went to the mall with Tobie and Danny, where they ran into Ivy and Tim, and Suze and Leon. Any time one of the group started to bring up the subject of what had happened to Carlie and Donner, Quinn quickly and fiercely shushed them. She refused to think about it.

Later, they drove to a club in town called Johnny’s Place where Salem students gathered because it was one of the few places that had dancing.

Her arms around Simon on the dimly lit dance floor, Quinn closed her mind to everything but the moment, until her feet began to hurt in the black flats. When she suggested a little while later that they call it a night, only Suze argued. “It’s way too early,” she complained, pouting. But she was overruled. They’d all had a busy week.

Back in their room at Devereaux, Quinn watched as Tobie tossed a toothbrush into her tote bag. She had decided to spend the night at Nightingale Hall again, saying she and Cath hadn’t finished their project. “Besides,” she added quietly, “right now seems like a good time to be off-campus. Who knows what’s going to happen here next?”

“You didn’t have a very good time tonight, did you?” Quinn asked. Tobie had seemed withdrawn all evening. “Did you and Danny have a fight?”

Tobie shook her head. “No. He’s a nice guy. It’s just …” Her voice faded, and she sighed. “I guess I was just tired.”

Tell
me, Quinn urged silently, talk to me about what happened to you last year. You’ll feel better, and maybe I can help.

But Tobie waved and left. There would be no discussion tonight.

When Quinn was in her own bed, she struggled to relax through her deep-breathing exercises, but it was impossible. The paint-stained sneakers and clothing hidden beneath her bed were screaming at her. What are you going to do about us? You can’t just leave us here. Sooner or later, someone will spot us and want to know why your shoes and clothing have red paint splattered all over them. How will you explain, Quinn?

T
HE COUPLE SAT IN
a small car behind the tall, ivy-covered dorm.

It had just begun to rain, lightly at first, then more steadily. The windshield and windows were instantly covered with a thin sheen of wetness, as if they were sweating profusely. Later, the couple would say the rain was what kept them from seeing their attacker.

The figure moved slowly, deliberately, as if in a trance. It was shielded from the rain by a coat and hat. When it reached the small car, the right arm moved up, raising an object high above its head.

A claw hammer. Very large. Thick wooden handle, metal claw, dripping with raindrops.

The arm descended, swiftly and with great force, against the driver’s door.

The couple inside, jolted back to reality by the blow, cried out.

The driver sat up straight, grabbed the door handle, pushed hard, even as another, harsher blow struck the door a second time, crumpling the metal and driving it inward, like a collapsing accordion.

The door wouldn’t open.

The figure moved to the passenger’s side and, while the driver was still trying to force open his own door, repeated the destruction on the passenger’s door.

They were trapped.

The first blow to the windshield created a giant spiderweb of cracked glass.

The second blow, following immediately, partially shattered the cracked windshield, spraying the inside of the car with, razor-sharp splinters. But much of the glass clung stubbornly to the windshield frame, forming small, jagged holes too small to crawl through unless the captives inside the car were willing to risk having a limb sliced away.