The Tramp (The Bound Chronicles #1) (30 page)

“Yeah.”

“Could have rolled off…”

“It was about this big,” John cupped his hands together to indicate a vessel about the size of a coffee mug, “and it was brown with age, but it looked like it had been painted once.” He scrubbed at his head and started pacing.

Candy let him fret and looked around the cave, trying to remember what the guide had told them when she was little. It was like a sitting room, similar to a modern formal living room in some houses, reserved for fancy guests and visiting aunts and uncles. Or maybe it was an eating space, like the family breakfast nook where everyone gathered. They probably drew pictures, told stories, played games together. She looked up. The ceiling was black with centuries of fire soot. She tried to recall what the cave paintings looked like, before the university removed them for preservation.

“We all agreed that the object shouldn’t be touched. That it probably had archeological significance,” John was saying to himself, more agitated than she had first realized. “It had these markings on it. Remember the symbols we saw in history class?”

“Huh?”

John snapped his fingers once or twice, irritated. “You know, the Mississippian Culture.”

“Oh. Kind of. I didn’t do too well on that test, actually.”

“Would someone have taken it?” He was patrolling the room, muttering to himself. “Why?”

“Taken the cup thing?”

“We thought someone should call the university and have them come and look at it. I said I would. I told them that you would know who to talk to.”

“Thanks.”

“No. You don’t understand. We stepped away and agreed that we shouldn’t touch anything.”

“Well. Maybe someone took it to the university themselves. I mean, that would be stupid. It should only be handled with gloves, by a profess—”

“Whoever took it didn’t take it to the university,” John barked.

Candy gaped at him. “How do you know that?”

“That little weasel probably doesn’t even know what a university is.”

“Who?”

John didn’t answer. He crossed his arms over his chest and resumed pacing.

“Well,” sighed Candy. “It’s gone now. Let’s get someone over to look at these bones, though, right?” She tried for upbeat. The painted cup meant more to John than he was willing to explain, obviously. If it really were that important, he would spill the beans sooner or later.

“Yeah, you’re right.” John jerked his cell phone out of his pocket, then started dialing as he walked away from her.

Candy suddenly understood that he meant to share something personal with her about the missing artifact before they called anyone. But she missed the beat.

chapter thirty-six

By the time Charlotte found the tree with the red lichen, the sun was already low in the sky. She hoped she could beat the sunset and get to The Shack before nightfall, but it was growing darker by the second. She parked just off the road and picked her way through the woods; the going was slow in the deepening gloom.

Antonio was so cute. He had called her the night before, all excited to show her the stupid cave. And the gross little cabin. She didn’t mind entertaining a boy’s fantasies, however. It could only pay off in her favor later. “If only I hadn’t left my damn phone.”

How had she been so careless as to leave her cell phone there? She didn’t even realize it until she was stuck at work earlier that day.
But, the little Italian pervert wanted pictures.

She just hoped she could find her way back in the dark. The smell of sulfur from the Blue Spring helped to guide her in the right direction.

“Only time I been thankful for that smell.”

Her voice suddenly seemed too loud, the leaves crunching under her shoes as raucous as an alarm, and she slowed her pace, unsure why she felt the urge for stealth. A monotonous hum began to register in her ears. The tone flew to a higher pitch, like a wail, then picked up the hum once again.

Chanting?

It was definitely human. Charlotte realized why the forest felt so wrong seconds before: not a bird chirped, not a bug buzzed, not a squirrel scurried. The woods were eerily silent, except for the human voice coming from the direction of the spring. As she got closer to the sound, she sidled up next to the mountainside and slinked along as quietly as she could, her phone momentarily forgotten. The smell was overpowering.

She peeked around the side of a boulder, into the little inlet where the spring lie, and gasped at what she saw.

Tyler…

Her cousin was crouched at the edge of the water, naked. Guttural sounds were coming from his throat, his head fallen back at an impossible angle. She wondered if she should help him, but then his head snapped forward revealing a face twisted into a blind snarl, his eyes rolled back into his skull. The noises from his mouth coalesced back into the chant.
Some freaky demon language?

Charlotte fell back behind the boulder, unable to watch. She tried to slow her breathing, wishing more than anything to remain unnoticed.
What in the hell is going on?

The sounds by the spring became more frantic and she risked a look. She had to see. At first, she thought Tyler was masturbating, bouncing up and down on his haunches, his hands hidden between his legs. But then he began to retch and a stream of something flowed out of his mouth. Or was it flowing into his mouth? Charlotte felt like she might be sick herself.

She covered her cherry lips with her hand and slid back along the face of the overhanging cliff, promising herself not to look again. How fast could she get back to her car? What if Tyler heard her? She couldn’t risk it.
Gonna have to wait it out. My gawd.

As she knelt down in the dirt and tried to regain composure, her mind raced. What was “it?” After a few minutes, her curiosity overwhelmed her fear and she knew she’d have to stay until Tyler finally left. She had to go back and see what was over there at that damned spring.

A crackling sound—like something electric—erupted around the bend. There was a flash of blue light from the rocky inlet. Then the forest was silent.

Charlotte listened, barely daring to breathe. Gradually, she heard sounds of normalcy resume around her. An owl hooted. The crickets began to sing again. The wind picked up and rustled the branches overhead. Heavy boots scuffed through the underbrush and disappeared on the other side of the spring, and she knew Tyler was gone.

She waited for at least ten more minutes before emerging from her hiding spot and edging toward the spring. Had the smell of sulfur vanished, or was she just growing accustomed to it? Night had fallen and she wished for the foresight of retrieving her phone for a light first, before investigating the spring. But, as she got closer, she saw…there was nothing to see. A bird was drinking from the spring and took to the air as she approached. She didn’t know what she had expected, but there was only plain old rocks and water in front of her.

Thought the water was gross before. A weird blue.
She shrugged. “Looks clear now. Maybe just can’t see it in the dark,” She leaned over and saw her reflection looking back at her and dipped her finger into the pool to disrupt the mirror. The water wasn’t cold anymore.

chapter thirty-seven

Homecoming Week was one of Stephanie Jameson’s favorite times of year, even ranking above Christmas morning. She was cooking up a storm for her part in the Bake-A-Thon, a fundraiser which would take place in Andrew Jackson’s courtyard, starting Monday morning and running throughout the week. The last-minute cash was perfect for buying the final decorations in the gymnasium, for the magical ending to the festivities on Saturday night. The dance.

Steph measured out her ingredients, mixing batter and turning out dough, humming along to her radio and thinking about the whirlwind of events in store. “Zippity do dah days,” she sang, then giggled to herself.
I sound like a Disney princess or something. I’m so silly.

Not only were there the themed days at the high school—Monday was Pajama’s Day, Tuesday was Super Star Day, Thursday was Little Kid Day, and Friday was Spirit Day—but there were functions throughout the week, night and day. Wednesday would be for the intramural sports taking place on the football field all day long. Each class was pitted against the other and they fought it out, practically to the death. Of course, the games were rigged for the final score to be in the senior class’s favor, and rightly so. They should enjoy that triumph in their last year.

All Friday, seniors took turns at the drums in the courtyard, chanting the Bobcatt theme. To finish, they organized a walking parade in the halls of the school building, luring all the kids out of class to join in with noisemakers, horns and pom-poms. That was always Steph’s favorite school day event.

Friday night would be the actual Homecoming game. It was as joyous as any other game, with the roaring of the crowd and the crashing of helmets, to the background of a full live band. In any other setting but an outdoor football game, the trumpets, trombones and French horns, the clarinets, oboes and flutes, would have been overpowering and obnoxious. A wall of sound. But, there was something about the blending of that music with the smell of roasting hotdogs and buttered popcorn, with the girls leading the cheers alongside and the boys giving their hearts and souls to the game.

The Homecoming game would have the added bonus of a special half-time show, when the audience would enjoy an extended performance, including a choreographed dance of marching band members, baton twirlers and flagmen. There would be a special routine by the cheerleaders, complete with intricate pop-ups, tumbling and a pyramid formation. And then…the announcement of the Homecoming Court.

She knew that her friend Kerry would have chewed all her fingernails to the quick by the time the Queen was finally announced; terrified that it somehow wouldn’t be her daughter, Ashley. Steph was feeling pretty bubbly about the likelihood of Tristan being named King, but not really worried. How could anyone except the star quarterback be chosen for such an honor, especially with his performance the past year? The Bobcatts were 6-0 so far, with no reason to think they wouldn’t win their game on Homecoming night. Traditionally, the coaches would ensure victory by choosing a weak opponent for the occasion, but she didn’t think they’d need it.

She bit her lip at one dark spot plaguing her mind. When Steph had suggested that Tristan take Ashley Davis to the dance, he ridiculed her and called her naïve. He was so mean; it still made her tummy rumble, “Come on, Mom. Like I’m gonna bring that tight-assed Puritan to the Homecoming dance. Her dad’s probably already locked on the chastity belt in advance.”

Steph was shocked, and she let him know it, “Tristan, my goodness. That’s not a nice way to speak, and that’s not what Homecoming is about.”

“Yeah, right. You take Miss Grundy as just friends, then. I plan to get laid that night.”

And then he asked Meg Shannon to the dance, just to drive home his point and enrage his mother—“get her panties in a wad,” as Mike liked to say.

Meg was pretty, in a strange way, and seemed nice enough (though a little on the dumb side), but not even Steph could’ve ignored the rumors about her loose nature. The poor thing didn’t have much going for her; she lived in the Southern Cove trailer park with a dozen raggedy step- and half-siblings, and a hard-working, but usually absent, mother. No father. People snickered that Meg would sleep with almost anyone to spend the night away from her own filthy, overrun trailer home. Everyone would know, of course, why Tristan had invited the girl to the dance.

She licked chocolate batter off her wooden spoon and thought she better talk to Mike about equipping Tristan with condoms, just in case. Her son probably wouldn’t accept condoms from his mother. She’d never had to worry about that when he was dating Ashley.

“Oh, Tristan,” she fumed. She thought about how debonair he would look in the tuxedo she picked out for him. She wanted nothing more than for him to enjoy the unique occasion, “He’ll have a lovely boutonnière and matching corsage, no matter who he brings for a date.”

Pouring batter into miniature Bundt pans, she looked across the kitchen to the family portraits decorating the hallway and found one of her recent favorites of Tristan, his senior photograph taken that summer. He was wearing a tuxedo dickey under a false jacket, like all the boys would have been, but his gorgeous, confident smile was the real decoration. Tristan inherited the best of both of his parents’ features: Mike’s thick, dark hair and striking jaw line, and Steph’s bright blue eyes and full lips. She stopped pouring for a minute, adoring her son’s image and chiding herself for feeling suspicious of his motives.

“Maybe he really does like the girl, how would I know?” she said to herself and shrugged. Ashley probably was a little too prudish, just like her mom, though she loved them both dearly.

Maybe Meg will turn into Cinderella. I’ll help her pumpkin turn into a chariot.
She nodded proudly, thinking of the limousine she hired for Tristan. Her pumpkin pies reached their peak in the hot oven and Steph chuckled at the sudden aroma. “What a coinkydink.”

“What’s a coinkydink?” asked Amanda, padding into the kitchen with her friend Jessica in tow, both of them still sleepy-eyed from their late night movie extravaganza. “You’re up so early, Mom.”

“Well, I’ve got a lot of baking to do. I’m a regular Keebler Elf today.”

Steph popped two bagels into the double toaster and placed the cream cheese container and two paper plates in front of the girls, who sat at the bar overhanging the kitchen countertop.

“Thanks for getting us all the limo for the dance, Mrs. Jameson,” Jessica said. “Amanda just told me, that’s so cool.”

“You’re quite welcome, sweetheart.”

“Musta been kinda difficult renting a limo to come all the way to Shirley from Tenakho Falls, huh?”

“You all are worth it,” Steph winked. She pulled on her oven mitts to check her pies.

“Tristan gets it first, of course,” Amanda complained, making a sour puss when Steph admonished her with one raised eyebrow.

“I don’t care, works for me. I’ve never ridden in a limo.”

“Thank you, Jessica. And neither has Amanda.” The limo hadn’t been difficult to rent and, although expensive, it was the right transportation for the star quarterback. The limo company sold large blocks of time to Shirley residents, so Steph was forced to pay for the whole evening or not at all. Amanda and her friends were the lucky beneficiaries of the rest of Tristan’s rented time. “Are you girls still planning to go stag?”

“Definitely.”

Steph frowned. “Y’all are so funny. You never stop surprising me.”

“Well, there’s absolutely no one of the male gender interesting to go with in our grade, Mom.”

“Yeah,” Jessica readily agreed, “Mrs. Jameson, all the boys in our class are immature. And most of our dads would freak out if we went with an older guy.”

“Older guys,” Steph chuckled at the very idea, rinsing her mixing bowls in the sink in preparation for a new recipe. They were all still babies. “Well, you girls just take care of each other.”

“Hi, Daddy.”

“Where’s my sugar?” Mike snuck into the kitchen on Steph’s blind side and spooned her in a hug.

“There’s plenty of it in here.” Steph laughed, but elbowed him away as he nipped her earlobe.

Amanda emitted audible disgust and Jessica whispered under her hand, “They’re so cute.”

“Did you make my special brownies yet?” Mike asked, ignoring his daughter and her friend, rooting through the refrigerator.

“Uh, no.” Steph pointed her nose over at the girls, who were beginning to look bored.

“You two need a ride anywhere?”

“Thanks, Dad. But we’ve got stuff to do in my room for a while.” Amanda slid off of her stool, motioning for Jessica to follow.

“Here, take your breakfast.” Steph popped the bagels out of the toaster and spread cream cheese on both so fast a Fairy Godmother would be proud. “You want orange juice?”

“No, Mom.”

Jessica shook her head. “Thanks, Mrs. Jameson.”

“You’re very welcome, sweetheart.” Steph watched them disappear down the hallway. She heard Jessica ask if they would still have the house to themselves after the dance, as the pair turned into Amanda’s room and closed the door. Steph heard the lock click in place and knitted her brows in irritation. “How many times have I told her I don’t want doors locked in this house?”

“Secretive teenagers…” Mike yawned. He poured himself a cup of coffee and tucked the Sunday paper under his arm.

“Well, I don’t like secrets, especially not with teenagers.”

Her husband gave her a resigned expression and patted her rump as he passed by. He claimed the chair vacated by Amanda, spreading his newspaper open on the bar and adjusting his reading glasses on his nose.

Steph flipped on her handheld mixer and watched the yellow egg yolks swirl into the sugar and vegetable oil, the brown vanilla extract adding its own spirals. She breathed in deeply, trying to let the homey smell sooth her troubled mind. Amanda had been more secretive than usual lately. What were they doing in there that required a locked door? “Mike, maybe going to a hotel Saturday night isn’t such a good idea, after all.”

“Hhhmmm?” Mike was already absorbed in one of the cover news stories.

“Leaving the house to the kids, after the Homecoming dance.”

“Thought it sounded great to me. Romantic.” He trilled his ‘r’ with an Italian flourish, a new private joke between them.

Steph didn’t laugh. “I’m not so sure anymore.”

“Pussycat, after all the work you put in for Homecoming, you’re gonna need the vacation and you know it. It’ll be fun.”

“Amanda and her friends going stag doesn’t worry you? What do you think they’re planning to do after the dance?”

Mike lifted a shoulder and kept his eyes on the paper. “Tristan will be in charge, not Mandy.”

That idea made her nervous in a different way, remembering the gossip about Meg Shannon liking to try out other people’s beds. Her bed, perhaps? “Well, what if they have some big party here, or something? What if they wreck the house, or some kids we don’t know come over, and…I don’t know, steal something?”

Mike snorted. “At the County Sheriff’s house?”

“Or…or, root through my underwear drawer or something?”

“What?” Now she had his attention; he looked up from his paper, his eyes little slits of mirth. “Are you worried about high school boys sniffing your underwear?”

“No.” She felt a little ridiculous when he put it like that. But she wasn’t ready to give up. “I mean, think of what else I keep in that drawer?”

“Well, honey. We can make sure our bedroom door stays locked.”

She sighed, frowning into her mixing bowl. “Okay…”

Mike put his elbows on the bar and cocked his head. “What is it really?”

“I don’t know.” She couldn’t describe why she felt so apprehensive. She was probably just being silly.

“Look, I know you feel like you need to know everything that goes on in the world, especially when it comes to your kids.” His attention slipped back to the news. “Trust me, you don’t. There’s lots going on that you don’t want to see.”

“Oh, it’s the jaded cop routine now, is it, Sheriff Jameson?” she teased him, licking a sugary whisk with her cute-as-button routine.

He studied her over the top of his glasses. “You gonna give me one of those to lick, or not?”