The Vanishing Game (15 page)

Noah shrugged. “That's because the truth isn't very interesting. My mother was a drug addict whose dealer got her pregnant. She didn't really want me. I guess back then it seemed less hurtful to make up a story instead of telling the truth.”

I felt ashamed at having forced him to this confession. Also, it made me a bit insecure to see he had moved on and no longer let his past define him the way I still did.

“Can I ask something else, Noah?”

“Sure.”

“I feel confused, like there are missing puzzle pieces. And I'm not talking about the ones Jack left me. I've been thinking about what happened today with Zachary Saulto. He works for ISI the same way you and Jack used to, right?”

“Yes. He was sort of my supervisor and sent me work. I didn't talk to him much in person, though.”

“Why did he say, ‘Think about Jack'? What does that mean?”

“I don't know.”

“But why did you quit working for them? And don't tell me it's just because Jack died.”

He paused and it seemed as if he crossed a mental line. “You understand my work for them, right? I mostly customized the security program we'd already written.”

“The same thing Jack was doing.”

“They'd send us new programming assignments and we'd specialize the coding for different companies who purchased the software. But then something happened. Jack sent me a strange e-mail the day before his accident. There was just one sentence. It said that some of the ISI programmers had written back doors into their security codes.”

“Back doors so someone could secretly get through a company's security?”

“Yes. Which means they wouldn't really be secure.”

“Is that illegal?”

“If they didn't tell their clients, it is. I'm guessing ISI wouldn't want anyone knowing about it or they could get sued in a big way.”

“But Jack never said anything to me about that.”

Noah shrugged. “Maybe he didn't get the chance.”

“So how did he learn what other programmers were doing?”

“I don't know.”

“Would the people that run ISI have been threatened because Jack found out? Would they have tried to stop him from talking?”

“There's no way to know that either. But when he died, the whole thing made me nervous. I decided it was time to quit programming for them.”

Noah's cell phone rang. He looked at it and said, “It's the police department.”

He had a short conversation and then disconnected. “That was Don Iverson. He's a police detective and kind of a friend of mine.”

“You're friends with a cop?”

“Don's okay. He was the officer in charge of closing the Seale House foster care program. And he's sort of kept an eye on me ever since. He even helped me become an emancipated minor so I could live on my own and not end up in another foster house.”

“Sounds like a good guy.”

“Yeah. Anyway, seems the police picked up some
kids for underage driving. They might be the same ones who rocked my windshield. Don asked me to come down to the police station and identify them. Want to come?”

I stood and started clearing off the table. “I'm tired, and I'm not really interested in seeing those brats again.”

“Okay. I'll probably be back in about an hour.”

After Noah left, I downed some painkillers and soaked in a tub of hot water. As I relaxed, my mind wandered across the day's events, including the strange experience of finding myself transported to Hazel's upstairs room. What unique and frightening powers did Seale House possess? Had those same dark powers somehow followed me into the elevator of the Peace Tower? That idea was so weird I shoved it aside, the same way I had tried to shove aside the memories of other abnormal incidents from my past in Watertown. I told myself none of it had been real.

Was it all in my head, like some sort of magician's trick? And yet a nagging voice persisted: what about Georgie's death? I'd seen the silhouette of the shooter who killed him, and the angry girl this morning confirmed we'd seen the same thing. Even the rocks thrown at Noah's windshield by Georgie's friends helped prove it. I examined all the bits and pieces that refused to fit together, believing if I could only figure out the “why” of it all, then I'd understand everything else.

With weary resignation, I finally let the water out of
the tub. I toweled off and scrounged another of Noah's T-shirts to sleep in, wishing for the tenth time that I had my luggage. Outside, the wind picked up, sighing softly against the house and whispering at the windows. More relaxed, I turned off the light, climbed in bed, and fell into a deep sleep.

The next thing I remember was being inside a tangled dream. There were two images familiar to me. One was an old woman, the other a scary man in a dark room. I had dreamed about the woman for a few years but about the guy only recently.

In my dream the woman was very old, her skin thin and clear as vellum. Wisps of white hair lay on her forehead and temples, and she wore a silver cross against a purple blouse. As we stood looking at each other, a deep ache filled me and yet instinctively I knew she wasn't the cause of it. Maybe she was only the witness.

Her fingers were bent and veins lined the back of her hands. She gently reached out, touching me, first at my temple and then at my heart. Although she said something I knew was really important, the dream didn't let me understand her words. Before I could puzzle them out, she faded into a murky fog and I found myself pulled into a small dark room.

I was reclining on what felt like a dentist's chair as a heavyset man approached me. There was a glaring light behind him that outlined his buzzed head, but his features were in shadow. He held up something sharp. “Don't be
nervous.” His voice was surprisingly gentle. “This won't hurt too much.”

It was then that I heard Jack's voice. “Jocelyn, wake up.”

I opened my eyes and lay in the dark, trying to calm myself. Jack's voice faded back into the dream, though for a few seconds it had seemed real, which only added to my confusion.

I stared up at the dim ceiling and tried to calm my nerves. Listening to the low moan of the wind, I wondered if Noah was back yet. The house was quiet, so I guessed he was still gone. As the last of the dream began to fade and I started to relax, a sound distracted me—a faint creak as if someone was in the room with me and had just shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Startled, my eyes searched the blackness in the corners.

Shadows climbed and scurried across the wall: headlights. As I lay there my nerves stayed taut, refusing to accept that my anxiety was just a remnant of the dream. A slight movement caught my attention, and I sucked in a startled breath before realizing it was just the curtains. They were stirring slightly in the breeze. But the window hadn't been open!

I threw back the covers and lunged for the door. A dark form flew at me from the shadows and slammed me back onto the bed. I struck at him but a blow from his fist made my head reel, and within seconds he was pressing me beneath his full weight. One hand cruelly twisted my
hair and pinned my head to the mattress, the other squeezed my throat in a painful grip.

His shadowed face was directly above mine. As his fingers tightened on my already bruised throat, his voice snarled, “Tell … me … where … it … is!”

He twisted my hair with his fist, and my scalp was in agony. The fingers and thumb of his other hand dug into the sides of my throat as he put increasing pressure on my Adam's apple. Frantically I clawed at his arms and hands, but he continued to choke me. He seemed some kind of psycho phantom in a hooded sweatshirt, with oily hair hanging in his face.

“Tell me where it is!”

When he eased up enough for me to pull in a breath so I could answer, I let out a hoarse scream. He cut it off mid-screech.

A couple of seconds later a fist hammered on the bedroom door and Noah shouted. The guy squeezed tighter, cursing me with such anger that his spit hit my face. In a panicked flash I knew he was going to kill me before Noah could get through the door, but this thought was swept
away by a frightening sensation. I felt his hand getting hot. It scorched my neck as if an electric current flowed between us. He snarled like a demon werewolf. Then, just as Noah kicked the door in, he leaped off the bed and dove through the open window.

Noah stumbled inside. After a quick check to see if I was okay, he headed out the window. I listened to footsteps running down the driveway. On trembling legs, I made it over to the window. An engine roared to life. Shoving the curtain aside, I peered out at the dark street. There was the screech of tires and a car, with no headlights on, drove dead center at Noah. He jumped out of the way. The car zoomed past and disappeared down the road.

I left the bedroom, more stable on my feet by then, and met Noah at the front door. He came in and locked it; he was out of breath.

“That car almost hit you!”

“Yeah. But it didn't.” He looked at me and then his expression grew anxious. “You're hurt.”

“No, I'm okay.” My voice was hoarse, and because of his worried gaze I walked to the nearby mirror. He flipped on a lamp and I caught my breath. The flesh on my throat was a mess—charred and peeling.

Noah took me by the arm and led me to the couch. He hurried to the kitchen. I heard water running. A few seconds later he came back with a wet towel that he carefully placed on my throat. The cold was soothing. “Rest for a minute,” he said, heading back to my room.

I heard the window close and then saw him checking
other rooms. After he'd secured the house he came and sat beside me. “Who was that, Jocelyn?”

“I don't know, but this is twice someone tried to choke me. It's getting really old. You know nothing scares me more than that.”

He looked uncomfortable. “I'm sorry about what I did to you in the garage. I'd been on edge ever since quitting work. When I figured out someone was hiding in the back of my car, I thought Zachary Saulto was having me followed. I was furious.”

It became clear Noah was more concerned about what ISI might be doing than he had let on. He added, “Of course, I had no idea it was you. Jack never e-mailed me a current photo of you, even though I asked.”

I liked the fact that he'd asked Jack for a picture of me. Why was my stupid brother so overprotective? It wouldn't have hurt him to send Noah my senior picture.

He stood, went to the windows, and checked the locks. “No one should've been able to get in. The doors were bolted. So were the windows. I'd just come inside when I heard you scream.”

“That guy kept saying the same thing over and over: ‘Tell me where it is.' Tell him where what is, Noah? What did he want?”

The frightened sound of my voice made me feel ashamed, but I couldn't help it. Something horrible was happening all around me, and the more I tried to figure it out, the more puzzling it became.

“Did you see his face?”

I shivered, rubbing my arms, my head resting against the back of the couch. My poor scalp was still aching, and I wondered how much hair the attacker had pulled out. “No, it was too dark.”

Noah went and got a fleece throw, covering me.

“Thank you.”

He sat beside me again. “Any chance it was Zachary Saulto?”

“No. This guy wasn't bald. He had longer hair. That's all I noticed, except he had garlic breath. Not really helpful, is it?”

Noah reached for the damp towel. “Let me take a look at this. Does it hurt?”

“A little. Not as much as it should, I guess.” I didn't add that this scared me even more, since I knew lack of pain from a burn meant it was serious.

Using the corner of the damp towel, Noah carefully wiped my throat. His fingers pulled away thin, charred pieces of skin and he leaned in, his face close to mine. I studied him. Noah had grown into the lean features that once made him seem awkward. Now he had a sharp-edged look that was compelling, especially with the dark stubble on his chin and jaw. The boy I'd known hadn't even needed to shave. Though I'd secretly been in love with him back then, he had now become far more mature and masculine than I ever could have imagined.

Sitting on his couch that way, with his fingers gently touching my neck, was strangely sensual—except for the
nasty little reminder of how a couple of days ago those same fingers had choked me worse than the scary guy tonight. Just then I didn't want to think about that, instead focusing on his brown eyes. For a couple of seconds I even fantasized about him pulling me into his arms and holding me the way I'd always dreamed. What would it be like to press my mouth against his? Would he be shocked if I kissed him?

His eyes met mine and I blinked, wondering if he'd read my stupid girly thoughts. I focused on his grim expression and all the fantasy stuff vanished right out of my head. “Is it bad?”

“Not for you. Jocelyn, this charred skin isn't yours. It's his.”

“What?”

I stood and hurried back to the mirror. He followed. Gazing at my reflection I saw that my throat was red, like it was sunburned, but only in the outlined shape of a large hand. I turned to stare at Noah. My voice came out a whisper. “What's going on?”

He gave a slow shake of his head. “I've got no answers. Come sit back down. You're really pale, and I don't want you passing out.”

He guided me to the couch and I slipped beneath the blanket, pulling my legs up under me. Noah went into his bathroom, then came back and sat beside me on the couch. He unscrewed the cap on a tube of burn ointment. “Lean your head back.”

I did, this time staring up at the circles of muted yellow lamplight on the ceiling. He carefully applied the salve to the red area. It was cold, letting me mentally outline the hand that had felt so hot on my skin.