At First Touch (23 page)

Carey’s arm slid around me and I leaned into him, surprised at how easy physical contact was becoming between us. “One more question,” he said. “For now, anyway.”

“Ok.”

“Was the kiss good?”

I laughed out loud and burrowed into the wide spread of his arms. “Yes,” I replied, smiling furiously. He grinned and proceeded to try to do better than ‘good.’ We were getting pretty close to ‘mind-blowing’ when I heard someone clear his throat loudly and obviously.

Carey froze and removed his hands from me like I was on fire. I smiled and turned to my father, who was frowning disapprovingly at us from the doorway. I might have been more worried if I hadn’t seen the twitch of lips that meant he was amused.

“Now that’s something I’d hoped I’d never have to see.” Dad sighed and put his hands on his hips while Carey scrambled to his feet.  “C’mere, Carey. Let’s you and I have a chat.” I nearly lost it as I watched Carey follow my Dad out of the room, his shoulders slumped and face beet red. I hoped Dad wasn’t too hard on him.

Five minutes later I had myself under control and I joined them in the living room. Dad and Carey were sitting on the couch talking about sports. I rolled my eyes and flopped down in the armchair.

“Well, honey, it’s getting pretty late. You’d better say goodbye to your guest,” Dad said seriously. I winked at him and got back up to walk Carey to the door. As soon as we were out of Dad’s sight he started to grin, but wouldn’t tell me what they talked about. He just said it was ‘guy stuff,’ so I threw up my hands and bid him goodbye.

“Carey, I don’t know how to thank you. You saved my life. No matter what, I won’t forget what you’ve done for me,” I said, my voice suddenly sober. Carey’s shocking blue eyes were soft with adoration as he looked down at me, his skin glowing palely in the muted light.

“I’d do anything for you, Liz,” he said simply, making my stomach do a flip. He leaned in and kissed me softly, a promise, and then was gone, reminding me that he would pick me up the next evening for our rescheduled date with V.J. and Mark. I leaned against the door as I listened to his ancient car power up and make its slow way down the road, my face stretched in an impossible grin. Eventually, Dad’s voice brought me down to earth and I went in to join him for what I knew was coming; the inevitable sex talk we had both been dreading since I turned fourteen. I’d have to be extra careful not to listen in to his thoughts tonight I thought, and settled down on the couch for my lecture.

Preston was out of school for a week because he was locked up in juvenile hall awaiting his hearing. Evidently he was way over the legal limit, even if he had been of drinking age, so the small-town cops were taking his indiscretion very seriously. Carey told me about the last drunk driver in town, about a year earlier; the man had plowed into a station wagon carrying two little boys and their mom. One of the boys was killed. No one wanted to see something like that happen again, so Preston was in pretty serious trouble. I felt a passing guilt about the situation, but was finally convinced by Dad and Carey that I was in no way responsible for his predicament, particularly since I had never spread the rumor about him to begin with.

 In fact, the information about Preston’s embarrassing interlude with Jessie had been generated by his friend Shane, who was pissed off about Preston playing first string on the basketball team. I had a simultaneous urge to throttle Shane or shake his hand in thanks since he had inadvertently brought so much trouble to my door, even as Carey and I came together in an entirely new way. He was now my declared “boyfriend” to anyone who would listen to him. Although I wasn’t thrilled to have so much attention focused on me, since I was to everyone’s best knowledge his first girlfriend, I did enjoy the languid looks, the sweet surprises in my locker, the out of season flowers waiting at my lunch table.

Carey also took every opportunity to show off his abilities, showing up at my house unexpectedly and carrying me off to some local beauty spot for a quick kiss, returning me to my room before my father even knew I was gone, picking up his car with one hand and balancing it at shoulder level, making me stand a mile away from him and whisper, then rush to my side to repeat what I had said. It was silly and fun and I found myself showing off a little too. I dipped into his mind when he wasn’t expecting it and said his thoughts out loud or listed all the books he’d ever read or music he’d ever listened to. We were a weird couple, but I was as close to happy as I’d ever been.

My pleasure in our new relationship was marred slightly by Carey’s more unguarded thoughts. It wasn’t that Carey was thinking anything unflattering or betraying a secret passion for Angelina Jolie. It was the way he viewed me, as some mixture of damsel in distress and warrior princess. While I knew he genuinely liked me and I couldn’t deny that there was a mutual attraction, there was a part of me that wondered how much my dramatic situation had to do with his passion for being a hero. As a boy, he had been understandably preoccupied with comic book superheroes, and I was both a powerful sidekick and a constant victim at the same time in his mind, rousing his noble instincts and making me question his motives.

But my doubts about Carey shifted to a back burner as other concerns demanded my attention, namely the reappearance of Agent Carson, the FBI agent who had been Thrasher’s partner on the Fitz case. He never approached me, but after a while, it seemed as though every time I turned around I would see him looming in the distance, watching me outside of school, at the diner, the movie theatre. I felt certain he was trying to catch me alone. Sure that I didn’t want to know why, I kept myself surrounded by my friends and Carey, never giving the agent a chance to make contact. I mentioned my fears to my father, and while he was concerned, when days went by and nothing happened, he told me not to worry, that Carson was probably just following up with Fitz’s case. I accepted this explanation because I wanted everything to stay normal, but a tiny seed of fear in the back of my brain kept growing and I woke up in the night, panicked and sweating, sure that Carson’s face was peering in my bedroom window. I wished more than ever that I had chosen Carson to download, not his absent partner.

After school was let out early on Friday for staff development or something, V.J. and I went shopping for Halloween costumes for the party the following night. She was beyond excited, claiming that Halloween was a big deal in Pound.  I hadn’t celebrated Halloween since the accident, so I was without a costume for the party, which, as far as I could tell, it seemed the whole school was attending. When I explained my dilemma to V.J. Friday morning, she insisted we drive to the mall in Hamilton where there was a seasonal costume shop.

“The selection will be pretty picked over by now,” she explained apologetically as we got out of her car at the entrance to the mall, which boasted a Bath & Body Works, Victoria’s Secret, and American Outfitters, as well as an inordinate number of craft stores. Hamilton was not Manhattan.

“That’s ok. I don’t really have anything in mind. I’m sure I can find something simple.” V.J. gave me a doubtful look and led the way to the store, which was located near the back of the mall, away from the gargantuan Wal-Mart that took up at least half the building. Still marveling at the presence of the super store in a shopping mall, I was taken aback by the window dressing for “Luther’s Costume Emporium.” It included a ghoulish looking mannequin decked out as a grim reaper, the plastic scythe held menacingly toward passersby, its skeleton hand on the head of a kneeling mannequin made to look like some kind of fairy prostitute in the skimpiest outfit I’ve seen outside Miami Beach.

“Uh, I don’t know about this, V.J.,” I stated nervously, thinking that whatever costumes were left were probably way outside my comfort zone.

“What? Oh, the display. Yeah, Luther’s a weird guy. But I promise there will be some decent costumes in here. You don’t have to go as the reaper,” she giggled and I relaxed a bit.

We went into the store, which was strewn with fake cobwebs and heavy drapes; plastic spiders and skeletons lurked in the corners like some macabre welcoming committee. It wasn’t a large space, probably reserved for seasonal shops like this with limited merchandise, but it seemed particularly cramped, stuffed as it was with last minute shoppers and an abundance of costumes hanging on racks and tucked away in transparent bags that advertised being a “sexy Elvira,” “hysterical chicken,” and even “Mistress of the Night.” I shuddered and turned away, pretty sure that nothing in those plastic bags would work for me. Seeing a clearance rack, I made a beeline for it, thinking I could maybe get a cape and go as a female Zorro or something, when a six foot tall figure in a priest’s robes with a skeleton mask loomed over me.

I gave an embarrassing little squeal and bumped into V.J. She laughed and steadied me, holding my arm. I was glad I had on my customary long sleeves and gloves; I really didn’t want to download V.J. I liked her too much to know everything about her. The black polyester nightmare in front of me spoke in a surprisingly high-pitched male voice, though I imagined he was going for something more menacing than Kermit the Frog on helium.

“Welcome ladies, to the pit of despair, the chamber of darkness, the…” he paused uncertainly. “Hmm, what was the other thing? Anyway, how can I help you?” I smothered a laugh as the employee messed up his opening lines and V.J. told him in all seriousness that I was looking for a Halloween costume and didn’t want anything slutty or dumb. The skeleton-priest nodded understandingly and gestured for us to follow him to a little curtained-off section in the back where a variety of outfits hung. This section looked more like a vintage costume shop rather than the commercial atrocity of the rest of the store.

“Much better,” V.J. murmured as she fingered a long yellow gown that looked like something out of
The Pirates of the Caribbean
. I zeroed in on a black beaded flapper dress with generous amounts of fringe in layers all over it that would flare and whirl if the wearer took it into their head to spin around. I had never worn anything like it and I desperately wanted to, but there would be far too much bare skin showing in a dress like that for me. I would download anyone who happened to bump into me if I wore it. Sighing a little, I looked around for something more suitable, something that covered me from neck to toe.

“Try this one on, Liz,” V.J. ordered, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she held out a cigarette girl costume, complete with short sparkly hot pants and a vendor box. I rolled my eyes and caught sight of a long sleeved, full length dark green gown. Sensing my interest, the skeleton-priest took it down from the rack and handed it to me.

“It’s a Guinevere dress, you know, King Arthur and all that?” he said by way of explanation and then wandered off to aid some other buyer. It was a nice dress, plain, but a pretty color that would look good with my eyes and against my skin. I told V.J. I was going to try it on, fending off her efforts to stuff me into a Marie Antoinette costume, including the four-foot wig, and slipped into the dressing room.

When I pulled the gown on I gave a little sigh of satisfaction. It looked great; fitting snugly to my chest and waist, it flared out slightly at my hips to fall gracefully to the floor, floating tantalizingly as I moved back and forth to get a better look in the shoddy mirror. It had a square neckline that stopped just short of being slutty, and though I worried a little about that much skin being uncovered, I reflected realistically that if anyone brushed up against that part of me with bare skin it would be Carey, and a little shiver of excitement rolled down my back.

“Let me see!” V.J. demanded, her voice just outside the door. I twirled out, feeling suddenly giddy and frivolous, and she gasped, saying it was perfect and that she wished she could get away with a dress like that.

“Do you think I should get it?” I asked, suddenly self-conscious. After all, I had meant to get something innocuous, and I would be anything but innocent in that gown.

“I do. You look great. Carey will flip!” she exclaimed and I agreed. I was actually pretty curious to see Carey’s reaction myself.

I got dressed and we got in line at the register behind a guy buying a doctor’s coat and a fake stethoscope. V.J. was chattering happily in her usual manner when my eye was caught by a tall figure in a black suit wearing a Richard Nixon mask. I froze, uncertain as to why I felt so sure that the figure meant me harm, but I was filled with an instinctual compulsion to run for it. There was something familiar about the tilt of his head, the focused way his dark eyes fixed on me.

I swallowed nervously and darted my eyes around for an escape route. I didn’t know what he wanted, but every nerve in my body screamed that I didn’t want to know. Besides, the Nixon mask was just too creepy.

“Are you ok?” V.J. asked. I absentmindedly nodded and stepped up for my turn at the register. I didn’t even cringe at the high price of the costume, I just wanted out of there and away from the false Nixon, who was keeping a silent vigil across the room. I paid for the costume and quickly ushered V.J. out of the store.

“Do you think we can skip lunch?  I’m not feeling well all of a sudden,” I said, glancing over my shoulder as we walked to her car.

“Sure, no problem. Do you want me to take you on home?” she asked worriedly.

Agent Carson walked a few yards behind us, and with a shock I realized he had been the man in the Nixon mask. He trailed along casually, but his gaze seared into me even at a distance. My stomach cramped in fear and a heavy, sick feeling settled over me. I recognized that feeling; it’s the same level of terror a rabbit experiences before the fox leaps in for the kill.