Blood Brothers (14 page)

That's all it was.

Lucy stood up again and sucked her finger. For one moment—and despite the thorns—she was halfway tempted to keep the rose for herself. But then, as an instant wave of guilt came over her, she knew she couldn't.

Someone had obviously left it here for Byron.

A simple gesture of love and remembrance.

An offering of beauty in an atmosphere of death.

She promised herself that when it got warmer, she'd come back here and clean everything up—wash the floor and window, bring fresh flowers, maybe even put a fresh coat of paint on the walls. She'd make it pretty, take some of the dinginess away, and—

Her heart froze. Her throat closed around a silent scream. She spun to face the doorway, but again, no one was there.

Lucy raced out into the graveyard. She looked frantically in every direction, but saw only Dakota, who was wading clumsily toward her through the snow.

“Did you call me?” Lucy demanded.

Dakota waved both arms in the air. “What?”

“I said, did you
call
me?”

Dakota's long scarf trailed behind her like a rainbow. She frowned, lifted the earflaps on her cap, and cupped one hand around an ear.
“What?”

“Did you just call my name?” Lucy practically shouted.

The girl stopped and tried to catch her breath. “No. And I thought you were trying to sneak into the church.”

“I was, but—”

“Well, you don't have to now.” Taking the backpack, Dakota grabbed Lucy's hand and began pulling her back the way they'd come.

“Why not? What are you doing?”

Dakota looked pleased with herself. “I just found another way in.”

“Here we go, Lucy—talk about luck.”

Dakota pulled her truck up in front of the church. An old station wagon was angled against the curb, and as she turned off the motor, she gave Lucy a thumbs-up.

“And why is this lucky?” Lucy wanted to know.

“'Cause this is Mrs. Dempsey's car. I saw it on my way to get coffee.”

“Are you insane?”

“While I distract her, you can pretend like you have to use the bathroom and sneak downstairs.”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “And of course she won't suspect anything.”

“I'll just get her to complain about something. She won't even notice you've left.”

Unconvinced, Lucy followed Dakota into the church. Mrs. Dempsey was standing in one of the side aisles, clutching a mop and glaring at the floor.

“I thought I recognized your car outside.” Dakota waved one end of her scarf. “How are you, Mrs. Dempsey?”

The cleaning woman squinted at them through the gloom. “Who's that?”

“Us,” Dakota replied. She grabbed Lucy's hand and hauled her between some pews. “Can we use your bathroom, please?”

“Go home and use your own.”

“It's an emergency.”

“I'll show you an emergency. Just look at all the snow that blew in. Melting all over the floor. Ruining everything in sight.”

Lucy glanced dubiously around the church, wondering what there was to ruin.

“It'll take me all winter to clean up this mess,” Mrs. Dempsey went on, shaking her mop at them. “As if I had nothing better to do!”

Dakota stamped the snow from her shoes, only adding to the puddles. “Bathroom, please?”

“Oh, for heaven's sake. All you young people ever think about is yourselves. Through that door there, and down the hall to your left. I don't know why you'd need a backpack though.”

“She likes her own brand of toilet paper,” Dakota explained in a conspiratorial whisper.

Throwing Dakota a grateful look, Lucy made her exit.

It took her a while to find her way back to the cellar.

With her usual poor sense of direction, she made several wrong turns before finally locating the closet with the door at the back.

She pulled out her flashlight and made her way carefully down the stairs, pausing at the bottom to get her bearings. The passageway was just as narrow and spooky as she remembered, and she forced herself not to run. When she reached the door, she'd knocked softly, then waited for a response.

“Jared?”

There was no answer.

“Jared? Are you okay?”

Suddenly apprehensive, she inched open the door. Almost as though she expected something bad to be waiting—and listening—on the other side.

“Jared? It's Lucy.”

The first thing she noticed was the smell. Not the underground mustiness of a basement, but a smell like copper, flowing delicately through her nostrils and lingering at the back of her throat. She closed her eyes and tasted it. She swallowed it down, and then it was gone.

Feeling strangely light-headed, Lucy moved forward into the room. Jared was sleeping right where she'd left him, on his back beneath the covers, with his face turned toward the wall. She ran the flashlight beam over him and walked cautiously to the side of the bed. One of his arms lay outstretched on the floor, his hand clenched in a fist.

She realized at once that he was dreaming.

Quick, sharp spasms wracked his body, and wordless sounds mumbled from his lips. As Lucy gazed down at him, he tossed and struggled, locked in battle with some ferocious nightmare.

“Jared, it's all right,” she soothed him. “It's just a bad dream.”

She thought once more how much he looked like Byron.

And maybe it was because she'd just been to Byron's grave, or that she and Dakota had been talking about him so much lately—but in that moment, touching Jared, Lucy closed her eyes and pretended.

Pretended that things were different. That time had spun backward and fates had been altered. That Byron had managed to touch her hand in the last moment of his life, and broken the spell of what was to come.

“Byron,” she whispered.

And that's when she heard the voice.

His
voice.
Byron's voice.

She heard it so clearly, knowing it
had
to be inside her own head, except it seemed so
real
, a real, living voice, coming from two places at once—from inside her head and from Jared's lips.

Jumping back, she stared down with horrified eyes. Jared was still very much asleep. His body was quiet, his breathing calm.

Thoroughly unnerved, she checked Jared's bandage. As the gauze fell away, she could see what little remained of his wound now—just a long, narrow swelling down the length of his rib cage.

She ran her fingertips lightly over Jared's side. She felt the slow, smooth tensing of his muscles ...she heard his breath catch softly in his throat.

For a split second she felt trapped there, trapped and helplessly paralyzed—trapped by eyes she couldn't see, by instincts she couldn't fathom.

She left the clothes and food at Jared's bedside.

And recoiled from every shadow as she hurried back upstairs.

Maybe I
do
need a nice long rest.

Lucy stared down at the medicine bottle in her hand.

But she hadn't taken her pills today—hadn't, in fact, for
several
days, though Irene certainly didn't know that. Still . . . it took a while for the medication to get out of your system, didn't it? A few days?
Great. Maybe Jared's part of my syndrome, too.

Sighing heavily, Lucy set down the bottle and checked the clock on her nightstand. She began pacing back and forth in the bedroom, like a caged animal.

There'd been a message from Matt on the answering machine when she got back home, confirming his appointment with Irene at eight o'clock tonight.

Her stomach was in knots just thinking about it. To be away from Irene would be great enough—to be out of this horrible house, and in a place that actually had some warmth and emotion in it, would seem like heaven.

The doorbell rang, and she let out a yelp.

She'd never get used to being alone in this stupid house—she'd never feel secure, no matter how many locks or alarms.

She'd almost forgotten he was coming early. As she ran down the stairs, she fought a sudden wave of nervousness and tried to convince herself that this time everything would be okay. This time she had real proof to show Matt—not just some wild story she couldn't back up. In fact, she'd checked the bushes as soon as she got home tonight—just to make sure the headstone was still there, hidden beside the porch.

If someone was intent on stealing it—just to make her look crazy—they'd have to be awfully strong and work awfully fast.

Squinting through the peephole, Lucy smiled and opened the door. He looked very much the priest tonight in his official clothes and collar. If
he
couldn't sway Irene, Lucy thought, no one could.

“Am I early enough?” Matt grinned. “Am I intimidating enough?”

“Yes to both. And look down to your left. There in those bushes. That's where I hid it.”

She watched the humor fade slowly from his face. He dropped lightly to the ground and parted the evergreens with both hands. Then he stood for several moments without speaking.

“See?” Lucy said quietly. “I didn't make it up.”

His glance was immediate—and regretful. “Lucy, I—”

“It doesn't matter about the other time. It was real, and I saw it—but when
you
went to the car, and the stuff was gone—
that
was real, too. I'm just glad you're seeing
this
.”

Matt's expression was clearly troubled. “And the delivery truck was unmarked?”

“It was a van. A black van. It didn't have a sign or a name—and the driver was dressed in black, too.”

“Nothing on the uniform?”

“No”

“Did you get a good look at his face?”

Just remembering it made her shudder. “He was pale. Angular face . . . his features were bony and sort of sharp. He had deep-set eyes.”

“And you're sure you never saw him before?”

“I'm sure.”

“Even on the sidewalk, maybe? In a store? Someone you might have passed in a car?”

“I think I would have remembered that face.”

“So you'd remember it if you saw it again?”

Lucy nodded. “It was . . . creepy.”

“Not someone around school?”

“No. Much older.”

“Lucy.” As Matt sighed and shook his head, Lucy knew he was scolding her again. “I just wish you'd called the police right away.”

“But I told you why I didn't. If I can't get
you
to believe me, why would
they
?”

She hadn't meant to sound so sarcastic, but Matt gave an audible wince. He covered the headstone with the bushes again, then boosted himself back onto the porch.

“I'm considering options,” he said.

“What options? The police are treating me like a criminal—the kids at school are treating me like a leper. If I show this to anybody, it's just one more reason to suspect me of . . . whatever everybody suspects me of.”

“Lucy, nobody's gonna think you did anything to Angela. That's ridiculous.”

“But they'll wonder why the headstone was delivered to me. And why I didn't report it that night.” Folding her arms across her chest, Lucy shrank back against the wall. “Nothing I say will make sense to them. And why should it? It doesn't make sense to me either.”

“Hey. Stop.”

“And with everything else happening, I think part of me really
wanted
to believe it was a joke, except now I don't think it's a joke at all, I don't think it was
ever
supposed to be a joke—”

“Stop. It's okay.”

“It's not okay. Somebody sent that to me, and I think they did it because they wanted me to know Angela's dead.”

Matt's hands settled firmly on her shoulders. He leaned down until his face was even with her own.

“That's why you
have
to tell the police. For all you know, it could even be connected to Wanda Carver's murder. At the very least—”

Matt broke off, his expression grim. He let go of Lucy's shoulders and gestured adamantly toward the bushes.

“At the very least,” he continued, “someone knows who you are and where you live and how to scare you. And maybe it
isn't
anything more than just some perverted joke. But . . . are you willing to take that chance?”

Lucy hesitated. “But what if—”

“I'm not. I'm not willing to take that chance.”

He held her in a silent stare. As Lucy gazed back at him, he lifted one hand slowly toward her face.

“I'm not, Lucy.”

A glare of headlights suddenly swung into the driveway and raked across them on the porch. Without missing a beat, Matt hastily made the sign of the cross in front of Lucy's nose.

“Bless you, my child.” He winked, but without a smile. “And don't worry, I'll take care of it.”