Dead River (11 page)

I ask between kisses, “Um, why this sudden interest in making out?”

He nibbles on my ear. “The adrenaline. It’s killer.”

“But I’m hungry,” I say, pushing him away gently. “And sleepy.”

He pulls away, his eyes searching mine for a moment. Then he says, “Right. Sorry. You’ve had a crazy day. You should get your sleep.”

I wrap my arms around him and give him a big kiss on the lips. “Will you stay with me?”

As an answer, he pulls me closer. That night, we share my plate of chicken, though he lets me have most of it. I try to
come up with a poem about my trip down the river but end up writing only three words in my notebook, words said to me by a figment of my imagination:
It’s too dangerous
. Then I fall asleep in Justin’s arms, with the sound of the hockey game in the background. With his arms around me, I’m almost unafraid to close my eyes. But I know there’s little he can do to protect me from the things he cannot see. And he can’t protect me from myself.

Chapter Eleven

T
he early sunlight glows orange through the trees. When I wake, the house is so silent I can hear the ticking of the clock in the kitchen echoing through the open-floor-plan space. It’s still quite dark outside; the trees are a single black-green mass against the orange background. I sit up and pry Justin’s heavy arm off my body, but he doesn’t stir, just pushes the side of his face deeper into the pillow.

Downstairs, Hugo and Angela are still sleeping, their bodies wrapped together in such a way that I’m almost ashamed to look, even though they’re fully clothed. I shudder. Angela, Angela, Angela. I may be going crazy, but I’d never be so insane as to think that Hugo was someone I’d want to be that close to.

I check through the kitchen cabinets and find some whole coffee beans, but I have no clue how to grind them. Then I remember that the Outfitters had some coffee. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind me bumming a cup. After all, I’m the miracle girl. I’ll just have to avoid any reporters.

Reporters and … unsavory and possibly imaginary characters
, I think as I step out into the chilly morning. It’s actually warmer than yesterday, and now the sun is starting to peek through the trees more. I jog down the driveway and across the highway, avoiding the river. The sound of my running shoes on the gravel effectively drowns out the gentle hum of the current. I don’t stop until I’m in the Outfitters. But as I’m pulling open the door, I catch sight of that photo in the glass case, and I hear it.

What the devil is that?

“Don’t you start, Uncle Robert,” I mutter as I step inside.

It’s just as busy as yesterday. A new group of adventurers is suiting up for the river. Some faces look familiar, but most are strange. They don’t know that I’m
the one
. That’s a good thing. A guy who is standing at the door looks at me growling to nobody and assumes I’m talking to him. He scoots aside, apologizing so effusively for being in my way that I feel bad. I blush and try to explain that I wasn’t talking to him, but stop. Maybe it’s for the best that he think I was talking to him. Better to be a bitch than a nutcase.

“Hey! Ice Girl!” a voice calls. It’s Spiffy. He’s wearing what I think is the same outfit he had on yesterday, and looking like he slept in a tree. “How are you? Ready for Round Two?”

I blush more, embarrassed. So they really are calling me that. “Um, not in a million years, thanks. I came for the coffee.”

He laughs and points to the kitchenette. “Just made a fresh pot.”

I inhale the heavenly scent of the beans as I start to cross the room, but freeze when I see who is there, pouring himself a cup. He has his back to me but the thick strap of his camera is wrapped around his neck, so I know it’s him. I curse and turn around quickly. Spiffy notices, so I say, “I don’t want that guy to see me. He wants to do a story on me for the
Herald
.”

Spiffy watches him. “Don’t worry. You’re old news. He has a better scoop.”

“Really?” I exhale and loosen, wondering how that could’ve happened so quickly. I know news moves fast, but this is kind of ridiculous. “Which is?”

“When they were combing the river looking for you, they found another body.”

I put my hands over my mouth. They must have found Uncle Robert. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

He shrugs, a bewildered look on his face. “They just found some bones. That’s all they know right now.”

“Oh! I thought … I mean, I thought it was your uncle.”

He stares at me. “No. He’s hiking the Trail.” Then he eyes me with mock suspicion. “Unless you know something we all don’t.”

“No, I just … um, nothing,” I say, hurrying to the kitchenette. By the time I get there, my cheeks and the back of my neck are burning. I pour the coffee and immediately try to take a sip, but it scalds my tongue. I stand there, inhaling the aroma, trying to wake up so I can spare myself any more awkward exchanges like that. Spiffy must think I’m insane enough already. And he’ll think it all the more when they
discover that those bones are his uncle Robert. This I know, just as well as I know my own name. But they don’t need to hear it from me. I’m already Ice Girl. I don’t need to be Oracle Girl, too.

It’s getting pretty crowded and the room is buzzing with adrenaline-pumped adventure seekers, so I quickly make my exit, wrapping my hands around the Styrofoam cup to keep them warm. Immediately the waves start to whisper.

“Why can I hear you, Uncle Robert?” I mutter in the general direction of the river.

“The river only talks to people worth talking to.”

As I whirl around, hot coffee froths from the top of the cup, spraying my hands. I wince at the pain, steady the cup, and bite my sore tongue.

Because standing in front of me is Jack McCabe.

Chapter Twelve

I
squeeze my eyes shut. I push hard against my eyeballs with my thumb and forefinger. I chant, “You’re not real. You’re not real. You’re not real.”

I’m going to continue on. I’m going to push past him and get back to my boyfriend, then never leave Justin’s side again. I try to move, but it’s not fast enough.

All the while, Jack is very near. He doesn’t float; his footsteps are soft, but they’re there. I can feel his breath on my neck. I can feel his smooth fingertips prying my hand from my face, lacing his fingers with my own. Something touches my cheek; it is cold as ice, yet it sends a white-hot shock down to my toes. The icy-hot sensation trails toward my mouth. His lips. He presses them against mine, not really delivering the kiss, just … lingering, until I have this overwhelming urge to finish it, to pull him hard to me, to beg him to feed his tongue into me. But suddenly the force is gone, and the cold breeze that slips between us, warm compared to his lips, is like a slap on my face.

I open my eyes. He is still there. It’s just me and him, on the path. From here I can see the Outfitters, and the cabin, and yet I am helplessly alone with him. Whatever he is.

“Do you believe I’m real now?” he says, a small smile tugging at his lips.

I nod, shivering. “Are you a ghost?”

“You’re not like the others. You’re much more in tune with the river than they are. They don’t see or hear the things you do.”

“But why?”

“Ah, Mistress. You mean no one has explained it to you?”

Mistress? Is that a term of endearment? “No,” I mutter.

“All right. Then I will.”

I take a deep breath, which calms me a little. Just a little. Not so much that my entire body isn’t shaking, but enough so that my voice comes out even. “So, explain.”

He holds up a finger, scolding me as if I were a child. “You need patience.”

“Maybe you need to be a little less mysterious,” I counter.

He raises his eyebrows. “All right. I’ll give you that. What are your questions?”

“The river,” I say. “It always sounds like it’s whispering.”

“They have something to say to you.”

“They? Who are
they?
”

“Let them tell you. They want to tell you. Just listen.”

“I’ve tried,” I say. “Most of the time it’s just pieces, fragments. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“They’re all trying to speak to you at once. The longer and
closer you listen, the more you’ll be able to make out the individual voices.”

“But who are they?”

He doesn’t say anything, but I already know. I don’t know if I could stand to hear the answer. And there’s something strange about the way he’s staring at me so intently, as if he’s waited all his life to have this conversation with me. Which is crazy, because I’ve only just met him. “Who are you?”

“I heard your friends telling the story. The story of my life and, it seems, my untimely death.” He laughs. “Don’t look so shocked. I said I was real. But I never said I was still alive.”

My heart shudders in my chest. “So you are a … ghost?”

“Well, I wouldn’t use that term. I prefer to say that I’m traveling on a different plane. But I suppose ‘ghost’ is what humans would call me, yes.”

“Then why can I see you?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you can see and hear all of us, can you not? That’s why all the voices are in your head, and you’re having a hard time sorting them out.”

“All of who?”

“All of those who met their fate on the water,” he answers. “Because we need you.
She
needs you.”

My breath hitches. “She?”

“The whispers you’ve heard,” he says. “Surely one of the voices you’ve heard has sounded familiar?”

I shake my head. That the river is whispering at all is so much to wrap my brain around, I haven’t had time to think that a voice might be familiar to me. “I don’t … I don’t think
so.” I murmur, but all at once I know what he is going to say. And as sure as I’m standing there, I know it’s the truth.

“It’s your mother,” he says. “And she has been waiting for you.”

“My mother?” I repeat, the word sounding strange coming off my tongue since I haven’t uttered it in nearly a decade. “But she died in New Jersey.”

“All waterways are connected. And her body was never found, yes? So she is one of us. She is here.”

“Here? You’re crazy.” My voice quavers. So much for the idea of keeping the Nia Levesque legend five hundred miles away. I can only think back to her funeral. The coffin was empty. In it, we placed her favorite necklace and a scarf she always wore, and a picture of all of us together. My father never said as much, and we never discussed it, but obviously the body hadn’t been found. She wasn’t the first person lost on the river whose body was never recovered. “Then where is she?”

“I’ve come to take you to her,” he says, extending his hand to me.

Instinctively I reach out to grab it, but a breeze picks up, skittering old leaves down the path and digging under my hairline, sending a chill down my back. When I touch them, his fingers are so icy they sting. I try to pull my hand away, but he clamps his fingers tight on mine, squeezing like a vise. Then he begins to pull me toward the river. The river that I hate, that nearly killed me. I try to dig my heels into the gravel, but he’s too strong. I try to steady the hot coffee I’m still holding, but it’s splashing up over the sides of the cup,
scalding my hand. I look down the path, but even though the place is normally so busy early in the morning, there is no one around. “Hey! What are you—”

“You want to see her, don’t you?” He continues to pull me.

Panic rises in my voice as I squeak out, “Where are we going?” But I know the answer. Not twenty yards separates us from the river, and there is nothing else in between but a rocky embankment.

He means to take me
into the river
. He means to drown me.

The cup flies out of my grasp, splattering hot liquid over his forearm, but he doesn’t flinch, even as steam rises from the black droplets on his skin. I’m fighting now, trying to pry his fingers off mine with my other hand, but it’s useless. Soon I’m begging, pleading with him to stop, but he doesn’t listen. Finally, I gather all the strength I can into my arms and yank myself away. I’m free, but when I take a step back my foot lands awkwardly on a fallen branch, twisting. Pain tears through my ankle. I yelp and fall to the ground.

I massage the ankle, but the pain intensifies with my touch. He bends over me and slides my sock down over my heel. I don’t want him to touch my ankle. I don’t want to feel those icy fingers of his, stroking my skin. It will only confuse me. Because he feels so real. But he can’t be. This is all in my mind. When I pull my sock up and scoot away from him, the pain shoots up to my knee. “Don’t touch it.”

His face is rueful; it almost makes me regret not letting him help me. “You want to see your mother, don’t you?” he asks, his voice gentle. “She’s just across the river.”

I think of Spiffy’s words. I know what lies on the other side of the river. He said people lived on the east side, but they buried their dead on the other side. “I don’t … no. She’s dead. The dead are there. I’m not dead. And you’re not real.”

“I thought we went over this.” He studies me, a look of disappointment on his face. “I assure you, I am very real. And she is waiting for you, just over there. There is nothing for you to be afraid of.”

As he reaches for my hand again, another wind picks up. “I can’t—I can’t cross the river.”

A look of amusement dawns on his face. “
You
are afraid of the water?”

“No,” I answer curtly. “But I can’t cross the river without a boat.”

He scans the shoreline, scratching his chin. “Ah. The unique problems of the living.” He gives me a warm smile. “Forgive me, Kiandra. It has been quite some time since I’ve been on your plane.”

As he laughs, a thick trickle of blood starts to ooze over his forehead. I watch it trail over the tip of his nose, but he seems oblivious to it until I point it out with my quivering hand.

He takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabs at it. “Oh, how embarrassing.”

“It was your father who did that?” I ask softly. “I remember it from the story.”

He studies the new blood on the handkerchief, but now more is pouring past his hairline, falling between his eyes. “No. That story your companions told is a little, shall we say,
inaccurate. I suppose it served its purpose. But sometimes a lie is better.”