It Begins (20 page)

He was quiet a moment, thinking. Byron’s fingers dug sharply into Lucy’s shoulder blade.

“Right.” Matt nodded. “A guy. That’s what she said, a good-looking guy … he said he’d gotten it as a present.”

“A present?” Lucy echoed. “For what?”

“Not what …
who.
For a girl.” Matt chuckled. “He said it was a present for a girl he’d met at the Fall Festival.”

Lucy froze. A sick taste of fear rose slowly into her throat.

“Did he … did he say what her name was?”

Matt cocked his head and thought again. “Just … oh, now I remember. Something about New Orleans.”

Lucy spun and stared up at Byron.

“Oh my God,” she choked. “Angela.”

“Wait—slow down! You’re not making any sense.”

“Hurry! We’ve got to get back to the Festival!”

“Lucy, calm
down!
Will you please tell me what’s going on—”

“I don’t
know
what’s going on, okay? Just drive! All I know is that Angela’s in some kind of trouble.”

“How
do you know that? And start from the beginning.”

Lucy leaned toward him in the front seat, her voice tense with anxiety. “Remember when I told you she was hanging out at the fair with some guy Irene didn’t know about?
He
must be the guy who picked up the necklace.”

“That’s impossible. The necklace doesn’t have anything to do with Angela.” Byron’s hands
tightened on the steering wheel. “What
possible
connection could Katherine’s stalker have with Angela?”

“I don’t know—I don’t
know!
But that’s why we have to find her!”

“You don’t even know if it is Angela this guy picked up the necklace for.”

“He said New Orleans! And Angela wants to go to New Orleans!”

“So? Lots of people want to go to New Orleans.
I
wouldn’t mind going to New Orleans—”

“Call it a hunch then. Just please hurry.”

They reached the Festival again in record time. Leaving Byron to follow, Lucy went immediately for the scarecrow-game tent and shoved her way to the front of the line amid irate kids and their equally irate parents. At the entrance she recognized the same girl who’d been there last night, the one with the serious face.

“Where’s Angela?” Lucy asked breathlessly.

“Huh! Wouldn’t
we
like to know! She left just the two of us here tonight with twice as many brats!”

“But have you seen her?”

“Yeah, a little earlier, but—”

“Please—it’s important!”

The girl shrugged. “She said she was going with some guy.”

“Going? Going where?”

“I don’t know. Getting a ride? Or going away? Or—”

“Was it the same guy she was with last night?”

This time the girl rolled her eyes. “How would I know that? They were pretty busy, if you know what I mean. It’s not like I could really see his face.”

“Can’t you remember anything about him? Anything at all?”

“I think he might have been tall. Maybe dark hair … but you know, they were back in the shadows.”

As Byron caught up with her, Lucy spun to face him. “We have to go after her.”

“After her
where?
How can we go after her if we don’t know where she went?”

Lucy looked so desperate that the solemn-faced girl sighed sympathetically, then called out to her coworker. “Did Angela say where she was going tonight?”

“You mean, with that guy?” the other girl called back.

“Yeah.”

“Uh … something about New Orleans, I think.”

“Did they say how? Driving? Flying?”

“Maybe driving. I heard something about a bus.”

Again Lucy whirled to face Byron. “We’ve got to stop her.”

As Byron attempted to calm her down, they heard the second girl speak up.

“Oh, hey, wait a minute? Are you Lucy?”

Lucy nodded. “Yes.”

“Well, somebody left this for you.”

“Was it Angela?”

The girl planted herself in the tent doorway, grabbing some rowdy children, trying to establish some semblance of order. “You know, I’m not really sure, okay? Just somebody left it for you. See? It’s got your name on it.”

The girl handed her a small manila envelope. Lucy’s name was printed across the front, and with trembling fingers, she slid open the flimsy seal across the back.

“It’s the necklace,” she murmured, her eyes going wide. “I know it is … oh, Byron, I can’t do this … I can’t—”

Byron grabbed it away from her and ripped open the flap.

Out fell Angela’s car keys.

He hadn’t meant for it to come to this.

At least not with this one … and especially not this soon.

He always enjoyed playing with them awhile … luring them … teasing them … manipulating them with praises and with promises …

And this one had been so easy, so predictable.

But sometimes, he simply grew tired of them.

Sometimes, after a day or a week or a lifetime, he simply discovered they no longer fit into the well-ordered chaos of his world.

She’d been shocked, of course.

That instant of disbelief—that depth of betrayal in her eyes.

“But don’t you remember what you told me?”
she’d pleaded, as he’d tasted the tears of her sorrow. “Don’t you remember what you said?”

“Of course,” he’d soothed her, “of course I do …”

“Don’t you remember you promised?”

And he’d pressed her against his heart, and plunged the dagger through her throat, and twisted it with cold, calm ease.

And then he’d smiled.

“Of course I remember, Angela … but I lied.”

Lucy stared in disbelief.

As she glanced over at Byron, she saw him hold the envelope upside down and give it a shake. If she hadn’t been so stunned, it would have been comical.

“I thought …” she stammered, “I really thought—”

“Me, too. But are you sensing anything?”

Trying to break the tension, Lucy bounced the keyless entry in the palm of her hand. “Yeah. I’ve got a sense these are keys.”

“Your psychic abilities are impressive,” he deadpanned. He balled up the envelope and tossed it into a trash can, then gave her a curt nod. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?” Lucy asked, hurrying to match his long stride.

“You heard her. Let’s try the bus depot.”

They were there in ten minutes. Not only was the place small, but the waiting room was practically empty. While Byron checked the schedules for southern destinations, Lucy questioned the clerks at the ticket counter. No one remembered Irene Foster’s daughter buying a bus ticket today, but after thinking a moment, one of the clerks remembered a young couple bundled in coats and hats and sunglasses who’d taken a southbound express about an hour before.

“I think it’s worth a try,” Byron decided. “They don’t have that much of a head start, and they’ll be making stops along the way. It should be easy to catch them.”

Lucy felt sick. Sick to her stomach and sick at heart. As she climbed up beside him into the van, she shot him a look of desperation.

“What if you’re right?”

“How so?”

“What if this whole thing with the necklace has
nothing
to do with Angela? I mean … what if she’s really and truly found the love of her life, and they’re going off to live happily ever after, and we’re going after them and being stupid?”

Byron put the key in the ignition. He stared thoughtfully at the dashboard.

“Then,” he said carefully, “at least we know. Then we turn around and come back home. And they have their lives … and we have ours.”

Lucy sighed. “I can’t help it, though. I just still
feel
something—just
here.”
She clamped her arms around her midsection and fixed him with a worried frown. “I just feel like something about this isn’t right. It’s just this awful
nagging
feeling, and it won’t go away.”

“You’re probably feeling a lot of things right now,” Byron reminded her. “You thought you had the necklace, and you’d psyched yourself up to face it.”

“So did you,” she said quietly.

He shrugged. “Emotional roller coaster.”

“You’re right. I don’t know whether to be scared now, or relieved.”

“How about a little of both? It’s okay, you know, to feel both.”

She tried to smile at him, but her emotions were at full pitch. As they sailed along the highway, she leaned against her door and stared out the window of the van. Everything’s flowing
tonight, she thought vaguely …
flowing road … flowing van … flowing curves … flowing hills …

She could still see that strange red moon watching her through the clouds. The color of rust … the color of decay. A stain of old dried blood on the wrinkled flesh of the sky.

Shivering, Lucy hunched her shoulders and burrowed deeper into her jacket. It felt like it was getting colder, both outside and in. And the moon … that eerie red moon … actually seemed to be growing. Growing and glowing among the tops of the trees, like some forgotten Christmas ornament.

Lucy frowned and burrowed deeper. Why did full moons like that make her feel so weird? Make her think of creepy things like … like …

Prey …

“What?” She sat up straight and looked at Byron, who looked back at her suspiciously.

“What?” he echoed.

“Did you just say something?”

“Yeah, I said, just pray my brakes hold out.”

“Oh my God, don’t tell me that—your brakes?”

“Well … all these curves sure aren’t helping my van.”

“Thank you, Byron. That definitely eases my mind, your sharing that with me.”

She saw that slow half smile working at one corner of his mouth. She realized that she really loved it when he smiled like that. She wished he’d do it more often.

“Stop staring at me,” he said, and, grinning, she turned back to her window.

She closed her eyes. The hum of the motor, the rocking motion of the van on the road … she could feel herself drifting off. That pleasant state between sleep and attention, when everything seemed soft and warm and safe. She forced her eyes open and searched for taillights up ahead of them, but the road was so twisted, she couldn’t see a thing. There wasn’t even traffic out tonight, she suddenly realized. But she could see the slow, pale curls of fog beginning to creep in over the highway … blurring the yellow line … swallowing the road ahead of them.

That feeling again.
Gnawing at the pit of her stomach.

“Byron,” she said uneasily, “be careful.”

He cast her a sidelong glance. “Always.”

“No, I mean it. Please.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes … just … I don’t know. Restless. Nervous.”

“If you want, we can stop for some coffee the first place we see. It might be a good idea.”

She gave a distracted nod. She gazed out into the darkness … out at that bloody moon. She wished it would go behind a cloud for the rest of the night … she wished it would just go away.

She sensed something beside them on the road.

Something she couldn’t actually see, something just out of sight off the shoulder, something moving swiftly through the tall needs, keeping pace with the van.

Strange …

Lucy looked over at the speedometer. Sixty. Yet she was sure—she was
certain
—that something was out there running, running even faster than the van could go, running even faster than the wind could go …

“Byron,” she mumbled.

“What?”

She saw him turn toward her.

Saw his hand slide across the seat and reach for her.

She looked into his eyes … deep and black as midnight … and in that moment she could see in their depths all the truths and emotions that she’d felt that morning with her hand upon his heart.

A sob went through her.

Byron opened his mouth and started to say her name.

But he never got the chance.

As the dark shape came out of the fog, Byron hit the brakes, the tires screeching, the van skidding, sliding, going into a spin. As they whirled around and around, Lucy could see it there—the huge, black shape silhouetted against the fog, standing on all fours, statuelike in the middle of the road. Watching them …
watching them …

She tried to reach for Byron—reached
desperately
for Byron—

But her head slammed the window, and the
van careened off the hill, and all she could think in those last few seconds was
he never got to say it …

Byron never said my name.

So this is what it’s like to die …

Lying there on her back in the grass, all alone in the darkness, she could sense the wet, runny mask of her face—tears? blood?—she couldn’t be sure, couldn’t be sure she even
had
a face, couldn’t be sure about anything except that her body screamed in pain each time she tried to draw even the shallowest of breaths.

I can’t move … help … somebody, help me …

With a ragged cry, Lucy tried to lift her head, tried to peer through the thick, endless night surrounding her. As in a dream, she could see the faraway sky blazing bright, lit by a giant fire—and along with those sickening smells of pain and fear and despair that threatened to choke her, now there was the gasoline … burning rubber … white-hot metal … and
something else … something dear to her heart …

Byron!

That’s Byron’s van!

She’d been sitting in the front seat beside him, and she’d been staring at the moon. That bloodred moon hovering there behind the trees and glowing out through the dark, shredded fabric of the clouds. She’d been staring at the moon, and then she’d jolted with the first sharp swerve of the van. Confused and groggy, she’d heard Byron’s shout, the piercing shriek of brakes and tires; she’d felt the road give way to air beneath them as they dove off the shoulder and off the crest of the hill, and out through the foggy night, plummeting down and down into nothingness …

Byron? Can you hear me?

She knew somehow that she hadn’t spoken aloud, knew somehow that her thoughts had burst free of her pain, only to fall silent among the shadows. It was so dark out here. So dark, so frighteningly still, except for those flames leaping and glowing against the distant horizon …