Last to Die (9 page)

THERE WAS A
new face in the dining hall tonight.

For weeks Julian had been talking about this visitor Dr. Isles, and about her work in the Boston medical examiner’s office cutting up dead people. He’d never mentioned that she was also beautiful. Dark-haired and slender, with a quietly intense gaze, she looked so much like Julian that they could almost be mother and son. And Dr. Isles looked at Julian the way a mother would look at her own child, with obvious pride, attentive to every word he said.

No one will ever look at me that way again, thought Claire Ward.

Seated at her usual solitary spot in the corner, Claire kept her eye on Dr. Isles, noting how elegantly the woman used a knife and fork to cut her meat. From this table, Claire could see everything that went on in the dining hall. She did not mind sitting alone; it meant she didn’t have to engage in pointless conversations and could keep an eye on what everyone else was doing. And this corner was the only place she felt comfortable, with her back to the wall, where no one could creep up behind her.

Tonight on the menu was consommé, a salad of baby lettuces,
beef
Wellington with roasted potatoes and asparagus, and a lemon tart for dessert. It meant juggling an array of forks and spoons and cutlery, something that had confused Claire when she first arrived at Evensong a month ago. In Bob and Barbara Buckley’s house in Ithaca, dinners had been far simpler, involving only a knife, a fork, and a paper towel or two.

There’d never been any beef Wellington.

She missed Bob and Barbara far more than she’d ever imagined she would. Missed them almost as much as she missed her parents, whose deaths two years ago had left her with distressingly foggy memories that were fading fast day by day. But the deaths of Bob and Barbara were still raw, still painful, because it was all her fault. If she hadn’t sneaked out of the house that night, if Bob and Barbara hadn’t been forced to go searching for her, they might still be alive.

Now they’re dead. And I’m eating a lemon tart
.

She set down her fork and stared past the other students, who mostly ignored her, just as she ignored them. Once again she focused on the table where Julian sat with Dr. Isles. The lady who sliced dead people. Usually Claire avoided looking at adults, because they made her uneasy and they asked too many questions. Especially Dr. Anna Welliver the school shrink, with whom Claire spent every Wednesday afternoon. Dr. Welliver was nice enough, a big and frizzy-haired grandma type, but she always asked the same questions. Did Claire still have trouble sleeping? What did she remember about her parents? Were the nightmares any better? As if talking about it, thinking about it, would make the nightmares go away.

And all of us here have nightmares
.

When she looked around the dining hall at her classmates, Claire saw what a casual observer would probably miss. How Lester Grimmett kept glancing at the door, to assure himself that there was an open escape route. That Arthur Toombs’s arms were rippled with ugly burn scars. That Bruno Chinn frantically shoveled
food
into his mouth, so that his phantom abductor wouldn’t snatch it away from him. All of us have been marked, she thought, but some of our scars are more apparent than others.

She touched her own. It was hidden beneath her long blond hair, a ridge of scar tissue that marked the spot where the surgeons had sliced her scalp and sawed open her skull to remove blood and bullet fragments. No one else could see the damage, but she never forgot it was there.

Lying awake later that night, Claire was still rubbing that scar, and she wondered what her brain looked like beneath it. Did brains have scars as well, like this knotted ridge of skin? One of the doctors—she didn’t remember his name, there’d been so many in that London hospital—told her that children’s brains recovered better than adults’ did, that she was lucky to be only eleven years old when she was shot.
Lucky
was the word he’d actually used, stupid doctor. He’d been mostly right about her recovery. She could walk and talk like everyone else. But her grades now sucked because she had trouble concentrating on anything for more than ten minutes, and she too quickly lost her temper in ways that scared her, ways that left her ashamed. While she didn’t
look
damaged, she knew she was. And that damage was the reason she was now lying wide awake at midnight. As usual.

There was no point wasting her time in bed.

She rose and turned on the light. Her three roommates had gone home for the summer, so she had the room to herself and could come and go without anyone ratting her out. In seconds she was dressed and slipping out into the hall.

That’s when she spotted the nasty note taped to her door:
Dain Bramaged!

It was the bitch Briana again, she thought. Briana, who whispered
retard
whenever Claire passed by, who’d laughed hysterically in class when Claire tripped over some strategically placed foot. Claire had retaliated by sneaking a handful of slimy earthworms into Briana’s bed. Oh, the shrieks had been worth it!

Claire yanked the note off the door, went back into her room for a pen, and scrawled:
Better check your sheets
. On her way down the hall, she slapped the note on Briana’s dorm room door and kept walking, past rooms where other classmates slept. On the stairway, her shadow flitted along the wall like a twin spirit spiraling down beside her. She stepped out the front door and walked out into the moonlight.

The night was strangely warm and the wind smelled like dry grass, as if it had blown in from a great distance, bringing with it the scent of prairies and deserts and places she would never go. She drew in a deep breath and for the first time all day, she felt free. Free of classes, of teachers watching her, of Briana’s taunts.

She moved down the stone steps, sure of her footing in the bright moonlight. The lake lay ahead, where rippling water sparkled like sequins, calling to her. She started pulling up her T-shirt, eager to glide into that silky water.

“You’re out again,” a voice said.

Claire spun around to see the figure separate itself from the shadow of the trees. A figure she instantly recognized by the chunky silhouette. Will Yablonski moved into the moonlight, where she saw his chubby-cheeked face. She wondered if he knew that Briana whispered
great white whale
behind his back. That much Will and I have in common, she thought. We’re the uncool kids.

“What are you doing out here?” she said.

“I was looking through my telescope. But the moon’s come up now, so I packed up the scope for the night.” He pointed toward the lake. “That’s a really good spot over there, by the water. Just right for searching the sky.”

“What are you looking for?”

“A comet.”

“Did you see it?”

“No, I mean a
new
comet. One that’s never been reported. Amateurs find new ones all the time. There’s this guy named Don Machholz who found eleven of them, and he’s just an amateur like
me
. If I find one, I get to name it. Like Comet Kohoutek. Or Halley or Shoemaker-Levy.”

“What would you call yours?”

“Comet Neil Yablonski.”

She laughed. “Like
that
has a ring to it.”

“I don’t think it sounds so bad,” he said quietly. “It’s in memory of my dad.”

She heard the sorrow in his voice and wished she hadn’t laughed. “Yeah, I guess that’d be pretty neat. Giving it your dad’s name,” she said. Even if
Comet Yablonski
did sound stupid.

“I saw you a few nights ago,” he said. “What do
you
do out here?”

“I can’t sleep.” She turned to look at the water and imagined swimming across lakes, across oceans. Dark water didn’t scare her; it made her feel alive, like a mermaid returning home. “I hardly sleep. Ever since …”

“Do you get nightmares, too?” he asked.

“I just don’t sleep. It’s because my brain’s all messed up.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have this scar here, on my head, where the doctors sawed open my skull. They dug out pieces of the bullet and it damaged things inside. So I don’t sleep.”

“People
have
to sleep or they die. How can you go without it?”

“I just don’t sleep as much as everyone else. A few hours, that’s all.” She took a breath of the summer-scented wind. “Anyway, I like the nighttime. I like how quiet it is. How there are animals that you don’t see during the day, like owls and skunks. Sometimes I go walking in the woods, and I see their eyes.”

“Do you remember me, Claire?”

The question, asked so softly, made her turn to him in puzzlement. “I see you every day in class, Will.”

“No, I mean do you remember me from somewhere else? Before we came to Evensong?”

“I didn’t know you before.”

“Are you sure?”

She stared at him in the moonlight. Saw a big head with a moon-like face. That was the thing about Will, he was big all over, from his head to his enormous feet. Big and soft, like a marshmallow. “What are you talking about?”

“When I first got here, when I saw you in the dining hall, I had this weird feeling. Like I met you before.”

“I was living in Ithaca. Where were you?”

“In New Hampshire. With my aunt and uncle.”

“I’ve never been to New Hampshire.”

He moved closer, so close that his big head eclipsed the rising moonlight. “And I used to live in Maryland. Two years ago, when my mom and dad were alive. Does that mean anything to you?”

She shook her head. “I wouldn’t remember. I even have trouble remembering my own mom and dad. What their voices were like. Or how they laughed or smelled.”

“That’s really sad. That you don’t remember them.”

“I have photo albums, but I hardly look at them. It’s like seeing pictures of strangers.”

His touch startled her, and she flinched. She did not like people touching her. Not since she’d awakened in that London hospital, where a touch usually meant another needle prick, another person inflicting pain, however well intentioned. “Evensong’s supposed to be our family now,” he said.

“Yeah.” She snorted. “That’s what Dr. Welliver keeps saying. That we’re all one big happy
family
.”

“It’s nice to believe that, don’t you think? That we’ll all look out for each other?”

“Sure. And I believe in the Tooth Fairy. People don’t look out for each other. They only look out for themselves.”

A beam of light flickered through the trees. She whirled around, spotted the approaching car, and instantly darted toward the nearest bush. Will followed her, moving like a noisy moose with his giant feet. He dropped down beside her.

“Who’s arriving at this time of night?” he whispered.

A dark sedan rolled to a stop in the courtyard, and a man stepped out, tall and lean as a panther. He paused beside his car and scanned the night, as though searching the darkness for what no one else could see. For one frantic instant Claire thought he was looking directly at her, and she ducked lower behind the bush, trying to hide from his all-seeing eyes.

The school’s front door swung open, throwing light onto the courtyard, and Headmaster Gottfried Baum stood in the doorway. “Anthony!” Baum called out. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

“These are disturbing developments.”

“So it seems. Come, come. Your room’s ready, and there’s a meal waiting for you.”

“I ate on the plane. We should get straight to the matter at hand.”

“Of course. Dr. Welliver’s been monitoring the situation in Boston. She’s ready to intercede if necessary.”

The front door swung shut. Claire rose to her feet, wondering who this strange visitor was. And why Headmaster Baum had sounded so nervous. “I’m going to check out his car,” she said.

“Claire, no,” whispered Will.

But she was already moving toward the sedan. The hood was still warm from the drive, the waxed surface gleaming under moonlight. She moved around the vehicle, her hand caressing the surface. She knew it was a Mercedes because of the hood ornament. Black, sleek, expensive. A rich man’s car.

Locked, of course.

“Who is he?” said Will. He’d finally found the courage to emerge from the bush and he now stood beside her.

She looked up at the west wing, where a silhouette briefly appeared in a lit window. Then the curtains abruptly slid shut, cutting off her view.

“We know his name is Anthony.”

MAURA DID NOT
sleep soundly that night.

Perhaps it was the unfamiliar bed; perhaps it was the stillness of the place, a silence so deep that it seemed the night itself was holding its breath, waiting. When she awakened for the third time, the moon had risen and was shining directly in her window. She’d left the curtains open for fresh air, but now she climbed out of bed to close them against the glare. Pausing at the window, she looked down at the garden below. It was aglow in moonlight, the stone statues as luminous as ghosts.

Did one of them just move?

She stood clutching the drape, staring at statues that stood like chess pieces among the clipped hedges. Across that spectral landscape moved a slender figure with long silver-bright hair and limbs as graceful as a nymph’s. It was a girl, walking in the garden.