Malice (16 page)

It’s a costume party, Sam, relax. Your nerves are on edge! Hell, you’re dressed up too, even though I’m sure you couldn’t say why you chose to come as a zombie cheerleader
.

She reached inside the jean jacket she was wearing. Pulling out a flask of Southern Comfort, she brought it to her lips and tilted her head back. Her throat felt warm and tingly. She opened her eyes and the clown was still there. He hadn’t moved a muscle. Something was terribly wrong. The room began to spin away from her. Now the clown was turning around.

“Sam!” a husky voice called out.

She turned, and what she saw hit her with the force of a speeding truck.

Standing at the other end of the room was Derek beaming at her.

Derek’s face, his real face, contorted in confusion and then all at once, his features melted away, as though a beaker of acid had been dumped on his head.

That motherfucker!
was Samantha’s only thought.

She was trying to swallow. But a hairball was logged in her throat. Tom Logan leaned over her shoulder and asked if everything was all right. She didn’t answer. She couldn’t answer because all her fury would be unleashed on poor Tom rather than on the rightful recipient. Samantha turned on her heel and stormed from the room, needing a place to cool down and collect her thoughts.

She found one just off the kitchen. The room was tiny and jammed with boxes and empty mason jars. In the darkness she fell backward onto a large chest in the corner, landing hard. She would have a bruise there tomorrow, but she didn’t give a rat’s. She would sit here and calm down before she did something rash. She remembered her ride in the car with Alex earlier that day. How she swore she would kill Derek the next time she saw him. She was angry at herself now for running away.

Should have torn his
…

No, it was better to cool off. She moved to close the door—and a hand reached in to stop her. The hand was large, with long wispy fingers, painted white, nails blood red and on one of them she saw a silver ring. Searing panic rose in her throat. She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out.

***

“What did you call me?” Summer asked, pulling away.

Lysander sat up, still feeling her lips against his. Confusion rippled across his face. “Your name,” he replied, uncertain.

They lay on the bed in Gibb’s parents’ bedroom. The party was booming beneath them. Both of them were shirtless, Summer decked out in a sexy lace bra, and yet the look on her face seemed completely at odds with that. Gone was the lusty grin from a moment ago. Her eyes were wide, her lips flat and pulled into a thin line.

“You called me Samantha!”

Summer glared at him, a smudge of lipstick streaked off the side of her mouth. “You just called me Samantha!”

Another pregnant pause, longer this time.

“No…I couldn’t have.”

Summer wormed out from under him, yanking her dress awkwardly until it covered her bare legs. She pulled the rest up over her chest and held it there protectively.

“Don’t bullshit me, asshole!”

The words ricocheted in his head.
Don’t bullshit me, asshole?

He looked down at his unbuttoned pants and for the first time became aware that his penis was soft and limp.

A misplaced memory struck him just then of a fumbling attempt to have sex with Kathleen Stapleton, a reputedly loose girl he had grown up with in Hayward. They had been in her bedroom; her family downstairs mesmerized by an episode of
Law & Order:SVU
and a bowl of Cheetos. He had swung around to slip the condom on, and realized too late that he had put the thing on inside out. He had muttered some profanity under this breath, more to himself really and his own amateurish stupidity, but it had made her panic.

“What’s wrong?” Kathleen had croaked, springing straight up, her tiny breasts so small they didn’t budge. “Lysander, what d’you do?” The bolt of nervousness that shot through his body had made his penis go about as limp as a dead cat.

Only, Lysander was beginning to believe that perhaps this entire time he had been wrong. Things with Summer tonight had been quite different from his encounter with Kathleen Stapleton. He couldn’t remember ever really becoming aroused. He had been lying on top of her, all right, her shirt off, her breasts full and round and inviting, yet something had been wrong. Not physically of course. She was stunning, with a sweet voice. She was perfect. Nevertheless, some switch in his head had never been turned on. In retrospect, even the kiss they shared hadn’t been particularly good. But was it so bad that he had fantasized about Samantha?

Summer was staring at him as though he were a madman. He caught a whiff of her vanilla perfume, and it made his stomach tie up in knots. A slow epiphany was creeping into his brain. He didn’t like Summer. Didn’t like the kind of shallow, soulless person she was. Hell, he didn’t want to have anything to do with her.

Lysander got up and grabbed his wig and the ratty old shirt he had been wearing.

Summer whimpered after him: “You’re just gonna leave?”

“It looks that way,” he said, and for once it came out as coolly as it had sounded in his head. He crossed to the door, stopped and then turned to face her. “You were right, I am an asshole.”

For a moment she was stunned into silence, and then she lurched forward on her hands and knees, yelling. “You’re dead meat! You hear me? Do you know who I am, Lysander? No one walks out on me. Close that fucking door and you’re…Lysan—”

Lysander slammed the door and a smile spread across his lips. He could hear her pleading on the other side.

He made his way into the kitchen, feeling a touch of euphoria, and grabbed the phone to call a cab.

A woman with a raspy, lackadaisical voice came on and Lysander asked her to send a cab over. Ten minutes, she told him. That’s all right, he replied and started to thank the woman, but she had already hung up.

He felt an urge to look for Samantha, but he decided instead to wait outside until his cab came. Shuffling through the crowd toward the lobby he pulled off his wig. He offered some half-hearted good-byes to a group hovering nearby, most of whom didn’t seem to care.

I’m an asshole. You’re an asshole. Everyone’s an asshole
.

He thought and closed the door behind him.

Had Lysander been able to hear over the blaring music, the people half in the bag, he would have heard the panicked voice yelling out for help. Had he decided instead to stay inside, he couldn’t have helped but notice the figure stumbling down the stairs, a girl who was dressed a lot like Summer, her mascara running down her cheeks, her dress torn and dragging partially behind her. But worst of all, he would have heard her crying out to anyone who would listen that Lysander Shore had just tried to rape her.

Instead, Lysander stood in the driveway, waiting for a cab that was still nine minutes away, thinking how strange it was that the mere thought of Summer revolted him now.

The front door of the house burst open. Lysander saw a costumed mob flooding out toward him. Ahead of them strode Chad. The crowd formed a tight circle around them. Chad lunged forward, grabbed Lysander by the scruff of his shirt and shoved him onto the hard pavement. Lysander did a complete backward tumble and rolled up on his feet. He tried backing away. All was confusion. Chad came at him again and he threw up his arms defensively.

“What’s the big idea?” Lysander yelled.

Behind the crowd, someone opened the garage door and disappeared inside.

“I turn my back for one second,” Chad yelled and swung madly at Lysander, who managed to evade the blow by inches.

“Stop it,” Lysander shouted back. “You’re drunk.”

“And you’re a fucking rapist,” a girl yelled from the crowd.

“What?”

His denial infuriated them even more. “I knew you were a fucking freak the first time I laid eyes on you,” Chad roared and threw several wild swings, his face flushed with hatred. Someone tossed the contents of their drink into Lysander’s face, burning his eyes. Chad swung again wildly and missed. Lysander rubbed his eyes, realizing one of those fists was gonna connect real soon if he didn’t do something quick.

Chad was laughing. “Just wait till I’m through with you. You’re gonna wish you’d never been born.”

Another punch came and Lysander moved to avoid it, but this one was a feint and instead he walked right into Chad’s first. There was a crack and then the world flickered before him, threatening to go black. He stumbled away, disoriented. Chad charged at him and Lysander lashed out blindly, his fist connecting with the bridge of his nose. Chad stopped, momentarily stunned by the blow. Blood gushed down the front of his face. He pulled a bloody hand away and examined it incredulously. Whether Lysander liked it or not, he was in this up to his neck. This guy was gonna keep coming until one of them was dead. And Lysander decided that someone wasn’t going to be him. He tucked his head down and charged, landing his shoulder squarely into the soft flesh of Chad’s belly. A sound emanated from Chad that resembled a question—ugghhhh—as the wind was blasted from his lungs. The two of them tumbled backward together, Lysander on top, his arms swinging with a fury. There would be no stopping now, Lysander knew. He had been pushed to the limit, and it would end when he was good and ready. His fists numb from the pain, he continued to wail indiscriminately. Foreign hands clamored to grab hold of him. They yanked him off and Lysander managed to sink the tip of his boot in Chad’s face as he was dragged away.

Chad lay on the ground with his bloodied hands covering his face. The crowd hovered over him in stunned silence. Lysander wondered if it was Derek who had yanked him off, but when he glanced behind him, he saw a skinny boy with a face full of acne who Lysander vaguely recognized as Tim or Tom Logan. Now others came to hold Lysander back, as though he were some wild animal that if set free would tear Chad to pieces. He would let them hold him back, he decided. He had had his fill of fighting for one night.

Suddenly with a shout Chad came at him, a can in one hand, a flickering Zippo in the other. Chad raised both of them point blank, lighter first, its flame dancing in the cool air, and sprayed a fiery stream into Lysander’s face. The boys behind Lysander were also taken by surprise, and they let go only moments before the explosion. Lysander, with no time to raise his arms to protect himself caught the full fury of the flames. But far worse was what followed after he hit the ground. His body began to twitch and kick and flop around violently. He was having a seizure.

The billowing ball of flame raced toward him. A blast of tremendous heat washed his face. Amid the searing pain, Lysander was vaguely aware of the putrid smell of burnt hair.

The world became deathly still…Lysander felt as though he were in a tidal pool, looking up, everything stretched out before him. He was looking through a fish-eyed peephole, bent and concave…he could hear the muffled voices of people around him…a group of boys were fighting nearby…Then with a sudden rush of airless movement he was floating above himself…and he could see himself clearly…his face blackened and distorted, his hair singed and matted in tuffs…then more movement …. he was being pulled somewhere…part of him knew where…it was the coldness calling him…he prayed he was wrong…the crowd of people were fading away now…he was moving through the front door, he could feel every layer of cracking paint, pressed wood, the taste of a metal handle in his mouth and then into an empty house…colder now…he reached out to grasp the banister and his hand passed through it…empty bottles and streamers littered the floor…One: Happy Halloween …

Another: Enter the Haunted House…torn and dangling from one corner.

In a dimly lit room, someone was comforting a girl in a torn white dress, her cheeks long and black with streaming makeup…she looked up for a moment, and her eyes filled with terror, her finger pointing toward him…and he floated by like a passenger in some twisted amusement park ride. …The coldness was reaching out for him…he could feel it beckoning.

A dog on the other side of the room sat on its haunches and watched him with interest…who brought a dog? he heard himself ask in a hollow voice…Somehow, he knew this dog. Yes, he knew it for sure. A golden retriever, its eyes old and wise and filled with empathy, as though forced to witness something dreadful. The retriever traced his movement as he passed through the kitchen on this slow ride to hell…he turned behind him, back to the girls and saw the one in white, her face drained of color, eyes bulging, locked with his own.

He wondered whether the animal had been sent to rip his throat out. One more thing enlisted to attack him…but a calming voice inside his head told him no…and then that same voice made his day a whole lot worse.

In two days you’ll be dead
.

He heard himself scream and the echo made it sound as though he was shouting down the end of a long tunnel.

Why?…Why me?…I haven’t done anything
…

He was before a door now, splintered and hanging from its frame like a crooked tooth. Blackness crackled behind it…something on the other side of that door wanted him to see…he didn’t want to go, wouldn’t go, and yet nevertheless, he couldn’t help wondering why it wanted to show him so badly…Watching Hume’s features melting away until there was little of the man that could reasonably be called human had been a strangely fascinating and exhilarating experience. He began inching closer, about to pass right through the door, as he had done before…but instead the door swung open in a great arch and a girl with a bloody face ran past—or rather through him—screaming…despite the terror stretched across her face he had felt some essential part of her being as she had gone by, and that feeling had been a familiar one. Follow her, a desperate voice commanded from within…run away…he wasn’t so sure he wanted to see what was in that room anymore…he began clawing at the floor, trying to get away…but the coldness wanted him…this whole display had been set up with him in mind and somehow he knew this now without a doubt…it wanted him to see…and he was being pulled …