Rest In Peace (14 page)

Lucy turned and ran back.

Back through the alley, back to the sidewalk, where she saw Dakota standing on the corner and looking frantic, trying to figure out where Lucy had gone.

“Lucy! Thank God!”

There was relief in Dakota's voice. Relief and fear mixed together, as the girl ran up to her and caught her in a hug. “Are you okay?”

“I saw him, Dakota. I'm not crazy.”

“No, but you're frozen. Come back inside.”

“It was Byron.”

“We'll talk about it.”

Reluctantly, Lucy allowed Dakota to lead her to the bookshop, where Mr. Montana was waiting for them at the door. He handed each of the girls a refill of hot coffee, then tactfully retreated to his desk.

“Sit down.” Dakota steered her firmly to the couch. “Drink this. And don't try to tell me anything till you stop shaking.”

But Lucy was too upset to follow orders. “I'm sorry,” she blurted out. “I . . . I know it sounds impossible—”

“No. It doesn't.”

“I know it sounds
insane
, but I really think it was him.”

“It doesn't sound insane.”

“Well, of
course
, it sounds insane, Dakota.
Byron's dead!
”

Dakota sat beside her. She propped her elbows on her knees and wrapped both hands around her cup. She blew gently on her coffee. She stared thoughtfully at the floor. “If you believe it's real,” she said at last, “then it's real.”

Lucy's tone was bitter. “But haven't you heard? I hit my head in the accident. I have flashbacks and I forget things. I'm prone to delusions, and I make things up. Most of the time, I don't even know what I'm talking about.”

“That's crap.”

Surprised, Lucy watched as Dakota looked up, took a cautious sip of coffee, then turned to face her.

“You are not delusional,” Dakota said calmly. “You are brave. And you are gifted. And I am certainly not the person who's going to think you're imagining things.”

Lucy hadn't expected this. It was such a shock and such a relief that quick tears sprang to her eyes. For a long moment, she couldn't even speak.

“Weren't you listening to a single thing I said upstairs?” Dakota went on. “I told you, I believe in everything.”

“But you told me you didn't see anyone out in the courtyard.”

“I didn't. But that doesn't mean
you
didn't.” Dakota blew on her coffee again. “Reality's in the eye of the beholder.”

“But what if you don't
know
what's real anymore?”

Dakota's gaze was steady and serene. “
You know
, Lucy. You have an aura about you . . . a special kind of energy I've never felt before. Except from one other person.”

Mystified, Lucy stared at her. Dakota reached out and squeezed Lucy's hand.

“Byron,” Dakota said softly. “I felt it with Byron. He had a gift, and so do you. Only yours is much, much stronger. Maybe even stronger than you realize.”

18

“Dakota . . . what are you saying?”

A hint of a smile crossed Dakota's face. She tucked her legs beneath her and settled back against the cushions.

“I remember the first time I saw Byron,” Dakota explained. “He came into the bookstore, and the whole atmosphere changed.”

“I don't understand.”

“I told you . . . it's like this individual energy that every person gives off. I didn't know Byron then, but when he walked through that door, it was like a physical shift in the air. I knew there was something very different . . . very special . . . about him. But I never knew what.”

Lucy gave a curt nod. She was fascinated by Dakota's observations and wanted to hear more.

“I'd heard stories about his sister, of course—being psychic, being a witch, being a fortune-teller. But people turn cruel when they don't understand someone. And Byron was really protective of her. So I didn't pay much attention to all the rumors.”

Lucy felt tension building inside her. The temptation to blurt everything out, to reveal everything to Dakota was suddenly unbearable. Through sheer willpower, she forced her emotions down again, kept her face impassive, focused on Dakota's narrative.

“But with Byron,” Dakota continued, “something was definitely there.”

“But . . . you don't know what it was.”

“No.” Dakota took a sip of coffee. “But I think
you
do.”

Lucy looked out the window. She could hear the scrape of Mr. Montana's chair, could hear him going through the shop turning off lights. She felt Dakota lean forward again on the couch.

“Lucy, trust your instincts,” Dakota said urgently. “Don't let anyone tell you they're not true.”

Without waiting for a reply, Dakota began gathering up their books and papers. It was almost as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened tonight, and Lucy sat for a few minutes longer, letting it all sink in.

“Dad and I are stopping for something to eat,” Dakota finally said. “Why don't you come with us?”

“No, I really can't. But thanks.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

Still avoiding eye contact, Lucy nodded. “I'm okay.”

“Then we'll at least give you a ride to your car.”

Lucy was glad for the escort. This old section of Pine Ridge reminded her of a ghost town now, and her car was the only one in the lot.

“Be careful going home,” Dakota warned her. “There's a bunch of one-way streets around here, and it's easy to get turned around.”

Lucy watched the Montanas drive off. She let the motor idle and waited for the heater to warm up. Her thoughts were clamoring for attention, but she couldn't sort them out. All she could concentrate on was the fact that Dakota hadn't asked for any explanations, hadn't expected any confidences, hadn't questioned her sanity.

Dakota had believed her.

Lucy rested her cheek on the steering wheel. It had been so long since she'd felt validated by anyone that suspicions began creeping in. Maybe Dakota was just pretending. Maybe she was just some weirdo who enjoyed acting out supernatural fantasies. Maybe she was just trying to get close to Lucy so she could play another cruel trick on her.

Yet Lucy didn't think so.

“
Trust your instincts
. . .
don't let anyone tell you they're not true.
”

And Lucy's instincts were telling her now that Dakota believed her. That Dakota was a friend.

Sitting up straight, Lucy adjusted the heater and switched on her headlights. Then she pulled onto the street and started for home.

It didn't take her long to realize she was lost.

Landmarks started looking way too familiar, and after an endless series of frustrating turns, Lucy saw that she'd been going in a complete circle.
Come on, don't panic—after all, this is a small town
. . .

She tried to recall the exact sequence of street names Dakota had given her. But despite her best efforts, Lucy eventually found herself in a neighborhood of run-down houses and broken streetlights, with no clue as to how she'd gotten there.

Damn!
Swearing under her breath, she looked for a place to turn around. The houses were spaced wide apart, the yards neglected and overgrown, with wide patches of shadows in between. As she started into a driveway, a dog suddenly lunged toward the car, barking furiously. Lucy jerked the wheel hard to the left. She felt the car swerve, then bump noisily over something piled along the curb. To her relief, she spotted a cul-de-sac at the end of the street and immediately stepped on the gas.

One house stood alone in the cul-de-sac. An old Victorian surrounded by tall trees and clipped hedges and a picket fence without a gate. Though it had definitely seen better days, it looked more well kept than the other houses on the block, and a porch light cast a welcoming glow over the leaded glass in the front door.

Lucy couldn't help staring at it as she drove into the circle. She was still staring at it, in fact, when she suddenly became aware of the car leaning to one side and the slapping sound coming from underneath the front end.

Oh, no . . . don't tell me
. . .

Shifting into park, Lucy jumped out and gazed in dismay at the flat tire.

She didn't know how to change a tire. She didn't have a clue where any gas stations were, or if any were even open at this hour. And a flat tire hardly qualified as a 911 emergency. Grabbing her cell phone, she dialed Irene's number and let it ring. And ring. And ring. When the answering machine finally came on, Lucy left a message. Then she clicked off in disgust.

She couldn't just wait here all night—God only knew when her aunt would get home. She'd left Matt's phone number on her dresser, so that was useless; she'd left the business card Dakota had given her, too. And even if she called Information for the Montanas' home number, Dakota and her dad wouldn't be back yet anyway.

Totally frustrated, Lucy looked over at the isolated house. She didn't have a choice, really—there was only one thing to do.

Shutting off the car, she slammed the door and locked it.

Then she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and marched determinedly up the steps to the front porch.

19

There was a black wreath on the door.

Lucy hadn't noticed it from the street, because it was hidden in shadows. But now she could see the black crepe and black ribbons, the dried black flowers and tiny black jewels, all woven together in an intricate, antique design.

She'd seen something like this once before. But it had been a picture in a book—a black wreath hung upon a door, an old-fashioned custom to show that someone in the house had died.

Lucy hesitated. The last thing she wanted to do was intrude on a family's grief. If someone in this house had indeed died recently, maybe she should go somewhere else.

She was still trying to make up her mind when the door swung open.

Startled, Lucy found herself confronted by a tall, bony woman with a sour face, pointed chin, and frizzy gray hair. A starched apron was tied over her shapeless brown dress, and she was drying her hands on a dish towel.

“What is it?” the woman snapped.

Lucy quickly recovered herself. “I'm sorry to bother you, but—”

“I saw you lurking out here—don't you know what time it is? Well, whatever it is you're selling, I don't want it.”

“I'm not selling anything. I'm just having car trouble.”

The woman eyed her suspiciously. “Look at you. You been in some kind of wreck?”

“I . . .” Lucy's hand went self-consciously to the bruises on her face. “I . . . tripped on the stairs.”

The woman considered this. Then she craned her neck and squinted toward the street. “Is that your car?”

“I've got a flat tire—I was wondering if I could use your phone book.”

“A flat tire, you say? I don't see any flat tire.”

“Yes, it's right there on the passenger side. There in front.” Lucy felt the woman's sharp gaze rake over her, head to foot. “Please. I just need someone to change it.”

“Well,
I
can't change it. There's nobody here who can change it.”

“I meant, I need to call someone.”

“Why don't you call your parents?”

“I tried, but nobody's home.”

“That's the trouble with kids these days. Parents never around when they should be.”

Keeping respectfully silent, Lucy endured several more minutes of scrutiny. Then, apparently satisfied she wasn't going to be mugged by a desperate teenage girl, the woman motioned Lucy inside.

Despite the well-worn exterior of the house, the hall was clean and shiny. Lucy could smell floor wax and lemon polish and the faint scent of lavender as she was ushered into a small, snug living room. And though the furniture looked antiquated, there wasn't a speck of dust anywhere.

It didn't seem like a house where someone had died, Lucy thought. No flower arrangements, no stacks of sympathy cards, no all-pervasive feelings of sorrow and emptiness and despair. Maybe the people who lived here just liked black wreaths.

“Phone book's over there.” The woman jerked her chin toward the far wall. “Phone, too. And don't be leaving any smudges on that desk.”

“I won't. Thank you.”

“What are you doing out this late anyway? Can't be anything good, young person out this late.”

“I was on my way home and got lost. I was just trying to find somewhere to turn around.”

“Hmmm. Turn around or scope out the neighborhood?”

Lucy ignored the accusation. “I haven't lived here very long. And I'm really bad with directions.”

She walked over and picked up the phone book. The woman stood in the doorway and watched.

“Do you know who I could call?” Lucy asked politely. “A gas station? A garage?”

“What do you think this is, New York City? You're not going to find anyone this time of night. Everything's closed.”

Lucy's heart sank. She laid the telephone book on the desk.

“Oh. Well . . . thanks anyway.”

“Thanks for what? You didn't call anybody. And your tire's not fixed.”

Lucy sighed. “Thanks for . . . letting me in.”

But as she reached the front door, the woman stopped her. “Where do you think you're going?”

“My cell phone's in the car. I left a message on my aunt's machine—she might be trying to reach me.”