Rest In Peace (5 page)

The funeral was not far. The low drone of a solitary voice told her the service had already begun. To her surprise, there was a stone mausoleum instead of a grave, and like several other structures she'd noticed throughout this neglected part of the cemetery, Byron's family crypt reminded her of a miniature house for the dead. Dreary and decayed, with roof and walls draped in withered ivy, each corner was guarded by a faceless angel cradling a skull beneath its wings. Two broken urns flanked the gated doorway; the wrought-iron gates were flaked with rust. And the name WETHERLY, carved above the entrance, was nearly invisible, worn smooth by the ceaseless passing of time.

Suppressing a shiver, Lucy spotted a small grove of elm trees a safe distance behind the gathering, and hid herself deep in its shadows.

The mist had turned to light rain. Rainlike tears, wept from cold, gray sorrow. She could see the large crowd of mourners huddled together, sharing umbrellas and hugs and grief. She could hear the echo of muffled sobs. Byron might have been a loner, Lucy realized, but there was something about losing one of its own that bonded a community. Students, teachers, neighbors, strangers, old and young alike, she guessed, but especially the young people of Pine Ridge. They watched with pale, stricken faces and tragic disbelief.

Lucy shut her eyes, clamped her arms tight around her chest. A desperate wail rose up inside her and exploded in her mind, and as her eyes opened once more, she braced herself against one of the trees, not trusting her legs to hold her. She thought of Byron's grandmother, so frail and all alone. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Through the dim blur of autumn she could see Byron's coffin banked with flowers; she could see the vague figure of a priest. Words of comfort were being spoken—stories related and memories recalled—and prayers that held no meaning drifted back to her on the sad sigh of the wind.

And then it was over.

With hushed finality, people walked slowly past Byron's casket, some adding more flowers and special mementos, some reaching out with one last touch, before wandering back to their cars. The hearse, empty now of its burden, led the procession of mourners away.

Lucy stood still for a moment as bitter reality sank in. She could see several men in work coveralls lounging across the lane, talking and laughing among buckets and tools, acting as though this were just any other ordinary day. It suddenly occurred to her that theirs was the most final job of all—that of interring Byron's coffin inside his family tomb.

With an effort, Lucy roused herself from her sorrow. She'd wanted some time alone with Byron, a private good-bye—but now she'd have to hurry before the workmen came over. Swiping a gloved hand across her cheeks, she eased from her hiding place and started toward the casket.

The feeling came without warning.

That cold prickly feeling of being watched.

Lucy froze in midstride. As her heart quickened, she turned and peered off through the drizzle, seeing nothing but headstones and crosses and statues, faint blurs beyond the rain.

Of course that was it, Lucy told herself firmly. Just the culmination of stress and fear, and everything else she'd endured over the past week, playing tricks with her mind.

Burrowing deep in her jacket, Lucy slowly approached the mausoleum. The workmen in the distance had noticed her now; she could see them shifting restlessly, anxious to finish their job, but allowing her some time. She kept her back to them and pretended they weren't there. She bent low over the coffin and ran her hands along its surface, breathing in the warm scent of the flowers, letting her sobs come at last, quiet and soul-wrenching cries of despair.

“I'm sorry, Byron,” she wept. “I'm so, so sorry . . .”

She truly hadn't thought she could cry any more. But at last, empty and exhausted, she straightened up, reached into her pocket, and withdrew the heart-shaped pin. For a long moment she stared at the bouquets and personal tributes heaped upon the casket, wondering what she should do. If she left the pin on the coffin, it could so easily slide off. Become lost. Get stolen or thrown away.

She felt her eyes shifting to the family crypt.

Maybe there was another place she could put it—a hidden place no one else would ever know about. An eternal secret between Byron and her.

Squaring her shoulders, Lucy pretended to leave. She walked briskly off through the cemetery, then doubled back through the trees. From behind the mausoleum she watched the workmen gathering up their tools and strolling leisurely across the lane. She was certain they hadn't seen her—if she hurried, she'd be gone again before they even reached the tomb.

She glanced around quickly, the pin clutched tight in her glove. Beside her on a corner pedestal knelt one of the four angels, holding a ghoulish skull beneath its wings. On impulse, Lucy reached over and tried to lift the statue, surprised when it moved slightly off center. With a little effort, she managed to tip it sideways, just high enough to slide the pin under its base. Then she lowered it, gazed at where the angel's face should have been, and whispered a silent prayer.

Goose bumps crawled over her skin.

With a gasp, Lucy whirled around, her eyes probing the mist and the shadows, her heart stuck in her throat.

She was sure she hadn't imagined it this time.

Someone was watching her.

And it's someone I know
. . .

Frantically she pushed the thought from her mind. It wasn't possible. She knew hardly anyone in Pine Ridge, the funeral was over, the mourners had gone, and except for the workmen she was all alone.

And yet her blood felt cold in her veins.

Because for one brief second, she could have sworn she'd seen a figure in the distance, standing still and silent among the graves.

A human figure that vanished just as soon as she'd turned to look.

5

School was even worse than before.

Lucy knew she must look like something straight from a horror movie, with her cuts and bruises and stiff, jerky movements. As she went slowly from class to class, she fought off fatigue and depression and kept her eyes averted from the other students. Since Byron's funeral she'd slept little, and even the medication Dr. Fielding had prescribed hadn't prevented the nightmares and sudden awakenings, the chills and sweats and frantic heartbeats as her mind endlessly replayed the car accident, her ordeal at the cave, her unknown rescuer, the shadowy figure at the cemetery.

After she'd returned home on Saturday she'd made up her mind not to discuss any more fears with Dr. Fielding. She knew he meant well, but she also knew he'd never believe her. Confiding in Irene was out of the question. And still being an outsider at school, there was no one Lucy could trust. If there were problems to be fixed and mysteries to be solved, it was totally up to her. She was on her own.

So she'd resigned herself to school today as Irene and Dr. Fielding had insisted, but she'd avoided any contact with her classmates. Not hard to do, Lucy thought ruefully as she made her way through the halls, all too aware of the anger and hatred aimed in her direction. She could feel the open hostility like knives in her back.

Testaments to Byron were everywhere. From the black armbands students wore, to his photographs watching her from lockers, corridors, bulletin boards, the walls of every classroom. A shrine had been set up outside the library—notes and letters, signs and posters, flowers and stuffed animals, and personal gifts. In every one of his classes, his desk remained empty, adorned with flowers and presents.

Lucy felt sick to her stomach and sick at heart. She didn't know how she was ever going to survive the day.

But besides the tributes to Byron, there were reminders of Angela, too. MISSING posters in every building, lining the halls, tucked among teddy bears, bouquets, and cards in makeshift memorials. Across the entire campus, yellow ribbons fluttered from every tree. No matter where Lucy went, she couldn't escape the guilt or the sorrow. Even the teachers seemed strangely uneasy around her, and when Principal Howser called her to his office to express sympathy and inform her she'd be meeting with a grief counselor, he kept the talk brief, as though she might be bad luck and highly contagious. By study hall, she felt like a leper.

Eager to escape, Lucy dumped her purse and books in her locker and slipped out a side door. Despite the overnight drop in temperature and the warning of possible snow, she found a bench at the far end of campus near the athletic field and sat down with her back against the fence. Irene had bought her a new coat that was fleecy and warm, and new boots perfect for winter. Lucy huddled into a snug ball and wrapped her wool scarf high around her cheeks, thrusting her mittened hands deep in her pockets. She seriously doubted she'd freeze to death out here, but even
that
prospect was more appealing than going back in to endure those accusing faces.

She let her eyes do a slow sweep of the school yard. A few kids were straggling in and out of the gym; a maintenance man on a riding mower was clearing leaves from the lawn. Several students had decided to brave the cold and were sharing notes at one of the picnic tables in the courtyard. Lucy sighed and began to tick off a mental list in her head. Her favorite purse and everything in it had been destroyed in the crash, and though she'd gotten her student ID this morning, and—thanks to Irene (who had friends in high places)—her driver's license had been reissued in no time at all, there were still some items she needed to replace. Funny how you took those little things for granted, didn't even notice them, in fact, till they were gone. Like her pen with the fuzzy top and her lucky pink stone. Chewing gum and breath mints and chocolate-covered raisins. Her mini-mirror and matching comb, the little green notepad, a tiny vial of spray perfume. Her leather key ring, with the key to her old apartment still attached.

Lucy closed her eyes and swallowed a lump in her throat.

Her red wallet and her address book, and all the pictures of the friends she'd left behind. Symbolic, somehow, she thought bitterly. Her life was different now—her
world
was different now. There was nothing and no one she could ever go back to.

She swallowed harder as tears welled behind her eyelids. Maybe it was time to fix up that bedroom she hated so much, unpack her boxes stored up in the attic, make the room her own. Maybe she should try to get a job. Buy some new clothes like Irene had been encouraging her to do. Resign herself to reality.

Reality
. . .
right. Being a freak and being alone.

She was so intent on her misery that she didn't even notice someone had stopped beside the bench. As she heard the sound of twigs snapping, she opened her eyes and saw a pair of raggedy sneakers planted firmly on the ground in front of her.

Lucy stared up in surprise.

“You know,” the girl said somberly, “death by freezing isn't quite as painless as you might think. Even though you probably don't care much about that fact right now.”

There was something vaguely familiar about this person, something Lucy couldn't quite put her finger on. So instead she returned the comment with a frown.

“I'd like to be alone, if you don't mind.”

“That's probably a bad idea.” The soft-spoken girl gestured toward the bench. “How about if I join you for a while?”

It was obvious she wasn't going away. Lucy considered her options, frowned harder, then grudgingly scooted over. The girl promptly sat, her legs splayed out in front of her, both arms wrapped around a beat-up knapsack. Lucy continued to frown, then felt a small stir of recognition.

“I know you. You're the girl at the Festival—the one working with Angela.”

“One and the same. I'm also in homeroom and three other classes with you, but I doubt that you've noticed.”

“I . . . sorry. I guess I haven't.”

“Well, it's hard to notice much of anything when you're staring at your desk all the time. And anyway, when you saw me at the Festival, I was pretty rude.”

Lucy recalled her clearly now. The girl at the entrance to Pin the Nose on the Scarecrow, the one with the serious face. “You look different.”

“Because I no longer have a bunch of wild brats hanging all over me.” The girl gave a mock shudder. “What was I thinking anyway, volunteering for that stupid game? I don't even like kids.”

Lucy's resistance melted. She could feel a hesitant smile coming on.

“Dakota.” The girl held out a small, wind-chapped hand. “Dakota Montana. I swear I'm not making it up.”

This time Lucy did smile. And as the two shared a handshake, she managed a quick, head-to-toe appraisal of her new acquaintance.

The girl had been frazzled and distracted at the Fall Festival, surrounded by children and distorted by colored lights—but now Lucy could see the waist-length red hair; the large, solemn, pale blue eyes; the thick straight brows; the sprinkling of tiny freckles across the fair skin of her cheekbones. Her nose was delicate; her mouth too wide for her heart-shaped face. A good three inches shorter than Lucy, she was wearing faded overalls with ripped knees, a dingy sweater that might once have been white, and the most ridiculous scarf Lucy had ever seen—at least twenty feet of it—knitted in every color of the rainbow. It was wrapped not only several times around Dakota's neck, but also draped down her chest and back, hanging all the way to her sneakers—one pink and one green—both laced with orange ribbon. Despite the unique fashion statement, there was an almost ethereal quality about her, Lucy realized—like a woodland elf or a fairy queen from some fantasy bedtime story. And as she met Dakota's eyes, the girl gave a faint smile, a smile that hinted of wisdom and experience far too old for such a young face.