The Dream Runner (3 page)

I hadn't been back here since the accident, and it all looked so different by daylight. Innocent. Non-threatening.

Across the lake the line of houses was too far away for anybody to see me, and the cattail patches grew out from the shore on either side. I was completely sheltered from prying or disapproving eyes. Nobody would see me fall apart, or notice if I shed some tears, but I wasn't here at the site of my father's death to grieve.

It was the goddamned lake that brought me. That fear, the one that played out in my nightmares over and over again. And now that I was here again, every time I looked at its deceptively beautiful surface I felt a familiar cold twist of fear in my belly. Bits and flashes of memory jabbed into my consciousness like shards of glass into flesh.

I'm submerged in cold water with my father in my arms. His face is too white and there is so much blood that the water feels warmer there, next to him. I float him up to the surface and his face is covered in red. His forehead and his cheek are laid open but it's his neck that is the problem, the hole in his throat where blood is spurting, spurting. I try to press my hand over it, apply pressure while my legs are frantically kicking to keep us afloat. But the water is cold and my legs are tired and my hand keeps slipping. Blood sprays out between my fingers, I can feel it on my face.

No damned way was I going to let the lake have so much control over me. This had to stop.

One quick glance around to make sure nobody was watching, and I stripped out of my t-shirt and bra. The sun was warm but the air held a chill and goosebumps rose at once on my bare skin—which, to a girl born and raised in a northern town, merely meant move faster. A quick shimmy out of jeans and panties and shoes and socks and I stood, naked as a jaybird, shivering with cold and fear.

Sharp pebbles dug into the soles of my bare feet as I crossed the gravel spit. Used to be I had calluses so thick I could run on a gravel road, but the years of city had softened my skin, maybe in more ways than one.

The water lapping up over my toes was cold enough to make me gasp, but it also brought me wide-awake. I launched myself into motion, feet sliding on the algae covered rocks, until I hit the drop off I knew was there, waiting to take me.

Bubbles of memory surfaced and popped.
Dark road. Squealing tires. Impact. Cold water. Blood.
But as I kept swimming I shed them behind me, one by one. All sound shut out, my body nothing but pure sensation, submerged in liquid green. Peaceful.

But I couldn't stay under forever and a need for oxygen forced me to the surface, gasping. As soon as the water cleared my eyes I checked for company before diving back under.

Shit.

There was no mistaking the man who stood on the gravel beside my discarded clothes, watching me. He'd grown taller and filled out. A lot. Even from a distance I could see the muscle definition in his arms. His face was a man's now, hardened and older than his years, but his hair still glinted gold in the sunlight.

I'm naked, submerged up to my neck in lake water at sunset. There's a breeze and the smell of rain. Will's face is inches away from mine, his eyes reflecting the color of the lake under clouds, so close I can't hide what I feel.

"Caught you in the act," he says. "Skinny dipping. Naked as a jaybird."

His voice is not all laughter, though; there's a low, throaty sound with something of the wild in it, before his lips are on mine and our childhood friendship shifts.…

A whistle broke the memory, three pure notes like a birdcall. And then Will's voice, once so loved. "J-Bird. You came home."

Such a simple thing, and it broke me.

It's full dark and raining, the road barely visible even with the full brights on. Will's driving. My father was at a party, had a couple of drinks, and called to ask if I'd pick him up. Where I go, Will goes, and I've passed the driving on to him. So now we're headed home, with me wedged into the truck between them.

We come around the corner, Will's brown hands strong and easy on the steering wheel. I'm half asleep, lulled by the swish of the windshield wipers and Will's warm body next to mine, and then beside me, my father stiffens and shouts, "Look out!"

My eyes fly open in time to see a cow staring into the headlights, standing broadside in the road. Will slams on the brakes and we fishtail and slide but we're going too fast. He swerves, throwing me against my father. I'm still trying to get back upright when I feel the right front tire catch in the soft shoulder, and next thing I know we're upside down and over the bank. I'm aware of metallic screeching sounds, branches keening along the sides of the truck, the sound of breaking glass.

And then there is a terrible silence.

I'm upside down, hanging from my seatbelt and water is rushing in. Blind panic takes me as I fumble with the release of my seatbelt. All the while I'm shouting, "Will, Dad, are you guys ok?"

The driver's seat is empty, the door ripped off, and there's no Will anywhere. My father's face is torn half away. He isn't moving, doesn't respond, there is a hole in his neck pumping blood and the water is rising and then we're under. I hold my breath, fumbling with his seatbelt because even in my numb and reeling brain I realize that if he drowns it won't matter if I can't stop the bleeding.

My fingers slip and tremble and it's dark and I can't see but at last there is the click. Lungs bursting, I grasp his jacket with both fists and drag him out through the shattered window and up to the surface.

Too much blood.

Water too cold.

Body tired, legs numb.

I'm trying to plug that hole in his neck, but he's heavy and his weight wants to sink down and there's no feeling in my hands. I can't hold him, can't, can't, can't, and he's slipping away, sinking.

 I scream, "Help me, Will. Help me…"

My voice sputters away into water. I'm sinking. And then there are strong arms around me, and the voice I have always known, saying,

"Are you going to make me come in there and get you?"

The flash cleared.

Will stood on the shore, had never left it. My father had been dead and buried for a good ten years, come September. The water was cold, even in the here and now, and I'd been in long enough to start me shivering. But I was trapped and fresh out of options. No way was I crawling out naked in front of those keen blue eyes.

"Go away. I don't want to talk to you."

"Near to ten years you've avoided me, Jesse. Feels more like twenty. It would be the decent thing to hear me out."

"You have nothing to say that I want to hear."

He stared out at me for a long minute. His face was half in shadow from the willow trees and I couldn't tell what he was thinking. "It's only listening, J. I'll speak my piece from here, if I have to."

"Will—"

"You know, I don't even remember what happened? It's all a blank."

"Lucky you."

"Lucky? Is that what you think? It's like a hole in my head. I'm always scratching at the edges of the blank space, trying to break through—"

"Good. I'm glad it hurts." I wanted him to suffer. Given my own druthers I would have avoided this confrontation to the grave, but since he'd forced it on me I opened my mouth to hurl some of my rage and hurt in his direction.

Which was when the cramp hit.

My whole right leg, from thigh to big toe, knotted up in a spasm of pain so intense I couldn't even scream. It immobilized me, the rest of my body locking up in sympathy, and I didn't even have time for a proper breath before the water pulled me under.

Will came in after me.

Rescue from drowning by a guy who knows how to do the lifeguard thing is not a movie-romantic experience. He grabbed me from behind, by my hair, and dragged me up to the surface. The pain in my thigh wouldn't relent, but as soon as I got a breath or two into my aching chest I regained volitional control of the rest of my body. 

If I'd had breath to spare, I would have been screaming obscenities. Last thing in the world I wanted was to owe any sort of gratitude to Will Alderson and I fought him, all claws and teeth and rage. I'm not proud of myself for that; I damn near killed us both. Would have done, if Will hadn't taken charge.

He slugged me in the jaw. Knocked me half senseless, enough so that my limbs went loose and my head went woozy. Before I could get myself back into fight mode he'd towed me to shore and onto dry land. Once he'd dumped me on the gravel bank, he retreated to a safe distance. Four bleeding tracks marked the side of his face where I'd scratched him and he doubled over, hands braced on his thighs, catching his breath. Water streamed off his hair and clothes.

I stayed where he put me, a sodden, shivering heap of misery with the breeze raising goosebumps on my wet skin. At least the gravel was warm, even if it was digging into my bare ass. Will tossed me my shirt, sun-warmed, and I put it on, knowing I needed every bit of heat I could get. Once upon a time we would have been locked together for warmth and maybe something else, but the people we had been then were forever gone.

There was a new look on his face, and I didn't like it.

"You want to kill yourself, Jesse, you do it on your own time. I'm not going to stop you but I sure as hell am not standing by to watch. You hear?"

I wanted to explain about the cramp, and then reminded myself I didn't care what he thought about me and kept my mouth shut. He slid his shoes back on and walked away from me, still streaming water, his feet squishing in his shoes, but he was all dignity and decency and I confess I hated him more in that moment than I ever had.

I don't think I've ever in all my life felt more alone.

 

 

H
ome.

I dreaded it. Too many memories, too much responsibility. A succession of renters would have left the house empty, dirty, and in need of repair. The fields would be neglected, the fences down. Even so, the minute I turned off the highway and onto the gravel road that wound up the hill, my heart started to sing in a completely irrational way.

The road, at least, had been well maintained and was freshly graveled and graded—which made it much more dangerous for me on the motorbike than if it had been left untended. Having suffered a gravel spill or two in the past, I took my time. Road rash from pavement will peel the skin off your body. Gravel grinds in and has to be picked out with tweezers, one little piece at a time, and I really wasn't in the mood for either that or a walk home.

It was nearly dark, but that road's curves were written into my body memory so perfectly I could have navigated them with my eyes closed. Body memory didn't account for obstructions like deer or other vehicles, though, so I kept my eyes wide open and my headlight on bright.

By the time I topped the final rise my heart beat high with the feeling of coming home, no matter what I tried to tell it. Even passing the old Alderson house, lit from behind by sunset flames, couldn't entirely quench that sense of expectation. According to Marsh, the Aldersons had sold to a young family, new to town, with a toddler and a baby and a big black dog that barked but wouldn't hurt anybody.

One more curve, and then off to my right I could see the barn, mostly in shadow, the big old lightning tree still standing sentinel beside it. Directly ahead the gravel widened into a yard, bordered by a lawn badly in need of mowing, and then the house itself. It looked smaller than I remembered, and unloved. One dim light burned in a second story window; a guilt light, not a warm and welcoming glow. My old room, abandoned and left to strangers.

As I parked Red in the carport, the realization hit that I never did get the keys from Marsh. Weariness flooded over me. I wanted my old bed, with its brushed flannel sheets and the quilt my grandmother made me before she died. But both bed and quilt were long gone, and before I could rest at all I was going to have to find a way in.

The old route up the side of the house—from fence to porch roof to window—came a little harder than it had when I was sixteen. My foot slipped on a bit of loose shingle, and for half a second I slid backward before the other foot anchored me and my fingers tightened on the window frame. A minute later I slid the window open and climbed through onto the worn carpet in my own old room.

The walls were done in bunnies. Not cute, normal little bunnies but boy and girl bunnies in pink dresses and little blue suits, which was really just outrageous. Even when I was five I wouldn't have taken kindly to the talking bunnies. As for the rest of the house , it looked neglected and sad. A tear in the carpet of the master bedroom; a hole in the drywall halfway down the staircase; all of the paint dingy and streaked with dirt.

Downstairs, I waded through a litter of newspapers, empty boxes, and leftover odds and ends. The last set of renters were either pigs or in a hurry, or both, and I hated them, sight unseen. Muttering to myself about cleaning up other people's messes, I went outside to fetch my saddlebags and the Merchant's briefcase.

The night called to me, and I stepped into the yard for a minute to breathe the air that smelled like nowhere else on the face of the planet. After the city noise I'd gotten used to, the silence pressed in like a living thing. I started to pick out the once familiar undertones: a faint distant highway hum, crickets, a rush of wind in the trees. Voices.

Wait—voices? That wasn't right.

I froze, listening. A man and a woman, arguing. I couldn't make out any words, but the tone and rhythm were clear enough. The sound came from over by the barn, and sure enough, as I stared in that direction, a flashlight beam wavered and then went out, followed by the sound of a car door slamming.

Well, hell. I don't own a gun and I'm no karate black belt, and confronting unknown strangers is stupid at the best of times. But somebody was on my property without permission, and this was not okay with me. There was only one way for a car to get out of the field that I knew of, and I crossed to the pasture gate and stood waiting.