The Long Wait for Tomorrow (30 page)

Her fingers curled around the letter, and the two of them were face to face again, locked in a tug-of-war with Patrick’s impending acceptance. Turning sideways, Patrick gave a final tremendous yank. His shoulder rammed against her, and Jenna went down, landing hard on her ass.

Patrick stood over her, the now shapeless envelope clutched in his fist like an unlit torch.

Jenna sat with her hands planted in the soft dirt behind her. She looked around, mouth open, like a tourist gawking from the top of the Empire State Building.

There was no sense of triumph for Patrick, and he immediately bent over to help her up.

“Go away,” she said, batting his hand and rising to her feet.

Patrick licked his lips, swallowed. “Jenna—”

“Fuck off!”
she yelled, arms crossed, shoving past him.
“I’m
going.”

Patrick leaped after her, pelted by bloated raindrops. “Where?”

“To find Kelly.”

“It’s pouring!”

“Leave me alone!” she yelled, and began to run.

“What are you doing?” Patrick was sure he heard the sound of footsteps slapping the pavement some dozen yards behind him. “The guy can still follow you!”

She whirled around for an instant. “We’ll see who catches pneumonia first,” she shot back, before breaking into a full sprint, crossing the street and not looking to stop.

Patrick shoved the letter into his pocket and ran to the corner. He looked after Jenna, blinking rapidly against the rain as she disappeared from sight.

For some reason, Patrick kept going back to something Kelly had said. Several things he had said, in fact. All those times, over the past few days, when Kelly had suddenly burst out with a simultaneous reading of what other people were saying. The lecture from Principal Sedgwick. The specials at Spiro’s. Capping off Edmund’s concluding dissertation on time travel.

Those isolated moments repeated themselves over and over as Patrick burst into Jenna’s house. Transmitted by his angels in a hypnotic loop, not a one bothering with their usual
analysis. Doing all he could to avoid their chatter, Patrick froze in the middle of the living room. He looked around wildly, dripping wet, trying to remember where he’d left his keys.

The land line began to ring, an unwelcome distraction as he ran into the kitchen.

Patrick closed his eyes, tracing that afternoon’s activities.

The answering machine clicked on, and without the whine of the phone, Patrick remembered. Darted toward the fridge, leaped up, and took his keys down from on top. He was almost at the door when something made him stop.

“Good evening!”
the voice on the machine cried out in a high-pitched, bizarre English accent. Bad English accent, and Patrick moved toward the machine.
“This is Madame Saint James, calling about the advert for a nanny. You may call me at my current place of residence, the number being—”

The number being one that Patrick recognized to be Kelly McDermott’s cell.

He rushed to the phone, picked it up. “Kelly?”

“Are you alone?” Kelly’s voice crackled through the phone.

“Yes, Kelly, where have you
been
?”

“I’m at the BP phone booth, on Ninth,” he said. “I wanted to wait until it was dark. I’ve been … I couldn’t remember anybody’s number, I had to find a phone book, this was the only one listed.”

“Kelly, I need to go get—”

“Patrick, listen to me.” Kelly’s voice was low, urgent. “Can you get to Jenna’s computer and go online?”

“Yes, but—”

“Go, there’s something you need to see.”

Patrick glanced toward the front door, still ajar.

“Patrick, are you there?”

“Yeah,” Patrick said, running into Jenna’s bedroom. He kicked the chair away from her desk and hunched over, wiggling the mouse. The screen came to life, and he double-clicked on the EarthLink icon.

His ear was suddenly filled with a deafening collection of garbled electronic screeches.

“Damn it!” Patrick yelled over the noise. “Kelly, she’s still got dial-up!”

“Check your e-mail and call me back!”

“What’s the number?” Patrick yelled, scrambling to grab hold of a pen as Kelly began to read it out. With no time to bother with paper, Patrick carved the digits into Jenna’s desk. He hung up and gave the double click another go.

The gravelly scream came back, unimpressed with Patrick as he impatiently bounced on his feet.

The connection was finally established, and Patrick logged on to his school account.

Among the unread e-mails, Patrick immediately knew which one Kelly was talking about.

SENDER: REDCOD

SUBJECT: SMALL PACKAGES

It was from Cody, complete with an attachment.

What’s more, it had been sent out to every last person at Wellspring Academy.

With his heart sinking, Patrick clicked on the e-mail.

Well …
His angels had returned with their usual attitude.
What made you think Cody
wasn’t
going to upload the damn picture onto his computer?

“Kelly
told
him not to!” Patrick cried out to the empty room.

But of course, that had been before. Just a few days ago; Edmund tied at the stake, everything going according to plan. It had been unthinkable that Cody would have disobeyed Kelly’s orders to not upload the picture. But years had passed within those few days, and Patrick had forgotten to adjust to a world where Kelly McDermott no longer commanded any respect, and Cody Redwood was beyond anybody’s control.

And now, it seemed, Patrick and Kelly were going to have to make some
major
adjustments.

A sick little whine escaped his lips. Patrick reached back, arm flailing in hopes of pulling up a chair. He gave up, and continued to stare at the attached photograph. Knowing how well it would play among the students. Maybe not the few who turned their heads in polite protest when such things occurred, but what difference had those silent few ever made? There was something about the duct tape wrapped around Edmund’s body. The combination of his bottom half exposed while his shirt remained in place. Worst of all, the perfect expression; jaw jutting out with an absurd underbite, one eye half-closed, the other half-rolled up in a fit of desperation. Patrick couldn’t deny it; just a few days ago, he would’ve been on the floor, trapped in the throes of irrepressible, mean-spirited giggles.

Another whine escaped his mouth, and he reached up to cover his mouth with his hand.

Don’t puke
, his angels commanded in a rare bout of clarity.
Call Kelly, right now.

Patrick dialed the number.

Another maddening shriek stabbed at his ear.

“Damn it!”

He hung up and logged off, struggling to get the cursor where he wanted.

Patrick redialed, and Kelly picked up on the other end. “You saw?”

“Yes.”

“Edmund’s number is unlisted,” Kelly told him. Even over the phone, Patrick could hear the roar of the storm. “If you can’t find Jenna’s student directory, you’re going to have to go to his house. Go, check on him. Find out if …” Kelly paused. “If he’s there, just do what you can to talk him down.”

“What if he isn’t?” Patrick mewled.

“If he isn’t …”

For a moment, Patrick thought the line had gone dead.

He was about to hang up and redial when he heard what had to be the most frightening words anyone had ever spoken to him. “Find out if they own a gun.”

Patrick closed his eyes, ran a hand down his clammy face. “Please tell me you didn’t—”

“Patrick, we don’t have time—”

“No, Kelly,
talk to me.”

A massive thunderclap exploded outside, through the
phone, in stereo. Patrick felt a hot, bilious liquid rise to the back of his throat. “You really think …”

“Yes, or worse.”

“What do you mean
worse
?”

“Patrick, I just don’t KNOW!” Kelly yelled over the phone. “Now go! Go, get to his house, and then call me! And whatever you do,
don’t pick me up, they’ll be watching—
”

The line went dead.

Patrick was left alone. Holding on to the cordless phone in the sickly light of a desk lamp Jenna must have turned on while he was too busy not paying attention to the time.

achel-Ann opened the door, not a bit surprised to see Patrick. Her eyes were sloped with concern, body language perfectly clear under her purple bathrobe.

Patrick burst into the house, heading for the steps. “Is Edmund here?”

“No,” she replied apprehensively.

Patrick turned to face her. “What happened, do you know where he went?”

“It was strange, because he just walked downstairs, and right out of the house.” She pointed up the stairs, retracing her son’s steps with a guiding finger. “There was a cab waiting for him. He must have called for it before even—”

“Mrs. Radcliff …” Patrick put a comforting hand on her shoulder, sure it wasn’t much to make up for his own breathless expression. “Did he mention anything?”

“A name,” she said tentatively, tightening her robe around her ample body.

“What name?”

“I don’t … It began with a
C
, I think.”

“Cody?”

“Yes …” Her face grew concerned at the very fact that
Patrick seemed to know what was going on. “It was Cody, I think.”

Patrick didn’t want to think what that might mean.

Or worse
, his angels reminded him, glad to do the thinking for him.

“May I use your phone, Mrs. Radcliff?”

She nodded and led him into the den. The furniture was all antiques, or at the very least two generations past the current trend. No way to tell with the couches, as they were all covered in white sheets. The Radcliff house was hardly a mansion, but Patrick couldn’t help thinking of the Havisham house from
Great Expectations.
Everything at a standstill.

With the exception of a working phone, thank God.

Patrick picked it up, dialed the number.

It had been so long since he’d heard a busy signal, he almost didn’t know what he was hearing.

“Public
phone
.” He grimaced, slamming the receiver down. Doing his best to recoup, he pulled out the pen he’d taken from Jenna’s desk and scrawled out the number on a yellow sticky note. “Mrs. Radcliff, please keep calling this number, every two minutes. You remember Kelly?”

Rachel-Ann’s chest swelled, operatic lips parting. “What’s the matter with my son?”

“Nothing, if you just do as I say …” Patrick underlined the number twice. “When Kelly picks up, you tell him everything you told me. And let him know I’m headed for the prom.”

Patrick dashed for the door, then stopped.

He turned, glad to see Mrs. Radcliff picking up the phone, all ready to redial. “Mrs. Radcliff?”

She looked up, eyes distant. “Yes?”

“Do you own a gun?”

She looked as though she had been caught with a case of C-4. “His … his father kept one up in the safe. But it’s locked, and … Edmund doesn’t know the combination.”

Patrick let out a shuddery breath. “What
is
the combination?”

“My birthday.”

The Internet’s got a lot to teach this older generation about safety
, Patrick’s angels lamented.

He steadied himself against the threshold, resisting the urge to slump back against the wall.

“Take me to it,” Patrick told her.

Rachel-Ann’s naïve decision to use her birthday for the combination was just as apparent in her willingness to take Patrick directly to the safe. It might have been the influence of the past few days—the deception, the suspicion, the double-crossing—but Patrick couldn’t help thinking of the many ways he could take advantage of Rachel-Ann, simply by implying that Edmund might have gotten to her gun.

Of course, two minutes later, and the proof was right in front of them.

“Oh God.” Rachel-Ann tried to stifle a moan with her hand.

Patrick turned his back to the empty safe. “When was the last time you opened this?”

She didn’t answer, eyes plunging to the safe’s shallow depths.

“Mrs. Radcliff …” Patrick resisted the impulse to grab her by the arm and shake.
“When was the last time you opened your safe?”