7 Souls (13 page)

I
T HIT HER AGAIN
, as she climbed the steep stairs of Dylan’s tiny apartment building. She was trying to remain numb, not to think about anything but her freezing, battered body and the effort of taking each barefoot step up the filthy worn tiles of the brownstone. Dylan wordlessly fumbled with his keys, looking over his shoulder again and again, the dread obvious on his chiseled face.

Don’t think. Just walk. You can do that, can’t you?

She couldn’t. In her mind, she saw the rope break, saw Joon’s body drop like a stone; she heard Amy’s bloodcurdling scream before something cut it off like scissors snipping a ribbon; and she was sobbing again, practically collapsing against the painted iron banister.

“Come on,” Dylan whispered, behind her, awkwardly putting his hands on her shoulders, over the blanket covering the shreds of her ruined dress
(Amy’s
ruined dress, she corrected herself miserably). “Come on, Mary. Climb the stairs. Just climb the stairs.”

She nodded. Her eyes were red and raw; her tangled hair hung in her face. She couldn’t speak. She could only nod. And keep climbing.

They were on 125th Street, just off Morningside Avenue, near Columbia University. The street was narrow and deserted, flanked by rows of hundred-year-old brownstones with ornate, soot-stained facades and elaborate stone staircases lined up like the teeth of a comb. Mary rarely came up to this neighborhood—she tried to avoid the Upper West Side and anything that brought her close to her own home—but she knew that all these buildings were probably filled with college students and graduate TAs and the scruffy intellectuals you always find around a big school.

Ellen’s been here
, Mary had thought as she’d climbed out of the car.
She knows this neighborhood—this is where she goes all the time. This is where she is whenever I can’t find her
.

Dylan had double-parked down the block from his apartment, as far from the halos of the streetlights as possible. He’d hurried out of the car and come around to open Mary’s door, gently lifting her onto the sidewalk while she cried and held on to his coat for support.

My friends are gone
, she kept thinking, over and over—she wouldn’t let herself think any other word, like “dead,” but she knew she was just playing word games. She had
heard
Joon’s body hit the water. Joon’s arms had been tied, her mouth covered, her ankles bound. The water was far, far below—it had taken a
long
time before Mary had heard the splash. The water must have been freezing.

She was dead. No way around it.

They’d climbed three flights of stairs and Dylan was fumbling with his keys, opening four separate locks on his apartment door and then helping Mary inside. She wandered forward while he snapped the lights on, revealing a tiny, cluttered apartment—framed posters, blond floorboards covered with tall stacks of books, a faded couch draped in macramé quilts—but it was hard for her to keep moving. There didn’t seem to be any point.

Poor Amy … poor Joon …

All she wanted to do was close her eyes and never open them again.

“Um, sit down,” Dylan offered, lunging to clear several big piles of papers from the lumpy couch. “Sit down for a second and I’ll see if I can find you some clothes.”

Mary did what she was told.

I couldn’t save either of them. I couldn’t do anything
.

It’s all my fault
.

At some point in any nightmare you give up—you accept your fate and hope the dream doesn’t hurt too much, that you’ll wake up before you die. But this wasn’t a dream—it was really happening.

“I’ve got a full tank of gas,” Dylan muttered while moving around his small living room. He kicked over stacks of paperbacks as he pulled open drawers, gathering things—Mary saw him collect a flashlight, grab a heavy winter coat from a cluttered closet, riffle through a desk drawer to collect a crumpled roll of twenty-dollar bills. “Gas, money, car keys …” He was still muttering, ticking off items on his fingers as he darted back and forth.

“What are you doing?” Mary asked. She hadn’t moved; she was sitting hunched over on the couch, curled around herself in the blanket she’d brought from the car. Outside, thunder crashed, rumbling through the building’s thick walls. “Dylan? What are you—”

“We’ve got to
run,”
Dylan told her. He had turned to face her, holding what looked like a passport case. His wet hair was sticking out in wild directions. In the yellow lamplight, she could see that his suit was ruined—his trousers were soaking wet from the thighs down, obviously from wading through the weeds at the farmhouse. “We’ve got to get out of here and run away, as fast as we can, before they find out where we—”

“Who?
Before
who
finds out?” Mary was still shaking, and she realized it wasn’t from the cold—it was from fear. “Who’s chasing us? Is it the same people who tied up Joon and—”

“Not now!” Dylan yelled. He winced, pressed his fingers to his temples. “I’m sorry. Not now, Mary—let me just finish getting—”

“Now! Tell me now!”
Mary felt her eyes filling with hot tears again as she wrenched herself to her feet, stumbling as the blanket tangled around her legs. “If you know something I don’t, then
tell me right now!
You said you—” Mary felt light-headed suddenly—black spots were blooming in front of her eyes and she swayed back and forth, fighting off the urge to faint. “You said you knew who was following us.”

“I’m not—I’m not sure.” Dylan kept rubbing his eyes. “I think I might remember, but it’s so confusing, like—”

“Like
what?”
Mary was crying again. “It’s the worst day of my life; it’s
sucked
since the moment I woke up.
Everyone’s
been out to get me, all day!”

“You sound paranoid,” Dylan said. He was shaking his head, looking more confused with each passing second. “There can’t be—”

“I’m not paranoid!”
Mary yelled. Her throat ached with the strain. “What do you mean, paranoid?
You’re
the one acting like we’ve got to flee the fucking country!”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Dylan’s face was strained; he looked down at the passport case in his hand, as if he’d just noticed it. “Jesus, this can’t be happening….”

My friends are dead
, Mary thought again. It was like a soul-crushing blow that kept hitting her over and over.
Both dead
.

“Dylan,” Mary whispered, sniffing and wiping snot from her upper lip as she cried, “do you know what’s going on or don’t you?”

He raised his head and looked at her, his brown eyes focusing like a laser. She could
see
him trying to collect his thoughts, trying to be rational, not to give in to fear.

“I know part of it,” he said finally. “I know that the people chasing us are going to figure out where we are. Look, please,
please
just trust me for a little while longer, okay? Let me get you something to wear and then we can get
out
of here. Once we’re moving, I’ll try to explain what I know.”

She stared into his eyes and he returned the stare, not blinking, not moving. She couldn’t see anything in his face but honest concern—and fear.

“Okay,” she said, sniffing and wiping her eyes. “Okay.”

“Why don’t you get yourself a glass of water”—Dylan pointed toward a darkened doorway she hadn’t noticed before that led to a kitchenette—“and I’ll get you some clothes.”

She did need a glass of water. Her throat was killing her, her head was pounding and she was feeling the beginning of the brutal hangover that was going to result from all the drinks she’d had: the wine at Amy’s, which seemed like an entire lifetime ago, back before the world tilted sideways and she’d slid into this twilight realm of madness; the vodka martini Dylan had bought her; the tequila shots and champagne at her surprise birthday party. It was all catching up to her, she realized; that was most of why she felt so light-headed.

“Yeah, okay,” she said weakly, gathering the blanket and walking toward the kitchen. Dylan nodded and headed in the other direction, toward a closed door. Mary winced as her bare feet collided with the splintered floorboards and kicked more of the ubiquitous paperbacks out of the way.

Reaching through the dark kitchen doorway, she found a light switch and flipped it. After a moment, a weak fluorescent bulb sputtered to life. The kitchen was tiny—a sink full of dirty dishes, a small fridge, a row of battered metal cabinets, a calendar with a Cézanne print. The cold linoleum pressed against her feet as she headed for the sink. She picked through the dish drainer, trying to find a clean glass.

Rain was pounding against the kitchen window, behind its metal security grate. Mary filled a glass with tap water and gulped it down, gazing at the blackness beyond the windowpanes.

Lightning flashed.

Mary jumped, dropping the glass. It shattered on the floor. She nearly screamed in shock at what she saw.

Joon was outside the window.

Mary had been staring in that direction at exactly the right moment, purely by chance—the flash of lightning had illuminated Joon like a paparazzi flashbulb. Joon, just a foot away, staring right back at her—apparently suspended in midair, three floors off the ground. She was dressed exactly the same as she’d been at the farmhouse—the same Elie Saab dress and shiny headband.

The lightning flickered and flared again, like a dying lightbulb, and Mary felt a scream building in her throat as she stared into Joon’s eyes. Joon was moving—raising her hand to her face—as the lightning flashed.

Putting her finger to her lips.

Then it was dark again.

Mary’s heart was pounding in her ears, her pulse clicking in her throat like a drumbeat. Thunder boomed, a multistage staccato explosion, and Mary flinched, staring at the window in disbelief.

Did I really see that?

Mary didn’t believe in ghosts—of
course
she didn’t believe in ghosts. The whole concept was ridiculous.

But did I really see that?

Dylan seemed to be moving around his bedroom; she could hear the muffled creaking of the floorboards. No doubt, changing his own clothes before finding things for her to wear.

Mary walked toward the window, wincing as her feet crunched on the broken glass littering the floor. Her skin was crawling with goose bumps; her entire body felt as cold and numb as if she’d been standing in a refrigerator for hours. She got close to the window, panting as she gathered her nerve and then cupped her hands around her eyes, peering through the glass.

Someone was out there.

There was no question about it. She could see a black silhouette against the murky glow of another kitchen window, across the air shaft. The shape was moving, coming closer.

Mary fumbled with the window, her fingers straining as they twisted the soot-covered latches. The window screeched as she began lifting it, emitting a blast of cold, wet wind that blew against her body and made the blanket billow behind her.

As she struggled to lift the heavy window, she stiffened in amazement. Fingers curled around the sash—a pair of strong, slim hands, helping her get the window open.

Mary dropped to her knees, pressing her face to the opening. It was Joon—she was right there, her rain-soaked face inches away.

“Is that—” Mary cleared her throat and tried again. “Is that really you?”

“Shhh,”
Joon whispered. Mary could see small bands of blackened adhesive around her cheeks and chin, from where the gag had been taped. Joon reached through the opening they’d made and clutched Mary’s hand. Mary squeezed back. The feel of Joon’s warm skin was making her cry all over again. “Be quiet—he’ll hear you.”

“But how—”

“Don’t trust him,” Joon whispered urgently. She kept squeezing Mary’s hand through the five-inch gap they’d pried open, but Mary could see red welts around Joon’s wrists.
From the ropes
, she realized.
When she was tied up
. “Please—you’ve got to get out of there.”

“But—”

“Just
listen
,” Joon hissed. She was peering past Mary’s shoulder, trying to see into Dylan’s living room. Mary realized that Joon wasn’t floating in midair at all—she was crouching on the cast-iron fire escape. She must have climbed up, from the alleyway below. “Do you have anything else to wear?”

“What? No—”

Joon and Amy had helped her get dressed, hours before, she remembered—it seemed like another lifetime. “He’s getting—Dylan said he’d get me something to wear.”

“Good. Take the clothes. Get dressed,” Joon whispered urgently, “and then get out of that apartment and down the stairs. I’ll come around and meet you.”

“But how did you—” There were millions of questions she wanted to ask. She heard Dylan’s bedroom door swing open and his footsteps on the floorboards. He was coming back into the living room.

Joon raised her finger to her lips again.

Mary nodded. She squeezed Joon’s hand—Joon squeezed back and then receded into the dark rain.

“Did I hear something break?”

Dylan’s voice, behind her.

She rose to her feet just as he came into the kitchen. “Sorry,” she told him—he was staring at the broken glass all over the floor. His eyes moved to the open window, where a thin ribbon of cold air was blowing inside. “I dropped the glass. I started to feel faint and I—I needed some air, so I—”

“Are you all right?” Dylan was looking at the streaks of blood she’d left on the floor. “Do you want a bandage or—”

“Let’s just get out of here,” Mary said. Walking wasn’t as difficult as she was afraid it might be; luckily, she didn’t seem to have any glass shards embedded in the soles of her feet. “Did you find anything for me to wear?”

(Don’t trust him.)

“I put it in the bathroom. Just some old stuff—it probably won’t fit you.”

Dylan frowned. He looked down at the broken glass and then over at the window again. Obviously, he felt like he was missing something—she could see it in his face.