Adelaide Upset (9 page)

So I dropped my purse back
into the drawer, kicking it shut as I slipped back into the swivel
chair, wondering how I was going to watch those two for another
hour (especially as they ate Dairy Queen) and not go
mad.

When it came to charm, it
seemed that Tim-whatever-his-last-name-was could give Reed Wallace
a run for his money. Ben who didn’t do small talk, had stayed hours
after his shift was over, swapping stories and dry jokes with the
Aussie as they crushed sunflower seeds together. I had been
disturbed by the sight, mostly because they kept missing the
trashcan when they spit out the shells, but for other reasons too.
And Stephen, who wasn’t one to shirk his duties, was reluctant to
leave the office to go clean rooms. Tim had been giving him a
guitar lesson, and I knew they were bonding. Bleck.

That had been the last
straw. Standing up to see Tim clearly over the top of the counter,
I’d demanded, “Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be at the beach or
something? That’s what people do when they go on vacation. They
don’t hang around shitty motel lobbies, singing whiny renditions of
John Mayer.”

“Adelaide!” Stephen had gasped, both
embarrassed and shocked.

“
It’s alright, mate.” It
sounded more like
might
than
mate—
it was probably Tim’s
accent that drew people in. “I was doing a tour through Europe when
I got a job offer I couldn’t refuse, though when I came
here—”

“I don’t care, and I’m not interested in
joining your fan cult either, so just piss off.” I thought that I’d
imbued that sentence with enough sting to send him running, but
apparently not. He stayed. And at nine on the dot, when my shift
was finally over, it was me that went running for the door.

“
Adelaide,” Missy called,
stopping me in the open entryway. “It’s only five ‘til nine,” she
tsked, glancing at the wall clock. “Always trying to run off early.
But it’s okay, go, I’ll cover for you,” she added, playing the part
of generous friend.

Everyone knew that clock
was slow. At one point Stephen had even tried to fix it, but it was
bolted to the wall.

Missy smiled at me, her
cheap purple lipstick cracking as her mouth spread wide. It didn’t
feel right to let her have the last word, but truthfully, I didn’t
care enough to stick around. Lucas was waiting for me at home, an
unlike Missy and Tim, he mattered. So without a backwards glance I
stepped out of the air conditioned office and into the muggy, dark
night, letting the door snap closed behind me.

I was thinking of Lucas as
I walked under the overhang toward my car, a row of dimly lit doors
to guide my way. I thought about the picture, his old girlfriend,
and how it’d only been a slight hiccup in our relationship. And
although I didn’t like to think of it, Nancy Bristow’s reading came
to mind. If not my relationship with Luke, than whose was I about
to lose?

I should have been more
focused on that reading, not about the knight of swords’ identity,
but the devil’s, because he was right behind me.

A breezeway separated the
two units. As I passed I felt a tremor of nervous fear slip out,
trailing after me. I jerked around, but the man had already
emerged, dressed in black, a living shadow. He caught my arms,
pulling me down the empty passageway.

I was dragged behind the
motel, a large hand pressed over my mouth and nose, keeping me
quiet through the breezeway as I was forced into the
dark.

I tried to bite him, but
his hold was so tight that it was all I could do to simply breathe
around his salty palm. Bucking, I tried to break free, knowing I
wouldn’t have to run far for help, but he was massive, both tall
and thick, his frame easily engulfing mine.

He dragged me to the
storage shed where Sterling’s kept its cleaning cart, yanking me
around the corner as my heels scraped along the grass. He shifted,
his hold going slack as he released my face. I didn’t have time to
catch my breath before his fingers were back, fumbling under my
chin. I tried to jerk away, but he shoved a scrap of cloth into my
mouth, wedging it roughly between my teeth as I gagged.

With his hand clamped on
my neck like a vice, he gave me one hard shove and I stumbled back,
my head crashing into the rippled tin siding. A metallic clank rang
out, echoing into the dark and we stood, utterly still, both of us
unmoving. My breathing was harsh, animalistic to my own ears,
winded prey. His emotions poured into me, overlapping with my own,
but the fear we shared. He was scared, reluctant, nervous, but
resigned. He was also a hairsbreadth away from guilt. Whatever was
happening, whatever he planned to do or say, it was unpleasant to
him, repugnant even.

“
You’ve been asking about
David Smith?” I could just make out his silhouette in the dark. He
was tall, the threat in his voice drifting out from nearly a foot
over my head.

I shook my head violently,
knowing that a lie was my best option. This man had a conscience,
and if he wasn’t certain of his plan, it would crumble.

In one swift move I was
jerked forward and back, my head cracking against the shed before I
had time to react. It was harder than the first time and the
metallic ringing from impact pulsed in time with my
pain.

He didn’t believe me,
which meant he knew for certain that I’d been asking, and he knew
who I was. Had Bill Shrader told him? No, I hadn’t given Bill my
full name, only Samantha Phelps had that, and with it the means to
find me. So who was this? Marks? I scrambled for answers, wondering
how I could appeal to his sense of right and wrong.

“
You lie,” he said, his
gruff voice sounding flat. “But it’ll be true soon enough. Tonight
you’ll learn not to go asking questions.”

He shifted again, reaching for something in
the dark. I couldn’t see what he held, but it seemed to solidify
his commitment, as if the deed were already done.

I tried to pull away,
launching myself sideways. His hand slid from my neck and for one
moment I was free. In the next he grabbed my arm, pulling me to the
ground so I was hunched next to him as he knelt down.

I reached up with my free hand and pulled
the cloth out of my mouth, throwing it to the dark.

“
Scream and I’ll break
them all,” he warned, and I knew that he meant it. Could feel it,
could feel that he almost hoped I would cause trouble. If I did it
would relieve some of the niggling guilt.

“
Please,” I begged, trying
to pull my wrist free. He had my arm twisted around in front of
him, my chest flat against his back. He pressed my palm to the
shed’s concrete foundation, and I jerked harder, a fox snared in a
foot trap.

“Spread your fingers or I’ll break more than
one.”

“Please, you’ve made your point. I’ll do
whatever you say, just, please, don’t hurt me.” I was crying,
shaking, and in that moment, I meant every word. Helplessness was
unbearable, but the anticipation was worse, those few seconds
before the hammer fell. Yes, I could see it, the outline visible,
not the slender forked kind, but a thick club.

He raised it. I jerked my
fingers apart, still trying to pry my wrist free from his grip.
“Smith!” I screamed at the last minute, an unintentional outburst,
nothing but pure reaction. I wanted help. Smith always helped me.
It was that simple.

It was also a mistake. The
man’s emotions suddenly shifted, he was no longer holding back, no
longer guilty. Now he wanted to hurt me. Not for pleasure, not in a
sadistic sort of way, but as if I were an annoying fly that needed
to be dealt with, crushed. He jerked the hammer down and I
shrieked, preparing for the strike.

My arm was jerked forward,
my weight pulled askew, and I heard the club hammer crack into the
concrete as it missed its mark. Muffled noises, I couldn’t tell
what was happening. Suddenly flood lights burst on, pouring down
over the grass. I covered my eyes, shocked and squinting. The man
who’d attacked me was facedown on the ground, Smith holding him in
place. But even as I watched, Smith grew weak, his color draining
to a dull lifeless gray before it slipped away altogether. He
flickered, and then he was gone, an exhausted and shapeless mist.
Having felt the suppressing weight disappear my attacker jerked
upright, running for the tree line without a backwards
glance.

“
Are you alright?” Tim
asked, though it sounded more like alroy. He pulled me up, his
hands patting me gently.

“
What are you doing? Get
off.”

He stopped his inspection,
but continued to prop me up. “We should call the police. Did he
hurt you?”

I shook him off, furtively
wiping the wetness from my cheeks. “No, I’m fine.”

Missy’s jealousy preceded her. “What is it,
Tim? Is everything okay?” she asked from the breezeway.

Tim led me back to the
motel as if I were broken, though he didn’t dare touch me, his hand
hovering over the small of my back. Missy did her best not to
glower. She was not happy to see his concern and attention, but she
covered her feelings well, wearing her best ‘I’m worried’
face.

“
Someone attacked her, but
he ran off when you switched on the light,” Tim explained to Missy.
Turning to me, he said, “I thought I heard something, and it was a
good thing I insisted on checking, too. Even if nothing happened
and you’re okay, we still need to call the police.”

I leaned down to grab my
purse; I’d dropped it in the breezeway. Missy watched, still
jealous, her ugly envy aimed my way, but she also felt bad for me
too, which was a first.

I would quickly put her
mind to ease. “It was a prank,” I lied. “An old boyfriend.
Threatened me as a joke, he wants his CD’s back, that’s
all.”

“
Then why’d he have
these?” Tim asked, holding up the cloth gag and hammer. He didn’t
believe me for a second. I had to give Tim proper credit, he was
more than just a pretty face.

I shrugged. “Beats me.
Call the police if you want, but they’ll just get ticked when they
find out it was all a misunderstanding. Plus, it’ll make Sterling’s
look bad.” I would have added:
And
it’ll get me in trouble with Ben
, but
then Missy would have been sure to call the police first
thing.

“
It just goes to show that
you’re a poor judge of character, Adelaide. I would never date
someone like that, who made light of something so
serious—”

“
Yes, whatever,” I said,
cutting off the long and sanctimonious speech Missy was gearing up
for. “I’m going home.”

But I didn’t go home, I
went to Luke’s. I didn’t tell him about the incident, because then
I’d have to explain about the ghosts. But he sensed something was
off, which of course surprised me. For someone so emotionally
stunted, he was surprisingly attuned to me and mine. He didn’t kiss
me or let his hands go roaming like they usually did when we got
into bed, just pulled me close and held me there. And when I woke
up the next morning he hadn’t moved, a warm body walled up behind
me. Lucas was early to rise, usually at his body shop in Brunswick
long before I even stirred, but today he had waited. We ate
breakfast together, and for the first time, while scraping the eggs
off my plate, I seriously considered telling Lucas my secrets. The
empathy, the ghosts, how would it feel with nothing hidden between
us?

Lucas followed me over the
fence, waiting as I checked my house to make sure nothing was
amiss. I was trying to be careful but not paranoid. So when Luke
offered to stay with me a bit longer I kissed him, but sent him on
his way. I didn’t think I was in any immediate danger. My attacker
had made his point, broken fingers or not, I was treading on
dangerous ground. Though truthfully, I had no intention of backing
off. But as the devil didn’t know that, I was safe until I made my
next move, or so I hoped.

All morning long I put
together a puzzle, hunching over the coffee table as I shuffled
pieces around. The completed image would be a basket of kittens,
not original, but disgustingly cute. Lucas had bought it for me. He
made a habit of picking them up whenever he did some shopping, but
he never presented them as gifts, just casually left them around my
house. I loved puzzles because unlike Luke’s TV, which I chose to
watch when I wanted to tune out, they kept my hands busy but not my
brain. So as the picture came together, so did my thoughts
concerning last night’s attack.

I knew it was bad to make
assumptions, but even so, I was pretty sure my attacker had been
that Marks character. Bill had talked to him, so he knew I was
after information about Smith’s disappearance, and he could easily
have figured out my real name by merely asking Samantha. So if
Marks
had
murdered his supposed ‘close’ friend, I just needed to figure
out why. Which left me with only two options: ask Stephen’s mother
or ask Bill Shrader. Having been around when Smith went toes up,
both of them would know more about his relationship with Marks. But
whatever I did, I couldn’t tip my hand before I was sure of the
outcome.

I finished the kitten
puzzle but was none the wiser on how to proceed. I really, really
didn’t want to approach Stephen’s mother, but speaking to Bill was
the more dangerous avenue. I’d just sleep on it, but in the
meantime I had a few chores to take care of. First things first—I
needed to buy pepper spray. I also needed to hold a ‘thank you for
saving me again’ séance to strengthen Smith back up. Maybe I could
weasel some information out of him while I was at it. But mostly I
needed to keep reading Demidov’s diary. I couldn’t hold on to it
forever, and I wanted to know... I needed to know if he ever came
to terms with his ability.