All The Pretty Dead Girls (26 page)

“Look at them down there!” Malika shrilled, staring out the window at the security guards posted at various intervals between Bentley Hall and the next dorm. “I feel like I’m in Nazi Germany.”

Sue was growing impatient with her roommate’s critiques of the security presence, but did her best to ignore her. Her mind was worrying about too many other things—plus she had a geology mid-term to study for.

“This is overkill,” Malika continued, and Sue cringed at her poor choice of words. “I mean, everywhere you look there are guards packing weapons. What happens if one of these guys cracks—if he thinks some deliveryman is the kidnapper and starts shooting?”

Sue couldn’t take any more. She slammed her book shut. “Oh, come on, Malika. Three girls are missing. What did you expect the administration to do?”

Malika glared at her. “For one, not to lie to us! Telling us Joelle and Tish had just left school!”

“They were trying to prevent a campus panic.”

“So instead they install a fascist state in our midst!”

“Fascist state! Good God, Malika, that’s such bogus rhetoric!”

“Bogus?” Malika’s eyes were ready to pop out of her head. “You’ve read the new regulations. We can’t leave the dorms after five in the afternoon except to go to class. No visitors, period. And we can only go into town on weekends.”

“Seems perfectly reasonable to me, given we’re faced with an enemy we can’t predict and know nothing about.”

“Jesus Christ, Sue. You sound like George Fucking Bush, curtailing liberties in the guise of the so-called ‘war on terror.’”

“President Bush was just trying to protect us!” Sue shouted—surprising herself since she’d never been a fan of Bush, and had listened with deep suspicion whenever her grandfather had praised him.

Malika sneered. “What’s gotten into you?”

Sue looked away from her. “Maybe these girls going missing has opened my eyes. I’m just tired of limousine liberals like you spouting off against the people in authority who are just doing what is best for us.”

Malika seemed not to believe her ears. “Did you just call me a limousine liberal?”

Sue stood to face her. “Yes, I did. I’m tired of people like you coming to this country and taking advantage of all our freedoms and then bad-mouthing our government.”

Malika was speechless. She turned away, then spotted something on Sue’s desk. A book. She grabbed it, turned back to Sue, and held it in front of her face.

It was Joyce Davenport’s
Smear.

“This is where you’ve been getting all that bullshit,” she charged. “You’ve been reading this and it’s warped your mind.”

“No,” Sue said, snatching the book away from Malika. “I don’t agree with everything she writes. But yeah, okay, maybe some of it makes sense.”

Yet even as she spoke the words, Sue realized she didn’t really believe what she was saying. In fact, she was as pissed as Malika about the administration withholding information from them, and then slapping down the rigid rules about leaving campus. It had greatly affected her relationship with Billy—at a time when she was already worried about whether they’d hit a snag. But for some reason, she wanted to provoke Malika, to play the devil’s advocate, to get her riled up and pissed off…

“You are not the same girl who came here two months ago,” Malika grumbled, turning away from her again.

Sue didn’t answer. She was saved from having to try to think of a comeback by a knock at the door. “Come in,” Malika shouted.

It was her pudgy friend Sandy. “Malika,” Sandy said, rushing into the room, eating an ice-cream sandwich, “some of the girls want to organize a protest against the administration and they wondered if you—”

“Why does it always have to be me?” Malika shouted at her. “It’s always Malika they come running to when they want to get something done! Can’t anybody on this fucking campus ever do something for themselves?”

Sandy looked surprised. “Well, it’s just that you’re so good at it…”

“Jesus!” Malika shrieked. “Look at how you’re dripping that goddamn ice cream all over my bed! And my sweater laying right here—” Malika snatched it up. “Chocolate all over it! Damn you, Sandy!”

The girl looked crestfallen. Sue knew she idolized Malika. “I’m sorry,” she said in a little voice.

“You shouldn’t be eating that anyway! I thought you were going on a diet! Do you want to stay fat all your life? Is that what you want, Sandy?”

Her friend just looked at her, then burst into tears and ran out of the room.

“Jesus,” Malika grumbled to herself.

Sue said nothing, pretending to be reading her geology book.

Malika sat down on the edge of her bed. “That was rotten of me,” she said, to herself more than Sue. “I shouldn’t have taken out my anger on her.”

Sue remained silent. She didn’t like how she was feeling. She didn’t like that she had to suppress a smile that was forming on her lips.

“I’m going to go apologize,” Malika said.

“Why should you?” Sue found herself saying. “She came in here trying to get you involved in one more thing when you’re already so busy. And these fat girls can be so inconsiderate, the way she slobbered all over your sweater. It’s almost as if they’re jealous of pretty girls like you and me, always trying to ruin things for us. Don’t you think?”

Malika stared over at her. Sue smiled.

“I don’t know you anymore,” Malika finally said, and got up and left the room.

I don’t know myself,
Sue thought.

She stood and went to the mirror.
I still look the same,
she thought.
But I don’t feel the same.

The fight with Malika had left her invigorated, thrilled. She felt high. She knew her challenge to Malika had made her roommate quick to snap at Sandy. And now Sandy was likely to snap at someone else.

I caused it,
Sue thought, grinning at herself in the mirror.
I set the conflict into motion…

Suddenly, she felt sick. Without warning, she started to cry.

The feeling of exaltation was replaced with shame.

“I don’t feel that way,” she said, remembering her words about “fat girls.” She’d never thought of herself as pretty. She cried harder remembering how she’d called Malika a “limousine liberal.” What good was name-calling? It was just a cruel tactic—one used for shock and attention.

Yes, indeed,
Sue thought, looking over at the book on her bed.
Just like Joyce Davenport.

“Why am I acting like this?” Sue asked out loud.

I’m scared, so I’m acting strange,
she told herself.
I’m scared about three girls who have gone missing. Three girls I connect myself to, in one way or another. I told Joelle and Tish I’d seen the face at the window. And Bonnie—I’d dreamed of her the night she was attacked.

And then there was Heidi. Billy’s ex.
I had been thinking terrible things about her, filled with jealous and rage toward her—and then she collapsed.

Just like Lori Powers—who skied into a tree after an argument with me—and Melissa Hardwick—who died after I vowed to “do something to her.”

I wished both girls dead.

I killed them.

“No,” Sue said. “That’s crazy.”

And Mike deSalis…Sue hadn’t wanted to go see him at the diner. She was wishing all the way over there that he’d be gone. She kept stalling Billy, teasing him, forcing him to window-shop—all in the hope that Mike would be gone by the time they got there.

And then Mike, too, collapsed…

“I’m thinking crazy,” Sue said out loud again.

But she’d just been acting and talking crazy, too, saying those things to Malika.

It’s like all I wanted to do was stir up trouble
…

“I’ve got to concentrate,” she said, opening her textbook again. But within minutes she glanced up from the page and was looking over at her laptop. She chewed on her lower lip. Her e-mail screen was open, but there was nothing new. Nothing from Billy. Nothing more from Joyce.

Ever since the day with Mike, Billy had been distant. Sue was worried that maybe she did something wrong that day.
Should I have stuck around at the emergency room? Should I have ridden with Billy up to the hospital in Senandaga?

Or did Billy just decide to dump me for no good reason at all? He had certainly moved on from Heidi to me without an apparent second thought.

She found herself getting angry with Billy for not communicating with her, for not answering her e-mails.
He can’t treat me that way,
she thought.
I won’t stand for it!

But she calmed herself. How quick she was to get angry lately.

“It’s not like me,” she said, slamming her textbook shut once again. She didn’t think she’d get any studying done tonight.

Reaching across her bed for her cell phone, she hoped in vain that there would be a text message for her. Sometimes she didn’t hear the beep. But there was nothing new. She hit the speed-dial button where Billy’s number was stored, and it rang a few times before his voice mail picked up. She flipped the phone shut.

Stop this craziness,
she told herself.
If he wanted to see me or talk to me he’d call. Let it go and forget about him.

But in that same moment, her phone rang. She saw it was Billy’s number.

“Hey,” he said when she picked up. “I see you just called.”

“I was just worried about you, that’s all.”

He grunted.

“How’s Mike?” Sue asked.

“No change,” Billy replied. “Listen. Would you go with me to see him at the hospital tomorrow? I know you said in your e-mail you can’t leave campus, but tomorrow’s Saturday…”

“We can leave on weekends if we get a pass,” Sue said.

“So will you go with me?”

Sue hesitated. “Have you been up to see him since that night?”

“No. His parents weren’t letting visitors in.” Billy’s voice sounded horrible. Empty. Dried up. “But now they think maybe it’ll help him if he knew I was there. Not that he’s conscious. But they say sometimes, even in comas…” His voice broke.

“I’ll go with you,” Sue told him.

“Thanks, Sue. I just can’t make the drive…by myself.”

He told her he’d call in the morning, then they said goodbye. No niceties, no lovey-dovey stuff.

Sue sat holding her phone after hanging up, just staring straight ahead.

Then, all at once, she leapt from her bed and hurried to her computer. She quickly typed out an e-mail.

I need to talk to you—soon. It can’t wait.

Then she hit
SEND
—to Joyce Davenport.

Across campus, not far away, a weak, hungry Tish Lewis finally heard the familiar creak of the stairs.

It had been days since the figure had last come to bring her food. Maybe weeks. Time was blurring together for her. She was losing her grip on reality—perhaps what they wanted.

She had been primed to strike. To fight back. Had they known? Could they read her mind? Was that why they stopped coming?

Why had they stopped feeding her?

Tish’s cell was now filthy with the smells of her own body. Water had begun dripping in from somewhere above. The place reeked, and Tish was cold.

But still alive
, she told herself.
Still alive
.

The key was in the lock. Tish did her best to keep her wits, to stay strong.

The iron door swung open and the red-robed figure came inside.

Was it Mrs. Oosterhouse? If it was someone else—someone stronger—Tish wasn’t sure she’d have much of a chance.

“Think we’d forgotten about you?” the figure asked.

It was rare for it to speak—but its words reassured Tish.

It was Oostie.

“Here, slut,” she said, placing in front of Tish a plastic tray holding a piece of crusty bread and a glass of water. “Don’t die quite yet. We’ve come up with another plan for you.”

Tish devoured the bread and gulped down the water. The red-robed figure lifted the pail, now overflowing with Tish’s waste.

“Filthy slut,” the figure said as it passed Tish, closing the door after exiting.

Sudden terror struck Tish. Might this be my last meal? If so, there’d be no need to return with the pail. And then no chance for me to fight back—

In the days she’d been left alone, Tish had kept her sanity by sharpening that broken handle. She’d unhook it from the pail and scrape it against the brick wall. It was now sharper than most knives. It would do the job—if she was given a chance.

To her great relief, the door creaked open again, and the figure returned with the pail. It set the pail down, then turned once more to Tish.

In the split second it took for the figure to bend down to retrieve the now-empty tray and glass, Tish leapt—grabbing the pail and swinging out with it, whacking it against the figure’s head. Stunned, the figure staggered against the wall, giving Tish just enough time to unclasp the handle, and stab it deep into the figure’s gut.

Mrs. Oosterhouse let out a bloodcurdling howl of pain.

With great effort, Tish gripped the handle and cut upward. It wouldn’t be enough just to stab her. She had to cut—inflict as much damage as she could. She had planned it all out in those long hours in the dark.

“You…. slut!” Oostie shrieked, as the sharp metal handle sliced through her tissue, piercing her stomach.

Warm blood covered Tish’s hand.

“Why was I kidnapped?” Tish demanded. “Why did you kill Joelle?”

“Help me,” Oostie tried to scream, but her voice was too weak. She was sliding down the wall where Tish had attacked her.

“I swear to God I’ll rip out your guts,” Tish told her. “Tell me what’s going on in this house! Tell me how to get out!”

“You can’t escape,” Oostie managed to say.

“You were planning to drink my blood, you freak! Just like you drank Joelle’s!”

“Not yours,” Oostie said. “Not after I confirmed the stories about you were true. You’re no virgin! Your blood is no good to us!”

With a sudden, merciless yank, Tish pulled the handle out of Mrs. Oosterhouse’s belly, causing a terrible popping sound. The chubby dorm chaperone fell hard to the floor on her big fat ass.

“But you were still going to kill me,” Tish said. “You and Dean Gregory. And who else? Is the whole administration involved?”

“You can’t escape,” Oostie said. “Help!” She tried to scream again. “Somebody help—”

“I’ll put an end to that,” Tish said, and with one well-aimed swipe, she cut Oostie’s throat, severing her jugular. Blood spurted forth like an opened fire hydrant. Oostie’s mouth moved a few more times, but no sound came out. Then her head sunk down on her chest.

Holding tight to the bloody handle, Tish stepped out of her cell. She was in a basement. Old furniture was covered with drop cloths. Metal file cabinets rusted against a far wall. The small windows that were set high in the walls were papered over with cardboard.

Tish found the stairs.

She had no idea where they led, or who might be upstairs waiting for her. But she began to climb, the sharp pail handle that had saved her life held out in front of her.