Dead Silence (36 page)
Nothing again.
She went back the way she’d come, to the place where she’d started, and still, nothing.
And then she crossed that threshold, moving one step farther. And again.
There it was . . . a quick burst of red.
And another step . . . a blast of yellow. Then one more . . . this time green.
The colors. They were back.
She laughed with relief, sounding deranged, unstable. “He’s here,” she practically sobbed. “We can find her.”
And then she was off, following a path that was gradually blinding her and could only mean one thing. That she was chasing a killer.
It was slow going, and they had to backtrack up and down side streets more than once as Violet would find the trail, and then lose it again. The neighborhoods they combed grew and more and more bleak, and more and more impoverished and menacing the longer they ran.
It felt like they’d been searching for hours, but according to Jay only five minutes had passed. Violet was worried. What if they were tracking the wrong guy? What if he didn’t have Chelsea?
Or what if he’d had her and already disposed of her?
The image of Veronica Bowman flashed through her mind, discarded at a home that wasn’t her own, a needle buried in her arm.
She’d been drugged too.
But Violet had something on her side that this guy didn’t know about. Her ability.
She could track him. And she had no intention of giving up.
Turning once more, Violet flinched as a pair of dogs hit the chain-link fence that contained them. They were frenzied and tried their best to get at her and Jay. Jay’s hand closed over hers as he drew her backward while the animals barked and growled, snarling and gnashing their teeth. There was nothing about the display that was meant for show. Those dogs would just as soon rip their throats out as let them pass.
“Holy crap,” Violet whispered, still not letting go of him when they reached the streetlight on the corner. She took a breath. “That scared the crap outta me.”
Jay’s grip tightened. “You and me both.”
They skipped that street, deciding to avoid Cujo and his friend. But they couldn’t stop. They were close, Violet could tell, because her vision grew more and more impaired.
When they turned down the next block, Violet gasped as her eyesight nearly imploded in a shattering display. But through the eruptions she thought she saw an outline ahead of her, dark and shadowy and hard to make out among the colors bursting in her way.
People. They were too far away, and were obscured by the night—and her deteriorating vision. But Violet knew . . .
It was Chelsea . . .
And him.
“Chelsea!” Violet shouted before she could stop herself, nearly stumbling over her own feet as she rushed forward, trying to reach them.
Just before they vanished once more.
THE GIRL WAS SLOWING THEM DOWN, BUT IT made no difference to him. He was anxious, sure, but Colton’s condition probably hadn’t improved since they’d left him. He was probably no different than he had been yesterday. And no different than the day before that.
He was in no shape to appreciate his girl just yet.
Evan would have to wait to see the look on his friend’s face when he presented him with his new toy.
In the meantime, it was a struggle just to get her home.
She fell, more than once, ripping her tights on the jagged-edged concrete of the broken sidewalks, and then laughing over the blood that oozed down her knees. He much preferred the drugged version of this girl, though, over the hard, prickly one he’d first met.
“C’ai tell yoo a seeee-krit?” The girl had her arms wrapped around each of their necks, as both he and Kisha dragged her along. The toes of her boots scuffed along the ground and her head lolled forward. He wondered how much longer she’d even be conscious.
He and Kisha exchanged glances over the back of her head.
“What’s that, sweetie?” Kisha asked her, her voice taking on a motherly quality that he couldn’t help being proud of. Ever since Colton’s accident she’d stepped into the role without being asked.
It was what he’d always wanted, for them to be the perfect family.
“I . . . don . . .” She started to drift away, her words losing steam. “I don’t . . . feel so . . . good . . .” The last words came out in a whisper.
Kisha was already panting, and he didn’t know how much more of the girl’s dead weight she could manage.
That’s when the voice cut through the shadows, finding its way to them, and he knew they were in trouble.
“Chelsea!” someone called out from not so far away, and the girl in his arms perked up, lifting her head as high as she could.
Chelsea.
Her name must be Chelsea, he realized, glancing once over his shoulder and making out the curly-haired girl and her Abercrombie boyfriend just beneath the street lamp at the corner.
“Drop her!” Kisha insisted, releasing the girl. “Let’s get outta here.”
He glanced at the girl’s mystified expression, and wondered if she even knew where she was.
Who
she was.
But even with her dazed countenance and her smeared mascara she was beautiful. So very beautiful. She was perfect for Colton.
“No,” he snapped, hauling her all the way back up, bearing all of her weight himself. He searched around them, scanning the houses up and down the street, surveying the ones closest to them.
Most had the same vacant appearance. A little too dark. A little too run-down, and far too empty.
But it was the one ahead of them that held the most promise. The one with the For Sale sign sticking out of the dead lawn, and the foreclosure notice taped to its front door.
There was no light at all coming from within, and he guessed that even if someone still lived there, they weren’t home at this very moment.
He dragged the girl—Colton’s girl—through the patchy, brittle grass. “Come on,” he ordered beneath his breath to Kisha, who still looked uncertain, like she might bolt at any moment. “Get up here, Kish, I need you.” At that she moved, suddenly darting toward him. They rounded the back of the house, still dragging the girl, but now Kisha was helping, trying to pull her along by her other arm.
When they reached the back door he kicked it open, and not waiting to see if it was actually someone’s home still, they disappeared inside, closing the broken door as best they could behind them.
VIOLET CLUNG TO JAY’S HAND AS SHE SPRINTED up the street. Her vision had cleared, but only a little.
“You saw them. Tell me you saw them!” she cried, not caring who heard her now. If it really was the killer she’d seen—and the imprint was a dead giveaway—he already knew they were following him.
Jay tried to hold her back, slowing her pace. “But I didn’t see where they went, Vi. Did you?”
Violet shook her head. “It doesn’t matter though.” She glanced up and down the row of houses, and only one of them stood out to her. Only one of them had a medley of colors that erupted all around it. “That’s it,” she said, pointing at the one just ahead of them. “They’re in there.” She dug her phone out of her purse and shoved it at him. “Call Rafe. Tell him where we are. Tell him we found Chelsea.”
Watching as Jay fished out a flyer from the plastic box that hung on the For Sale sign, Violet waited just long enough to hear him reading the address to Rafe on the other end . . .
. . . before she slipped away.
THEY MOVED QUICKLY, PULLING THE GIRL AS HER boots banged and clattered along the top of the old floorboards. There were boxes strewn about and maybe a broken chair or two, hard to tell for sure, but it was mostly garbage they had to maneuver around. The house was definitely vacant. Probably only inhabited by rats at this point.
He figured they’d be safe as long as they could just stay quiet.
Besides, there was no way the curly-haired girl and her boyfriend would know they were in here. No way they’d figure out where they were hiding. Eventually, they’d get tired of searching for their friend, and they’d move on to the next place.
Then he and Kisha would duck out again, and head for home.
He dropped the girl in a heap on the floor as he crept toward the front of the house. He was just about to peek out the window, between the boards that covered the broken glass, to try to see out to the street beyond, when he heard it.
The back door.
And the voice.
“Chels.” She was quiet. Uncertain. But far too close for his liking.
“Kish,” he whispered, swinging his arms in wide arcs in the dark as he searched frantically for her. When his fingers closed around her arm, he dragged her up against him, his mouth right at her ear. “Help me get her up those stairs.”
It was hard to see the staircase in this kind of blackness. It was there, though, off to the side of what had once been a banister. But without a handrail, the banister was now just a row of pointed spikes that would more likely impale you than prevent you from falling.
Kisha didn’t argue, she just reached beneath the girl’s arm and heaved her up, using the last of her strength—probably more than she even had left—to help him. To get Colton’s girl someplace safe. Out of the way.
To hide her.
THE SMELL OF STALE URINE HIT VIOLET FIRST—human or animal, she had no way of knowing, but it was strong—and it burned a path all the way to her sinuses. Instinctively her hand shot up and she covered her nose and her mouth, trying not to gag as the urine scent melded with the smells of mildew and old garbage and something else that festered just beneath it all.
Feces, Violet thought. It was probably feces.
