Instinct (22 page)

A smile that
has no joy stretches my lips. “Lucky us,” I mutter, disgust thickening my
voice. Phillip scoots his chair over to me, putting his assignment sheet on my
desk. His hand rests on top of it and I am tempted to slam my fist down on the
fragile fingers.

“Listen, I
feel like there’s been a misunderstanding somewhere. Did you know that I’ve
been called into the police station twice to answer questions about where I was
the night Nicole died?” he demands in a low, furious voice. For the first time
I think I’m getting a real reaction from him. He’s definitely not happy about
being questioned.

“Gosh, I’m
sorry to hear that, Phillip,” I say, dropping my chin on my hand and fixing my
eyes on him as though fascinated by what he has to say. Strangely, I feel no
fear facing this creature, this thing that killed my best friend and no doubt
wouldn’t mind seeing me dead in a ditch somewhere. All I have is that hot
spiral of wrath in my chest, and it makes me reckless.

Phillip’s gaze
narrows and a flicker of fury touches his eyes, gone quick enough that I’m not
sure it was there at all.

“I bet.” His
voice is dry and he gives me a calculating look, as though he is just now
beginning to revise his impression of me. “They said that someone had reported
that I was on the scene where Nicole was found. That someone had made
accusations against me.”

I give him my
best ‘I’m just a dumb chick that you should underestimate’ look, one I tend to
employ when interviewing fat old politicians. “Who would do such a thing?” I
gasp, putting a hand to my chest. “Unless…you don’t think it was me, do you?
What would make you think that?”

This time
there is no mistaking the flare of rage in his eyes and for a moment my bravado
falters. This rage is different than mine, different from the uncontrolled ferocity
I have seen in Jake’s eyes. It is the first wisp of smoke over the horizon that
signals a forest fire. It is deep and simmering and absolutely terrifying.

I pull away,
straightening in my chair so that I am not so close to him. A pleased smirk
crosses his lips before he settles back in his own chair.  “I don’t think you
want to play this game with me, Derry,” he says smoothly, no trace of emotion
in his voice.

I watch him
for a moment and then nod. “No, I don’t think I do,” I whisper, finally
dropping my gaze, uncomfortable with the alien intensity in Phillip’s eyes.
Shame colors my cheeks and I realize I have just lost some kind of battle. I am
failing Nicole yet again.

“Well. Let’s
forget about it for now. I’m sure you’re still too upset to talk about any of
this. Maybe you should take some time to think things over before you make any
other statements to the police,” he says comfortably, his tone patronizing. I
wonder if this is how he used to talk to Miranda.

Mrs. Sullivan
is drifting through the class, talking to each pair, marking down choices as
she passes. She arrives at my desk and looks at Phillip and then me, eyebrow
raised.

“I think
Phillip is a bit of a sociopath,” she says and Phillip nods, looking down at
the assignment sheet.

“Yeah, we’d
like to do our report on the execution of Anne Boleyn,” he says in answer to
whatever she’s asked. Mrs. Sullivan glances at me for confirmation, but I just
nod vacantly, thinking about the piece of information she has unknowingly given
me.

When I look at
Phillip again it is with new eyes. Why this has never occurred to me before I
can’t imagine, except that no one really expects anyone they know to be a murdering
sociopath. But now it is as though every blank has been filled, every question
answered.

Phillip is a
sociopath.

Or maybe a
psychopath. I make a note to research the difference later.

From what I
have learned from movies and books, however, sociopaths are without real
emotion, or at least the kind that a normal person can understand. There was a
movie I saw once about a con artist who was called a chameleon because he was
never the same person, just a reflection of the people around him. He lied all
the time and everyone believed him because he didn’t have the same kind of
tells that most people have; the twitch of an eye, tightening of the mouth,
those little signs that indicate someone is trying too hard. This character
lied so easily because he was a lie. There was no real person underneath the
façade, just the man’s ambition.

Phillip is
watching me carefully, and I wonder if he can read the epiphany on my face. For
the first time, I feel I understand what I’m up against, why my skin is always
buzzing around him, why I have never heard a hidden truth from him.

He is a lie.
There is nothing true or honest about him, and the face he presents to the
world is just a mask that covers a black hole of cruelty. I feel a tiny smile
pull at my lips, and I grab on to the first thread of reality I have found
about Phillip and cling to it with dogged determination. Somehow this is the
key to bringing him down. I just have to figure out how to use it.

I return
Phillip’s look, the fiery knot in my chest smoldering in satisfaction. We won’t
be giving this stupid report together.

Phillip will
be in jail long before the assignment is due.

I spend my
lunch in the computer lab. Only two other people are here, two boys I don’t
recognize who are writing some kind of program for computer class. We ignore
each other and I am able to concentrate on my task.

I have no idea
where to start, so I just type
sociopath
in the Google search bar. There
are a lot of results, but after scanning some obviously homemade web pages and
a lot of false information, I find a medical site which appears to be largely
factual, focused on anti-social personality disorders. There are hardly any
sentences that I have to read twice.

Immediately I
know I am right about Phillip. The signs that indicate a sociopath are pretty
varied, and there are a couple different classifications, but lack of remorse,
lack of empathy, aggressive behavior, and a stunted moral code seem to sum up
Phillip pretty well.

The website
says that sociopaths care about nothing but themselves and their own wish
fulfillment. If anything gets in the way of that or they believe themselves to
be in danger of anything from humiliation to physical peril, sociopaths are
prone to violence or abuse; sometimes emotional, sometimes physical. They are
charming, manipulative, and tend to surround themselves with weak personalities
they can dominate.

I think about
Miranda, how she initially pulled away from Phillip; but once she was
vulnerable because of the rape, she was defenseless against him. Given the
information about sociopaths, it is not unreasonable to assume if she planned
to leave him or tell someone about how he was treating her, Phillip would be
moved to murder. The site states that an Amoral Sociopath, which seems to fit
the bill with Phillip, can take pleasure in violence and even murder. These are
the people who pluck the wings off of flies, who dissect their neighbors’ pets,
who will one day grow up to be serial killers.

What is most
discouraging in the midst of so much confirmation is the repeated indication of
high intelligence among sociopaths. Evidently, high-functioning sociopaths, the
kind that live next door and have jobs and mortgages, the kind no one would
believe is a killer because ‘he was always so pleasant,’ are almost always of
above-average intelligence and very good at covering their tracks.

Given how
little actual proof I have been able to turn up about Phillip thus far, this
news is disheartening. Particularly since he obviously knows I am onto him.
He’s smart enough to know he needs to clean up after himself, and I despair of
finding anything to pin to him more than my own instinct.

The tone
sounds and I drag myself to class, thinking furiously of how to trap Phillip in
a confession when my abilities don’t seem to work on him.

No one pays
any attention to me in my third period class, which comes as a welcome relief.
Toward the end of class, I hear a muffled giggling and turn around to see Tasha
whispering behind her hand to the girl next to her, eyes focused on me with
resentment. With a sigh, I turn forward again, acknowledging that with Nicole
no longer in the picture as the perfect victim, Tasha and her cronies will
probably turn their attention to me. A savage glee seizes me and I almost wish
they would. I could humiliate them far more effectively than they could ever
manage since they will have only their feeble imaginations for material, while
I have access to all their hidden secrets. When I glance back at Tasha again,
my gaze is full of challenge, a giddy sort of volatility that trembles with the
need to exact revenge for Nicole’s suffering at her hands.

Tasha flinches
when she next looks my way, and I can see the hesitation in her eyes,
practically hear her remembering when I exposed her boyfriend’s affair. She
ducks her head and breaks eye contact. I win.

My victory is
fleeting and shallow. As I trudge down the hall toward the journalism room,
dread threads its way into my veins, slowing me down, dragging my steps. There
is a bitter taste on my tongue, a sour bite that seems to reach down into my
gut with noxious fingers as I put my hand on the door, knowing the man who
brutally raped Miranda is waiting inside, his palms sweaty and too milk-soft,
eyes shifting restlessly over the unsuspecting girls in his classroom. For a
moment I am nearly faint and my fear of Shockey is as real as the moment I
first read Miranda’s journal.

“I’m failing
my English class,” a soothing, familiar male voice breaks into my panic and I
turn to see Shane; silly, smiling, safe Shane standing next to me, holding his
hand out as though he wants to offer comfort but isn’t sure how.

“Shane, hey,”
I croak, stuffing the distress and dizziness down until I am able to focus
clearly. “Sorry, am I in your way?”

He rolls his
eyes and wraps his arms around me in a bear hug, smushing my face against the
soft cotton of his t-shirt. “I’m so glad you’re back, hot stuff. I’m tired of
flirting with Megan. She’s mean,” he laughs, and I feel his sincerity in the
silence of my skin. For a moment I just let him hold me, content to bask in his
overwhelming masculinity. His hand begins to make little expeditions hither and
yon, brushing the top of my butt.

“Whoa there
cowboy. I’m not
that
much nicer than Megan,” I finally object, gently
pulling away. I can’t help a laugh at his unrepentant grin. “You are such a
hound,” I accuse, punching his shoulder lightly.

Shane shrugs
and opens the door for me and I am able to walk in, my anxiety dialed back in
the secure presence of this big, overprotective male.

“Seriously
though, how are you doing?” he asks, his face taking on an unnaturally somber
expression. I sigh and shake my head.

“Better. But
still…” I say helplessly.

Shane just
nods and slings an arm around my shoulders. “Yeah, I know. I’m really sorry
about Nicole. I know you guys were friends. I’m here if you need anything,
okay?”

My eyes prick
with moisture and I blink to keep away the unwelcome tears. “Thanks, Shane.”

He gives me
another squeeze and then releases me so he can open the door into the lab. I
pause and look around, but Shockey isn’t in his usual place at his desk.
Knowing I am being a coward, my shoulders sag in relief. Maybe he’s not here
today and I won’t have to face him just yet.

I take my seat
in front of my usual computer and close my eyes for a moment, allowing my
nerves to settle.

“I feel bad
about being mean to you.” Megan’s voice is soft and gentle, unlike anything
I’ve heard from her before. I spin around to see her sitting in her chair,
looking strangely vulnerable. Shane drops into his seat, looking back and forth
between us with surprise and eagerness. I guess Megan said something less snide
than usual.

“Thanks,
Megan,” I say, hoping that I’m making the right assumption. Apparently I am
because she nods and gives me a genuine look of sympathy.

“It’s weird,
isn’t it Shane? Seeing her sit there?” Megan asks, turning to look at Shane,
who just shrugs and turns around to boot up his computer.

Frowning, I
lean forward. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.
It’s just…with Nicole gone I can’t help thinking about Miranda. That was her
computer when she was on the paper,” Megan answers, gesturing toward my
station. My hands feel suddenly cold and I inch away from the desk that has
been my home since starting this class.

“I guess I
never realized she was in journalism,” I say slowly, wondering if this might
account for some of the rage Jake has always displayed seeing me here.

“Well, not
this year…I mean before…” Megan sighs and rubs her hands over her face. “She
quit before school started this year. I think she didn’t want to have to work
with Jake,” she explains. I nod, understanding why Miranda might not want to be
stuck in an enclosed space with Jake every day while dating someone else.

“I see,” I
say, looking at the computer as though it has teeth. I am beginning to feel
like I cannot get away from Miranda, from things she’s touched, things that
brought her misery.

“Sorry. I
didn’t mean to bring all that up. It just felt kind of weird. I don’t know,”
Megan shrugs and blows out her breath in a huff. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re
okay.” She abruptly swings back around to face her own computer, staring with
furious intensity at the screen as it loads. I am oddly touched by her
admission and wonder how much of her dislike of me has been founded on where
I’ve been sitting, feeling I was taking Miranda’s place.

“Thanks,” I
say quietly and let the matter drop, not wanting to embarrass her further. Her
shoulders relax slightly and some of the tension drains from the room.

The door
creaks open and Jake walks in.

Though I keep
my eyes trained on the floor, I feel him watching me, waiting for some opening.
I am careful not to give it to him. With the uncomfortable knowledge everyone
in the room is looking at me, I turn back around to face my own computer and go
through the motions of starting it up, as though nothing out of the ordinary is
going on.

“I hate that
you’re so scared of me,” Jake says quietly, finally moving to take his own
seat. Out of the corner of my eye I see Shane ease back and realize he was on
the verge of jumping out of his seat. No doubt to keep Jake away from me. In
the weeks before Nicole’s death, Jake and I had played an uneasy game of
civility punctuated by random outbursts of hostility that usually ended with
Jake stalking out of the room. More than once, Shane had come between us,
clearly not understanding the tension’s source, but nonetheless determined to
keep me safe.

There is a
defeated slump to Jake’s shoulders as he falls into his chair and guilt stabs
at me momentarily. No matter how edgy I am around him, I can feel a gossamer
strand connecting us in a way I don’t fully understand. The bond I have with
Cole is stronger, as though our time together has fused the strands into
something more durable, less flimsy. But even with our backs facing each other,
I can still sense Jake, feel the delicate filament that tangles us together
unwillingly.

The door opens
again and Cathy enters the room, her skin startlingly pale, streaked with
traces of smudged mascara and blush ruined by tears. Her hands tremble as they
turn the knob to close the door as quietly as possible, as though she is afraid
any sound of her presence will bring on an attack. My heart picks up its pace
and the fiery knot in my chest seems to pulse angrily, fearfully.

“Hey, Cathy,
are you okay?” Shane asks, his brow creased in worry. Cathy simply nods and
stumbles over to her chair, stubbornly ignoring the apprehensive looks everyone
is casting her way. Jake frowns and walks over to put a hand on her shoulder.

Cathy jerks
violently and draws in a sharp breath, her jaw shaking so hard I can hear her
teeth clack together.

“Sorry,” Jake
spits out, confusion and rejection darkening his features with the inevitable
anger. An agonized expression disfigures her face as she stares up at him, her
eyes shimmering with moisture.

Before anyone
can say anything else, the door swings open yet again and Shockey saunters in,
his hair looking slightly mussed. With dawning comprehension, I see that his
fly is partially unzipped. Sick certainty grips me and rage and terror fight
for dominance as I raise my eyes to look at him. Shockey’s eyes dart around the
room, lingering over Cathy’s huddled figure before coming to rest on me.

“I just
molested Cathy,” he says and a tremendous rushing fills my ears, drowning out
every other sound; every other word now submerged beneath the incredible rage
that spreads through me, setting even my fingertips on fire. I can hear the
stuttered gasps of Cathy’s breaths, the moist sound of Shockey’s hands rubbing
together, the wet smack of his lips. Hatred for the man in front of me is like
a thick plug in my throat, a violation in and of itself.

“Derry? Are
you alright?” the rapist asks me, his rodent eyes narrowing as they take in my
white knuckles and curled lip. I am incapable of speech but meet his eyes with
my own, thinking of Miranda’s shame and the barely audible whimpers from across
the room. He flinches at my glare and looks away quickly.

“Well. Back to
work everyone. The next edition is due out next week.” Shockey practically
flees the room and Cathy shudders before turning to her computer, humiliation
hovering like a pernicious cloud around her.

“What is it
Derry? You looked like you were going to murder him,” Shane says, his voice
tight with unresolved concern.

All eyes shift
to me, but my focus is on Cathy as she turns her wide, pleading eyes to lock
with mine. Somehow she knows that I know, and she begs me silently to keep
quiet. I give her a nod and promise myself that before the day is out Shockey
will be behind bars and, with any luck, getting a taste of his own medicine.          

Something in
my expression seems to calm Cathy and she gives me the ghost of a smile before
turning back around, shutting out the world around her.

“Nothing,” I
whisper. “After today, nothing.”

After a bit,
when everyone is working on their stories, I take out my cell and send a text
to Cole, asking him if he can get into the building when school lets out in an
hour.

After a minute
I get a reply.

             
I’m
in the middle of a fight with my father.

            I
blink so that his real message is legible.

           
Prbly.
Y
?

            Shockey
goes down today,
I reply, my fingers tapping the touch screen hard enough
to make a clicking sound.

There is a
long moment before he responds.

           
What
do u have in mind?

           
B
outside journalism rm at 3:45. Come in if things get nasty. Do ur thing.