Rattled (17 page)

“And you'd give them back? Sam and Megan?”

She raised her eyebrows and shook her head. “Never.” Then she smiled a giant evil smile. “Sometimes I considered sending the rattles by themselves, no note or anything, just to torture them.”

I stared back at her, blinking in disbelief. How could someone do that? Be that awful? Explain it as if it were nothing, no big deal? It was like she wasn't human, like she was all black inside. I felt sweat trickle down my temple, along the front of my ear. I wanted to wipe it away but I was too scared to move.

“Don't you love Sam and Megan even a little?” I choked. “You loved their dad once.”

“Sam and Meg are fine,” she laughed. “They've never suffered. But oh, let me guess. You're trying to find my weakness, appeal to some ounce of decency you think I might have. Don't waste your time, honey.”

“But you couldn't possibly want to do this…” I reasoned desperately.

The look on her face made me cringe. “You know
nothing
about me,” she seethed, instantly enraged. “You may think you do, but you don't. I can't
stand
people like you.” She pointed the gun at me, this time using both hands.

“Please. I won't tell, I swear I won't tell a soul. Just let me go,” I pleaded.

Frowning, she relaxed her arms, acting calm again. “The funny thing is…” she said, wagging the gun like a finger, “I didn't even know how much you knew…but I thought I should play it safe anyway, just take the kids and run, pull a Houdini, that was the plan. I didn't, though. Want to know why?”

I nodded.

“Did a little test. Went to the computer, to Google, and typed in Amy and Michael, July 1, 1994. You'll never guess what popped up.”

My mouth fell open.
Please, it couldn't have been that easy.

She caught my expression. “That's
right
…kennedytwins. com! I knew you'd seen the rattles, the names, figured you probably tried the same thing. So it was official—you knew too much. I had to deal with you before I went
anywhere
.”

I didn't answer. I was still recovering from the fact I hadn't been smart enough to think of that.

“Wait a second…” She squinted till her eyes were tiny black slits. “Who else have you told?”

“Everyone!” I shouted wildly. “Everyone knows! Jilly, Mom, Dad, the neighbours! I even called Nana Mary!”

“Hmmm…” She took another drink then proceeded to pick at the edge of the vodka label with the mouth of the gun.

She must have guessed I was bluffing because she didn't look very alarmed. I took another peek at the clock. It was almost eleven. “Why did you take them?” I asked. “Sam and Megan. Was it revenge? Spite?”

“Why?!” she shrieked. “Ah…because when my so-called
husband
became a
somebody
, he had an affair with some little skank, then left me for her. Someone younger, someone who could give him
children
! Good enough reason for ya?!” Her voice was dripping with disgust.

“I bet they'd forgive you, drop the charges if you gave them back. It's not too late.”

“Give them back?!” There was an incredulous look on her face. “For fourteen years I've looked after these kids! I've fed them, clothed them, I've even
taught
them, for Christ's sake! I'm not giving them back, they're mine!”

“But they're
not
yours.” Why was I arguing with her? How stupid was I?

“They should ha-ve been!” she hiccupped. “I read the papers, the society columns. The Kennedys, the
golden
couple, hosting their charity dinners, throwing fancy galas left, right, and centre! That was supposed to be me! My life! The big estate! The perfect children! The parties! It was all supposed to be
mine
!” She reached out to the counter to steady herself.

“How could they not know it was you?” I said it more to myself than her. I couldn't believe no one had figured it out.

Looking past me, she smiled. “My performance was Oscar-worthy. I was questioned and released, end of story.” She continued to hiccup but stayed lost in the memory, like she'd forgotten I was there.

I wiped away some tears and weighed my options—I didn't really have any. Mrs. Swicker stood between me and the door. The phone was out of reach…but closer than the door. Was it possible to inch my way over? Didn't have a clue what I'd do if I got there. Would I have enough time to dial?

I took a step sideways into the kitchen. That was a mistake. The movement brought her full attention back to me.

“Don't move!” she snapped.

I just nodded and hugged my arms around myself to stop shaking.

She raised the bottle to her lips. Once again there was the sound of glass crashing against teeth. I noticed she had to tip it up really high this time.

I loudly sniffed back some tears, wiped my nose with the back of my hand, and began to cough like I was about to throw up, trying to distract from the fact that I was slowly moving another inch or so into the kitchen.

All of a sudden, Mrs. Swicker's eyes widened and darted to the window.

It was the sound of a car.

My heart leapt.

A car door slammed, then the sound continued down the street and faded away. I looked longingly at the door. In most horror movies, this would be the moment the boyfriend or best friend would burst in and come to the rescue.

No one came.

My heart sank.

They usually got massacred anyways.

Feeling as though all hope was lost, I asked, “Aren't you worried you'll get caught?”

“Of course I'm worried. I
live
worried. But I've learned to cope.” Lifting the bottle level to her eye, she checked how much she had left, took a drink, then set it down. “You're but a speed bump on my road to the finish line. We'll be long gone by the time anyone figures anything out. I've become quite good at disapplearing.” She gave her head a shake. “Disappearing.”

With trembling arms, once again she aimed the gun. Her eyes blinked furiously as she tried to focus.

“Please…” I whimpered.

She did something that made a clicking sound, whatever it is you do before firing. I could feel my body shutting down, preparing for what was to come. My ears rang. More sweat dripped down my forehead into my eyes, making them sting. I could feel tears slide down my cheeks in a constant stream. I prayed I'd pass out and not feel anything. I prayed it'd be quick.

How much was it going to hurt? Would my parents come home and find me dead, surrounded by blood? Would they ever get over it?

I held my breath, closed my eyes, and waited for the bullet to rip through my skin. But it didn't come. I opened one eye.

She was staring at me, the gun clenched tightly in her hands.

“Hold still!” she screamed.

But I wasn't moving.

I let out a little cry and squeezed my eyes shut as tight as I could. And then something amazing happened.

The phone rang.

My eyes flew open. She still had the gun pointed at me, but instinct made her turn her head towards the ringing. In that second, I saw a chance. I spun around and grabbed a knife out of the knife block and lunged towards her.

Everything seemed to be in slow motion, though I knew it was over in a matter of seconds. Her startled look, the shock that spread slowly across her face as the knife made contact. And then the blood, everywhere the blood. Then…nothing.

The phone had stopped ringing. With shaking and bloodied hands, I picked it up and dialed 911, watching the red seep into the spaces around the rubber numbers. “Someone tried to kill me,” I whispered. “But I stopped her…”

Between ragged sobs, I managed to answer the operator's questions as I slid down the wall to the floor and waited for the police. I don't remember much after that, like what I did while sitting there, or how long it took the police to show up. They were nice, though, I do remember that. They asked me if I was hurt.

“Toss me a blanket, Joe. I think the kid's in shock,” one said. Another said they would try to track down my sister and parents. They helped me up and sat me in a chair. A paramedic came and gave me a checkup—I guess I passed. I watched in a daze as a never-ending parade of uniforms filed in and out of the house, taking pictures, sticking up bright yellow tape.

I sat at the kitchen table and stared at the blood. It formed a pool on the floor, surrounded by a kind of circular splatter design. It sort of reminded me of those paintings I did in preschool, the ones with the drops of paint squished between a folded piece of paper. There always seemed to be a big glob in the middle. The blood looked just like that. I wondered what I could use to clean it up. Mom gets hysterical about marks on the hardwood floors. She's probably going to freak when she sees this. She's going to freak about a lot of things.

The rotating light from the ambulance flickered through the kitchen and made it feel more like a disco than a crime scene. It bothered my eyes, so I moved my chair to face away from the window. I wanted to leave the kitchen altogether, but I didn't. Two officers stood a few feet away, talking quietly. They had just finished asking me some questions and had told me to stay put. I figured I was in enough trouble already—better not push my luck.

From my new angle, I could see the knife perfectly. It had spun, propeller-style, across the floor to rest in front of the fridge. Part of me felt compelled to pick it up before someone stepped on it, the other part of me knew better, knew it was now considered evidence. And I'd seen enough
CSI
to know they don't like it if you tamper with the evidence.

I couldn't believe things had gotten so out of hand. Things like this just didn't happen around here, not in this neighbourhood. At least they didn't before the Swickers moved in.

Chapter 23

“W
here is she?!”

It was Jilly's voice that snapped me out of my trance. I'd been sitting at the kitchen table zombified for…five minutes?…five hours? I looked up to see her shouldering her way through a cluster of officers. One reached out to stop her with his arm.

“I'm her sister!” she barked and shoved his arm away.

She looked absolutely terrified. “Are you okay?” she whispered, kneeling beside my chair.

I nodded.

“Oh, thank God.” She threw her arms around me.

As soon as she touched me, I dissolved into tears.

“Shhhh, everything's going to be fine.” She put my head on her shoulder. “Shhhh.”

A female officer who had been sitting with me stood and moved a few steps away to give us some privacy.

I wiped my nose on the sleeve of Jilly's shirt and leaned back in the chair. I took a few shaky breaths and swept away some pieces of hair that had caught on my wet eyelashes and in the corners of my mouth.

“What the hell happened?” Jilly asked, still whispering.

“Mrs. Swicker. She found out, found out we knew.”

Her mouth fell open. “That's who's in the ambulance?”

“Yeah,” I nodded. “She had a gun. I stabbed her.” I said the words, but it didn't sound like my voice.

“She tried to
kill
you?!” Jilly exclaimed. “I heard the sirens, and saw the flashing lights. I thought it was a break-in or something.”

“I wish…”

“What a friggin' psycho,” she said softly. “And
she
could have been my mother-in-law…”

“I want Mom and Dad,” I sniffed.

“The police told me they're on their w—”

“Lydia!” Mom screamed. She and Dad blew in like Hurricane Juan. Anyone standing around in the kitchen instantly parted and gave them a clear path. Mom grabbed me by my shoulders, looked me up and down, checking for damage I guess, then she crushed me against her body. A fresh supply of tears burst from my eyes. After a minute, she passed me to Dad and we repeated the process. Inspect, hug, cry. Wash, rinse, repeat—like the directions on a shampoo bottle.

“What? Happened? What was Mrs. Swicker doing in our house with a
gun
?” Mom tried to keep her voice calm by slowly enunciating each word.

I looked at Jilly and melted back onto the chair. I'd already told the police the whole story. I didn't have it in me to tell it again.

“I'll explain everything,” Jilly offered.

She started talking but I couldn't follow what she was saying, it sounded muffled—far away and fuzzy. I saw that a bunch of officers had joined Mom and Dad to listen to her. I got up from my chair and pulled the blanket snug around me.

“You can't leave, Miss,” a voice said. I turned. It was the officer from earlier, the one who seemed to be watching me.

“Please,” I begged. “I just need to move around, get some fresh air.”

She looked like she felt sorry for me. “I'll have to come with you.”