Soul Fire (18 page)

“…the attack took place here, on this empty lot, on a quiet street not known for crime. But around nine last night, two masked men attacked the two teenage girls and dragged them into this vacant lot behind me. Both girls live directly across the street from where the assault occurred. Fortunately, they managed to fight off their attackers and call out for help. Their injuries are not serious. One of these girls made news last fall following a skiing accident that left our own Justin Ledger…”

“Holy crap!” Mole's voice.

I whipped around to see him standing behind me and then turned back to the TV. The reporter was wrapping up: ". . . a strange correlation to an even stranger situation…”

“I knew it!” Mole shouted. “Figured it was her.”

“Jeez, Man, you could at least make a small amount of noise when you walk in.”

He ignored me. “I’ve been doing a little research. Lots of strange things have been happening in and around Mount Olympic.”

I swung back around to face him. “Yeah? Like what?”

He backed up and sat down on the futon. “You remember hearing about the chick who overdosed a while back?”

I didn’t, and shook my head, studying Mole. He was the nocturnal investigator of all things strange—the guy who loved to connect the dots. I never took his hunches lightly, as they were usually right on target. Of course, it didn’t hurt that he had a police scanner going in his room day and night. Sherlock in the making. “You’re not suggesting it was Ashla Cameron who
overdosed?”

“Yup. The very same.”

That was hard to believe. “You’re kidding. Why would she do something like that? It doesn't make sense.” I pictured the physically trim girl who came flying at me. Why would a girl like Ashla Cameron overdose? She had the courage to run the West Face in horrific conditions, the know-how to save my life, the kind heart to stay with me, and enough beauty to stop any guy cold. “Was it an accident, or what?” I asked Mole, knower of all things.

“Who knows? Maybe she can’t take being the dreg of Mount Olympic High.”

I was taken aback. “Explain, Man.”

Mole shrugged. “Basically, she’s hated for what she did to you. And rightly so.”

 I shook my head. "Are you saying that most of the school has turned on her because of the ski accident?"

"Right."

"And you think because of that, she OD'd?"

"Yup."

I shook my head. “No way, Man. She wouldn't do that. Not Ashla Cameron. There’s got to be more to it.”

“I didn’t say she tried to “do” herself. There’s no evidence of that. Could have been a fluke, although they were giving it to her pretty bad when it happened.”

“How do you know all this?” Mole now went to a private school, but he still held an interest in his old high school.

“I went over there.”

Mole had made it a point to learn everything he could about Ashla Cameron. He found out early on that she and I both went to Mount Olympic and were on the same school field trip that fateful day. He tracked down her address, learned what her parents did for a living, and their current financials. Knowing Mole, he probably pulled driving records and credit reports, did background checks, and anything else he could think of. He called this his
armchair investigation
. “No doubt you did your “AI” on them after the accident.”

“Natch. Meanwhile, with all the stuff that was popping up at her high school, I figured it warranted a “DI”. After all, she totaled my closest friend.” A “DI” was Mole’s
Direct Investigation on scene.

“You forgot to mention the DI.” No surprise. Mole never gave away his leads, research, or results until he had solved the mystery, or whatever it was he was digging into.

He shrugged. “Long story short, I got an earful while I was at our old school.”

I waited, a weird feeling creeping up my neck.

“Ashla Cameron is
persona non grata,
big time. Remember Mako? The jerk who put the water bomb in my locker last year?"

"Yeah, a real piece of work."

He nailed her with a rock to the head that put her in the hospital. Concussion. Anyway, this guy is one of many going after her. Things have deteriorated to the point where her parents had to pull her out of there.”

“So where is she now?”

“Home.”

Mole blamed Ashla for the accident and his dislike for her oozed from his voice. This irritated me no end. “Hey, Mole, just remember she saved my life, okay? Don’t forget that, Man.” I reprimanded him.

He pulled an apple out of his pocket and nonchalantly took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, then before swallowing, he said: “She also ruined it.” He waved an arm at my legs. “Man, I don’t know how you can’t hate that chick.”

“I don’t. And what you’re telling me is just crazy.” I picked up my cell. “Give me her address.”

Mole gulped down the hunk of apple, pulled out his phone, and brought the address up on the screen. “Here,” he said reluctantly passing it to me.

I went over there the next afternoon. It was a beautiful spring day, mild and warm. A Saturday that hints of summer. Winter had hung around too long. I searched out the address and parked in front of her house. As the news reporter had suggested, it was a quiet community of older, well-kept homes.

Leaving the truck windows down, I stepped out, grabbed my crutches, and headed up the wooden steps of the front porch. Nervous, and more than a little anxious, I rang the doorbell, going over what I had planned to say. No one answered even though I detected movement through the side glass. Disappointed, I returned to the front walk.

Ashla Cameron, with her head of golden red hair and gorgeous green eyes, still came alive now and then, in my dreams. Instead of these vivid dreams waning away over time, they persisted . . . usually in the context of me walking freely by her side. Our hands were always linked. I could actually
feel
the warmth of her palm, which would make my heart pound and awaken me. When I last dreamed of Ashla, a bizarre thing had happened. I had somehow transposed her with Janine. Instead of Janine working with me in the pool, it had been Ashla. My dreams had been strange all my life, but those with Ashla were so realistic, they were troubling.

Whether it was because of them or not, I had always felt I would see her again one day, but I guess it wasn’t going to be today. I considered the house next door and decided to ask the neighbor if I had the right address. Mole had been known to make a mistake now and then, although he never admitted to it.

No doorbell, so I knocked loudly and heard sounds inside the house. Footsteps approached. The door opened and my jaw dropped. So did hers.

“Celeste!” I blurted out.

It took her a full minute to reply. “Justin!”

This made no sense. Celeste living next door to Ashla Cameron? What were the odds? I voiced my thoughts aloud. “
You
live next door to
Ashla Cameron
?” That wasn’t exactly what I had intended to ask, but it was out there now. When she didn’t answer, I tried again. “No one seems to be home next door, so I came here to ask if Ashla Cameron actually lives there. I wanted to be sure I had the right house.” I scratched my head in confusion and mumbled, “This is really weird.”

Celeste seemed at a loss for words. Her mouth opened, but she said nothing, so I tried to explain why I was there. “I saw last night’s news and heard what happened to Ashla and another girl . . .” My eyes fixed on a huge bruise along Celeste's jaw. Part of my brain tried to process this while another part concentrated on trying to finish the sentence. “Anyway, as I was saying, a friend of mine brought me up to date on what’s been going on at school since the accident. He said things had gotten so bad that her parents had to pull her out, so I decided to come by and see how she was doing. See what I could do to help.”

Celeste’s large blue eyes were staring at me, but still she said nothing. I blundered on. “Does she actually live next door?” She was gaping at me like I had two heads. Celeste was the strangest girl. Always tongue-tied.

Her head moved slowly up and down, so I figured that was a “yes.” I studied the bruises on her jaw and neck and it hit me. “You are the other girl. The one who was attacked along with Ashla.”

Her hand flew to her neck and she dropped her head, as if embarrassed.

“Jeez!” It looked like they had tried to strangle her.

Finally, Celeste spoke, her voice hoarse, her eyes still fixed on my feet. “I thought they were going to kill us. We were lucky to get away.”

“Does Ashla look as bad as you?” Her head shot back up, her eyes a pinpoint focus on mine. Now for the other foot. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that you’re bad looking. I meant you look so
. . . hurt.”

Her focus softened and her voice was a little more audible. “Ashla got it just as bad, but like I said, we got away, which was amazing, considering what they were capable of doing to us.”

It was my turn to stare. “The police think they’ve found the guys who did it.”

Celeste nodded. Meanwhile, the part of my brain that was processing the unlikely connection of Celeste from therapy living next door to Ashla Cameron was giving me grief. Bells were going off. Something was wrong with this whole scene. Something didn’t add up. I cleared my throat. “Have you lived next to the Camerons long?”

She swallowed. “Always.”

“Always,” I repeated. The bells were clanging now. “So you are close friends?”

She ran both hands through her hair. “Yes,” she whispered. Her focus shifted out to the sidewalk behind me and I looked over my shoulder.

The golden red hair almost stopped my heart.
Ashla Cameron
was walking up the sidewalk, head down, as though deep in thought. I swung around on my crutches and stepped off the porch, hurrying toward her, my eyes fixed on her. She was wearing skintight jeans and a fitted sleeveless tank, her small feet in black flats. Her bare arms were a soft white against the thick red hair that bounced golden in the sunshine. Her walk was fluid and graceful, her demeanor thoughtful. I could barely breathe and stopped, spellbound, twenty feet from her.

She almost walked right into me. Startled, she looked up and those sparkling green eyes met mine. Recognition. Then, her expression changed to panic. She threw a glance at Celeste, then back at me. Suddenly, she darted past me and literally ran from me.

“Hey, wait! Come back.” I started after her. My legs were getting stronger every day, but running on crutches was beyond the scope of my therapy. The right crutch hit my leg, the other crutch caught, and I went down heavily on my right knee. Pain shot up my leg and I gritted my teeth. Still hoping to catch her, I worked the crutches back into position and tried to get my other leg to lift me up. Two small hands reached out.

“Let me help.”

Looking up, I found myself staring into those beautiful eyes and was struck by the tenderness in them.

“Put your weight on me,” she instructed calmly.

“I’m too heavy.”

She slid her slim body under my chest and said, “Now, stand up.”

I had a flashback to the pool. The clipped, concise way she gave instruction. The soft musical voice.

“Is it your knee?” she asked, helping me upright.

“It’ll be okay. Don’t worry.”

“I’ll help you.”

She carried my right crutch and I held her tight as we limped toward my truck. My arm was around her, my chest against her shoulder. I wanted those moments to go on forever. She stopped beside the Expedition. “I can drive you back home, if you like,” she offered.

I was surprised. “How do you know this is my truck?” There were other vehicles parked on the street, although mine was the only one in front of her house.

“It’s kind of obvious.” She pulled away from me and I saw that she had used makeup in an effort to hide a dark bruise that covered her left cheek. Gently, I touched her chin, tilting her head in the sunlight. “The attack was on the news,” I explained. “I came by to see if there was anything I could do.”

She put her hand on her forehead and turned away. “There’s nothing anyone can do,” she said with finality.

I could see she wasn’t anxious to invite me into her house, so I opened the passenger door. “I’ll buy you a coffee.”

She shook her head. “No, thanks, but I can drive you home . . . if you need me to.”

“I’ll be okay.” My knee was sending pain spiking up my leg, but it still worked. “Please. Let’s go for coffee. I owe you one.”

She hesitated. “Not likely.”

“Hey,” I put my hand on her shoulder and turned her to me. “I’ll never forget what you did that day on the West Face. You kept it together and saved my life even though you were badly injured yourself. I don’t know what’s going on at your school, but it has to be stopped. Please, get in. We need to talk. Besides, I’ve waited months to buy you a coffee.”

She pulled away. “I can’t.” She put her hands on each side of her face in distress. “I just can’t. I’m sorry.” She turned and walked away.

“Please!” I called after her, but she was already racing up her porch steps. “Ashla!” Then she disappeared inside the house. The front door slammed shut behind her. I was staring after her dumbfounded and confused when I heard footsteps on the walk. Celeste was walking purposefully toward me.

“Let’s go have that coffee,” she said.

We ended up going through McD’s drive through and parking in the lot. I looked across at Celeste in the passenger seat. She sipped her coffee thoughtfully and I waited, sensing she had something on her mind. My window was still down and the unusually warm breeze filtered through the truck.

Eventually, she said. “Ashla is my best, so I can’t explain her to you. That’s for her to do, if she chooses. What I can do, is describe what she’s gone through from the day she piled into you on Blackcomb Mountain.”

The tongue-tied Celeste vanished before my eyes and was replaced by an intelligent, well-spoken girl. She gave me a detailed, succinct rundown of everything that had happened to Ashla, from the rejection of her own swim team and school friends, to the taunting, poking, and pushing which escalated into a beating, a serious head injury, and finally morphed into hate sites on the web which had posted nasty comments and photos of Ashla. “It’s been a sheer, living hell for her,” Celeste added.