The Angel of Death (12 page)

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Authors: Alane Ferguson

BOOK: The Angel of Death
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“Not a problem,” the server said, and disappeared.
For a moment, despite her dark mood, Cameryn felt a stirring of interest because this was unexpected. “What’s up?” she asked. “Who else is coming tonight?”
“Just wait,” Lyric whispered, leaning in conspiratorially. “We’ve got a surprise for you.”
Cameryn felt her blood freeze. “Is it . . . is it Hannah?”
“No, no, no,” Lyric assured her, leaning back into the booth. “Nothing so dramatic. This surprise is just for fun. Fun—remember the concept? I guarantee this person will cheer you right up.” She and Adam exchanged knowing glances.
“Come on, tell me!”
“Sorry. No can do. Patience, young lady. And try to lighten your mood, will you? You’re as much fun as a root canal.” Lyric’s round shoulders moved in time to the sliding trombone solo of “Mood Indigo,” rising from below.
Contrasting with the gray of November, Lyric wore her trademark loud color, this time electric yellow. The blue tips she used to have on the ends of her hair had been extended to the roots; now her whole head seemed to glow blue, a stark contrast to the vivid yellow and the deep red of her pants, the thick black work boots that laced up the front, the chunky red and yellow bracelets. Adam, though, seemed to fade into the surroundings. Scoot ’n Blues’s dim interior accentuated the contrast between his skin and his black hair and clothes so that at times his hands and face appeared disembodied.
Cameryn felt a pang of guilt because the two of them were trying so hard to help her and she’d repaid them by being a total witch. She had to pull it together. She had to make an effort.
“You’re smiling. What are you smiling at?” Lyric wanted to know.
“Nothing. Just an observation.”
“What is it? Come on, spill!”
“It’s just, you know, with that red-and-yellow outfit of yours along with that blue-green hair, I’m thinking your look says ‘traffic light.’”
“That’s harsh,” Adam said, but Lyric laughed.
“Yeah,” she agreed. “Well, John Denver called and said he wants
his
look back from you.”
“John Denver is dead—”
“So’s his fashion, flannel-girl,” Lyric fired back.
“I’m not
wearing
flannel.”
“But you own it, don’t you? I’ve seen it in your closet. Admitting your problem is the first step, Cammie.”
Adam’s pale eyes widened. He didn’t understand the way they teased, didn’t know that joking was the way the two of them got their rhythm back. Cameryn felt her insides unkink as she sipped her water, deciding that her father had been right after all. She needed this, to be back among the living. The music, the explosion of laughter from an adjoining table, even the wafting smoke rising like incense, all were the siren song of the undead.
The server brought their drinks, putting them down carefully on paper coasters, then setting a place next to Cameryn for the nonexistent guest. When he was gone, Lyric raised her iced tea to the ceiling and cleared her throat. Her face became serious, her tone more solemn, as she said, “One of the reasons I wanted to come to Scoot ’n Blues is because I remember the way Mr. Oakes loved jazz and blues. So I thought we should raise a glass and remember the man. To Mr. Oakes,” she said, lifting the tea higher. “May he rest in peace.”
“To Mr. Oakes,” Adam and Cameryn echoed. They clinked their sweating glasses together and drank, while Cameryn added a silent prayer of her own.
“What about me?” someone behind her said. “Don’t I get to toast?”
Cameryn whirled in her seat to see a familiar face. Kyle O’Neil, wearing jeans and a green-and-gold CSU sweatshirt, stood right behind her. “Sorry I couldn’t get here earlier,” he apologized. “I came as soon as I could. Do you mind, Cameryn?”
Not waiting for a reply, he slid into the booth next to Cameryn, so close his thigh touched hers. She could feel the hardness of his muscle beneath the denim, could smell the spice of his deodorant as his arm raised and lowered when he settled in close to her. Scooting over, she noticed that his blond hair looked like honey in the light. A stubble had appeared above his upper lip and on his chin, but of deep amber, more the color of his lashes.
“What are you doing here?” Cameryn asked.
“I met up with Lyric at the Steamin’ Bean earlier today, and we started talking. She said you all were going to have an informal tribute to Brad and, well, since Brad was so important to me, I asked if I could come. She said yes, and here I am. So, could I do a toast?” Kyle asked, looking from face to face.
“Go for it,” Adam said.
“Lyric, can I steal your water?”
“Sure.” Lyric shoved her glass across the table.
And then, in a voice that sound strangely rehearsed, but not without effect, Kyle closed his eyes, his long lashes coming together against his high cheekbones. Keeping his lids shut, he raised his glass and said, “Unlike the mythic phoenix, the body turns particles of earth, and earth remains, and yet the soul unburdened soars into the heavens”—he faltered—“to become the dust of stars.” Kyle’s voice was soft, barely audible over the throbbing music. He opened his eyes but didn’t look at any of them. Instead, his gaze searched the ceiling, and in a thickened voice, he said, “Brad—Mr. Oakes—you taught us to soar. May God be with you, now and forever.”
Clinking glasses, they drank, Cameryn and Lyric sipping, Adam and Kyle chugging theirs.
“Wow,” Lyric said as she set down her glass. “That was awesome, Kyle. Did you make that up?”
Kyle shook his head. “No, that’s Shane Kearney. Oakes made us memorize poems, and that was one I did in class. Kearney’s Irish, like me. But his writings are more like inspirational poetry.”
“Really?” Lyric said. “Did you know Cameryn’s Irish, too?”
Kyle’s amber eyes slid over to hers. “I figured. With a name like Mahoney, it’s a pretty safe bet.”
Cameryn looked away, out the overly bright, neon-lit window. She had an idea that this was all part of the plan that Lyric and Adam must have cooked up in Silverton. The tribute to their teacher, the nightclub atmosphere of Scoot ’n Blues, the way Kyle rounded out the foursome—it all smacked of a lonely-heart intervention. Part of her wanted to reach out and throttle her friend, but at the same time she asked herself if she needed a breath mint. There was no real harm in spending some time with Kyle. She’d already told him her life was too busy to include another person, and that much was still true. And yet . . . she had to admit he was good-looking. And interesting. She supposed she could at least try to be civil. Which meant she should try to join the conversation.
“Mr. Oakes was one-quarter Irish,” Cameryn ventured. “He came to our church off and on. I’ll bet they’ll do a Mass for him there.”
“Brad went to St. Pat’s? I didn’t know that.”
“Twice a year. Easter and Christmas—you know, the Lily and Poinsettia Club. A little Communion, a sprinkle of holy water, maybe a quick confession, and you’re good for a year. My mammaw calls it fire insurance.”
“My family’s Catholic, too, but we really never go,” Kyle said. “My dad doesn’t like organized religion.”
“Lucky. My grandmother’s first-generation Irish. I’m never allowed to miss unless I’m so sick I’m hovering near death. But even though I go all the time and say the rosary, she’s pretty convinced I’m going to hell, I think.”
Adam shook his head. “That’s because you want to be a forensic pathologist instead of a real doctor.”
She could feel the vibration of the bass guitar on the soles of her feet, tiny buzzes of electricity that traveled up her legs. Glancing upward, through the hazy film of menthol smoke that gave the light inside a blue cast, she stated with annoyance, “Once again, Adam, I would like to remind you and everyone else on the planet that a forensic pathologist
is
a real doctor. I’ll do the exact same things as a regular doctor, except too late.”
A shout of laughter erupted from Kyle, and Cameryn felt herself flush. He thought she was funny. She’d never felt witty before, especially in the company of someone like Kyle O’Neil. Lyric was sending messages with her eyes, that she knew this was a good idea and that Cameryn owed her big-time.
All right, all right,
Cameryn telegraphed back,
he’s not so bad and I won’t kill you, after all.
The night passed in a blur. The four of them told stories of Mr. Oakes, both funny and sad, and more than once Lyric’s eyes welled with tears as they raised their glasses in remembrance of their teacher. Somewhere along the line Cameryn had felt lighter inside. The pain had lessened, if only by the smallest of weights, like feathers being lifted off a scale. At one point she actually found herself laughing—Kyle had told a joke, touching the top of her arm at the moment he delivered the punch line, and she sensed a kind of energy radiating from him, through those fingertips. The feeling surprised her. She’d grown used to sending her emotions underground, and here they were, like shoots of grass breaking through concrete.
Later, as she sipped her Diet Coke, she noticed the little things about him, like the way Kyle talked to Adam as an equal, even though Adam was a weird goth with a reputation, and how Kyle listened to everything Lyric said, as if she was as important as any cheerleader.
He’s nice,
she realized.
Not at all what I expected.
When it was time to go, Kyle surprised them all by paying the entire bill.
“It’s not a problem, I’ll just use my card,” he said. “Really, you guys, this has been great.”
“You have your own credit card?” Cameryn marveled.
“It’s technically my dad’s. He’s not around that much.”
“What about your mom?”
“She’s out in California. Has been for about a year.” He didn’t elaborate, and Cameryn didn’t ask. Absent mothers—another link in the chain forged between them.
Finally, after stretching her arms over her head, Lyric yawned and stood. “We’ve got to get going,” she said. “Come on, Adam. We still got all that stuff to do and it’s getting late.”
“Wait a minute, what about me?” Cameryn protested.
“You’re supposed to take me back to Silverton!”
Lyric looked at her with a perplexed expression that didn’t fool Cameryn at all. This, too, she realized, had been part of the plan.
“Oh, Cammie, the thing is Adam and I were going to shop at the Durango Mall first,” she said. “You could come with us, I guess.”
“Hey, a ride’s not a problem,” Kyle said, jumping in. “I can do it. Would that be all right with you, Cameryn? I’m a very safe driver.” He held up two fingers pressed together and said, “Eagle Scout, remember?”
“I don’t want to put you out or anything.”
“What are you talking about—we’re going to the same town! So Adam, you and Lyric go ahead, and I’ll get Cameryn home. But you guys had better hurry. The mall’s closing soon.”
“Right,” said Adam.
As they settled it between the three of them, Cameryn felt as though she were lying back in the water, for once floating along in life’s stream instead of fighting its current. Tonight she didn’t have to make decisions that revolved around human remains. Instead she could be seventeen again and let life just . . . happen. She found herself being helped into her jacket by Kyle before he shrugged on his own snowboarder’s coat he’d left on the hook at the front. With his hand on the small of her back, he gently guided her out of Scoot ’n Blues, protective and in control.
“You ready?” he asked.
“Yeah. I guess I am.”
He smiled at her, his teeth flashing in the neon sign’s light. “I was thinking of making one stop first. It’s in Silverton and it’ll only take a minute. The place is special to me and I’d—I’d like to take you there. If you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind,” she said, surprised to realize she didn’t. “I’m up for anything. So where are we going?”
He was looking at her in a strange way, his eyes intense. There was a pause. His mouth moved as if to say something, but then he shook his head, as if suddenly thinking the better of it.
“You know what?” he said. “Maybe we’d better not. For a minute it seemed like a good idea, but . . .”
“Okay, now you
have
to tell me.”
Again the pause. “I don’t want to scare you.” Cameryn felt a prick of apprehension, which she quickly dismissed. It was obvious he was joking. Cocking her head, she said, “Ah, but I don’t scare easy.” She pushed against him, playful. “Go ahead. Hit me with it. I’m not afraid, Kyle. I mean, you’re a Boy Scout, after all. Where is this place?”
Just then a car went by, kicking gray slush into the gutter. Kyle watched as it disappeared down Durango’s Main Street.
"Kyle?”
“You’ll think I’m crazy.”
“How crazy can a Boy Scout be?”
His face came close to hers, and once again she saw the gold flecks of his eyes. So soft it was almost a whisper, he said, “I want to take you to the cemetery.”
Chapter Nine
“EVER SEE HILLSIDE Cemetery in the moonlight?” Kyle asked her. He’d parked his car, an older model Subaru, outside the cemetery road, an unpaved lane that looped around the foothill of Storm Mountain like the edge of a trumpet shell. On the drive up he’d been easy to talk to, and Cameryn, still relaxed, had floated in the current of Kyle’s attention. His voice quieted thoughts of her mother and erased the picture of Mr. Oakes that had burned her mind. During the drive, she’d done little of the talking. Kyle had spoken of football, being an Eagle Scout, his commitment to aim high, the pressure he felt to make the perfect 4.0, and his need to earn scholarship money.

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