The Predicteds (23 page)

Nate picks himself up, still hanging from Josh's tight grip, and examines the blood running down his left calf. “Oh, come on,” he says. “I thought we had an agreement. I keep quiet, you let me—” Josh yanks so hard that Nate ends up on his side, his arm twisted awkwardly behind his head. “Goddamn it!” Nate yells. “You're gonna break my fuckin' arm.”

“That's what I'm hoping for,” Josh says.

We all watch as Josh drags Nate down the length of the pool, with the smaller boy struggling to get his feet under him. “This is crazy, man!” Nate keeps saying. “What the fuck? I thought we had an agreement!” And the more Nate talks, the faster Josh drags.

I get up and follow them. “Wait, Josh! He's hurt.” Josh stops, and I point at Nate's bleeding leg.

“Oh, Christ! He's bleeding on my patio!” He watches the blood trickle over the shiny flagstones. By this time, everyone has returned to swimming. No one is much interested in watching Josh throw out Nate, a lowly predicted that nobody cares about anyway. “Daphne,” Josh says, “get Dizzy.” I walk the few steps to the gate myself to examine Nate's leg. I pull gently on a piece of glass stuck in his calf, but it's wedged in there pretty good, and I'm too afraid to go any further.

“Go,” Josh tells me. “Go tell one of the waiters. Have them find somebody who can clean this up.” He turns to Nate. “I don't care if you bleed to death, but I don't want you bleeding all over my yard.” Josh shudders, as if the thought of blood-spattered grass is just too much for him to contemplate. What's up with boys and fear of blood?

“Here,” I say, taking my scratchy towel from around my waist. “Let me just pull that piece of glass out. Then we'll wrap it up. It'll stop bleeding.”

But by this time, Josh has already walked away. “Get out of here, Nate,” he orders as he walks away backward. “I'm not going to warn you twice.” Then he says to me, “I'll be back in a second, Daph.”

“You better go,” I tell Nate when Josh is out of sight. I step over the pool of blood on the patio, and squat to examine the wound more closely. I tie the towel around his leg. The skin is ripped off from his knee to his ankle. The glass is jutting out just above his calf. “We're going to have to pull that out,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “Let's do it on three.”

“I'll get it,” Nate says. He leans over and yanks the glass out, grimacing and then doubling over in pain. The blood pours out. I look around for help, but nobody is paying any attention to us. “I'll drive you to the ER,” I tell him. I tie the towel tighter around his leg. “Hold that there,” I tell him.

“No,” he tells me. “I'm not going to the doctor.” He limps toward the gate, faster than I thought someone who was gushing blood could.

“Wait!” I say, chasing after him.

“I'm fine,” he tells me.

I bend over to make sure the towel is going to stay.

“Just let me go,” he says, ripping his leg away from me.

That's when I see it, glistening with water and covered by droplets of blood.

A tattoo.

It's on his ankle. A little red-bearded Viking with a helmet, holding a club. Hagar the Horrible. From the old cartoon strip. I used to read it when I was kid—the only part of the Sunday paper I ever looked at. I roll Hagar around in my brain for a second or two, like one of those giant hoppers they use for bingo. The hopper stops. I remember the conversation I had with January just a week ago.

The guy who attacked her had a weird tattoo, like a cartoon character.

“Wait!” I yell. I stare at his ankle, and the mean little Viking stares back at me.

Nate lets the gate slam behind him. “You should take care of that cut!” I call to Nate, pointing at his bloody leg.

“Thanks, doc,” he calls over his shoulder.

I know it was him. I'm more sure of it than anything I've known in my life. It was Nate who attacked January.

“I have to go,” I tell Dizzy as soon as I'm able to find her. I turn and walk back to my stuff, conscious of everyone staring at me. I grab my bag and a damp spare towel draped over a chair and step through the sliding glass doors into the kitchen.

I have to find January.

Daphne Wright was talking too much, asking too many questions, spending too much time with January. It pissed me off. I knew I should've finished the job on January myself.

—From the Quiet High killer's confession

Nobody follows me into the house. I lean against the shiny, stainless steel refrigerator, breathing in the cool air. I can hear the clock above the stove ticking. The house feels empty. I wonder where Joanna and Rich are.

Why would Nate attack January? I thought they were friends. They hung out together.

I walk over to the patio doors and peer out the windows. It's dark outside, but the pool lights illuminate everyone in a sparkling way. The party has resumed, in spite of the scene with Nate and Josh…and me. I can't see Dizzy in the crowd, although it's hard to take a head count of the pool with so many bodies splashing around, over and under, back and forth.

I reach into my bag for my phone.

Damn it.

Even I have to admire the irony: I finally have a cell phone, but I left it at home.

I see a cordless phone on the counter, but I don't know January's cell phone number, and I certainly don't want to call her house and talk to her mom. I have the urge to call Jesse, a number I know by heart. I pick up the cordless phone once, set it back down. I do this three more times before I decide against dialing. He didn't respond to my email. How many other signs do I need to tell me that he doesn't want to talk to me?

I'm still standing there in the dark when I hear the patio door open again. I hear giggles, then heavy breathing and smacking sounds. It's kissing—long kisses punctuated with strident moans. I find the light switch by the sink. The yellow gleam lights up Dizzy's face…which is attached to Josh's.

I fight the urge to gag.

“Daph!” Dizzy exclaims, running over to give me a soggy hug. “I thought you were leaving.” She's been drinking—her pupils are big and rolling around in her eye sockets like pinballs. “We're totally going to do it,” she whispers loudly. Josh stands with a smirk on his face, his arms crossed against his bare chest. “It's Joshy's birthday present.” She wags her finger at him. “You've been a good boy, right? Right?” She singsongs, “We're going to do it, we're going to do it,” until Josh finally tells her to be quiet.

“Isn't your mom here?” I ask Josh.

“Nah, they left a while ago. Went to Tulsa for the night. The house is all mine.”

“And mine,” Dizzy chimes in.

“Do me a favor,” Josh says to me. “Keep an eye on the party while Dizzy and I spend some time in my room.”

“In your room!” Dizzy shouts gleefully.

Josh goes to the fridge and pulls out a beer. “Want one?” he asks Dizzy.

“She's had enough,” I answer.

“Okay, Mom,” Dizzy laughs. “Mom says no. Mom says no. Mom says no.” Apparently, drunk Dizzy repeats everything.

Dizzy is too obnoxious to talk to, so I ignore her. Instead, I address Josh. “You'll have to find someone else to chaperone your party,” I tell him. “I'm going to January's house.”

“Suit yourself,” Josh replies.

“January the predicted,” Dizzy chants over and over again. I'm about a second away from smacking her to get her to stop.

“Dizzy.” I grab her shoulders to give her a shake.

“Whoa!” she yells.

“Dizzy,” I say again. “I'm leaving. Are you going to be okay?”

“Oh, I'll be okay. Definitely okay. I'm going to be having sex.” She giggles. “It's my first time,” she says proudly. “Oops!” She looks at Josh. “Did you know that?”

“Even better,” he tells her.

“Maybe we can stay at the party for a while, though,” she says tentatively. “We don't have to do it right now, do we?”

“Dizzy, I don't think this is such a good idea. Maybe you should come with me. I can take you home.”

“Hey, hey, hey!” Josh yells, slamming his beer bottle on the granite countertop. “You aren't taking her
anywhere
. Dizzy, you don't want to go, do you?”

“Well, I
am
tired,” she says, yawning widely. She thinks for a minute. I catch her eye. She's acting drunker than she really is. She's second-guessing this whole plan. “Maybe just a short nap. If Daphne insists.”

Josh comes over to her and wraps his arms around her, sliding her off her feet and up against him. “No, no nap. Let's go upstairs.” He kisses her hard, right in front of me. I have to turn away.

“Dizzy.” I tug gently at her bathing suit strap. “I'm going to January's. I need to talk to her about something. About the attack. About Nate Gormley. Come with me.”

Josh drops his arms, and Dizzy stumbles. He's not rough, but she staggers backward, and I have to hold her up.

“What did you say?”

“I just need to talk to January. She remembered something about the attack.”

“Oh!” Dizzy exclaims. “We need to go. Talk to Jan. Yes. We should do that.” She's definitely not sure that she wants to sleep with Josh now.

“What does she remember?” Josh asks quickly. He knows his night is over. I smile to myself.

“A tattoo. The same tattoo Nate has.”

“This is ridiculous.” Josh takes a slug from his beer bottle. Then he catches himself. His voice softens. “You're a really good friend, Daphne. But it's late. Maybe this can wait until morning.”

“It can't wait. Come on, Dizz.”

Josh snaps, “You're testing my patience here, Daphne.”

“Come on, Josh,” Dizzy says.

He faces her. “What?
You
said the same thing about her. Remember? She drives you nuts. You called her a Lifer lover.” Dizzy looks away from me. “Besides, even if January
did
remember something about a tattoo, that doesn't mean Nate whatever-his-name did it. It just means he has a tattoo. So? Lots of people have tattoos.” He finishes his beer and reaches for another one from the fridge. “This is dumb. I'm not going to let this ruin my birthday. Daphne, leave this until morning, and I promise I'll help you figure things out.” He seems calm and collected, his face a placid portrait.

It's silent for a moment until Dizzy says very quietly, “I want to go with Daphne.”

“Are you serious? After all the money I've spent on you to get to tonight? Are you
kidding
me?” It's like something clicks in his head then, and he knows he's being a dick, because he changes his tone quickly. “Just stay. We'll go upstairs and cuddle—just cuddle. Come on, sweetheart.”

She doesn't buy it. “Josh, you're being a real asshole tonight.” She's suddenly coherent. It's impressive the way Dizzy can go from obnoxious slob to reasonable, clearheaded person in a matter of seconds. “Let's go,” she says to me. “You drive.” She hiccups. “I just need to get some clothes.” She walks over and puts her hand on the patio door.

“Hold on,” Josh says suddenly. “If you're going, I'm going too. Daphne,” he says kindly, “why don't you go upstairs and change clothes?” I'm still wearing my suit and that stolen towel. “I'll show you where you can change. Dizz, go get your clothes. You can change in the bathroom down here. I'll grab a shirt.”

Dizzy smiles broadly. “Thank you, Joshy. I'll go outside and grab my bag.” She opens the patio door. “Meet you back here when you're done.”

“Thanks,” I tell him. He's not my type, but he's not awful. I'll remember to tell this to Dizzy. I know she desperately wants me to like him.

“This way,” Josh says to me, indicating that I should go first.

I turn and walk down a long, narrow, dark hallway. “Up the stairs,” Josh tells me.

The staircase curves, and at the top step, I look down a row of closed doors. “Which one?” I ask.

That's when everything turns black.

Help.

—Daphne Wright

The rose-patterned carpet of the room reminds me of the guest room in my grandmother's house. Maybe this is the honeymoon suite, where guests are encouraged to ignore the sprawling size of the house and pretend they are at a tiny country inn.

The side of my face is smashed against the carpet, and I can feel a hand pressing hard on the other side. “What are you going to do to me?” I ask. My head feels fuzzy, not unlike that night at the diner. A blinding pain radiates from the left side.

“Shut up,” he says, but he's good-natured about it, like we're just fooling around.

“Please,” I say, and the pressure on the side of my head eases. My vision becomes clearer.

I lift my head as much as I can, my neck straining, my hands bound tightly behind my back.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask.

“We should've known this would happen,” he says. “It was predicted. By PROFILE.”

“But you aren't predicted.”

“You are so naïve, Daphne. Do you think everyone who was originally on the predicted list is actually still on it? Some of us just had enough money to buy our way off it.”

“You're predicted,” I say, trying it out for size. It makes perfect sense. “But how is that possible?” I say. “Utopia had the list and they—”

“You can't really be this dumb. People will
pay
to get off the predicted list. And there are a lot of people who are happy to accept the money.”

Melissa,
I think.
Would she do that? Does she know?

“Jesse,” I say. “What about Jesse?”

“Jesse's dad wouldn't pony up the money for him. Sucks, don't it? My mom did it for me. Richard doesn't even know. He's too busy thinking about knots to see that a hundred grand of his money disappeared.”

“Where's Dizzy?” I ask.

“She went home.”

“No, she wouldn't leave without me.”

Josh laughs. “She would if she thought you left her first. She was disappointed that you left without even saying good-bye.”

I strain my whole body, listening. I desperately want to hear sounds from the party, sounds from the house, but there is only silence, as if a layer of snow covers everything.

“Don't even think about screaming,” Josh says, reading my mind. “Nobody is home. The party is over. It's just the two of us. We have the rest of the night.” Josh sits down on the floor, his back against the bed. I wriggle my hands a little bit. I can't see, but I think he's tied them with a bungee cord—the kind you carry in your car. I can feel the hooks on the ends of the cord biting into my skin. If I wiggle, I know I can easily get the cord off. Clearly, Josh didn't listen to Richard's knot lessons. This one feels pitiful.

“I know all about you,” I bluff. Josh closes his eyes.

“That's your problem,” he says. “You know too much. And you talk too much. I knew you were a problem ever since that night at the diner, when I pushed your head into that window. I should've pushed you harder.”

“I knew it. I knew you were evil. You might've fooled everyone else. But you never fooled me.” That's not totally true, of course. I didn't know it was him at all. I just knew I didn't like him. And then I blamed Nate.

“You'll tell on me,” he says matter-of-factly.

I realize that I'm never going to get out of here if I don't outsmart Josh. “You know, if you let me go, nothing bad will happen to you. Nobody will even have to know. I can keep my mouth shut.”

“You'll tell,” he repeats.

“I won't. I promise. I'll make sure January never remembers what you did to her.”

Josh looks surprised. “You really haven't figured it out yet, have you?”

“What?” I ask warily, trying not to show how worried and perplexed I feel at the fact that my plan to outwit Josh has gone nowhere. He might not be as dumb and simple as I had thought.

“I might as well tell you. It's not like you'll be able to spread this around or anything.”

“Don't tell me,” I plead, knowing that if he's ready to tell me some big secret, I'm not getting out of here alive. “Let's just not talk. What happened between you and January is your business.”

“I thought a smart girl like you would've figured it out. Maybe you aren't as brainy as I thought you were.”

“I honestly have no idea what you are talking about.”

“I didn't attack January.”

“It
was
Nate?” I ask. “See? You're innocent. You can let me go.”

“Technically, Nate did it. But it was my idea.” His tone changes, becomes more somber. “Poor January. She would've been better off not remembering. Why did you go and help her, Daphne?”

“Why would you want to hurt January?” It's basically a rhetorical question. Even caught up in my own fear, I'm aware enough to know that Josh is psycho. Nate might be stupid and mean and criminal, but Josh is crazy.

“Oh, silly Daphne,” he says and runs his finger down my cheek. “That haircut is really cute on you. I should've gotten a hold of you before Jesse did.”

He stretches out beside me, using his folded arms to prop up his head. “He might've gotten you, but he didn't get January, and, oh”—he moans as he rolls onto his stomach—“she was a sweet piece of ass. If that dumb bitch hadn't gotten pregnant…” He reaches out, and runs his fingers down my breastbone. “She was stringing me along, making me think she was going to have that baby, and then I'd be trapped. We couldn't have that, could we?” he asks me, letting his hand stop on my stomach. “Kind of like that novel you were talking about in class, huh? Are you appreciating the irony, Daphne?”

“I don't think this is exactly ironic. More like psychotic. But why bring Nate into the whole thing?” I say.

“He wanted the money. I wanted January gone. Easy. At least it should've been. But I guess it's true when they say if you want the job done right, you're better off doing it yourself.” He leered at me, his eyes wicked.

“If something happens to me,” I tell him, “everyone will suspect you. You know that, don't you?”

“I'm not sure I care. I just want to have a little fun with you, Daph. Doesn't that sound nice?” He tugs at the scratchy towel, miraculously still around my waist. “Nice suit,” he says, staring at my bikini bottom. “You know, Dizzy never even found out that Jan and I were hooking up. I'm grateful to you for keeping your mouth shut about that. You're not so bad, Daphne.”

“Does Jesse know about all this?”

“I think he knows that my mom paid to get my name off the list. But who's going to believe a predicted if he decides to tell anyone? You can't trust those people.” He laughs loud and hard, truly off his rocker. He touches the strap of my bikini top. “Gormley is a problem, and he'll need to be taken care of, but right now I think we—you and me, I mean—should just worry about what
we're
going to do here. Right?”

“I'll scream,” I say, wondering if anyone in those houses down the hill could hear me if I really let loose.

“No, you won't.” I see his hand coming toward my face, and I feel it connect with my skin the first time. After awhile, I feel nothing but fear.

“You're crazy,” I tell him, knowing that I won't be able to reason with him about anything.

“Deal with it.”

I scream as loud and as hard as my lungs will allow.

***

I open my eyes to total darkness. My hands are still tied behind me with the bungee cord. I'm facedown on the bed. I glance around, but everything is blurry—it's as if I'm seeing everything in triplicate. Bodies are moving, but I can't tell how many. I hear heavy breathing, grunting, and punching. There's a fight going on. I try to yell, but nothing comes out. I clear my throat, but all I can do is squawk like a dying baby bird.

“Hold on, Daphne!” someone says, and I can't tell if it's coming from one of the bodies in the room or if it's in my head. I can't seem to get my voice to reach a level of volume beyond a pitiful whisper. Hot tears are streaming from my eyes. “Melissa,” I call quietly, even though I know she is probably safely home in bed. “Melissa, help me.” I struggle to keep my eyes open, but my eyelids flutter like nervous butterflies.

A long time passes. Or at least it feels that way to me. When I finally open my eyes wide, my vision is normal. The light is still dim, but the bright moonlight is pouring through the windows.

Jesse is standing over me. “Daphne,” he says.

I blink once. Then again and again. I am awake. And Jesse is here.