The Sitter (19 page)

44

J
ackson slid off me. Our bodies were hot and bathed with sweat, stuck to each other.

I turned and squinted through the hazy light. “Who’s there?”

Footsteps. I heard running footsteps. Heard the front door slam.

“Hey—!”

Jackson leaped to his feet and ran naked to the front. I saw him push the front door open. I sat up, pulling the quilt around me.

“Who is it? Can you see?”

Jackson returned to the room, shaking his head. “I didn’t see anyone. I heard someone running. But I couldn’t see him.”

He dropped beside me on the bed and slid his arm around me. He pressed his forehead against mine. “Are you okay?”

I kissed him. Then I whispered, “Let’s get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”

I lingered with Jackson behind the house until I saw all the lights go off. Then I guessed Chip had gone to bed, and it was safe to go inside.

“See you tomorrow night,” I whispered, and then he was gone. And without him, I suddenly felt chilled. As if all the warmth had been taken and I had been dropped back into this cold, frightening place. I hurried inside through the kitchen door and then tiptoed up to my room.

My last night in this room, I thought. My last day in this house.

I could still feel Jackson’s salty, warm skin against mine. I could still taste him on my lips.

I clicked on the light.

And saw Brandon sitting on my bed.

I let out a startled cry. “Brandon? It’s so late,” I said, louder than I’d intended.

He raised his dark eyes to me slowly. Like two black holes, I thought, leading where? To the mysteries of the universe? What did he see with those vacant eyes? What had those eyes seen that made him suddenly stop speaking?

He wasn’t dressed for bed. He wore a yellow Pokémon T-shirt over baggy gray shorts.

“Brandon? What are you doing in here? Why aren’t you in your pajamas?”

Hunched on the edge of the bed, he continued to stare at me. The dark eyes glowed. He didn’t blink.

I started across the room, but stopped halfway to the bed. “Let’s get you tucked in, okay? It’s very late.”

“I saw you,”
he said.

Yes, he spoke. Brandon spoke, for the first time since I’d arrived.

The words were accusing, his voice raw and raspy, not a little boy’s tiny, high voice, but an angry, throaty voice, coming from deep inside his chest.

“I saw you.”

“Brandon! You—you’re talking!” I cried. “Oh, Jesus. Brandon, I don’t believe it!”

His expression didn’t change as he climbed to his feet, stood so erect, his eyes still accusing and cold.

“Don’t call me Brandon,”
he rasped.
“My name is Jeremiah.”

45

J
eremiah?

Jeremiah Halley?

How could Brandon know that name?

Did he hear it from Mrs. Bricker? Is that how he knew it? And was he using it now to frighten me?

I dropped down beside him on my bed. I started to put a hand on his shoulder. But his eyes were so cold, his stare so ugly, so
inhuman
, that I drew back.

“Brandon, talk to me,” I said, keeping my voice low and firm. “Who is Jeremiah? Where did you hear that name?”

He didn’t answer. He shut his eyes, and I felt as if a chill had been removed from the room. When he opened them, his gaze was softer. The color slowly returned to his cheeks.

“Brandon? Why did you say you were Jeremiah?” I demanded, leaning over him. “Please, keep talking, honey. Don’t stop. Come on. Please explain. Where did you see me? In the guest house? Were you in the guest house just now? Brandon, please talk!”

But he had sunk back into silence. I could see from his blank expression that he wouldn’t speak again.

He yawned. He looked around the room as if surprised to be here.

“Brandon—?” I tried one more time. “Honey, can you speak again? Do you want to tell me something?”

He shook his head. His whole body slumped. He suddenly looked like a tired little boy, helpless, confused.

I picked him up in my arms and carried him to bed.

I hurried downstairs the next morning to tell Abby that Brandon had spoken. I ran through the kitchen to the deck. No one around.

Back in the kitchen, I found a handwritten note from Abby on the breakfast table:

E—Be back soon. Drove Chip to the Jitney. He’ll be in the city all day. Please take kids to beach. —A

Wow, a break for me, I thought. No Chip today.

I threw the note in the trash. Then I rounded up the kids for breakfast.

I stared across the table at Brandon. Did he remember that he spoke the night before? Would he speak again?

He spooned his Cheerios with his head down and acted as if I wasn’t sitting there.

Heather, meanwhile, was in a playful mood. She kept sneaking up behind me, tickling my sides really hard, and crying, “Mommy’s bones! Mommy’s bones!”

“Heather, sweetheart—please—give me a break,” I groaned. She was only playing her silly game, but I wasn’t in the mood. I’d been awake most of the night, thinking about Jackson, thinking about Brandon—unable to turn my mind off. I was exhausted, not at all ready to start the day.

My last day.

After breakfast, I dressed the kids for the beach, packed up all the equipment, and we started our trek to the beach. Heather was still in a good mood, having a great old time riding my shoulders, pulling my ponytail, kicking me with her sandals as we walked, and giggling her head off.

Brandon appeared as glum as ever. He held my hand and kept his eyes straight ahead. But as we started past the guest house, he grabbed the bag of beach toys I had slung over my back and began to tug it ferociously.

“Brandon—stop! It’s wrapped around my neck! You’re going to pull me over!” I cried.

I lowered Heather to the ground. I turned to deal with Brandon. But he managed to pull the bag open. He grabbed a plastic shovel and took off, running to a sandy spot behind the guest house.

He dropped to his knees beside a clump of weeds and began digging. The sand flew. He didn’t raise his eyes. He dug rapidly, intently, pushing the shovel into the sandy ground with all his strength, then heaving the sand to the side.

“Unh . . . unh . . . unh . . .” He grunted with each hard plunge of the shovel.

At first, I tried to stop him. What on earth did he think he was doing? But when I saw how intent he was, how driven, I backed off and watched, hands pressed against my face.

Brandon jumped when he hit something hard.

And then he furiously began to scrape the sand away, groaning, grunting as he worked. And in a short time, something surfaced. Bones! Bones buried in such a shallow grave—a rib cage, gray-yellow bones poked up from the sand, glowing in the bright sunlight like something unreal, like something in a bad dream.

“Mommy’s bones! Mommy’s bones!” Heather chanted behind me.

Did she see them? Or was she just playing her game?

I didn’t want her to see them. I grabbed Brandon’s hand and pulled him up, pulled him away from the gruesome sight. And I swept Heather up in my arms and began to run.

Down the beach, I found Maggie with her two little girls. I breathlessly begged her to watch Brandon and Heather for me for just a while.

“No problem, dear,” Maggie replied. “I brought extra sandwiches just in case you came.”

I ran to the house, avoiding the back of the guest house, turning my eyes away from the yellow bones curling up from the sand.

How did Brandon know they were there?

Why did he suddenly need to dig them up?

“Abby? Abby?” I burst into the kitchen and raced to the front of the house, shouting her name.

She wasn’t home. She was still out making arrangements for her escape.

Now what? Now what? My mind spun.

I picked up a phone. I called the town police. “I—I found a body. You’d better come quick.”

Less than ten minutes later, two squad cars and an EMS ambulance pulled up the driveway.

Too late for the ambulance, I thought. Way too late.

How long had the body been buried there? Did it have something to do with Mrs. Bricker’s ghost story?

How did Brandon know?

Three dark-uniformed officers and two EMS workers in green scrubs hurried up the front stoop. I led them around the house to the back, then showed them the spot behind the guest house.

“The little boy I take care of—he dug them up,” I said. “I don’t know how he knew.” My words caught in my throat.

I knew this had to be the scene of a horrible murder. Maybe Brandon had witnessed it. Maybe that’s why he’s been silent. Maybe I would soon learn Brandon’s secret.

The officers squatted down around the yellowed rib cage. Sweat stained the back of their dark uniform shirts. They muttered to each other. I couldn’t hear what they were saying.

One of them picked up Brandon’s plastic shovel. He began to dig deeper, scraping sand away from the skeleton as he dug.

I suddenly felt sick. I turned away, pressing my hand to my mouth. I held my breath, trying to force down my nausea.

After a few minutes, I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Miss?”

I turned to the grim-faced officer. A curl of reddish brown hair was matted to his sweat-soaked forehead. His eyes were red-rimmed, bloodshot.

“Miss, the skeleton you found,” he said softly. “I have a surprise for you.”

46

A
surprise?” I blinked at him, the sun suddenly so bright and blinding.

The other men had climbed to their feet. They formed a casual line behind the officer.

He nodded. “Those bones? They’re not human. They’re dog bones.”

I swallowed. “Excuse me?”

“It’s a dog skeleton, miss. Someone buried a dog back here. Pretty big one. A Lab or a shepherd, something like that.”

“But—” I squinted at him. The sun burned my eyes.

“You might want to cover it up. Don’t want to disturb the kids,” he said. He motioned with his hand, and the others began to follow him to the house.

“Sorry you were upset,” one of the EMS guys said. “Finding a skeleton must have been kinda scary.”

“Yeah. Kinda,” I replied.

At dinnertime, Abby still hadn’t returned. I kept glancing to the driveway every minute, hoping to see her car pull up.

For our last meal together, I made the kids’ favorite—macaroni and cheese out of a box. Did they know I was leaving? I had no idea if Abby had told them, so I didn’t say a word about it.

Jackson had called from his car. He was on his way. I was nearly packed. I just needed Abby to return so I could make my getaway.

After dinner, I stuck Heather and Brandon in front of the TV, turned on Nickelodeon for them, and then went to my room to finish packing.

As the sun lowered, a heavy fog floated off the ocean, blanketing the backyard. Gazing out the bedroom window at the waves of fog floating past the house, I suddenly felt as if I were on an airplane, staring out the window, seeing nothing but thick, gray clouds.

I could barely see the guest house at the top of the dune. The fog carried a damp chill into the room. And I started to shut the window.

But I stopped when I saw a figure out on the dune, moving slowly through the fog, almost as if swimming through it. Squinting hard, I struggled to make out who was out there.

Jackson?

Why didn’t he come to the front? What on earth was he doing back by the guest house?

“Hey!” I called down to him. I waved both arms.

But he continued his slow walk down the gray dune.

And as he came closer, I saw a dark figure running toward him from the house. A man. In a dark leather jacket. I could see the jacket clearly. Was it the jacket Chip had been showing off to me?

Yes. It had to be. Chip in his leather jacket. Running with his right arm extended.

I gripped the windowsill with both hands and watched Chip come running at Jackson, as if in a dream, as if in a cloudy nightmare. Chip shot toward Jackson, arm outstretched. And I saw a gleam of soft light from Chip’s hand.

A low moan escaped my throat as I saw the gleam of the knife and Chip running, running so fast, and he didn’t stop, and the arm stretched out straight, and Jackson fell back, tilted back as the knife cut into his chest.

He toppled backward and sat on the ground. His hands flew up as he tried to protect himself. They flew up and fluttered above his head like two white birds lost in the fog.

Leaning out of the window, I let out a scream.
“Stop! Stop it!”

But I saw Chip shove the knife in again. Again.

I pushed myself away from the window and took off. I had to get there in time—to stop Chip, to save Jackson. I flew down the stairs two at a time, lurched outside. I burst out onto the deck, startled by the chill of the night air. I stumbled down the steps, fighting off my dizziness, my horror, and began to run through the swirls of fog at my ankles.

“I’m coming, Jackson. I’m coming. Stay alive. Please stay alive!” I screamed as I pulled myself up the wet, grassy dune.

No sign of Chip. He had vanished into the fog.

My side ached. My chest felt ready to burst. Slipping on the soft, wet ground, I forced myself up the dune, to the dark line of trees in front of the guest house.

I dropped down beside Jackson. Sprawled on his back, arms at his sides. So still and lifeless. Streams of blood soaking his shirt, his khaki shorts. So much blood.

I dropped down beside him, gasping for breath. Leaned over him.

And I uttered a hoarse cry of shock. “Oh, my god!”

It wasn’t Jackson.

47

C
lay?”

His name caught in my throat. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

“Clay?”

With his eyes open so wide, so glassy, he really did look like a teddy bear. A teddy bear that had been cut and ripped open.

I touched his face. I don’t know why. I couldn’t think. It was all I could do to keep from shrieking. How could I let all the horror out?

“Clay?”

He didn’t go away. He had come back to say good-bye in person.

“Good-bye, Clay.” His cheek was still warm. Trembling, I climbed to my feet. Blood soaked the ground all around him. A swarm of flies buzzed around the blood.

Why would Chip kill Clay? Chip didn’t even know Clay.

He was out of control. And where was he hiding? Was he watching me now?

Trembling, I turned to the house. The police. I had to call them for the second time today.

Only this time, I wouldn’t show them animal bones. This time I had a human corpse to show them, a human who had been stabbed again and again by a sick, twisted bastard.

Slipping on the wet sand, I took two steps toward the house. I stopped at the sound of a voice—a man’s voice behind me, calling my name.

Startled, I cried out and turned back to the guest house.

An orange light flickered in the window. Firelight. Someone had a fire going in the little house. Why hadn’t I noticed it before?

Fog settled around me. Again I felt as if I were floating, floating in a dreamworld.

Someone called my name. A soft whisper carried on the fog.

“Who’s there? Chip? Is that you?”

My muscles tensed. I prepared to run.

Yes. Of course it was Chip. Waiting at the side of the guest house with his knife. Waiting to stab me, too. Waiting to cut me and cut me and cut me.

Isn’t that what he’s wanted all along? Isn’t that why he’s been torturing me?

Abby’s words ran through my mind:
He promised me he’d take his medication.

Far down the beach, the low drone of a foghorn cut through the air. The sound woke up seagulls all around and sent them flapping and squawking from the trees.

And then the voice again. More insistent. “Ellie? Come here.”

The guest house door swung open. Flickering orange light washed over the gray, sandy ground. Someone stepped into the pool of light.

I raised my eyes and stared into the face of a ghost.