Undercurrent (15 page)

This I feel nervous about. Even though the road seems dead, I can’t see what’s coming, and the idea of Jess running headlong into an oncoming vehicle gives me the shivers. I shout for her to stop, call for her to come back. But she either doesn’t hear or doesn’t care. She disappears from view as she goes after the ball.

Telling myself not to panic, I begin jogging after her. I call her name a few times, hoping she’ll appear, ball in her mouth. But she doesn’t. I start running.

Reaching the top of the ridge, I see the football lying in the center of the road. Where’s Jess? But then I see her about twenty feet ahead, standing by the side of the road like a statue.

“What’s up, girl?” I call, slowing down. I’m winded and getting a stitch in my side. Bending over to pick up the ball, I feel like someone’s stabbing me with a spear.

When I stand up again, Jess still hasn’t moved. She just stays put, staring at something in the distance.

I look ahead, guessing it’s a cat. There are always a few of them around here that have been abandoned by their owners when they left in their RVs and trailers. I always wondered how those poor house cats must have felt, coming back late from their explorations to find themselves left behind. They probably didn’t feel bad for long, because soon their instincts would take over, and they’d be murdering field mice wholesale. Or eventually end up at someone’s back door, meowing for mercy.

I’m wrong. There’s no cat—it’s a person leaning against the old trailer. But it’s not Mr. Guise. It’s him: the guy in the Crocodiles jacket.

He doesn’t move except to stop leaning. And then he just stands there, watching us from a distance.

Jess has her nose in the air and is huffing and puffing. Something is disturbing her. Hindquarters low, she suddenly dashes back toward me, scampering behind my legs. But then she decides to keep going, running back over the top of the ridge.

I turn to look back at the figure in the hood, who is still standing there motionless. He seems to want a face-off. And I want to storm down toward him.

That’s when I hear something behind me: an engine and the sound of tires braking on dirt. And then—omigod—the crack of a bumper hitting something.

“Jess!” Cold with fear, I run back up the ridge. “Jess!”

There I see a vehicle—a pickup. But it’s skidded off the road and smashed into a tree.

Jess is fine, just running scared in the grassy field.

“What the hell!” Mr. Guise is already out of the truck, heading around to inspect the damage. “Damn mutt! I shoulda run you over!”

He looks up and notices me.

My bravado pours out so fast, it almost makes a puddle. The man might not look as drunk this time, but I’m sure he’s ten times as mad. And probably not helping his mood is the fact that someone appears to have recently punched him out. His left eye is black, and his lip is fat and split red down its center.

This is a bad situation. It’s so bad that, for a second, I consider joining Jess in the grass. But the stitch in my side is still killing me, and I’m no longer sure I can outrun this guy now that he’s sober. My only hope is that Jess will come rushing to my aid and maul him. But I’m not banking on it.

To my surprise, Guise suddenly raises his hands in the air, like I have an invisible gun on him.

“I didn’t hit your dog!” he protests. “Fact is, I damn near killed myself avoiding it!” He squints at the damaged truck, then turns back, raising his hands again.

“Relax,” I say. But I must admit, it feels good to see him like this. Maybe a beating taught him some manners, or at least not to mess with people he doesn’t know. I walk down the slope toward him. He starts backing away in fear. And I can’t help it—just like after putting the hurt on that kid in the hallway, I feel incredibly good, incredibly powerful.

“Whoa, whoa!” he says. “You’re all hooked up now. Go see for yourself. Electric, septic—you’re good to go. Best unit on the lot, I swear! Just take it easy—I don’t want no trouble!”

I have no idea what he’s talking about. But as I draw up, the man is pressing himself against the vehicle to get away from me. I can’t get enough of his fear—it’s like popcorn, and I want big handfuls.

I insert my thumb and forefinger into my mouth. It’s my only sure talent: blowing an earsplitting whistle that no one can equal. Not even Cole.

Mr. Guise looks about to wet himself.

Jess comes bounding out of the grass to my side. Tucking the chewed football under my arm, I walk away with her, back toward the campground.

I’m going to have that face-off, with the guy in the Crocodiles jacket. Now.

CHAPTER 14

The campground is deserted. There’s no sign of the croc, as I’m
beginning to think of him. But like a croc, he’s probably got his beady little eyes poking up somewhere. I just have to spot them.

The trailers are filthy looking, black with dirt and plastered with wet leaves. I can’t imagine what sort of deranged vacationers would ever want to stay in any of them. I peer through a few windows with slightly parted curtains and see dark, grimy interiors full of ugly furniture and cracked cabinets.

I begin trying doors. The first few are locked, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll try every single one before I’m done. I’ll listen at each door for the sound of a shuffling, skulking croc.

I approach a group of trailers that look slightly less seedy, as if someone has at least bothered to hose them down in the past year. I notice one of them has a light on inside.

That’s more like it. The den.

“Come here, Jess,” I whisper, taking her leash out of my jacket pocket. I secure her to a young birch nearby. “Good girl. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

I sneak up, hoping to catch the croc off guard. Thankfully the muddy path is free of leaves, and my progress is silent. I reach the door and grasp the handle. I breathe in deeply. It’s time.

I climb the stairs and fling open the door. I’m expecting an instant assault, like something Cole might do, jumping from the dark in the basement to pummel me. This time, though, my fists are at the ready, clenched hard, aching to be thrown.

But there’s no one inside. I see the source of the light: a lamp in the lounge area, its shade missing and the bulb bare. It’s illuminating a pretty scummy scene, with potato-chip bags and candy-bar wrappers all over the place, half-empty plastic pop bottles on the floor, and cigarette butts stubbed out straight on the kitchen counter. Worse still, it reeks of body odor in here—but it’s a familiar odor, my nose tells me. Like Cole’s. Or like my own, after running laps in the gym for Keller.

The only other thing of interest is a camera, sitting on the table in the dining area. I walk over and pick it up. Pressing the On button, I wait as the camera whirs to life in my hands.

After a few seconds, a photo is displayed on the screen on the back. It’s of Ross, I’m stunned to see. And Mrs. Holden. Both naked.

That’s when my head fills with pain so electric, it’s only an instant before the world disappears around me.

My chin is on my chest when I awake. The back of my head is throbbing, and my brain feels like it’s bruised. I smell the body odor again, this time even more intensely. Everything is blurry when I open my eyes. But I am still in the trailer, I realize. I am in the trailer, sitting on the dirty, garbage-strewn floor with my hands tied tightly behind my back.

I’m scared now. Really scared.

Suddenly a lampshade appears in front of my face. A lampshade with eyeholes. If I weren’t so scared, it would almost be funny. But it’s not funny—especially as I’m yanked to my feet and thrown down the length of the trailer, to land on the U-shaped sofa.

“Take it easy!” I yell, lucky my arms aren’t broken. “Take it easy!”

But the lampshade isn’t taking it easy. The lampshade is furious, seizing a half-empty bottle of pop off the floor and whipping it at me. It turns end over end before cracking off my skull. There is more pain as the plastic breaks and I’m showered with lukewarm cola.

That’s when the gun makes its appearance, drawn from the back of the lampshade’s waistband. The hole of the barrel end looks jet-black, like a tiny abyss, and I feel like my face is being sucked right off the bone into it. I’m going to get shot now, I know for certain, straight through the Harris nose—and then my head is going to explode, and I’m going to die, on this greasy sofa in this dirty trailer.

And I can’t even make a noise in protest.

But then the lampshade suddenly lowers the gun. He swears, making a strangled sound of frustration, and begins bashing the butt of the pistol against one of the kitchen cabinets until the door smashes into pieces.

That’s when I finally notice the lampshade’s Crocodiles jacket. Well, you’ve finally caught up to him, I think. And whoever he is, he’s a total psycho. I flinch as he continues to lay waste to anything that splinters under the punishing steel.

I can hear Jess outside madly barking. I can imagine her straining at her leash, trying to free herself. But the frantic dog only seems to be unhinging the lampshade further. Glancing at the shaking gun, he looks like he has made up his mind to storm out of the trailer and put a bullet in her head. Again I want to shriek in protest, but again I’m unable to make a sound, I’m so struck dumb with fear.

“Shut up, bitch!” the lampshade screams through the closed window. And thankfully it’s enough to silence Jess. Instantly. He then stands there, holding the window frame, panting with rage.

I wait and wonder. Maybe I should say something. Something reasonable. But that’s a bad idea. I have to pretend that I’m not here, that I don’t even exist, and just hope he calms down.

My plan proves to be a good one. I can see his breathing gradually slowing, and his muscles relaxing, until he finally stuffs the gun down the back of his pants again. A warm feeling of relief flows through me. But it’s a stupid and pointless feeling. Because everything is not okay, not even close, as I’m reminded the second those two eyeholes turn my way, hate still blazing from them.

“What did I do?” I find myself asking, against my better judgment. There is a flash of renewed fury, but it subsides fairly quickly, and instead he begins sifting through the trash on the kitchen counter until he produces a yellowed old notepad. He snatches up a pen and begins writing. When he’s finished, he tears off the sheet and shoves it in my face.

WHO ARE YOU?

“Huh?” I’m not expecting this. “My name is Callum Harris,” I tell him. “I go to Crystal Falls High. . . .”

This answer does not please the lampshade. Not at all. Because he winds up and punches me one, again in the head. And from the pain, I feel like I can’t take another—one more blow, and my skull is going to crack open. I’m sure of it.

“What do you want from me?” I blubber. “What do you want?”

The lampshade does not answer. He rushes over to the kitchen counter, writes some more, then storms back to thrust another message at me.

DID THEY FIND NEIL?

“Neil?” I reply, uncertain. I flinch as the lampshade winds up to hit me again. But he stops himself. “You mean Neil Parson?” I ask. “No, they didn’t find him.”

He stands back, nodding repeatedly to himself as if this is a desirable answer. He wanders back to the counter and stands there for a while. Then he scrawls out another message and tears it off. He approaches slowly and holds it up to me.

SCREW IVY AND YOU’RE DEAD!

The words are right there in front of me, but I can’t believe I’m reading them. “What? Ivy? No, listen . . .”

But the lampshade is not listening. The lampshade is drawing the gun again. The overwhelming terror is back—I have just made a fatal mistake by not having the right answer at the crucial moment. . . .

He doesn’t shoot me though. He does pound me one with the butt of the gun. And if my skull doesn’t actually crack open, it sure feels like it. For a moment anyway, before I feel nothing and am out cold.

I wake up to a wet nose snuffling in my ear. It’s Jess. Her leash is still tied to the birch tree, and she’s whining. She wants to know if I’m okay. From what I can tell, lying here in the leaves and the mud, we are alone.

I struggle into a seated position. My hands are free. Blood is caked in my eyebrows, though, and drying uncomfortably in my eyelashes. My headache is the worst I can ever remember experiencing in my life. But this is no time to feel sorry for myself—I have to get out of here.

I stagger to my feet and manage to untie Jess. Letting the dog lead the way, I stumble toward the campground exit, past Mr. Guise’s darkened trailer and his empty parking spot, and then along the hilly road, where I puke several times. And finally it’s out onto the highway, where I realize I must look like a mess, because cars are slowing down, their drivers staring at me before making the decision to speed away.

Thanks for the help, citizens.

And after what feels like an eternity, I get home. Opening the front door, I let Jess off the leash and then crawl upstairs, thankful that my mother is busy in the laundry room. I go straight to the bathroom to investigate my wounds.

Looking in the mirror, I confirm that the worst of my injuries are above my hairline, making them easier to hide, at least. But still I’m a mess. Combing through my crusty hair, I find ugly cuts. I wonder if they need stitches. I don’t know. But they have stopped bleeding, mostly. So I say no.

They do need to be seriously disinfected though. And that is going to really, really suck.

I flick the switch for the fan, hoping its hum will cover up the worst of whatever grunts and groans are coming. Then I rake through the medicine cabinet until I find something that will do the trick.

Peroxide. This is the stuff I need, and I’m in luck, because there’s plenty of it.

Uncapping the bottle, I kneel on the fuzzy bath mat and lean over the tub. To prepare myself, I take a deep breath—and then begin pouring the contents onto my scalp.

For a moment it just feels cold, like I’ve dunked my head in ice water. But as the foaming, hissing liquid seeps into every nick and every gash, the real pain comes, lighting up my head like I’m a human torch.

It’s awful. But there’s no going back now. So I keep pouring.

The pain increases, making it almost impossible to keep from screaming. But I have to keep quiet, I tell myself. I have to.

There’s a knock on the door. Oh, come on . . .

“Cal?” my mother calls above the noisy fan. “Is that you in there?”

“Yeah, Mom,” I call back, my eyes now also searing as the peroxide seeps into their corners. “Just a minute . . .”

“You didn’t take off your shoes!” she complains.

“Sorry,” I reply, my strained voice echoing from inside the tub. The pain now flares to impossible levels, and I shudder and grit my teeth as it overwhelms me. “I really, really had to go,” I tell her.

My mother says something else, but I can’t make it out—her words are swallowed up by the fan and my agony. Thankfully she leaves.

By the time I drop the empty plastic bottle, the bottom of the bath is streaked with blood. After wiping it down the drain with my palm, I turn on the hot water and put in the plug. As I strip off my clothes, I watch the bottle fill up again and sink to the bottom.

I climb in after it and lie down. The gashes are still burning underwater, but it is better. I lie there, not even bothering with soap, until the bath goes cold.

Lying semiconscious on my bed, I try to make sense of things. The extra life jacket and the maniac wearing the lampshade. Their connection.

I finally become aware that I’m being called down for dinner. I look at the clock; it’s past seven already. Getting up, I check myself out in the mirror on my closet door. From what I can tell, the peroxide didn’t turn my hair blond, luckily. I quickly realize that my scabbing wounds are pretty obvious. Which will not only likely ruin the family meal but make for a conversation I don’t want to have right now. So I find a baseball cap in the closet and try to put it on as delicately as possible.

“Cal!” my mother calls again. “Didn’t you hear me? It’s dinnertime.”

“I’m coming!” I yell back.

When I get downstairs, my mother and father are at the table, already eating. “We started,” Dad says reproachfully. “The food was going cold.”

“That’s all right.”

“What’s with the hat?” he demands as I sit down.

“Sorry. My hair is really dirty and gross.”

“But I thought you had a shower when you came home,” my mother points out. “Didn’t you wash your hair?”

“I had a bath. I guess I forgot.”

I forgot
—the words are my pocket Aces for any explanation. They drop the subject.

“Any plans for tonight?” Dad asks me, obviously trying to lighten the mood. But as one of the seams of my hat starts digging into my aching scalp, the questions are starting to make me cranky.

“Plans?” I repeat. “No.”

“Really? It’s Friday.”

“So?”

“Since when don’t you have plans on a Friday night?”

“I don’t know. Since nobody’s asked me to do anything.”

“I’m just asking,” my father says.

“And I’m just telling you. No.”

A silence falls over the table. I turn my attention to my dinner, which has gone cold. I try to eat it, but with my hat killing me and the flashes of the terrible scene in the trailer, I have little appetite.

Afterward I help my mother clean up the dishes. She seems surprised but on edge as I put the plates in the dishwasher and wipe off the table. Once done, I excuse myself and head back up to my room.

Plans. Who would make plans with me now? Normally I would drag myself up to Bryce’s for some gaming or to make fun of a movie. And recently I’ve been passing on that and instead meeting up with Willow.

Well, neither is on offer, tonight or ever. Without even looking at the title, I pull one of the few remaining novels from the shelf. I open it and find an inscription scrawled inside, in my own handwriting:

Mr. Potts likes eating snots.

There’s a scratch at the door. It’s Jess. I open the door, and she trots in, jumping up on my bed. I join her. It’s nice to feel her warm side against my leg. I’ve missed it.

A couple of hours later, I hear a car roar up the drive. I jump up. From my window I can’t see who it is, but I have a good guess, based on the engine sound and the skid with which it comes to a stop.

A minute later the doorbell rings.

Oh, come on. No. Not now.

“Cal, it’s for you!” my mother calls.

Crap, I think, looking at myself in the mirror. I look awful. But there’s nothing I can do about it now. I head downstairs.