White is for Magic (24 page)

My head fuzzes over with questions. I lie back on my bed to try and think through at least a few of them. I'm pretty sure the letter M is for Maura--at least that's what I sensed in my nightmare when I saw her drawing it. Like jumping rope and singing, drawing on the sidewalk with crayons was just one of the things that Maura liked to do. I'm also pretty sure that the words to the "Miss Mary Mack" song were distorted per Amber's baby corn theory--that it's my mind's way of telling me that I'm scared, twisting things around to create the worst, most frightening possible scenario, something straight out of a Freddie Krueger movie.

But what I still want to know is why anyone would want to cause harm to me. Why would someone go through all the trouble of researching my past? What do they really have to gain from it? And then I remember something I had tried to block out.

The letter.

I sit up in bed, the memory rushing at me all at once. I wrote a letter to Miles Parker just days after the sentencing. An angry letter from a tormented, guilt-ridden thirteen 267

year-old girl, telling him how angry I was about that pathetic sentence, how I had sensed all along that she had been kidnapped, that the person who did it had hidden her away in a tool shed.

I told him how I'd have to live with the guilt of knowing all this and not doing anything about it for as long as I lived.

And then I promised him something in the last line of the letter. I promised that when he got out I'd come after him, to make him pay--to see that justice was finally served.

Is that the promise referred to in the letter I got?

I pick up the phone to call someone, anyone . . . my mother at her hotel. But the person at the front desk tells me she isn't in her room. I hang up and bury my head in my hands. My forehead is pounding. I want to be sick. I try sipping some ginger ale, but that just makes it worse.

I rush into the bathroom just in time, before the contents of my stomach empty out into the toilet bowl. I sit back on my heels and hear myself sob out loud. Because this is so confusing. Because I don't know where else to turn or whom I can trust. I look down at my amethyst ring, wishing my grandmother were here to help me. Wishing my mother were by my side right now.

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forty-two

Instead of feeling better, the urge to be sick remains thick in my throat. And my head still aches--

a throbbing pain that makes everything else feel heavy and cold. I set a warm compress over my forehead and lie down in bed, the covers up over my shoulders to stifle the chill.

I close my eyes, which eases me a bit. Maybe a little sleep, even for just a few minutes, will do me some good, will help put things into perspective.

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But a few minutes turn into several hours. I wake up to the sound of the phone ringing. I spring up; the warm compress, now cool, drops from my forehead. I don't even think I moved once in my sleep. There's a wrapped sandwich and a bag of chips from the cafeteria at the foot of my bed. f smile, knowing that either Amber or Drea, or both, are looking after me.

The phone continues to ring. I lean over to reach for it, noticing that my headache has subsided a bit, that my stomach has eased some.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Stacey," says a whispery male voice.

"Who is this?"

"We have Drea."

"What?"

"You heard me. And if you don't do exactly what I say, she'll be dead."

I almost can't believe what I'm hearing. It's like a bad horror flick come to life. I can tell there's a rag held over the receiver to muffle the sound, so I can't quite recognize the voice.

"Who is this?"
I repeat.

"You'll find out when you get here."

"Tell me who this is or I'm calling the police."

"Do that and Drea will die," the caller says.

"How do I know you really nave her?" I ask.

"How do you know that I don't?"

I glance over at Drea's bed; it's just how she left it this morning.

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"Come to the O'Brian building at eleven tonight," the caller continues. "Enter the building through the window of room 104 and then go to the French room."

"Is this Cory?" I ask, glancing at the clock. It's just after nine.

"Stacey, just do what he says." ft's Drea's voice.

"Drea?"

"I told you I had her." The whispery male voice comes back on the phone. 'And if you call the police, she'll be dead. Just like Veronica Leeman."

The phone clicks as he hangs up. I hang up, too. I know this must have something to do with Cory and Tobias and their seance. They want me to go to the scene of the crime, at the precise time that it happened, so they can recreate the night Veronica died, just like PJ warned. They've kidnapped Drea because it was probably the only way they could think of to get me over there on the anniversary of Veronica's death. Plus, it sort of works for the whole re-cre- ating-the-scene thing, seeing that Donovan kidnapped Drea shortly after he killed Veronica.

I pick up the phone and dial PJ's number, looking for Amber, hoping maybe PJ can help me in some way. But he isn't there. I hang up and call Chad. Not there either. I try Jacob's line but get a busy signal. I slam the phone down, panic starting to set in. I seriously contemplate calling campus police, but I don't. Because I don't want to risk it. I can't. Not now. Not tonight.

I grab the crystal cluster rock and my sachet of thyme for courage and mentally prepare myself to head over to the O'Brian building--to find Drea and put an end to this 271

whole seance fiasco once and for all. I've left a note for Amber telling her where I've gone, and I've left phone messages for Chad and PJ. I have no idea where everyone is tonight; I just know I can't wait around. If today is supposed to be my day to die, I'd better get started changing the future. I'll just have to rescue Drea along the way.

I stuff a flashlight into my bag and close and lock the door behind me, stopping just long enough to look up at the clock--9:30. The caller said to get there at eleven, but I have no intention of playing by his screwed-up rules.

I decide to take the bike path behind our dorm since it cuts a few minutes off the hike over to the main buildings. And just as soon as I start walking, I hear someone following behind me, the sound of footsteps--hard boot heels, I think--clomping toward me on the pavement. I stop. I glance back. But I don't see anything and I no longer hear anyone.

I turnback around and clasp the crystal in my pocket, reminding myself of its protective energy, doing my best to distract myself from what could very well be normal, everyday paranoia. I breathe the night air in, noticing how frigid it is tonight. The sky is an icy black color, like it could crack open at any second and sprinkle down a helping of snow. I knot the knitted scarf around my neck and fold my arms in front, the crystal still gripped in my palm.

The footsteps start up again. I quicken my pace and the person following does the same. Faster now, the pathway

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narrows a bit through the brush, making it darker, colder, more confining.

I focus on the area ahead of me--the back parking lot of the library is just ahead. I quicken my pace even more, until I'm running, until I can no longer hear the person behind me. Finally, I come to the end of the path--it spits out into the parking lot--and look around for someone, anyone . . . a police cruiser, maybe. I turn to glance back toward the path, but it's too dark, too laden with brush. I clench the crystal in my palm to temper the shaking inside me, the pounding of my heart. Then I cut across the parking lot and move around to the front of the library.

There's a couple of underclassmen standing outside, laughing it up over some stupid joke; I couldn't be more happy to see them, to see anyone. I'm thinking they sense my fear. They stop to watch me as I bound up the steps, three at a time, my face twisted as though the might cry out at any moment--f can feel it on my lips.

Breathing hard, I make it through both sets of double doors and turn to gaze out toward the front of the building. No one. Just the same kids, still watching me, probably wondering what's wrong.

I go to the on-campus phone on the wall and try calling Chad, but I get his voice mail again. I call our room. More voice mail. And Jacob's line is still busy. I hang up and peek back out toward the front of the building. The underclassmen have left and I can't seem to spot anyone else. I move out onto the front steps and gaze up at the O'Brian building, set back a bit from the other buildings. Or at least it feels that way--darker, quieter, more secluded.

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I take a giant breath and make my way back out, past the tennis court, and onto the pathway that leads to the building. This time I feel like I'm alone. The footsteps that followed before are no longer with me; maybe it was just my imagination.

This is what I tell myself, anyway, with each step that brings me closer to the building. It's so weird being back here, walking across the lawn that surrounds it, remembering how it was only a year ago that I sat behind Veronica Leeman in French class--her starchy, hair-spray-glued hair resting in a clump on my desk whenever she slouched down in her seat--only a year ago that I found her dead on that same classroom floor.

I swallow the ball of fear in my mouth and walk around the side of the building by the soccer field. I didn't think it would be this hard. I mean, sure, I see the building on a regular basis--I have to pass by it to go to classes, have to see it out of the corner of my eye on my way to the library or on walks across campus. But I mostly try to avoid it--try to look the other way or hold my breath until it's out of sight. Plus, this feels much different. Tonight, I have to go in.

I take the flashlight from my bag and move around to the back of the building, passing the window of room 104, looking for some other opening. I know exactly why the caller wanted me to come in that way. It's because that's the window I entered last year when I went to save Veronica; when instead of saving her, I ended up finding her already dead.

I'm so sure it's one of them who's taken Drea--Cory and his clones--bound on some ridiculous mission to raise

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Veronica from the dead, to recreate a scene they've been obsessing about, probably since it first struck the news.

It's much darker back here, the spotlights that shine at the front and sides of the building too shallow to reach behind it. I aim my light toward the windows and doors, wondering if there might be another way in, hoping Cory and them don't see the flashlight beam. I stop when I notice that one of the windows is open a crack. I take a deep breath and peer over my shoulder. I don't see anyone--just the wooded acreage that surrounds the campus. But being back here, in almost complete darkness, I can't shake the feeling that someone's watching me. I take a few steps closer to the window, feeling now more than ever that there's no turning back.

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forty-thre-c

Using the soft beam of the flashlight to direct me, I hoist myself up onto the window sill and crawl through, the hard rubber soles of my shoes smacking down against the linoleum flooring. I aim the beam around the perimeter of the room. It's Sefiora Sullivan's Spanish room. There are bits of Spanish-speaking culture still alive on the walls-- magazine cutouts of tortillas and frijoles, maps of Peru and

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Argentina, and, as though by fate, a giant poster of
el Dia de los Muertos,
the Day of the Dead.

I head toward the door at the front of the room. It's just after ten. I still have almost an hour before they're expecting me--an hour to find Drea and get the hell out of here before we both end up as pawns in their game.

Or before I end up dead.

I carefully wrap my hand around the doorknob and twist. The door squeaks slightly as I pull it open, but what cements me in place is the thumping noise coming from just outside the window where I entered. I quickly click my flashlight off and wait a few moments. The thumping stops, like whoever is out there can sense my suspicion.

I clench the sachet of thyme in my pocket and step out into the hallway. It's completely dark except for the few glowing exit signs at both ends of the building. I suspect Cory and his friends are already here, probably getting things ready for their big night. I just wonder where they have Drea.

The flashlight gripped in my hand, I do my best to navigate my way down the main corridor, toward the French room, without having to use it. I'm pretty sure no one can see me in such darkness; I'm just hoping no one will hear me as well. I feel like it's so loud inside my head right now-- my heart pumping, my stomach clenching, a screaming sensation behind my eyes.

I step on something that breaks my concentration, making me jump. I step again. It's soft beneath my feet, f scoot down to feel what it is. A cloth of some sort, like a tarp for painting. I reach out and feel the space around me--a cou

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pie cans of paint, I think; a few paint rollers; some rags. And a rope.

My heart starts pounding, thrashing inside my chest because I know just what it is. I swallow hard and inch my grip down the length until I feel it--them. Handles.

A jump rope.

I clamp my hand over my mouth to stop the screaming inside my head. Why are they doing this?

How do they know? A whimper escapes from my throat, f do my best to crawl free of everything without making any more noise.

Voices come from the end of the hallway--whispery voices that I can't identify. I wrestle myself up and move toward them, past the main entrance and now clearly back on linoleum flooring.

There's a scratching sound just to the right of me--an amplified scratching, like the sound is emanating from a speaker. I stop. My heart wallops inside my chest.

"Hello, Stacey," says the voice from the loudspeaker.
His
voice.

Donovan.

"Welcome back," he says.

My chin shakes. My knees soften. I feel my head start to spin, like my world could come crashing down at any moment.