I close my eyes, clench my fists, and remain still, trying not to breathe. I wait several seconds, but there's only silence.
Slowly, I creep toward the wall and pad my fingers across the planks to try and find the doorway opening. When I do, I stop in what I imagine is the middle of the room, trying to remember whether the front door is to the left or right. The blackness intensifies, shrouding my senses, making my head spin. I want to scream.
The footsteps continue toward me in the darkness, but then they stop; I'm sensing he's just inches away now. I press my body against the planks of wood, trying to squeeze myself through the open gaps to the outside. But it's no use. I can't fit. The only way I'm getting out is through the front door.
"Stacey?"
My chin shakes. Should I speak? Should I answer? I grip the protection bottle so tightly I think the glass might shatter.
"Stacey?" he repeats. "Is that you?"
"Yes."
He clicks the spotlight on over our heads and it takes several seconds before his image is more than a blur of light mixed with black. And then it hits me. The way he's looking at me-1---head sort of cocked to one side, eyebrows, arched, lips pressed together. It's him. The face in my nightmare. The one I saw but couldn't remember.
Donovan.
The sketch. The phase of the moon. The face in my dream. His constant obsession with Drea, and all the stuff in the backpack. Donovan.
He stands in the middle of the room, just below the spotlight. "You scared the shit out of me," he says. "I went
back to look for you, but you were gone and I are you all right?"
Teeth clenched, jaw stiff, I manage a nod.
"I think the coast is clear if you want to leave," he says. I nod a;ain, but don't move.
"Well?' he says. "What's wrong?"
I roll niy shoulders back and clench the protection bottle, reminding myself of strength and empowerment. "Where's Drea?"
"Drea?' The skin between his eyes gathers in a wrinkle, as though he's genuinely confused.
"I'm not leaving without her."
"You don't want to stay here, Stacey. Trust me. I know we haven t been the best of friends, or even friends for that matter. But you need to trust me on this. It's best if we both leave together.
I'll explain when we get back. But like I said before, I'm not leaving you out here alone."
I study his face for some sign of deceit. But his eyes don't flinch once. They stay locked on mine, making me almost believe him. Almost.
A bubble of energy explodes in my chest. "Tell me where Drea is. Now!"
"I told you, I don't know what you're talking about, but I think you better leave before it's too late."
"Tell me," I say, "or I'm not going anywhere."
"No!" he shouts. He lunges toward me, his hands at my shoulders, and pins me up against the wall.
I grab the protection bottle from my pocket, wrap my hands around the base, and thrust it into his groin--hard. Donovan stumbles back, lets out a short grunt. But it isn't enough. He grabs around my neck and presses the back of my head against a wooden plank.
"Donovan," I gasp, trying to swallow, feeling every muscle in my neck work.
The protection bottle tumbles from my fingers.
His hands lock tighter. Until I can't breathe at all, until my world falls silent.
I feel my lips part, my tongue fall forward, my eyelids twitter.
"Time to go home, now!" He releases his grip on my neck and I feel my knees give way. Down to the ground. My hands grasp around my neck. Coughing. Gasping. Trying to fill my lungs with breath.
The protection bottle is lying on the ground just inches away. Still gasping, I reach forward and snag it, and then stand to meet Donovan eye to eye. I can feel the grit of my teeth. I clench the protection bottle and, with all my might, whack it against the side of his head.
Donovan's head snaps back. He yelps and folds to the ground, the flashlight shooting from his hand. I snatch it up and run.
I know it will only be a matter of time before he rebounds and comes looking for me. I reach into my pocket for Amber's cell phone, but it isn't there, just the tiny flashlight. I stop, feel around in my other pockets, pull at the lining. Nowhere. Did I drop it? Stuff it in the backpack by accident?
I continue to run, wiping at the drool from my eyes-- tears mixed with cold air. The panting of my breath seems even louder than the breaking of sticks under my feet as I run. It feels like broken glass under my wounded, bare foot, like I might not be able to go on.
And then, right below my stomach, a sting, a pulling.
I have to pee.
I aim the flashlight in my random path, its beam illuminating pieces of forest in long and narrow clips. The urge grows more painful with each step. I need to find some place to go. I stop a second, behind a tree, and cross my legs.
I have to trust my body, what it's telling me, where it will lead me. I hold my hand between my legs and fight the urge to give up. What does this mean? What can it tell me? And then it finally hits me the place my body is propelling me to go is the same place I'll find Drea. S HDN. She's hidden. Drea will be hidden inside.
I hobble back in the direction of the construction site. I need to get there, get her out, and flee this forest, before Donovan kills us both.
thirty-rour
I find the porta-john--an eight-foot-tall, celery-green, fiberglass box--just behind the construction site. It's been tipped onto its side.
I prop the flashlight against a rock, on the ground, angling its beam toward me. Then I -squat down and feel around the sides of the box. The door faces sideways. I pull at it, noticing a long steel rod wedged into a finger-sized loophole beside the lock on the outer edge of the box. The rod rests over the door crack, pinning the box closed.
"Drea," I whisper into the door crack.
No response.
I pull at the rod, trying to dislodge it out from the loop, the urge to pee now suddenly quelled.
"Drea," I whisper again, "can you hear me?" I grip my hands around the rod, hard, but my fingers just slide across the metal with each pull.
I want to cry. I want to be sick. But I can't do either. There isn't time. Drea is depending on me. I have to depend on myself.
I search the ground. There has to be something. A rock. I need a rock. There, in the flashlight's beam, I notice one, about the size of a softball. I pick it up in both hands. Look at it. Feel its ample weight, the nice smooth side.
I squat back down, raise the rock high above my head, and strike the end of the rod. It moves about three inches through the loop. Another foot to go.
I repeat the action, over and over again, watching the rod slowly inch its way from the door crack. Wondering where Donovan is, if he can hear me. The muscles in my arms quiver. Only three more hits. Maybe four. But the next couple times, the rod doesn't seem to budge at all. I close my eyes, try to control my panting, and direct my breath into my arms to give them strength. I raise the rock, one last time, and whack the end of the rod. It skates through the loop.
Finally, the door is free.
I throw the door open. There she is. Fetal position. Eyes wide, like a cat. Her hair, tousled and dirty over her face. Thick pieces of duct tape over her mouth, around her wrists and ankles.
The raw, foul stench from the box slaps me across the face, make my stomach wince. I grab her wrists and slide her toward the opening. I can hear her sobbing beneath the tape. Her head quivers, like she's scared and cold at the same time. I grab a corner of the tape, by her ear, and pull until her mouth is free, until her sobs are unleashed.
"Drea," I plead, "you have to keep quiet." I look around. No Donovan yet.
I fumble with the tape around her ankles for the end, where I can pull, but I can't get my fingers to work fast enough. Drea continues to sob thick, hungry sobs, like she can't get enough breath.
She scrunches her knees up and down, like that will release the tape. "Drea," I breathe, you need to keep still."
I find the end of the tape. I yank on it and start unraveling layer after layer from around her ankles. I glance over my shoulder again. Still clear, though I can sense him getting closer. Drea wriggles her feet back and forth as I get closer to the end. "Stop," I whisper. "You're making it harder."
She wails out even louder. He must have heard us by now.
I free her ankles from the tape, stand up, and grab at her arms to pull her up. She won't budge.
Dead weight. "Drea, come on," I plead.
She focuses down and shakes her head, just keeps on crying.
"Drea, please. I need your help. He's coming, don't you understand? He killed Veronica. We could be next."
She curls her knees into her chest and tightens her eyelids shut to block me out. I take a deep breath in, squat
down, place one arm under her knees, the other around her back, and try to pick her up cradle-style.
I wrestle to stand up, putting all the weight in my legs, but the bottom of my foot feels like it's tearing open; there's a burning, itching sensation boring into my arch. I take a step and end up falling down against my back,- Drea toppling over me, crying even louder now.
I reach into my pocket for the protection bottle. I position it in her hands and watch her fingers, soiled and bloody at the nubs, wrap around the base.
"Remember strength," I whisper. 'And safety."
This seems to calm her a bit. The tears slide down her cheeks with less energy and her eyes cool down into a blank stare.
Straight ahead, just beyond us, I notice a shifting in the bushes. I slide Drea off me and grab the flashlight. I beam the area, but can't see anything. There's only one thing left to do.
I clutch my hands under Drea's arms from behind and start to drag her away, the heels of her boots digging into the earth, as if she's trying to anchor herself in place.
I drag her backwards as fast as I can, trying to check over my shoulder for direction. I search up into the sky for the North Star to make sure I'm leading us back to campus, but the treetops have blocked the view, made it darker. I lead us into an area laden with tall, overgrown bushes.
Drea looks back at me and her mouth arches wide in a scream. Loud. Crazed.
A blade presses against my neck, forcing me to drop her.
"Don't you wish you had gone back to campus, now?" Donovan breathes. He holds me in a headlock, the point of the blade needling into my skin.
"No!" Drea shouts. She lifts her arms toward her head, like she wants to cover her ears, block everything out, but her bound wrists make it impossible.
"Donovan--" The ball in my throat bobs up and down beneath his grip. "Drea--she needs help, a doctor."
"You did this. This is your fault." Donovan releases the headlock and pushes me to the ground; I land smack on my butt. "Hands behind your back!" he shouts.
I comply.
He squats down beside Drea, but keeps one eye on me. He touches the side of her face, the blade brushing against her cheek, and lifts her chin so she'll look at him. "It's okay now. Everything's going to be okay."
Drea shakes her head.
"I had to do this." He rubs her bound wrists. "Don't you understand?" He crouches down even further to study her--her red, runny eyes, the dried-up veins of black mascara that bleed down her cheeks, the bits of dirt that surround her pasty, white mouth, the way she's rocking back and forth, crying, gasping for breath. "I had to tie you up like this; you said you wanted to leave. I had to make you listen; I had to make you understand."
There's a long, forklike branch lying just beyond reach. Focusing on Donovan, I sit up tall, rengthening my spine, trying to inch myself toward it.
"I love you, Drea," Donovan continues. "That's why I planned all this. The house, the picnic, the lilies." He smiles,
as though the explanation will give her pleasure. "I only hid you because I didn't want anyone to find you. Don't you understand how that would have ruined everything? If you come back to the house with me again I can show you all I've planned. I'll show you the place where I dug out your name, where I've planted lily bulbs that will spell out the letters."
Drea's breathing is getting worse, wheezing, the more he talks to her.
"Donovan," I say, "I know you want what's best for her. But she's freezing. She's having trouble breathing. She needs a doctor."
"No!" Donovan shouts. He points the blade toward my face and his hand shakes with rage. "Not until she understands." He focuses back on her but keeps the blade pointed at me, midair. "I'll take care of her. I'm the only one who knows how"
I stretch my leg out and try to reach the branch with my foot.
"I love you, Drea." He pats the side of her face. 'And I know you love me too. I know you used to love talking to me... on the phone--our long conversations." His eyes, teary and desperate, await her response, her affirmation.
Drea's crying gets louder, more forceful with each breath. She huddles deeper into her crouch and continues to rock back and forth.
"What's the matter with you?" Donovan shouts. "Why won't you say anything? Why won't she say anything?" He turns to glare at me over the blade.
"You killed Veronica," I say. "You called her and sent her notes and lilies, just like Drea."
Donovan shakes his head. "It was an accident. She took my idea for a surprise and twisted it all around for her own needs." Donovan stabs the knife into the earth repeatedly. "She wanted to scare you, Drea. She wanted to pretend that she was getting stalked and then disappear, so you'd think something really bad happened to her. She thought that if you got scared enough, you'd leave campus and she'd be able to have Chad."
I watch the knife plunge into the dirt over and over again, watch his shoulders; wonder if I'd be able to lunge at him, hold his arm down. I inch myself to the left, closer to the branch.
His eyes remain focused on Drea, on trying to convince her. had to stop her, Drea," he continues.
"I didn't want to do what I did. You have to believe me. I'm not like that. You know I'm not like that. She wanted to scare you into leaving school. Don't you understand? I couldn't let her do that."
He continues to stab at the ground, the blade getting closer and closer to his knee. It's almost like he really does love her. Or at least he thinks he does. So maybe that's what my nightmares were trying to tell me. Maybe love really is funny--funny strange. Maybe even bizarre. I glance at Drea, still rocking back and forth, her eyes still blank.
Donovan takes a breath and plunges the blade down into his knee, penetrating the skin, drawing a gash of blood. He removes the knife with a slight flinch but continues stabbing the ground, like it doesn't matter, like he
doesn't feel it. He wants Drea to answer him, to tell him that everything will be happily ever after. I'm not even sure she's listening.
Using the ball of my foot, I slowly guide the branch inward, bending my knee just slightly to get it closer, the blood sopping through my sock now.
"She was no good, Drea," Donovan pleads. "She said you were a slut."
I break my hands from the clasp behind my back. The branch is now within reach. I grab it and Donovan notices. "What are you doing?" he shouts.
I stand up and swing the branch at Donovan's knife-holding hand. But instead of dropping it, he intercepts the swing and nabs the branch from me.
He gets up, breaks the branch over his knee in two places, and throws the pieces to the side.
I look around for something else to protect myself. A rock, over to the right. I move toward it but Donovan grabs me, shoves my back up against a tree. He clasps my wrists together in his hand, holds them over my head, and presses the knife against my cheek. "You think you're smarter than I am, don't you? Don't you?"
I shake my head.
He draws a line with the blade down my cheek, over my chin, and then points the tip into my throat.
"No!" Drea screams.
I look over Donovan's shoulder. Drea is standing, her fingers tightly woven together, wrapped around
the protection bottle.
Donovan takes a step back to look at her. "Drea?"
"No!" she cries, shaking her head.
Donovan's grip on my hands loosens. "Drea?" His hips angle in her direction. He releases my hands but keeps me pinned with the knife.
I let my arms fall gradually, grab his knife-holding hand, and bite it--hard, through the skin. He lets out a deep, throaty wail and drops the knife.
"Drea!" I shout.
She grapples for the knife and gets it, holds it tightly in her hands with the protection bottle.
"Give it to me, Drea," I say.
Instead she points the blade at him.
Donovan extends his arms toward her, like he wants to calm her down, take the knife. "Drea," he says. "Be careful with that. You don't know what you're doing."
"No!" Drea breathes, the knife shaking in her grip. "Down. Sit down."
Donovan motions to sit, but then lurches at her, grabs her wrist, and squeezes the knife right out of her hands.
His back facing me, I take a step toward him, position myself sideways to kick out with my sneakered foot, and plunge my heel with all my strength into the back of his leg. The knife jumps from his grip. He falls to his knees. I move to grab the knife, just before his fingers snatch it up.
"Hold it." These are the words that flash across my mind, but it isn't me who says them. I look up.
It's Officer Tate. She emerges from a nest of trees opposite us and leads a few other officers in our direction. She walks straight toward me. "Drop the knife and step back," she says.
I do, knowing that finally we're safe.
Officer Tate wraps a pair of silver cuffs around Donovan's wrists and reads him his rights.
Another officer removes his own jacket and wraps it around Drea's shoulders. He motions to grab the protection bottle from her grip, but she pulls away. Instead he just unwinds the tape from her wrists.
I kind of just stand there, taking it all in, relieved I don't have to fight anymore.
Donovan takes one last look at Drea before Officer Tate escorts him away.