Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:
Bullying and sexual harassment are an unfortunate part of adolescence. If a behavior or interaction makes you uncomfortable or upset, then it qualifies as harassment. Whatever you do, don’t blame yourself. Nobody “asks for it.” Although all situations are different, you can start by disclosing your uneasiness and telling the person to stop. If s/he refuses, take up the issue with an adult. It can be embarrassing at first, but most schools have policies in place to help you.
The sinking feeling had begun long before they’d left the outskirts of East Lake Pines. And yet, she’d held her tongue, forcing herself to believe that all was well. Now, the passage of time only highlighted her folly. Outside her window, snow blasted in a horizontal direction across the desolate two-lane highway. They may as well be on a grand expedition somewhere in the Arctic Circle, she thought miserably. If she were to leave, where would she go? And, more importantly, what would happen if she tried?
The outing had begun innocently enough. She and Christophe chatted about the approaching storm, about some thriller bestseller everybody and their brother was reading, about several popular restaurants they passed by on their way across town, about nothing in particular.
Lulled by the benign conversation, she was scarcely paying attention as Christophe signaled onto the highway ramp at the edge of town. Glistening fields and painted red barns flew past her window, giving way to woods, then row upon row of dense pines as they sped north.
A good hour and a half had passed by the time she’d worked up the nerve to inquire after his plans for them. He’d smiled and given her an odd look, a look that had silenced any further inquiries on her part. In truth, her ignorance was a farce. On some level she’d known, the minute she’d heard the knock and opened the door to find Christophe on the other side.
They’d stopped for gas and snacks at a Quick Mart just off the highway. He left her to wait in the truck, taking the keys and disappearing inside. She watched him head straight for the bathrooms in the rear of the store. Her foot brushed against the purse at her feet and a thought occurred to her. Slowly, cautiously, she inched the bag up onto her lap. Feigning interest in a shivering gas station attendant, she began sorting blindly through her belongings: wallet, keys, tissue travel pack, lip gloss, sunglasses. Where had it gone? Her heart racing, she bent over, hastily scanning the interior, tossing the contents around in a mad jumble. No cell phone.
However, an object of interest caught her eye. What she’d initially mistaken for lip gloss was in fact the small canister of pepper spray Nathan had given her the night of the musical. Seizing the tube, she let her purse drop to the floor. But her hands were trembling so that it slipped from her grasp. She cried out, fumbling to catch it before it rolled under the seat. In an instant it was gone.
She’d panicked then, pumping the handle on the door in an attempt to slide below the seat for a better view. But something was wrong. No matter how hard she pushed, the door wouldn’t budge. She looked up in time to see him watching her as he paid for his merchandise at the front of the store.
Back behind the wheel, he’d offered her a bottle of water and a Snickers bar. “Your favorite,” he’d said.
She’d thanked him but set the items carefully aside, her appetite gone. As if the missing phone wasn’t alarming enough, she’d watched Christophe exit the Quick Mart, cross the parking lot, and climb into the truck…no crutch. Not even the slightest hint of a limp.
The first flurries had appeared as they reentered the highway. Christophe said nothing, pleasant chitchat a thing of the past. She’d stared straight ahead and tried not to think about crashing. Driving on the highway, never mind in terrible weather, was another one of her phobias, ever since Max and Ashton. After a while the dancing snowflakes lulled her into a kind of stupor and she closed her eyes, a fitful sleep overtaking her.
Her eyes opened to blinding white. She jerked upright in her seat, grasping both armrests as she looked this way and that. While the truck seemed to have no trouble handling the slick pavement, she herself was gripped by the unsettling sensation of slipping and sliding across a sheet of ice. For the first time the bleakness of her situation truly sank in. And she was afraid.
“Our exit,” she heard him say.
At the stop sign he turned right. Moments later the headlights illuminated a sign in the shape of a Christmas tree: Whispering Pines, population 347. They crept on, crawling through snow-covered streets to the center of town. A dated-looking supermarket, a Hardee’s, and several taverns surrounded the lone traffic light. The place looked completely deserted, like some old Western town, except rather than clouds of dust there happened to be a blizzard.
Christophe pulled into the Hardee’s parking lot. He hopped out without a word, then appeared suddenly at her door, giving her a good startle. He seemed to have no trouble whatsoever opening her door (from the other side).
“Coffee break,” he said. “Stretch your legs.”
The air outside felt absolutely frigid, but his tone led her to believe that to decline this generous offer would be unwise. He helped her down, hugging her firmly around the shoulders as they hustled toward the front entrance. The wind whipped past her ears. Snowflakes swirled in mad spirals, colliding with her exposed skin, stealing down the neck of her thin pink sweater. She wore no coat; he’d rushed her out the door before she’d had the chance to grab one.
Inside she stomped the snow from her feet as she pried wet strands of hair from her eyes. Arm in arm they made their way up to the counter. A heavily made-up girl roughly her age waited at the register, wearing a look of extreme boredom. The girl eyed the two and only customers with interest, as if trying to pin down the exact relationship.
“You guys must be seriously starving to be out in this weather,” she remarked, snapping her gum. “What can I get ya?”
“Just a large coffee, please,” Christophe replied.
“Will that be all?” She looked disappointed.
He nodded curtly.
“Nothing for the Mrs.?” the girl said, her eyes traveling to Vivien and back.
The question seemed to catch him off guard. He turned to Vivien, and raised an eyebrow. “Darling?”
She opened her mouth, swaying away from him slightly.
He returned his attention to the girl, a look of enjoyment on his face. “It appears not.”
“Okey-dokey,” the girl replied, smiling herself as if she was in on the joke. She snapped the plastic lid on the coffee and pushed it toward him. “Cream and sugar? Just a guess, but I feel like you’re a guy with a wicked sweet tooth.” Her eyes grew seductively wide as she dropped the change into the palm of his hand.
Christophe returned the look, his hand closing briefly around hers. Then he released her, raising his cup in a gesture of farewell.
Vivien eyed the sign for the ladies’ room with longing. Already they were leaving and he wasn’t going to let her leave his side. She’d allowed herself the sliver of hope of sneaking off to scratch a message on the bathroom wall, maybe even escape out a back window.
But any such hope was promptly extinguished as Christophe reined her in tighter, his grip verging on painful as he maneuvered her toward the exit.
“Take care!” the girl called out. “You’ve got trouble there. I mean, with the storm and all.”
Christophe acknowledged this premonition with a thin smile, and the couple swiftly departed.
Inside the truck, Vivien sat shivering while Christophe circled outside, clearing the snow from the windows. She focused on what she was going to say to him when he returned. She would ask him why he’d brought her here, so many miles away, without so much as a word of explanation. But even as the questions took shape, she knew she’d lose her nerve. For the Christophe she thought she knew had vanished. This is bad was all she could think. It was going to end badly.
They exited the parking lot in silence, turning westward, and soon passed another sign announcing the beginnings of the Linc
oln County Forest Preserve. At once the road began to wind through majestic snowcapped evergreens, their rich scent joining the warm air that blew in through the vents.
“Breathtaking, isn’t it?”
His comment left an opening and she grasped at it, tiptoeing forward with delicacy. “It’s beautiful. You’ve been here before?”
“I have a place on the lake.” He gestured vaguely down the road. “Nothing fancy.”
“And that’s where we’re going?”
He gave a slight nod.
She waited several minutes before she said quietly, “Why didn’t you tell me? Before?”
He looked straight ahead and spoke with equal softness, “Would you have come?”
She swallowed and turned her face away.
Eventually they left the road, turning down a narrow drive, tires crunching over freshly fallen snow. He seemed to know the way by heart, anticipating the sharp curves before they appeared. At last they came to a halt before the vague outline of a cabin.
“Wait here,” he said, hopping out. She watched him jog across the beam of the headlights, then vanish.
Eyeing the keys as they dangled from the ignition, a burst of adrenaline ran through her. What was to stop her from sliding over and throwing the car into reverse? She envisioned her escape: pedal pushed to the floor as the truck fishtailed its way up the long drive to Forest Road. If only she knew how to drive.
She’d driven once. With Declan. And now she wondered about him. What was he doing right now? Was he looking for her? Or had her foolishness finally driven him away once and for all?
A light pierced the darkness and she turned toward it, seeing for the first time the small, box-shaped log cabin. The front door stood ajar and Christophe soon emerged. He’d changed his clothes, this final transformation erasing the old Christophe with brusque finality. His look was solemn, his gait purposeful.
Leaning into the car, he cut the lights, the engine, and pocketed the keys. He walked around to her side, opened the door and said, “Come with me.”
Inside the cabin, she stood hesitantly, a mere step past the doorframe, forcing him to physically pick her up and set her aside in order to close the door. She remained in this new spot, rubbing her hands up and down her arms, shivering uncontrollably.
He strode ahead of her into the main living area where she could see a faded plaid sofa and two chairs arranged before a generous hearth. He pulled a thick wool blanket from the back of the sofa and tossed it at her. “Use this. Until I get the fire going.”
She mumbled her thanks and wrapped herself snugly, getting a strong whiff of mothballs and cigarettes in the process.
Christophe began poking around in the fireplace. A few minutes later he stood and turned, looking at her in a slightly irritated fashion for she was still hanging back like a child unsure of her surroundings. “Sit,” he said, gesturing toward the sofa. “I’m going for wood.” With that, he breezed past her and slammed the door.
Lowering herself stiffly, she mouthed his last word: wo-od. Two syllables, not one. Where had the French accent gone? All at once he was sounding as if he originated not from the rolling hills of the French countryside but from the backwaters of the Deep South. She frowned. It was all coming together now, bit by bit. The farther they’d driven from home, the more she’d noticed a changing of the skin—like a reptile—and her trembling recommenced with increased strength.
The sound of the door followed by heavy footsteps spurred her to sink deeper inside the scratchy cocoon. Peering over the edge, she watched him unload the logs and arrange them teepee-fashion before lighting the brushwood beneath. As the warmth spread, her thoughts shifted to Declan once again, to the teasing he’d given her the night they lay before the fire in her apartment. The night had held such promise, only to end in disaster. With bitter irony she recalled how Declan had assured her things could only get better. On that—finally—he’d been dead wrong.
The wood began to crackle. Christophe stepped back and admired his work. Brushing his hands against his pant legs, he turned to look at her. Apparently satisfied she’d remain where he wanted her, he crossed the room and disappeared. The sound of running water and the echo of rattling glass filtered in through the blanket. She watched his return in silence, remarking on the bottle of beer that dangled by his side.
He stood before her, staring. “Warm now?” he said at last.
Wa-arm na-ow? The unfamiliar twang tore through her heart like an arrow, splitting to shreds every intimacy they’d shared in their faux friendship. She felt humiliated, betrayed, but above all, terrified. In a dry throat, her voice rose, barely above a whisper, “Who are you?”
Getting out of town was hell.
The snow had begun in earnest as they pulled away from the old brown bungalow. Traffic speed was down to a crawl. Behind the wheel of the Saab, Nathan cursed nonstop, switching lanes with such frequency Declan was beginning to get whiplash. In a last-ditch effort to outfox the snarl, Nathan pulled off the main road, cutting through a string of interconnected neighborhoods, only to be thwarted by complete deadlock as he attempted to rejoin the road farther ahead.
“Calm down, man,” Declan said. “I can’t take another two hours of you ranting like a lunatic.”
Nathan shrugged. “Sorry, dude. I just want to reach the highway before we blow through a whole tank of gas.”
“We will,” Declan replied, muttering quietly, “If you don’t kill us first.” Suddenly his phone buzzed in his back pocket. He checked the number and hesitated a moment before answering. “Hey, Mom.” This was the third time she’d called.
“Dec! Thank goodness. Why didn’t you pick up your phone? Where are you?”
His mind scrambled to come up with something that would keep her off his back. “I’m with Nathan,” he replied, opting to omit further details.
“You’re not out on the roads, are you?” came the inevitable response.
“Uh…” Declan grimaced. “We’re…we’ll be at the Y in a sec, Mom. The roads aren’t that bad, anyway,” he lied. “Plus traffic’s moving extremely slow, so…”
“The Y?” He could almost hear her turning this over. “Just be careful, dear,” she said at last, then paused. “Listen.” Her tone was suddenly guarded. “I don’t want to upset you, but I’ve looked all over the house and I can’t find Cocoa.”
Declan frowned, trying to recall if she’d been lying in her usual spot on the kitchen rug when he came home from school. He didn’t think she had. “What do you mean?” he said. “You looked everywhere? The front yard, too?” Maybe Cocoa had gotten out and was wandering the neighborhood, freezing her tail off.
“Yes. The house, the yard…I even walked up and down the street calling to her. Do you think she ran off? That’s so unlike her.”
“I don’t know.” Declan wished he were there to help look. It was unlike Cocoa to run off. She was old, her days of adventure over. Arthritis and an overzealous appetite had left her craving the comforts of home. “I’m sure she’ll show up soon,” he said, trying to sound confident, but only half believing this himself. “Look, we’re here, so I gotta run. I’ll be out late. The guys and I are working on a Spanish dialogue tonight. Don’t wait up. And Mom, don’t get crazy about the dog, OK?”
“Declan—”
“Love ya. Bye.” He hung up.
Nathan turned and gave him a curious look. “What’s up?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Extraordinary happenings were coming at him with such speed he was having trouble avoiding a head-on collision. “Cocoa. Apparently she’s missing.”
Nathan, too, seemed to need a moment to digest this latest news. “Hmmm,” he said at last. “Interesting.” Another pause. “That makes three.”
“Three what?”
“Three people missing,” Nathan replied. “Well, technically, two people and one canine.”
Declan stared at him, open-mouthed, and it dawned on him that Nathan was right. Cocoa was the thir
d thing. Too frickin’ weird. “You think it’s somehow related?” he said.
Nathan held up his hands.
He began to try to fit the pieces together. “What’ve we got so far? Vivien’s at the house. She’s alone. She’s not going anywhere, ’cause she doesn’t have a car. And she can’t drive.”
“She can’t drive?”
Declan scowled. “I told you that already, dipshit. Now shut up. I’m trying to think.” He paused, trying to regain his train of thought. “She’s in the house. Cocoa too, let’s assume. At least, I know she was when I left this morning. Then what?”
“Vivien gets lonely. She calls Frenchie.”
Declan flinched. He didn’t like it, but went along anyway for the sake of theorizing. “Fine. Maybe she does. But what’s the big emergency? She was exhausted last night. She wasn’t even feeling well. I had to give her a bunch of painkillers, which totally knocked her out. She probably didn’t get out of bed ’til noon.” He stopped, perplexed. “She was supposed to take it easy. And we were gonna go to the hospital when I got home.” The more he thought about it, the more illogical it seemed. “Why the hell would she just take off with that A-hole, never even seeing her mom at all?” A sudden rage overcame him and he had to stop this line of thinking.
At last, when the anger had subsided somewhat, he was able to resume. “Let’s just keep it simple. She calls him. They talk. He blows off his job—”
“Hey, anything for a blow job!” Nathan interrupted, cracking himself up. “Get it? Blows off his job? Blow job?”
Declan shot him a look and his mouth snapped shut.
“He meets her at my house,” Declan continued. “They leave.” But keeping it simple was beyond his abilities. “Right in the middle of all the shit that’s going down, she leaves? Not a word to anyone?” He laughed; the whole thing was unreal. “But hold up! As an afterthought, the happy couple decides to bring the dog along for company?”
Nathan shook his head. “How ’bout this, dude: the dick comes over and, being the giant pussy he is, is afraid of dogs, so Vivs has to hide her in the basement. Did your mom check down there?”
“Nah.” Declan dismissed this theory. “She’d bark. She hates the basement.” Nothing made sense. “Shit!”
“Ah…freedom at last,” Nathan said as he cleared town and accelerated onto the highway.
Some traffic remained, but the majority was heading in the opposite direction. As the lights of East Lake Pines faded, Declan allowed himself the passing awareness that they were now embarking upon a questionable and admittedly rash mission. But then it was gone, and his thoughts moved on to address the challenge ahead.
The Saab settled into a steady speed—a conservative forty-five miles per hour due to the snow—and a careful silence filled the car. Nathan connected his MP3 player and they spent the next hour lost in their own thoughts as the music played on.
Declan was the first to break the spell. Turning to Nathan, he shut the music off and said, “Did I tell you I found her cell stashed away in the flour?”
Nathan shot him a puzzled look.
“Vivien’s cell. It was in the flour,” he repeated. “You know, in one of those canister things on the kitchen counter. I got home and she wasn’t there. And I called her. That’s when I found it.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Is it just me or is that weird?”
Nathan stared at him. “Definitely weird, dude.” For a moment he was silent, then, “So you and Vivs—it’s gettin’ serious, huh?”
Declan stiffened. Was it? It was hard to say how he felt. They’d certainly left each other in a bad way. He remembered the first time he’d seen her, standing in the gym at Lakewood. She’d been staring at him, he was sure of it, but when he caught her eye, she’d blushed the shade of Nate’s Saab and looked away. And then, they’d nearly collided in the office doorway. He’d gotten a good look at her then. She was tiny. And beautiful. And pissed off at him—for some reason he hadn’t quite understood. But he’d been drawn to her nonetheless. Not just her looks, all of her. Right then and there, he’d wanted to get her number. He almost did, but having an audience had put him off. He was going to have to get her alone.
Nathan noted the absence of any response and didn’t press further. Rather he opened up a new angle. Something they’d both been thinking but had yet to bring out in the open. “Do you really think she’s in trouble?” The question hung in the air, heavy and ominous.
“Like, no one knows this guy,” Nathan continued. “And I gotta say, he gives off this twisted sort of vibe, you know? Maybe he’s got plans for her. And not just an intimate dinner for two.”
Declan waited a while before saying, “The thought has crossed my mind.”
“Damn!” Nathan exclaimed, slapping his thigh. “We should be packin’ heat! I know where my dad keeps his guns. I could’ve brought one, easy.”
Declan’s eyes grew wide. Seriously? But then, it wasn’t that hard to picture: a gun-toting Nate, hot on the trail of suspense, violence, bloodshed. The image filled him with horror. “We’re not about to gun anybody down. OK?”
Nathan grunted. After a moment he met Declan’s eyes with a look of sympathy. “Hey, relax. It’s gonna work out. There’s probably a logical explanation for everything.”
Declan nodded but said nothing.
With each passing minute, the gusts of snow intensified and Nathan was forced to reduce his speed even further. “This sucks the big one,” he muttered, staining to see through the frantic swish of the wipers. “Are we anywhere near the place?”
Declan waited for the next road sign, squinting as he tried to make it out. “I’m guessing another hour at least, at this rate.”
“Fuck. I gotta take a leak.”
Declan sighed. “Just wait. There’s a Hardee’s in Whispering Pines, I think.” Picturing the fast food chain made him begin to salivate and he realized he was starving. “We’ll stop, get food, and then…start hunting for the cabin.”
“My man’s got a plan,” Nathan said, nodding away. “My man’s got a plan.”
He chose not to answer her at first. Instead he returned to stand before the hearth in silence. After a moment he reached for the fire iron and began to fiddle with the logs. A poke, a swig of beer, a poke again, until every last drop had been drained. He belched and tossed the bottle onto a nearby chair. At last he turned to face her.
“My identity is irrelevant.”
She let his words sink in, then sat up abruptly. “Irrelevant?” The outburst amused him and he laughed. She gritted her teeth, looking away. “Obviously you’re not French.”
His look of amusement remained as he studied her. “A pity. You were fond of Christophe.”
It was too much. Clumsily she leapt to her feet and glared at him. Her breath came in rapid gasps. “Is this all one big joke to you?”
His face fell in injury. “Not at all. I’ll have you know I’m taking this very seriously.”
She puffed her lip. She had no idea what to say to such a remark. So many questions filled her head, yet at the same time a voice inside warned her not to pry too deeply. This man before her seemed unpredictable, on the brink of possible insanity. And she knew without a doubt that her situation was grave. He had her where he wanted her. He could do as he pleased. Not a soul knew she was here, and the nearest cabin was at least a mile away. Could she really afford the slighted girlfriend act? Everything about this place—about him—screamed No!
She shifted all of her focus toward breathing evenly. “I’m sorry,” she said finally, sinking slowly back down. Her apology appeared to please him and his expression softened. Glancing around the cabin, she tried a different approach. “I like this place. It’s so…cozy. How often do you come here?”
“Whenever time permits,” he replied. Then with a sigh, he strode purposefully out of the room. Soon she heard the pop and fizz of another bottle. And another. Peering around the corner, he raised the two beers in unison. “Thirsty?”
&nbs
p; She shook her head. “How could I forget?” he sneered. “You’re a good girl.” He took several gulps as he wandered back to her. “Just as well. More for me.”
Her body tensed. All at once it became clear that he planned on working toward a soundly drunken state. And this did not bode well for her. “You must be hungry,” she pointed out, hoping to delay the inevitable. “You haven’t eaten all day.”
He swallowed, shaking his head emphatically. “No, no. No food required. I’m in the midst of a crucial fast. A pathway to a higher state.”
She watched him nervously. “But I could make you something,” she insisted. “We could sit down like we used to. And talk.”
“I’m afraid that’s no longer possible. It is unfortunate…for you.”
Her shoulders sagged as she attempted to make sense of his riddles. No longer possible. What did that mean? What had changed? She got the feeling they were simply playing parts in their very own homemade tragedy. Act One appeared to be over, but what happened in Act Two? And how many acts were there? Without more information her chances of survival seemed remote. “How can I play my part if I don’t know the rules?” she mused out loud.
He chuckled, slamming the empty bottle on the wooden chest and beginning straight away on the next. “The rules are: I make the rules.” After a moment of contemplation he added, “Or perhaps all conventions are out the window from this point forward.”
His answers revealed nothing. “I know one thing for sure,” she said. “Your performance will suffer if you keep drinking like that. You’ll lose your edge.”
He paused, bottle midway to mouth. “Eluding the edge is precisely the point, dearest Rose” he replied, his voice suddenly sober.
Hopelessness set in. “Please,” she cried. “Please don’t shut me out. I can help. I want to.”
He cocked his head, his face clouded in confusion. “There is no relief,” he said at last. “It is always present.”
She tried to reason with him once more. “No. Listen. Is there any truth in what we had?” She reached out to him, but her hand faltered in the air. “I know what you’re feeling,” she said. “You’re not alone.”
To her dismay, her treatise of compassion produced the very opposite effect. His face colored and he spun away from her, removing himself once again to the fire. His entire body shook and twitched in spasms. At length, he spoke. “You know nothing of what I feel. If you did…you’d run like hell.”
His words were flat, devoid of emotion, and sent an ominous chill through her bones. She watched him thrust the poker with greater and greater zeal, sending sporadic sprays of orange sparks dancing up the chimney. She shifted uncomfortably on the sunken sofa cushions, recalling her need to use the bathroom. And quite suddenly, the thought of being separated from this insanity by four solid walls and a door—and, if she was lucky, a lock—was extraordinarily compelling.
Cautiously she rose to her feet and began inching toward the hallway on the left, keeping her eyes glued to the back of his head. He appeared to take no notice. Emboldened, she quickened her pace but froze when he made a sudden movement. Without a doubt, he could see her slinking away out of the corner of his eye. He was no fool. Once her pulse was reasonably steady, she cleared her throat softly. “Um…is it all right if I use the bathroom? Just for a second? Is it this way?” She pointed meekly down the darkened hallway.
Slowly he turned to face her, and at that precise moment she caught sight once more of that peculiar third presence, the one that had hung back patiently as he waited for her in—what seemed a lifetime ago—the Miereses’ kitchen.
Her alarm registered in his eyes. And she thought she saw in them a hint of regret, so fleeting that by the time she was able to identify it, it had vanished. No reply was given save the slight arching of a single brow, revealing for the first time, she noted, a jagged white scar receding into his hairline.
Electing to interpret this as a sign of consent, she pivoted on the balls of her feet and set off in the direction indicated, holding her breath as she tiptoed along, as if fully aware she had a narrow window of time in which to reach her destination.
And she came so very close, her foot scarcely crossing the corroded metal strip that separated the hardwood from the tiny blue-and-white checked tiles when she heard, then felt the sharp crack against her skull, and the cold hard floor rose up to greet her.
Twenty-Five