Whatever Doesn't Kill You (4 page)

Katie was the one who finally convinced me we should at least drive by the place. “You don't have to talk to him or anything,” she told me. “Just see if you can get a glimpse of him. Who knows? Maybe something brilliant will pop into your head and you'll wind up confronting him after all. Or maybe it'll be enough just to get a look at him.”

And so Griffin and I venture out into the ridiculous cold—so cold the snot freezes in our noses the second we step outside—to hike the five blocks to Marie-Claire's to haul her out of bed.

I don't care if I look ridiculous: I'm bundled in an old coat of Simon's that makes me look like the Michelin Man, a fluffy hat and mittens I knit myself out of a bunch of mismatched yarn, and a pair of long johns under my track pants that make me waddle like a penguin. But at least I'm a warm penguin. Besides, it's Saturday, my day off from Ned Street and Ashley Walsh and all their clever little buddies. Nobody is going to mock me but Griffin, and I can always make fun of him right back.

Griffin, for his part, grouses the entire way: his hands are cold, his ears are cold. He's wearing a hoodie under his thin leather jacket, but the two layers combined aren't nearly enough to block the vicious wind, and I'm sure digging his hands into the pockets of his pants is making it tough to walk. Every piece of his clothing is designer-made and bought at some pricey boutique, but on his long, lanky frame somehow everything he wears hangs strangely and just looks odd. Griffin is as long and scrawny as Katie is short and round, and with his huge glasses and receding chin, he looks like some bizarre new species of exotic bird. The Long-Nosed Geek.

“Why don't you at least pull up the hood on your sweatshirt? That would give you one less thing to complain about anyway,” I suggest.

“I don't want to mess up my hair.”

“Good plan. I'm sure all the cheerleaders and fashionistas will be shocked to see you looking anything less than perfect.”

Marie-Claire lives in a picture-perfect five-bedroom house with her parents, little sister and grandmother. In the summer her
mémère
spends just about every daylight hour outside in the yard. There are rosebushes and every color of flower you can imagine, and I'm pretty sure I've heard her singing in French to the plants. I've seen her crawling around the yard for hours at a time, and I swear she straightens the blades of grass one by one.

Marie-Claire's mother opens the door for us with a big smile. “Griffin, you must be so cold! Would you like something hot to drink?”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Boulanger. Is Marie-Claire ready?”

“
Mon dieu,
no.” She gives a little laugh. “She is still sleeping. Maybe Jenna can go and wake her up?”

I've woken my sister after a two-day bender, but getting Marie-Claire out of bed is still a challenge. I plod up the stairs in my stocking feet and turn on the light in Marie-Claire's room, which doesn't make a huge amount of difference since the walls are painted black.

“Hey. Time to get up.” I jostle her feet, pull back the blankets a little. Marie-Claire grunts and rolls over. “Come on. It's freezing out and you're the only one with a driver's license.”

Finally she drags herself out of bed, wearing a red-and-white-striped T-shirt and a pair of pink pajama pants with teddy bears all over them. She catches me checking them out and shoots me a look that sends me scampering back downstairs to wait in the kitchen while she gets ready to go.

When Marie-Claire finally makes her appearance in the kitchen, she looks much more like herself. No more teddy-bear jammies; she's back to a half-inch layer of eyeliner and a dog collar and her thigh-high boots with the three-inch soles. I suspect she'll be colder than Griffin, but at least she has a car. Or, more accurately, her mother's baby-blue minivan. It's not exactly goth chic, but when you're almost seventeen with a brand-new driver's license, you don't want to get too picky about what you drive.

“So where are you going?” Marie-Claire's mother asks as we all wriggle back into our coats. I have more wriggling to do than everyone else, so I leave it to someone else to make up a story.

“We're going up to Limeridge Mall. Jenna needs a new winter coat.” The lie comes seamlessly out of Marie-Claire's mouth, much like a dozen others she tells her mother in the course of a week. I suppose Simon's old coat looks bad enough that it's a perfectly plausible lie, because Marie-Claire's mother nods and gives me a pat on the shoulder. “They should be on sale now. As soon as the cold weather arrives, they suddenly bring out all the spring and summer clothes. I think you will find something nice for a good price.”

I hadn't thought of getting a new coat up until this point, but apparently this battered old thing of Simon's makes me look like some kind of welfare case. Maybe something a little newer wouldn't be a bad idea. But not today.

Marie-Claire rubs her temples as we trudge down the driveway to the van. “Ugh. I am so hungover.”

“What did you do last night?” As if I couldn't guess.

“I went to a party at the university. I made out with this guy. I couldn't even tell you his name if you paid me. It was so much fun. I'm telling you, Jenna, you have to come with me sometime.”

“I don't think Jenna's a vampire party kind of girl. Shotgun.” Griffin races to the passenger door of the van before I can get there and waits for Marie-Claire to unlock it. I climb in the back, which is fine by me anyway. I'd rather not be in the front seat if we see Travis Bingham. I don't think he'd recognize me from my baby pictures in the newspaper way back when, but there's something that feels…off…about this whole adventure, and it makes me glad to have the tinted back windows of the van to hide behind. Like we're doing something a little bit creepy.
Stalking.
That's more than a little creepy, I suppose.

Katie is waiting outside her house when we get there, shivering on the porch. I slide over and let her get into the seat beside me, and we're off.

The halfway house is tucked away on a long, quiet street a few blocks from downtown. There are strollers and wagons stacked on most of the porches, and a bicycle chained to the streetlight across the road. I wonder if the inhabitants of all these other houses know they're living steps away from a murderer.

“So what are you going to do if he comes out?” Katie asks me.

“I don't know.”

“I think you should just walk up and spit on him.” That sounds almost classy when Marie-Claire says it:
Speet on 'im
. But it's still a gross idea. Besides, on a day this cold, the spit would probably freeze in midair. And I don't even know if I'm going to get out of the van if he comes out.

“You should have written him a note,” Katie says. “That way if he doesn't come out you could just go up and slip it in the mailbox.”

“Saying what?”

“I don't know, like a victim impact statement or something. Tell him about how messed up your sister is, and how much you've missed out on because you had to grow up without a dad, and what happened to your mom, and—”

“All right. Let me out.”

“What?”

“I'm getting out.” I scramble to climb over Katie to get to the sliding door on the other side of her. “You guys go up to Limeridge or something. I've got my phone. We can meet up for lunch or something later.”

Katie looks baffled. “But we wanted to be here for you.”

“Yeah, I know. You guys are awesome. Really. But… this is kind of my thing, you know? I think I really need to do this on my own.”

Marie-Claire looks crestfallen, like she's missing out on Christmas all of a sudden. Maybe it's something to do with her inner vampire, but she seems to get a kick out of other people's unhappiness. I think she wanted to see a real blowout between me and Travis Bingham.

“Are you sure?” she says. “Because I don't mind waiting. We can just drive around the block a little until—”

“No, go. I'm sure of it. I'll just catch the bus up the Mountain and meet you later on.”

I dig my hands into the pockets of Simon's old coat and watch the van turn the corner and disappear. I stare at the building across the street, just an ordinary building on an ordinary street.
This is insane
, I tell myself.
Are you just going to stand out here all morning?
What if he's not even there? What if he's been released,
or he's broken his parole and robbed another store and
he's back in prison for another fifteen years? What if—

I watch as the front door opens and a man steps out. It's not Travis Bingham—this guy's too old, too dark, more weathered-looking than the Travis I saw in this week's newspaper. He perches on the edge of the bench in front of the house and lights a cigarette. The man's wrinkled dress pants look flimsy, and I suspect the metal of the bench feels awfully cold through the thin fabric. He catches me staring at him and stares back. I wonder what he did to wind up there. Is he a murderer like Travis? A bank robber? A child molester? That last thought makes me a little nervous, and I start walking. Briskly, to beat the cold, or maybe to get away from the craggy old man smoking on the porch of the halfway house. I get down to the corner, turn right and head down the next street. It's a little after nine in the morning, and the neighborhood is slowly starting to come to life. People are shepherding kids with ice skates and hockey sticks out to cars, and I can see people through the windows of their houses watching Saturday-morning cartoons or making breakfast. I make another right turn, and another, a full trip around the block. The craggy man is gone when I pass the halfway house again. I suspect it's too cold to linger outside over a cigarette, even for a hard-core smoker.

I make another round of the block, and another. Even as bundled up as I am, I'm starting to feel the chill. My cheeks are burning. My toes are numb.

And then, on my fourth trip around the block, there he is. I can see him from a few houses away, perched in the other man's spot on the bench outside. He's wearing a coat that looks older than mine, a pair of ratty-looking jeans and the kind of mittens with the tops that flip open to turn them into a pair of fingerless gloves. I stop cold in my tracks—freezing cold, as a matter of fact, but too mesmerized to care.
He doesn't see me,
I realize, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my temples. His hair is tidy—short and sandy, probably cut not too long ago—and his face has a shiny, freshly shaven look. He's shifting back and forth, maybe cold, maybe—what? Nervous? I shake my head. Nah. Couldn't be.

I take a few more steps, and then suddenly he's looking right at me. There's no way he doesn't know I'm staring at him. I can't look away. I've seen his picture hundreds, thousands, of times, and now here he is, four houses away, two houses away and now the length of a driveway from me.

He speaks. “Cold enough for ya?”

“Yeah.” I can't believe he's talking to me. I can't believe I have nothing to say back to him but ridiculous small talk. His voice is higher than I thought it would be, more boyish than I expected. Somehow I figured he'd have a big, booming voice like the boogeyman I imagined he'd be.

“You look lost,” he says.

“I…um…” Why can't I lie like Marie-Claire? I'm sure she'd have something smooth and convincing to say right now. “I'm…looking for the bus stop,” I manage.

“Two blocks down, turn left.” He smiles, tipping his head to one side a little to show me which way I should go. “There's a stop about three blocks over. I hope you don't have to wait too long in this weather.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

I linger for a second longer, my gaze locking with his for a second, and a shudder runs down my spine as I get a good look at those cold, yellow-green eyes of his. Only they don't hold that same killer stare I remember from the front page of the paper. They're…nothing. Not evil, not soulless, just…eyes.

“Stay warm,” he calls as I turn and continue up the street, my hands clenched so tightly into fists inside my fuzzy mittens that I can feel them making half-moon fingernail marks on the insides of my palms.