Blood Brothers (6 page)

“Murdered?” Lucy choked out at last. “But . . . but . . . no—she had an accident! That's what the police said last night—that Wanda had an
accident
.”

“Well, the thing is, I don't believe we ever
officially
called it an accident,” the sheriff said.

Lucy's mind raced backward—back to the candlelight vigil, to the unexpected arrival of the police, the shocked faces of the students, back to Dakota's stunned and sad announcement.

“But it
must
have been an accident,” Lucy murmured. A chill traced up the length of her spine, and it was getting harder and harder to keep her voice steady. “Why would you think anything else? Why would you think it was murder?”

“I'm afraid that's confidential.”

“But why are you asking
me
about it?”

“We're talking to everyone who knew Wanda. Just trying to gather as much information as we can.”

At this Irene came to life again, planting herself between Lucy and their unwelcome visitor, fixing him with an icy stare.

“You're entirely mistaken about all this, Presley. You, of all people, should know that brutal crimes never happen in Pine Ridge.”

“I know you'd like to believe that,” the sheriff answered gently. “On account of Angela and all. And you're right—we've never had those kinds of crimes here before.” Pausing, he rubbed his forehead, then cast her a reluctant glance. “But we have now.”

Lucy's throat was closing up. She tried to take a deep breath, but the air had gone thick and sour.

“So what about these rumors, Lucy?” The sheriff's voice bullied its way into her brain. “
Did
you threaten Wanda Carver the day before she died?”

“Oh, for heaven's sake!” Irene was furiously indignant. “Surely you don't think Lucy had anything to do with this! I've never heard anything so—”

“Why don't we just let Lucy tell us. I'm sure she has a reasonable explanation.”

For an instant, Lucy stifled a wild urge to laugh. No matter what she said, it wouldn't sound reasonable. No matter how honest she was, he wouldn't believe her. Only Byron understood. And she doubted very much that Byron would suddenly appear to help her out.

“It was a dream,” she said solemnly. “I had a dream about Wanda Carver. And it was so real, it scared me.”

Sheriff Stark looked blank. “A dream.”

“Yes.”

“So . . . what happened in this dream?”

“I'm not sure. I mean . . . it was all mixed up, but in the dream, I knew Wanda was falling.”

“Falling? How? From what?”

“I don't know. That part wasn't clear.”

“You just said it was real to you.”

“It
was
real. But not like whole scenes. More like images blinking on and off. Weird feelings and sensations.”
And the fact that Wanda would die. And the
date
that Wanda would die . . .

“And when did you have the dream?”

“Not then. I mean, it was days before that. But it just stayed with me—I couldn't forget about it. So I finally said something to her.”

“And that's when you threatened her.”

“No.” Lucy was determined to hold his gaze. “I never threatened her. I just told her to be careful.”

Another uneasy silence fell between them. The sheriff lowered his head and stroked his chin. Stared down at the floor for several moments. Looked at her again.

“So that's what Wanda's friends heard—you telling her to be careful?”

“I felt stupid about it. I mean, I didn't even know her, and I figured she'd think I was crazy, and then she'd tell the whole school. And it
didn't
make sense, not even to me. But . . . but I couldn't let it go. I had to tell her.”

“And that's all you said?”

Lucy nodded.

“And nothing happened previously between you and Wanda? An argument, maybe? Problems with a boyfriend? Problems in class?”

“I told you. I hardly knew her.”

“Presley.” Irene's frosty tone demanded his attention. “You helped search for my niece recently when she went missing.”

Sheriff Stark nodded.

“Then I'm sure you can appreciate the severe trauma Lucy's suffered since her disappearance.”

“I know she's been seeing Dr. Fielding, yes.”

“And are you aware of the various ways that trauma can manifest? Depression? Amnesia? Severe nightmares . . . not to mention the possibility of hallucinations?”

The sheriff kept quiet.

“I'm sure Dr. Fielding will be more than happy to review Lucy's medical records with you. I'll willingly give my permission, and have my attorney sit in on your discussion.”

Sheriff Stark obviously had sense enough to recognize Irene's limits. As a slow flush spread over his face, he shook his head politely and got up.

“No need for that, Irene. You've been more than cooperative. You, too, young lady. Thank you both for your time.”

Miserably, Lucy watched Irene escort the sheriff to the door. She wished her aunt hadn't gone into quite so much detail about post-traumatic stress syndrome. Amnesia? Hallucinations? If anything else remotely suspicious
ever
happened in Pine Ridge, Lucy would be the first suspect on Sheriff Stark's list.

Still, she had to admire her aunt's protectiveness. In spite of the circumstances, it made Lucy feel good that Irene had rushed to defend her. She even smiled appreciatively as her aunt came back to the living room and regarded her with a long, appraising stare.

“What on earth were you thinking, Lucy?” Irene demanded.

Shocked, Lucy watched the stare harden into a cold frown of disapproval.

“Do you have any idea of the problems you've caused? Did you even
consider
how this was going to look?” Irene marched to the opposite wall and straightened an oil painting that didn't need straightening. “Is it because you want attention? Because you're new at school and feel a need to fit in?”

“I . . . I don't understand—”

“There are more
normal
ways of fitting in, you know. You don't need some bizarre identity in order to feel special.”

“Aunt Irene—”

“No wonder Wanda Carver's friends thought you were threatening her. Walking up like that, telling her to be careful—and all because of some dream? I suppose the next thing you're going to tell me is that you read minds.”

A knot of hurt and anger welled up inside Lucy, bringing tears to her eyes. “It was real,” she said flatly.

“It was a dream. And dreams are
not
real. Dreams are simply bits and pieces of our subconscious—things we encounter during the ordinary course of a day. People we see, dialogue on television. Anti-anxiety pills and upset stomachs.”

Lucy felt beaten down, too tired to answer. She lowered her eyes as the lecture continued.

“I'm sure the whole neighborhood saw the sheriff's car in my driveway. The whole
town
will know about it by this evening.”

And then those final words as Irene turned to leave for work.

“Perhaps you came home from the hospital too soon, Lucy. It might be better for you to go somewhere else for a while. Somewhere peaceful . . . and private. For a nice long rest.”

Irene wasn't serious, Lucy kept telling herself.

Those comments about peace and privacy and nice long rests—surely Lucy had misunderstood. Those comments that made her think of being sent away to another strange place and shoved out of sight in another strange room . . .

And Lucy didn't have time to agonize over it now.

As soon as Irene left, she washed her hands, changed her clothes, then began a mad sweep through the house, taking blankets and towels, gathering clothes from closets and what food she could find in the kitchen. There was a thermos in the pantry. A bottle of brandy in the dining room sideboard. Flashlights from her nightstand and the coat closet, a battery-operated lantern from the garage, sedatives and first-aid supplies from the medicine cabinet, and a nearly full carafe of French Roast in the automatic coffeemaker. She mixed the brandy with the coffee and made old-cheese-and-stalecroissant sandwiches. Once she had everything together, she stuffed as much as she could into her backpack and carried the rest. Then, grabbing a jacket on her way out, she threw everything into the trunk of the car and headed back to the church.

Lucy's eyes darted back and forth between the street ahead and her rearview mirror. She was breaking speed limits again, and she couldn't afford to get pulled over. She'd have to come up with some excuse for skipping school. Irene was sure to find out about it—as if Lucy wasn't treading on thin enough ice already.

You'll never get away with this, hiding that guy in the cellar, taking care of him all by yourself. If he dies—and he probably will—it'll be
you
who killed him. That is . . . if he doesn't end up killing you first . . .

“Oh God,” Lucy whispered to herself. “I'm in so much trouble.”

He
couldn't
be a killer, could he? Mysterious, yes . . . a little scary, even . . . but a
killer
?

Lucy wished she knew exactly what had happened to Wanda Carver. Knowing details about the so-called murder might help her figure out this crazy predicament she was in, who Jared really was.

And what if he
is
a killer? Would you just leave him there to die?

In spite of her better judgment, Lucy knew she wouldn't—she'd never willingly abandon anyone in need. Even if she ended up calling someone to help her. Turning the whole thing over to the authorities, letting somebody else handle all her weird, creepy problems for a change.

Leaning forward, Lucy stepped on the gas. She sped past a delivery van and was practically through an intersection before she even saw the stop sign.

“Damn!”

The whole car shuddered as she hit the brakes. Several horns honked their annoyance, but she stared straight in front of her and tried to stay focused.

The truth is, I don't really know
who
he is. He could be
anybody
. He could be an escaped lunatic. An escaped convict. He could be some homeless guy who got bitten by a very large, very mean dog while he was trying to break into somebody's house.

Another horn blared, ordering her to go. Lucy floored the accelerator and took the next corner too sharply, hitting a patch of ice and sliding several feet before she finally got the car under control. Shaking badly, she swerved into the first parking lot she could find. Then she turned off the engine and lowered her head onto the steering wheel.

It was only eight-thirty, but the day—like so many others in her life lately—had already turned disastrous. She closed her eyes and thought back . . . to her vision of Wanda Carver . . . to the touch of Jared's hand. Surely she would have
glimpsed
something evil,
felt
something horrible, gotten some unmistakable sign if he'd been involved in Wanda's murder.

But like all her other visions, no clear pictures, no definite meanings
. . .

Why couldn't she see further? And why—despite some violent images—was she sensing somehow that Jared had no fatal connections to Wanda Carver?

Lucy's breathing slowed. For an instant she saw Jared again, piercingly vivid, almost as though he were sitting beside her now. The handsome stranger with the amber eyes and tousled hair, with that desperate expression as he'd begged her for help . . .

He
couldn't
be a murderer, Lucy told herself.

You don't
want
him to be a murderer.

“Lucy!”

Eyes flying open, Lucy nearly jumped out of her skin. She hadn't heard anyone approaching the car, but now she saw a familiar face pressed against her window.

“Lucy, what are you doing here?”

As Dakota peered in at her, Lucy couldn't help feeling a twinge of guilt. She still remembered the way Dakota had looked at her last night, after Wanda Carver's body had been discovered.
“They're saying it happened sometime early this morning,”
Dakota had said.
“But then . . . you already knew that, didn't you?”

And Lucy hadn't answered, hadn't said a word. She'd just turned and run away, leaving her friend behind and feeling like the worst kind of liar.

She felt ashamed of herself, even now.

She hesitated a second, then rolled down the window.

“I thought that was you,” Dakota said matter-of-factly. “How come you're not at school?”

She was wearing camouflage pants, a white jacket made of curly fake fur, and a red plaid hunting cap with earflaps. Her multicolored scarf was twisted around her neck and hanging down her back, and at the moment, it appeared to be sparkling. Lucy realized it was covered with gold glitter.