Dead Ringers 1: Illusion (5 page)

The breeze from the ocean seems to blow right through me. It’s not cold, but I shiver. “When was the last time anyone saw Adair?”

His shoulders move up and down. “I don’t know.”

“When was the last time
you
saw her?”

“About noon yesterday, I guess. We both had the day shift. She went home sick after a couple hours.”

“So she’s missing?”

Like I was for those forty-eight hours.

“Whoa.” Hunter puts up a hand. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“But if she’s feeling crappy, shouldn’t she be at home? How do you know if she even got there?” I pull my cell from the pocket of my shorts. “Someone needs to track her down and make sure she’s safe. I think I’ve still got her number in here.”

“She won’t answer,” he says. “Like I said, I think she turned off her cell. She does that when she’s playing hard to get. She was never sick, okay? She left work because we had a fight.”

That puts a different spin on things but only slightly. The fact remains that nobody has seen Adair in more than twenty-four hours. “Where is she then?”

“She texted me yesterday that she was going to her dad’s cabin.”

A chill rattles through me. I know of the cabin. When Adair and I were friends, we’d gone there together once when her father asked her to bring him the bowhunting gear he’d forgotten. It was about thirty miles northwest of Midway Beach in a coastal forest called Wilder Woods.

The memory of the wet, earthy smell that filled my nostrils when the hood slipped off comes back to me. The smell could have been drifting from a swamp, like the ones that populate Wilder Woods.

“Why would she go there?” I ask. “It’s in the middle of nowhere.”

“I don’t know why Adair does what Adair does.”

“Did you check to make sure she was there?”

“Nope. I’m not going to, either.”

“But...” I stop myself before I ask what if someone besides Adair sent the text. “What if she’s not at the cabin?”

“Then she’s not at the cabin.”

The entire scenario doesn’t sit right. When I was gone for those forty-eight hours, my friends and family weren’t out looking for me either because of texts I hadn’t sent.

“Adair’s not missing, Jade.” Hunter’s voice cuts into my thoughts. His eyes bore into mine. “You understand that, right?”

If I argue, he’ll join the legions of other people in town who think I’m crazy. That is, if he doesn’t think so already.

“Of course I do.” I hope my smile hides what I’m really thinking. “It’s just Adair being Adair.”

“Exactly.” The tension seems to drain out of him.

That’s because he doesn’t know I’m heading to Wilder Woods as soon as we’re through talking. I owe it to myself to find out if the clown has struck again.

Guilt has something to do with Becky surrendering the keys to her Honda Fit without a fight. She’s working the carnival tonight so I make the argument that she doesn’t need it. The real clincher is that her parents presented her with the cute, pint-sized car for high school graduation while I got only enough money to buy bicycle brake pads.

I feel guilty, too. To convince Becky to let me borrow the Fit, I told her a movie theater thirty miles away is hosting a Horror Spectacular. That’s actually true. I’m just not going.

The road narrows to two lanes when I get to the Midway Beach suburbs. A car that looks suspiciously like my mother’s blue Chevy pops up in my rearview mirror.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say aloud.

Mom could be headed to a real estate listing, but I don’t buy that for a second. I thought I’d seen her lurking around the carnival shortly before we closed. Now I’m sure of it.

I press my foot down on the accelerator, jerk the Fit over the double yellow line and pass two cars. One of the drivers shoots me the bird. The other lays on his horn. When I’ve covered enough distance that I’m fairly certain I’m out of mom’s sight line, I pull into a gas station and circle around back of the building that houses a convenience store.

Minutes later, the car that looked familiar whizzes by. My mother isn’t driving.

“Oh, great.” I shut my eyes tight and knead my forehead. “Now I’m the one imagining people are following me.”

I gather myself, pull out of the gas station parking lot and put on my favorite indie rock radio station to soothe myself. A half-hour later I’m at the edge of the coastal forest. Wilder Woods consists of more than one hundred acres of spindly pine trees, saltwater estuaries and raised swamps. My memory’s fuzzy on the exact location of the cabin so I drive blind, taking a few wrong turns before spotting a dirt service road that looks familiar.

A sign reads: No Trespassing. Private Hunting Land.

I take the turnoff, and the tires of the Fit start a bumpy ride over a pitted dirt road flanked by thick vegetation. Dusk has fallen, covering everything in gloom. Even if it hadn’t been for the overhanging branches, it’s overcast and there’s no natural light from the stars or the moon. The car’s headlights are the only thing preventing total darkness.

I remember Adair saying her father used the cabin almost every weekend during hunting season, which I’m pretty sure is in the fall and the spring depending on what game you’re hunting. In the summer and winter, there isn’t much reason to come to Wilder Woods, although some troubled people make a one-way trip. About ten years ago a country singer with a cult following shot himself in the head near Heron Lake. Since Cam Stokes died, a half-dozen people have committed suicide the same way.

The cabin sits on a crest at the end of the road. I’ve already decided to make a U-turn if it’s abandoned, but a pickup truck like the one Adair’s dad drives is parked out front. Adair probably borrowed the pickup because it’s easier going on the bumpy dirt road.

No lights shine inside the cabin, but this isn’t the big city. Power lines don’t run through the forest. Outdoorsmen have all kinds of ways to light a room. At least, I think they do. Adair could have picked up a few tricks.

I pull the Honda Fit to a stop beside the pickup, leaving the headlights shining on the cabin flanked by tall trees. It reminds me of the cabin in
Evil Dead
. Great. An irrational fear of trees would really add to my life.

It’s so dark that without the headlights I might not even see an evil thing if Adair was stupid enough to summon monsters. Flashlight. I need a flashlight.

“No shit, Sherlock,” I mutter. “So why didn’t I think of it before now?”

Maybe Becky keeps one in the glove box, though. With the car still running, I lean over, open Becky’s glove box and rummage through it. My fingers close around something smooth and cylindrical. A pocket-size flashlight. I flick the switch to turn it on. Nothing happens.

Great. Now what?

Should I lay on the horn until Adair comes out to check who her visitor is? Tempting, but she might stay in the house out of spite if she figures out it’s me. If, that is, she’s in the house and not tied up in a field.

I need to make sure she’s okay, flashlight or no flashlight. It’s not fully dark yet, and I’ve got twenty-twenty vision. Surely I can see well enough to reach the front door. Turning the headlights off, I get out of the car and let my eyes adjust to the darkness. After a few moments, I can sort of see.

Fine gravel is sprinkled over the makeshift dirt driveway. My tennis shoes make crunching noises, disrupting silence so absolute it seems as though even the insects have stopped buzzing. The air has that musty smell that signals a swamp is nearby.

My knock echoes in the forest on the solid front door of the cabin. Ten seconds pass without an answer. Twenty. Thirty. I knock again. Still no one comes.

A window a few feet from the door is at about waist level high. A gap in the curtain allows me to see part of the front room. Adair isn’t lying on the floor in a pool of blood, not that I expect her to be. Well, not really.

Now what? I hadn’t thought about what I’d do if Adair wasn’t in the cabin. Traipsing around the woods in the gathering dark to make sure she isn’t tied up somewhere doesn’t seem terribly bright.

What’s Adair doing out here in the first place? Doesn’t she know it’s dangerous for a young woman to go off by herself? It’s the premise of about a million horror movies. If somebody managed to grab me in the two blocks between Becky’s house and mine, they’d have no problem snatching a female by herself in a dark forest.

Oh, shit.

Something cries out in the darkness. Not a person. Maybe an owl. Or a hawk before it strikes its prey. I wrap my arms around myself. Did hawks announce their deadly intentions or did they launch sneak attacks, like a person up to no good?

A crunching noise. Like twigs snapping and leaves rustling. Something is walking through the thick underbrush. Foxes and wild turkeys live in the forest but this sounds like something bigger. It could be a bear or a deer, both of which will be fair game come fall hunting season.

Or it could be a person.

My gasp catches in my throat as I struggle not to be paranoid. My mother’s the one who’s paranoid. The most logical explanation is that it’s Adair, returning from a walk.

Cupping my hands over my mouth, I turn in the direction of the crunching sounds and yell, “Adair? Is that you?”

Silence. Whatever was moving through the forest is still now, perhaps waiting to strike. Like the Deadites lying in wait until one of the teens ventured into the night.

I need to stop watching so many horror movies.

I also need to get out of here.

Becky’s Fit is parked closer to the cabin than the pickup. Whatever is in the forest is farther away. My heart pumps and adrenalin rushes through my veins. I go from a standstill to all out running in seconds, turning the corner to get to the driver’s door of the Fit.

The soles of my tennis shoes slip and slide on the gravel. Desperately trying to catch my balance, I slam into the pickup’s passenger door.

My face comes up flash against the window. Inside, on the front seat, is a burnt orange backpack. A rifle leans against the seat.

Adair’s father hunts, I think, with a gun as well as a bow and arrow. I’ve heard Adair go on and on, though, about how she could never shoot a defenseless animal. She wouldn’t drive around with a rifle even if she was using her father’s pickup. But what’s to say this is her father’s pickup?

My breathing comes in short, audible gasps. There’s another sound, too. The footsteps have started up again.

I right myself and stumble toward the Fit. Something’s missing. The keys. I’ve dropped the keys.

I bend over and squint, trying to pick out the metallic glint of the keys. It’s darker now than when I arrived. The loblolly pines surrounding the clearing cast long shadows that make it seem more like night than dusk.

The crunching noise is getting louder.

I crouch down so whoever’s coming can’t see me. The darkness seems more absolute at ground level. I feel around for the keys, the palms of my hand scraping over the fine gravel. Something jangles, and I close my fingers over the keys.

The footsteps get louder, then stop. My relief gives way to panic. Whatever was in the woods is on the other side of the pickup. I don’t have a prayer of getting inside the Fit and starting the engine before it’s on me.

But I won’t go meekly into the night. Not this time.

After my reappearance, Becky signed both of us up for a self-defense class for women, thinking it would make me feel safer. It seems to me the instructor said something about using keys as a weapon. Yes. You hold them between your fingers so one of the keys protrudes.

The footsteps start again. I pray they’re not being made by giant clown shoes, get the keys ready and leap to my feet. Instead of the clown, a man comes around the car.

“Stop right there! I have a weapon.”

He freezes. Both of his hands raise in the accepted gesture of surrender. “Don’t shoot!” His head cocks to the side. “Wait a minute. Are those keys?”

“So what if they are?” If I wasn’t under stress, I’d have a better comeback than that.

He drops his hands. “Keys aren’t a weapon.”

“They will be if you get any closer.” I wave the keys like I’m wielding a sword. “I’ll gouge you.”

“Why would you do that?”

He doesn’t sound dangerous. Now that I can make out his features in the darkness, he doesn’t look it, either. He’s about my age, on the tall side with a lean build that reminds me of the guys in high school who ran track. His hair is so dark it blends into the night but his face is pale. Maybe I’m wrong about him not being dangerous. Maybe he’s a vampire.

There is no maybe about me watching too many horror movies.

“What have you done with Adair?” I demand.

“I don’t know anybody by that name.”

“Her father owns this cabin. You’re trespassing on his property.”

“Are you trespassing?”

“What?”

“Were you invited?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Then we’re even.”