Desires of the Dead (8 page)

Again, FBI Sara continued, undaunted. “And even though we believe you had nothing to do with the boy’s death, you were still there. You knew where to find him. So you’re going to have to answer some questions, whether you like it or not.”

Violet kept her lips tightly sealed.

Something about the look on Violet’s face must have clued her in, because FBI Sara finally stopped talking. She scrutinized the girl beside her. “Are you okay?” she asked. The question itself contained little genuine concern.

Violet nodded. “I’m fine—” she started to say, but cut herself off as she choked on her words. Suddenly Chelsea’s favorite expression, about throwing up in her own mouth, hit a little too close to home for Violet. She clamped her mouth shut again.

FBI Sara pulled a card from her pocket and handed it to Violet. “You’re going to have to talk to me sooner or later. Call the number on the card tomorrow to set up an appointment.”

She got out of the car then and walked purposefully toward the black SUV, the boy following right behind her.

Violet looked at the simple business card, absentmindedly running her thumb over the raised gold-foil seal.

She hated the feeling hanging over her, the looming apprehension that prophesized something terrible was about to happen. She hoped it was just worry over having been discovered and being forced to give a statement about something she should never have witnessed in the first place. Something that no normal person would ever have known.

But she knew that wasn’t it. There was more to it than just a formal statement. There was something in the way that FBI Sara had worded everything that had Violet concerned.

Whatever the questions Sara planned to ask her, Violet had the strangest feeling that if she were to answer truthfully, Sara might actually
believe
what she revealed about her ability.

But Violet could never confess what she was capable of to Sara Priest. She had no intention of becoming some kind of lab rat for the FBI.

Chapter 9

Violet rolled over, clutching her pillow tightly and wishing that whatever had dragged her awake would simply vanish again, like an unanswered whisper. But unfortunately the impractical chasm between hope and reality was impossible to navigate.

She cursed herself. When did she become the world’s lightest sleeper?

A flash of light passed through her window. It came from outside, casting a watery glow around her dark room, and then was gone as quickly as it had come.

That was it. That must have been what woke her.

She groaned, kicking her legs in frustration and throwing her covers off at the same time. This was ridiculous. She needed to sleep!

The light came again, and this time, with her eyes wide open, she had to squint against the glare.

She sat up, balancing on the edge of her bed, trying to decide what to do. She knew one thing for certain. Someone wanted to get her attention, and she was really too tired, and too irritated, to care why.

She pulled on the sweatshirt that she’d tossed on the end of her bed, zipping it all the way up to her chin. She didn’t bother looking out her window; she was in too much of a hurry. She needed to put a stop to this before it woke her parents too.

She rushed down the stairs and unlocked the front door, staring out into the unpleasantly cool night. She strained her eyes, searching for the source of the light, but came up empty.

Nothing but night. And the spiteful cold.

She took one step outside, onto the frigid porch boards in front of her door, meaning to call out to whoever was signaling for her. But something held her back, and she waited instead, holding her breath. The fabric of her flannel pajama bottoms, which had seemed too warm inside, now felt impossibly thin. A gust of frosty air ran up her legs. She shivered, tucking her bare hands into her sleeves, and wished she had more than a pair of cotton socks on her feet.

The nocturnal hush around her was deafening.

And then it came. Again. The flash of intense light that was so out of place within the midnight shadows that it burned her eyes before vanishing once more.

Violet blinked and leaned backward, her hands searching for the doorknob behind her. Just to make sure it was still there. She clutched it, trying to figure out where the light had come from.

Again she wanted to call out, but her voice had gone too, like the fleeting burst of white light.

Violet was too curious, though, to let it go. Besides, if she couldn’t find the source of the flashing and stop it from flaring, again and again, it was bound to keep her awake all night. Or at least for as long as it continued.

She shivered as the arctic night extinguished her reserve of body heat. She decided to concentrate, to wait for the light again, and this time, to pinpoint its location.

She didn’t have to wait long. The blaze was like a visual explosion, assaulting her eyes as she forced herself not to blink against it.

That was all she needed. And now she was positive that she’d seen where it was coming from.

She edged forward, hesitantly releasing her grip on the steely cold doorknob as she eased her way toward the blinking light. She cautiously stepped down from the porch and looked around, reassuring herself that she was the only one there.

The flare came again. From the other side of her car.

She moved faster now as she reached the vehicle, rounding the rear of it, and when she saw the flash once more, she froze in place.

It was coming from a box. A plain brown cardboard box sitting beside her driver’s-side door. The top flaps hung limply open.

She was confused as she stared at it. Why was the box blinking? And who would put it there, next to her car?

She glanced toward the trees that surrounded her house, wondering—only fleetingly—if she was alone.

And then she faced the box again, taking a step closer, her feet freezing on the frosty surface of the gravel driveway, too numb to feel the sharp rocks beneath them. She leaned over the top of it, afraid that whatever was in there might flash again while she peeked inside.

It didn’t. But she wished that it had. She wished she’d been blinded by the searing light, so that she hadn’t seen what it was.

Violet felt sad and sick at the same time. And angry.

This box had been placed there deliberately for her to find.

She wondered why she hadn’t recognized it before. The draw of the dead, an echo. The sporadic blinking of white light. The cold must have numbed more than her feet. Even her senses had been anesthetized by the glacial chill.

But it explained why only she had been awakened. And why she’d felt compelled to locate it.

She peered at the tiny black cat lying at the bottom of the box. Its head fell sickeningly—unnaturally—to the side. Its lifeless green eyes stared back at her.

It’s not Carl.
Violet released a grateful breath that it wasn’t her own cat. And then shame flooded her for entertaining such an insensitive thought.

The burst of light came again, scorching her retinas, and she had to blink several times to clear the red spots that clouded her vision.

She was no longer afraid that someone else might be around. Her rage went far beyond caring for her own safety now. She wished he
was
here, whoever was responsible for . . . for
this
. She wanted him to show himself. She
dared
him.

Fury filled her icy veins, thawing her uncertainty. She knew what she had to do. And the sooner the better.

She closed the flaps, careful not to disturb the lifeless body any more than was necessary. The poor thing had been disturbed enough already.

Violet whispered beneath her breath, too quietly for anyone else to hear, even if she hadn’t been alone. Only the cool air around her mouth seemed to notice, and she could see the misty gusts expelled from her lips.

“Now I lay me down to sleep. . . .” It was the same prayer she’d said for every animal she’d ever buried.

She carried the box, walking purposefully beneath the pale moon, not needing it to find her way around her house, toward the woods.

“. . . I pray the Lord my soul to keep. . . .” It was the only prayer she knew.

A burst of light exploded from beneath the flaps of the corrugated box she cradled, tiny glowing slivers filtered from between the gaps.

“. . . If I should die before I wake . . .”

She reached the darkened entrance to her graveyard, the one her father had helped her construct when she was just a little girl: Shady Acres
.
And now, in the dead of night, the name seemed more appropriate than ever before. An omen of sorts.

She wasn’t afraid, though. Not here. Never here.

A familiar white noise, the static of so many dead animals who had once called out to Violet to find them, melded together in a peaceful resonance after their bodies were laid to rest.

She stepped inside the chicken-wire fencing meant to keep out scavengers who dared to disturb her lost souls. She knelt in the dirt, beside a spot that had already been dug, a shallow grave waiting to be filled. There was always a space ready in Violet’s graveyard.

She shivered as she opened the box, unable to ignore the hostile temperature enveloping her.

“. . . I pray the Lord my soul to take.”

She tipped the box, letting the small, stiffened corpse drop gently into the soft dirt at the bottom of the grave. She bit her lip, trying not to imagine this poor animal’s death. Trying not to cry as another white flash split the night.

She knelt down, reaching for a pile of soil that waited alongside the superficial hole in the earth, and scooped it with her hands, piling it over the lifeless cat within.

Amen.
She mouthed the word without sound.

When she was finished, she sat back on her heels. She could feel the sense of peace washing over her already.

The cat was releasing itself . . . releasing her.

Violet picked up the box and hurried back toward her house without looking around again. She left the empty box outside as she closed the door behind her, making her way back up to her room.

She washed and changed quickly, trying to banish the disturbing sensation that lingered, making her shiver long after the wintry cold had faded. The unsettling awareness that someone had left her a message tonight.

But what was the message supposed to be?

And just who had left it?

Wrath

The girl stood there, hidden among the trees, watching Violet. She was glad now that she’d dressed in black—the heavy black coat, the ski mask that covered her face, the dark gloves—not just for warmth but to cloak her from sight.

She really hadn’t expected to hide within the natural cover provided by the thick bushes and trees surrounding Violet’s house; she’d simply expected to get in and get out.

Drop off her “gift” for Violet and leave.

But Violet had surprised her by coming outside in the middle of the night. And when she had, the girl had stood frozen in place, unable to move . . . or even to think clearly.

She’d been afraid that Violet might see her there. But she hadn’t.

Instead, Violet was fixated on something else, giving her time to react, to escape deeper into the shelter of the woods, where she could watch without fear of discovery.

Before Violet’s appearance, she’d worried that she was going too far. That the message was too harsh. But seeing Violet, watching her, incensed her all over again. The anger she felt was beyond reason . . . beyond explanation . . . beyond control.

She wasn’t sure how Violet had known where to look, but somehow she’d found the box. And when Violet had glanced in her direction, searching the trees, the girl had dropped to the ground, curling into a ball, hugging herself tightly as she waited to be caught.

But Violet never found her.

And, as she lifted her head again, she realized that none of Violet’s reactions were what she’d hoped for. Or expected. Instead of the fear, she saw anger. Instead of revulsion over the mutilated animal, Violet seemed . . . calm.

Suddenly, she wished she’d done more. Upped the ante.

She wanted to see Violet scared. Afraid. Terrified.

Maybe next time.

As she watched Violet carry the box around to the back of her house, she thought she saw Violet’s lips moving beneath the diffused light cast by the moon high above. But who would she be talking to? Herself? The dead cat?

And then Violet moved around to the back of her house and out of sight.

The girl lingered there, in the woods, wondering what Violet might be doing. Wondering if this was her chance to escape, but too curious to see what Violet did next. And too angry to go just yet.

She hated Violet. More at that moment than ever before.

More, even, than she hated herself.

When Violet came back, she was still carrying the box, but it was empty now. She could tell by the way Violet carried it, no longer embracing it against her chest but rather letting it hang loosely at her side as she walked.

Where had the cat gone? Had Violet dumped it somewhere? Thrown it away? Buried it?

When Violet rushed through the yard to her house, she didn’t even look around her.

At that moment, the girl thought about making her presence known. She thought about what it would be like to hurt Violet just for the satisfaction of witnessing the expressions she so longed to see.

She imagined striking Violet with her bare hands. Clawing at her eyes. Ripping her hair from her scalp.

Fear. Terror.

She imagined slashing Violet’s face.

Begging. Pleading.

She imagined breaking her neck.

Surrender.

The daydreams were so sweet.

And then Violet closed the door to her house, leaving her with nothing but her fantasies.