Trick or Treat (15 page)

“No, but I could help you write it ’cause I’ve already read that book for another class. And maybe …” she hesitated, almost embarrassed, “I could come to your house and we could start studying together.” As Martha stared at her, Wynn’s cheeks grew pink. “If … if that’s okay.”

“Wynn, are you sure? I mean … really? You know I’d
love
you to come, but if you feel at all funny about it, I’ll understand perfectly —”

“No,” Wynn shook her head emphatically. “I want to. It’s time, and I want to.”

Martha nodded slowly, a mischievous smile going across her face. “I’ll make sure Conor’s home when you come.”

This time Wynn’s cheeks went crimson. “Oh, Martha, you wouldn’t — please don’t say anything — I —”

“Relax. He’s weird, but I don’t think he bites.” Martha laughed. “And I won’t say anything. But I still don’t see what you see in him.”

Now it was Wynn who looked surprised. “Why Martha, he’s so — so tall and rugged and mysterious —”

“He’s not rugged. He’s too thin to be rugged.”

“He’s rugged,” Wynn insisted. “Lean and strong —”

“How would you know?” Martha couldn’t help teasing.

“He
looks
strong. His shoulders look strong.”

“I’ll bet Blake is stronger.”

“I’ll bet he’s not. All the girls say how sexy Conor is.”

“How would
they
know?”

“Well, look at Blake. He’s too — well,
friendly
to be sexy. No mystery there. Conor’s the strong, silent type.”

“He’s not always silent. Actually sometimes he’s pretty funny … in a sarcastic kind of way.”

“Do you think
Blake’s
sexy?”

“I’ll bet he kisses better than Conor.”

“I’ll bet he doesn’t.”

They collapsed in helpless giggles and for a while neither of them could speak. Finally Wynn caught her breath and sagged back against Martha’s locker.

“Oh, I hurt! I feel like some hot chocolate. You don’t have to go home right now, do you?”

“Well, I —” Martha broke off and grinned. Conor was coming towards them down the hall, seemingly oblivious to the female stares that followed him. “Well, speak of the devil.” She tried to compose herself as he stopped right beside a flustered Wynn. “I was just coming to find you,” she said casually “You remember Wynn, don’t you?”

“The picture hooks. Sure.” Conor looked down, his face suggesting a smile. “Hi, Wynn, how are you?”

Wynn seemed to be having trouble catching her breath, but managed a quiet “Hi” in return. Martha rushed to fill the silence.

“Wynn and I have some things to do — could you pick me up later?”

“He doesn’t have to do that,” Wynn said. “One of us can give you a ride home.”

“I’ve got to go to the library anyway,” Conor said. “Where do you want me to meet you?”

“Here’s okay, I guess.”

“In the lot then. You have a watch?”

She held up her arm. “Five or so?”

He nodded, started to turn away, then caught himself absentmindedly. “You should come out to the house sometime, Wynn. Nice seeing you again.”

“You, too.” Wynn looked slightly breathless, and Martha didn’t know whether to laugh or be sick.

“What
is
it about him?” she muttered, and as Wynn looked meaningfully at her, they both burst out laughing again. “I guess I just don’t see it.”

“It’s hard,” Wynn sighed, “when the boys in your family are more popular than you are.”

“But you
must
see something in Blake!”

“What all the fuss is about?” Wynn made a face. “Handsome, athletic, charming, the celebrity of the school — the
town
— and he’s so
nice
, too! Except to me!”

“Come on,” Martha teased, “you’re crazy about him and you know it. But he must have a flaw.”

“Only one,” she nodded. “He likes to win. Now come on” — she hooked her arm through Martha’s, and they headed out into the dismal weather — “let’s get that hot chocolate and you can tell me more about Conor.”

The steamy warmth of the coffee shop felt good. After they ordered hot drinks and settled back in their booth, Wynn leaned across the table conspiratorially.

“I hear you’re going to the Halloween dance Sunday with Blake.”

“How did you know that?”

“He told me. I think it’s nice, too.”

“Maybe we could go together,” Martha suggested and was surprised when Wynn shook her head.

“I don’t have a date. But thanks.”

“Oh, Wynn — since you’re on the decorating committee, I just assumed —”

“It’s okay, really. I’m supposed to be in charge of the refreshments, so I wouldn’t have time to dance. Anyway, it’s good that I’m going. I need to do that.” She tried to smile, but her mouth looked oddly frozen. “We all need to.”

“Wynn,” Martha said hesitantly, “Blake told me about what happened last year. About you finding Elizabeth and … well, he didn’t want me to talk about it with you, but I thought you should know that I know.”

“He’s always worrying about me,” Wynn said sadly, “but if he really cared, he wouldn’t keep saying that Dennis killed her. Because I know he didn’t.”

“I think,” Martha said carefully, “that you’re the only one who feels that way.”

“I know. But it’s true.”

“But what about all the threats he made?” Martha persisted, not unkindly. “The phone calls and —”

“The phone calls she got — the person always disguised his voice. And all the times she thought he was following her, she couldn’t see him clearly — she couldn’t ever be sure it was Dennis.” Wynn blinked back sudden tears. “Martha, I told you, he
loved
Elizabeth. He wanted her back, not to kill her. Oh,
damn
— I wish I could remember that night!” She bounced back angrily against the seat, and Martha reached out for her hand.

“What
do
you remember about that night?”

Wynn’s eyes gazed desperately at the ceiling, then lowered back to Martha’s face. They were narrowed now, almost painful in their concentration. “I know I found Elizabeth in her room — and all the blood — I remember —” She caught her breath, then forced herself on. “I remember Blake and Greg running up the stairs, shouting, and….”

“And … what?” Martha asked gently.

Wynn’s stare grew round and solemn. “The dark,” she said flatly.

“
What
dark?”

“I . . just … the long dark! And I couldn’t see … and it lasted forever …
so cold
… but
I can’t remember
.”

They looked up guiltily as the waitress set down their drinks. Wynn laced her hands around her cup and stared at the table.

“You never get over something like that,” Martha murmured.

“No. I think about her every single day.” Wynn glanced up, her voice trembling. “Dennis, too.”

“But why?” Martha asked urgently. “Why does Blake feel so differently about Dennis?”

“He never saw Dennis with Elizabeth like I did … and she told me things … about the two of them. Most people couldn’t get close to Dennis — but he could be sweet and gentle….” A faint smile came at the memory. “He was handsome and kind of wild — he was romantic. He made her feel special, that’s exactly what she told me. He made her feel special.”

Martha closed her eyes, struggling to reconcile the two opposite images. “
She
must have known, then. I mean you
share
things in a relationship that no one else can share —”

“Blake
never
liked Dennis. It went back a long way. When Blake was a freshman, he made all-conference in basketball, and second team all-state. It was almost certain he’d make first team all-state his sophomore year. Then Dennis transferred here from another school. The coach was
ecstatic
’cause Dennis had such a great reputation already — all Coach could think about were these two superstars being teammates the next three years.”

“So you’re saying Blake was jealous of Dennis?”

Wynn frowned. “Blake had played against him twice when they were freshmen — he said Dennis was a dirty player.” Reluctantly she nodded. “He was probably right about that — Dennis was a real hothead. He could be a terrible show-off, and he liked to take over. So Blake wasn’t thrilled about him coming to Bedford. And then Dennis made all-state that year, but Blake didn’t.”

“So there really was a rivalry between them.”

“After a while Blake started accusing Dennis of trying to injure him on the court. Like … when Blake was up in the air, Dennis would get under him as he came down so Blake would hurt his ankle. Blake’s always had his heart set on a scholarship — if he got hurt and couldn’t play….”

“Then Dennis would have more chances to score. Not to mention more exposure and a better reputation.”

Wynn gave a weary sigh. “That part could have been true, too. I know Blake’s not a liar. But that was between Blake and Dennis — it had nothing to do with Elizabeth. Dennis was different with her. He wouldn’t have hurt her.”

“Wynn….” Martha leaned slowly forward, her eyes glued to Wynn’s troubled face. “I’m sorry but I’ve got to ask this — I have to know. What … do
you
think happened to Dennis?”

To her distress, Wynn suddenly began to cry. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed softly, and Martha grabbed her arms, her own heart wrenching.

“I think he’s dead, Martha…. I think he killed himself.”

Martha’s expression froze, horror and sadness in every line. “Oh, Wynn — but — how —?”

“I think when he heard she was dead, he just gave up. He told her once that he couldn’t live without her — she
told
me he said that, and at the time we laughed ’cause it sounded so dramatic — oh, Martha, I’m so sorry now that I laughed —”

“Ssh … Wynn … drink this, it’ll make you feel better.” Martha’s hands were shaking badly but she managed to guide the cup to Wynn’s mouth, then gulp her own drink down. The melted marshmallows hit her stomach like rocks. Fighting down a pang of nausea, Martha forced her eyes away from Wynn and stared out into the late afternoon. The empty street gleamed wetly; the sidewalks were deserted. A traffic light blinked, turning puddles into pools of dark red blood….

Her eyes went wide.

Stiffening, she pressed her nose against the glass and squinted hard, trying to see beyond the gray pall of rain. Then she wiped steam from the windowpane and looked again, a slow chill crawling over her.

She thought she’d seen something just then….

Something caught between the shafts of pale light that speckled the sidewalk … something that had been there for a long time, like an image on the very edge of consciousness not quite formed….

Is somebody there?

“It’s hot in here,” Martha mumbled. “I need some air.” And before Wynn could say a word, Martha put some money on the table, excused herself, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The street lay before her, rainwashed and silent. A long, slow breath of wind trailed soggy leaves through the gutter, and she stepped back from them as if they were alive.

There was no one out here.

The quiet was almost unnatural….

“Martha?”

“Oh, God, Wynn, you gave me a heart attack.” Martha fell back against her friend, gasping.

“Sorry — are you okay? I was getting worried.”

“I thought —” Martha’s eyes darted nervously up the street, probing, finding nothing. “I just thought I was going to faint for a second. I’m okay now.”

“We’d better go then. Now that I’ve ruined our afternoon.”

“Wynn! You didn’t ruin anything! I never should have asked those questions — it’s all my fault.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s just all messed up.
I’m
all messed up —”

Martha laughed, throwing an arm around her shoulders. “
You’re
not messed up.
We’re
all messed up.”

At that Wynn gave in to a chuckle. “Poor us.”

“Yes. Poor us. And besides that, it’s really getting cold out here now.”

“I know,” Wynn said dismally, pulling up the hood of her jacket. “Oh, well, at least we don’t have far to go.”

Small comfort, Martha thought uneasily, and she plodded alongside Wynn without speaking. They’d gone about three blocks when Wynn suddenly stopped and turned.

“What is it?” Martha demanded.

“I’m not sure.” Wynn looked puzzled, then shrugged. “I thought … oh, nothing.” But she glanced back over her shoulder as they started walking again.

“Wynn?” Martha said stubbornly, and Wynn gave her a sheepish grin.

“Crazy — I thought I heard footsteps. But there’s nobody back there. It was probably just some leaves or something. Before you know it, I’ll be imagining Mr. Smith’s mannequin is coming after us.” At Martha’s bewildered look, she giggled. “Mr. Smith’s mannequin — back there. Didn’t you see it? He always has it out in front of his store and takes it back in about this time every day.”

Oh, great, I almost had hysterics over a dummy
…. Martha forced a laugh. “Hey,
I’m
supposed to be the one with the overactive imagination, not you.”