Vengeance Bound Page 9
By the time we went after Dr. Goodhart, he’d fled once again, and the clinic where he’d been working had no forwarding address for him.
This is why I can’t rush. Not again. Because now Goodhart knows I’m after him. And this time, I’m going to end it for good.
I continue retracing the steps from Mindi’s earlier tour. The house is small and hot, despite the frigid weather outside. There isn’t much to see, especially a second time, and from behind one of the closed bedroom doors come the distinct sounds of people having sex. Classy. The sound infuriates me for some reason, especially the overblown moans of the girl. Is that what guys really want? I turn around in disgust and make my way back to the living room. There are more people here than there were a few minutes ago, and I’m suffocating. Looking around for an escape, I spot a sliding glass door. I crack it open just far enough so I can squeak through and flee outside.
I slide the door closed as I look around the wooden deck. Snow covers it in thick drifts, but there are footprints where somebody else walked out this way. I’m not the only one who got tired of all the “fun.”
Awareness prickles along my scalp, and there’s movement out among the trees. Is that Niko? Tina said he doesn’t like parties either, that he spends most of his time outside. For some reason I want to find him. I’m not sure why. He’s off-limits, whether Mindi likes him or not. I don’t want to put another innocent guy in the ICU. Still, the thought of him pulls me in the direction of the footprints.
Tall evergreen bushes hide the view beyond the deck, but there are wooden stairs leading off the back and down into the unfenced yard. The possibility that Niko is out there somewhere drives me toward the stairs. I don’t think about the logic of my actions. I just go. I follow the footprints down and find myself in a snow-covered field. The sight stirs up a few memories better left buried. We had a similar field behind Brighter Day.
I’m not the enemy here, Amelie. I’m here to help.
Dr. Goodhart’s voice comes to me across the years, as clear as it was the first time I heard it. I shake off the memory and continue to walk, the cold air prickling my skin and raising goose bumps under the sleeves of my sweater. The night is quiet, and the darkness relaxing. I learned to love the dark long ago, and now it’s as soothing as a warm bath.
It’s the light you have to fear.
“I knew you’d change your mind.”
I turn around. Dylan wears something between a grin and a leer, his arms folded across his massive chest. If he isn’t on steroids, then he has the best training plan in the world. I should ask him for some tips.
He moves closer, his feet sinking deep into the snow. I notice that the footsteps I followed curved around the house a ways back. In my distraction I must have walked right past them.
I haven’t spoken, and Dylan has none of the wariness I would have expected after our last encounter. He moves closer. “Hello again. You weren’t looking for me, were you?”
“No. I just wanted some fresh air.”
Dylan smirks, and I desperately want to wipe the smile from his face. “Fresh air? Really? I don’t buy it. I saw you looking for me as soon as I walked into the house.”
For a moment I’m confused, and then it dawns on me. He mistook my interest in Niko’s whereabouts as interest in him. Dylan’s breath reeks of alcohol, and he sways a little on his feet. He’s drunk, and I’m pretty sure, after this afternoon, that it’s not safe to be around him. He’s used to getting his way, no matter what.
The Furies begin to stir in the back of my mind, hissing warnings and portents. “Leave me alone,” I mutter. Dylan’s response is laughter. The laugh is what sets me off. I heard a laugh like that, full and self-assured, once before. And then my life ended.
Hi, sweetie. Need a ride?
I turn around and dash away from the house. Dylan curses and follows me. My legs sink into the snow, and make the normally easy strides difficult.
Suddenly I’m a kid again, running for my life, my heart pounding. Don’t look back. Keep running! He won’t catch me if I keep running.
The memory comes back to me, and the fear that gripped me then settles back into my stomach, cold and familiar. I pump my arms, but slogging through the snow makes me slow. Dylan has the advantage of height, and, just like Hank Meacham a few nights ago, just like Roland Thomas so long ago, he catches me with a laugh.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Dylan asks. He spins me around in the snow, and then his hands close around my upper arms, hard enough to bruise. The fear is overwhelming now. It steals my breath and leaves my chest tight. I don’t know what to do. The expression on his face shreds my ability to think clearly, the terror stunting my thought processes. My control is already thin because of his contact earlier today. It’s all too much for me to bear. Before I can second-guess myself, I release my hold on Them.
Anticipation burns through me, and a wild joy follows in its wake. Their excitement is almost scarier than the glint in Dylan’s eyes.
A laugh bubbles up from deep within my chest. Dylan has a split second to look confused before I clutch his forearms and jam my knee up into his crotch. He lets loose a whimper and releases his grip on me. I’m free, but it’s not enough. He has to pay.
All of them have to pay.
Too late I realize that my vision has split into three. I try, but I can’t reclaim my control over Them.
I fight to mentally restrain them, but it’s like trying to catch fish with bare hands. They slip through my barriers, and we kick Dylan in the side, meeting muscle and eliciting a satisfying groan. He tries to get up, and when he is on all fours, we bring an elbow down onto his spine, like a professional wrestler. He groans, and Megaera punches him before we dance away, giving him a chance to get to his feet. Tisiphone jumps up and down in the rapidly melting snow, clapping in delight.
Stay down, I mentally beg as I struggle for control. It’s a halfhearted plea. I’m enjoying this almost as much as They are.
Dylan gets up, a big dumb bear lumbering back for more punishment. He squints, so he misses the way They grin at him. He’s pissed now. “You stupid bitch. Now I’m gonna kick your ass.”
We laugh, the sound deep and throaty. “Promises, promises,” Tisiphone sings, her voice deeper, huskier than my normal speaking voice. We give Dylan an uppercut, and his head snaps back with the force of the contact. He has yet to throw a single punch. We follow with a jab that shatters his nose and paints the snow crimson. Dylan screams into the silent night. Tisiphone mocks his shriek with one of her own. The sound echoes off the nearby trees, and brings me back to myself.
Enough! I roar mentally.
Megaera has grabbed him by the hair, ready to slam his face into the ground. The sight of the blood on the snow gives me the strength to shove Them into the back of my mind and shut the door. They shimmer in the night air before fading away. Once back in my mind, They howl with frustration and claw at my mental barriers. Dylan may be an asshole, but killing people at parties will not make me popular.
I’ll deal with you later, I hiss at Them, even though the threat is empty. There isn’t much I can do but restrain Them in the back of my mind. Correction. There isn’t much I want to do.
I go down on a knee next to Dylan. The pain of his beating has finally cut through his rage, and he writhes on the ground. I reach out a hand to him, and he shies away. I sigh. “Are you okay?”
“You broke my fucking nose!” He’s blowing bloody snot bubbles and making these little moaning sounds like a wounded animal. I feel a little bit sorry for him.
But not that sorry.
“Look, in a few minutes people are going to come out to see what just happened. You have two choices. You can tell them I kicked your ass, or we can pretend it was someone else.” Dylan doesn’t seem to realize that I had some help, and I’m not going to enlighten him. I’m already shaking from my loss of control. The threat of discovery is the last thing I need.
Dylan calls me a word I would ne
ver repeat. I sigh again and grab him, my fingers sinking into the soft spots behind his jaw. He tries to pull away, and I force him to look at me. He swears again, and I tighten my grip until he stills.
“Listen. You can spend the rest of your high school career being the guy who got beat up by the tiny little blond girl, or you can be the guy who got jumped at a party. I suggest you think long and hard about which one you want to be.”
Dylan doesn’t answer. There’s some commotion from the direction of the house, and I release him. He flops backward into the snow. “Think fast,” I hiss. I clean my hands with snow and fight the queasiness that rises up at the sight of the blood. My secret shame, my inability to stomach the sight of blood. I can hand down justice to a herd of guilty men, but one little bloody nose and I swoon like a Southern belle.
People run up, exclaiming over the blood on the ground. I take a few steps back and let them get to Dylan’s side. I recognize a few of the guys from his table in the pizza shop. They speak with Dylan in low tones. Mindi runs up next to me, her hair messed up and eyelids drooping. I frown at her appearance. She’s trashed. “What happened?” she asks, the words heavy with alcohol.
I shrug, feeling the eyes of the other partygoers on me. “I dunno. I just found him like that. I think he said something about some guy jumping him.”
Dylan curses, blinking. “My contacts are all fucked up, and I can’t see shit. Help me up.” One of his friends takes his outstretched hand, and Dylan uses it to lurch to his feet. I can’t believe my luck. Thank God for corrective lenses.
A huge Asian guy steps forward from the jock huddle. “The assholes from the beer store did this. Who can give D a ride to the emergency room?”
Dylan fishes his contacts from the back of his eyes while the crowd watches in sick fascination. His face is a mess of blood, and in the moonlight he looks like a refugee from a UFC match. He’s going to need to see a professional about that nose. He flicks the offending lenses onto the ground and spits out a stream of bloody saliva. “No way, dude,” he says. “I’m coming with you to kick their ass.” A few people clap and cheer, while a murmur goes up, wondering at these mysterious guys who drove out in the middle of the night to fight Dylan.
No one noticed the melted patches of snow. Now the ground is churned from people trying to figure out what is going on, the mud mixing with the drifted snow into a brown mush. I am once again anonymous.
I move back toward the house while Mindi talks to a redhead I don’t know. The two girls I overheard gossiping in the kitchen talk animatedly, wide grins on their faces. I’m glad I could liven up the party for them.
There’s movement near the bushes on the far side of the deck. I watch openmouthed as Niko walks over. My heart pounds. How long was he standing there?
He walks toward me, a knowing smile on his face. I wait for him to say something to me, but as he opens his mouth, Mindi squeals and runs up, wrapping him in a hug. Whatever he was about to say falls away in the wake of her overzealous greeting. But the appraising look in his eyes makes one thing clear.
He saw something.
The question is, how much? Because if he saw too much, Niko may be the next person on my list.
COMMITTED TO MEMORY
By the time we leave the party a few hours later, the snow is falling hard enough to make driving difficult, and it’s way past Mindi’s curfew. I reluctantly let her spend the night on my couch so she won’t end up grounded until the end of time. She’s too drunk to notice that she still has yet to meet my imaginary mother. When her dad comes to pick her up early the next morning for church, she hugs me hard enough to bruise my ribs.
“You’re, like, the best friend I’ve ever had,” she says, and I’m sure she’s kidding, until she pulls away and I see the tears glimmering in her eyes. The show of emotion makes things awkward, but deep down it makes me feel kind of glad. I think Mindi could use a friend, and I’m happy to help.
The snow continues through Sunday, and West County Township gets more than two feet, breaking a twenty-five-year-old record. By Sunday night everything is covered in white, and school on Monday is canceled. Newscasters stand knee-deep in the drifts and declare the county in the middle of a snow emergency. No one goes anywhere.
The snow keeps even me housebound. The plows are slow in removing the snow, and my car is not really equipped to deal with the weather. The cable goes out sometime on Sunday, leaving me without Internet or television. Instead I’m stuck with nothing to do but think.
My mind inevitably turns back to one of my first sessions with Dr. Goodhart. I liked him immediately. He was only a few months out of school, an earnest sandy-haired guy in his midtwenties who really wanted to help. He wasn’t like some of the other doctors, who had long since given up on saving anyone and just prescribed meds so they could collect a check, their eyes all but rolling as they pretended to listen. I felt like Dr. Goodhart lived up to his name. He listened to me when I told him about Them, about the ways They made me feel—or not feel. He asked me questions and laughed at my jokes. He gave me calming exercises I could do to maintain control, even though they never really worked. Still, I thought he tried. He made those first few months at Brighter Day tolerable.
The Furies didn’t like him, but that was pretty much expected.
Despite being unable to find fault with him at the time, there was always something about him that put me a little on edge. He always seemed a little too eager to talk about my hallucinations, like the only thing that was important was making sure They were quiet.
Like the day he saw me in the hallway. He approached me with a smile, his face seemingly open and friendly. Behind him followed a woman with a clipboard. She wasn’t a nurse and I didn’t recognize her, so I figured she was one of the clinical trials people. I’d been told during my intake interview that Brighter Day participated in a number of pharmaceutical trials so that they could offer patients the most cutting-edge treatment. It wasn’t until later that I found out that the trials were mostly so the doctors could supplement their incomes. In my mind They were uneasy at his approach. “And how is my favorite patient doing today?” he asked.
He is dangerous! We do not like him.
He seeks money and fame, not your health.
I shrugged. “Fine.”
“Are you still having trouble sleeping? Still hearing voices in your head?”
I nodded, afraid to say anything more. If he knew what They were saying about him, he wouldn’t be happy. And for some reason I thought it was important to keep Dr. Goodhart happy. Because he was my ticket out of Brighter Day. One day he would have to sign my discharge paperwork. I needed him on my side.
Dr. Goodhart frowned. “Amelie, the dosage you’re on is very high. Are you sure you’re still experiencing audio-sensory hallucinations?”
I shrugged again, not looking him in the eyes. He leaned in close, grabbing my upper arm and squeezing until I flinched. “You aren’t lying to me, are you?” he growled, his voice so low, I almost thought I imagined it. I shook my head, afraid of the hard set of his mouth. But all he did was release my arm and make some comment to the lady taking notes on a clipboard. She hadn’t reacted at all during our conversation, so I figured I’d imagined the whole thing. After all, there was a very good chance that I was crazy.
That was when I realized that Dr. Goodhart didn’t care about me or my problems. He cared only about himself.
That night there were two extra pills in my cup after dinner, one blue, one orange. I took them, and spent the next few days in a woozy haze. By the time my body adjusted to the dosage, They were oddly silent, the bruise on my upper arm had faded to a mustard color, and my parents were dead. While I was out of it, they’d skidded into an oncoming tractor-trailer. I didn’t even get to go to their funeral.
I want my sword in Dr. Goodhart’s chest so bad, I can taste it.
I blink away the sudden anger and take a deep breath. The last thing I need is Them waking up, anxious to hunt.
Niko. Lately my thoughts always come back to him.
At the party he said hello to everyone and then made some excuse about getting to work and disappeared. Disappointment welled up inside me, and I felt like a kid robbed of Christmas. Before he left, he gave me one last, long look. That look seared my skin and turned my bones to jelly. It was a look that seemed to say, We’ll talk later.
Or that’s what I want it to have said. It could just as easily have been a look that said, You are a psycho. I’m not very good at deciphering long, meaningful looks.
Mostly I wonder how much he saw. Did he see Tisiphone and Megaera? I kind of doubt it. If he’d seen the Furies, he definitely wouldn’t still be talking to me. More than likely he would’ve run the other way when he saw me.
The silly thing is that I’m relieved, not because it means my secret’s safe but because I might still have a chance with him.
So I spend all of Sunday and most of Monday reading articles with titles like “Ten Surefire Signs That He’s into You” and “How to Wow Him Without Trying.” They give me absolutely no insight into what to do about Niko, but I do get some ideas about how to get rid of Adam from an article entitled “Just Friends: Drawing Clear Boundaries with Guys.”
By Tuesday I’m even more confused about guys than I was before. I’m almost glad for the distraction of school.