7 Souls (12 page)

A female voice—moaning in the distance.

Oh my God
, Mary thought weakly. She felt light-headed and bit her lower lip because it seemed like the only way to keep herself from fainting. Turning her head sideways, she couldn’t see anything of Amy but a murky shadow. Amy’s grip on her arm got painfully tight, and she could tell that Amy was within an eyelash of succumbing to pure animal terror and running from the house.

She’ll panic and get in the car and drive away
, Mary thought crazily.
And I’ll be here all alone with the moaning girl
.

The whimpering penetrated the silence again, and Mary realized that the sound was coming from
outside
the house—from directly ahead, where she could now make out another door.

“Come on,” she whispered to Amy, pulling her forward. They nearly collided with a huge black shape—an overturned wooden table. Mary got them around that by feel and then advanced toward the back door. Amy was leaning against her like an invalid, she was so frightened.

Another moan in the distance—and Mary recognized the voice.

Joon.

The back door was wide open; she could see it clearly now, a pale gray rectangle framed in splintered wood. Beyond it, more weeds and a ruined lawn stretched away into the blackness. Mary’s eyes had adjusted enough that the glow of the car’s headlights, shining past the house, let her see clearly—and now it was
her
turn to get weak in the knees, swaying sideways against the door’s warped, cracked frame.

In the darkness, just past the edge of the tangled, wet, black forest beyond the lawn, a figure was suspended in the air—a human figure, just barely visible, hanging from some kind of rope or chain, twirling slightly in the wind.

As Mary and Amy edged just beyond the doorway, the shadowy hanging figure moved. The moans intensified to high-pitched, frantic whimpering that so frightened Mary she couldn’t think at all for more than ten seconds.

It was Joon—Joon had been tied up and gagged with silver gaffer’s tape and suspended from a rope, out there in the woods behind the house. She could see them—her hanging figure bucked and twisted spastically, the rope creaking, as she squealed and kicked and shook in panic. The rope led upward from her bound wrists, disappearing into the shadows of the thick branches overhead. Mary could clearly see Joon’s black hair tossing and swinging as she moaned and whimpered more and more frantically.

“Oh my God,” Amy whispered. She was crying. “Oh my God—”

“Come on,” Mary said, pulling Amy forward. “Come on, Amy—”

“I can’t.” Amy grabbed Mary’s arm painfully. “I can’t, I
can’t
go out there.”

“Amy—”

“I can’t,”
Amy nearly screamed. “Oh Jesus, don’t make me go out there—”

“Okay,” Mary whispered. She hadn’t taken her eyes from Joon’s shadowy figure. “Okay. But I’m going.”

“No—”

A staccato blast of lightning, a row of flashbulbs igniting, shone through the trees like silent fire.

“Amy, I’ve
got
to,” Mary hissed desperately. Her entire body was wet and shivering now—she could only imagine what Joon was going through or how long she’d been hanging there in the cold rain, all alone just within the wild edges of that black forest. “I’ve got to.”

Thunder rumbled, giant boulders smashing in the sky.

“Don’t leave me here,” Amy pleaded, crying. “Don’t leave me here alone.”

Then come with me!
Mary wanted to scream. But that was impossible. Mary could tell from Amy’s voice, there was just no way she was going to take another step forward. It was like asking her to walk off a cliff.

“Listen to me,” Mary said, taking Amy’s head in her hands. “Listen—I’ll be
right back
. You just stay
right here—don’t move
—and I’ll be back. Okay?”

Amy nodded. She wiped tears from her face.

Mary gently disengaged her arm from Amy’s death grip, took a deep breath and then stepped down the porch stairs and out into the cold night air. Mary could see Joon’s face now, behind the tape that gagged her. Joon saw her coming and started whimpering and moaning again. The sound was horrible: it was obvious that Joon was completely beside herself with terror and was trying to scream at the top of her lungs, but the gag made that impossible.

The rush of water was easier to hear now.

“I’m coming!” Mary called out, stumbling forward through the mud. The weeds were waist high, thwacking against her bare thighs as she walked, and both of her heels snapped, the left and then the right. Mary left the shoes in the mud and continued barefoot, shivering as her feet plunged into the cold jelly of mud. “I’m coming, Joon!”

She didn’t see the worst part until she got halfway there—the light was just too feeble, and her view into the forest was murky, obscured by rain. But when she got close enough to see, she gasped and another wave of fear swept over her like a spray from a firehose.

The ground beneath Joon fell away. Where she was hanging, the ground was
gone
—she was suspended in the air past the edge of what looked like some kind of embankment.

And down below the cliff—
far
down below, judging by the sound—was the roar of a stream.

Jesus
, Mary thought weakly.
How am I supposed to get to her?
She kept moving forward, but it was slow going—each step meant pulling a foot from the mud’s suction.

“I’m coming, Joon!” Mary yelled. “I’m coming! I’ll be right there!”

Joon was bucking and shaking even more wildly, making the rope she hung from whicker and twang like a plucked guitar string. Her wet hair tossed wildly from side to side. She was frantically shaking her head.

“Mary!”

Amy’s voice behind her
—screaming
.

The scream went through her like a javelin. It was so loud, so piercing, that it made her ears hurt.

“Mary,
help! Help! Hel—”

And then, suddenly, silence.

Mary pivoted, peering backward through the gloom.

She couldn’t see anything. All she heard was the whisper of the rain and the moan of the wind in the trees.

Running back toward the house, she took a bad step and fell flat on her face in the mud, tearing the Nina Ricci dress. A tree root slammed against her shoulder hard enough to make her eyes water. Panting, she rolled sideways and got her numb, cold hands beneath herself to get her body upright.

“Amy!” Mary screamed, sobbing as she stumbled up the stairs and rushed through the splintered, empty doorframe. “Amy!”

Nothing.

This isn’t happening
, some part of Mary’s mind was repeating over and over.
No, no, no, no—

“Amy!”
Mary screamed at the top of her lungs.
“Amy, where are you?”

Nothing. No answer. Nothing but the rain.

Amy had vanished.

Where did she go? Oh, sweet Lord Jesus, what happened to her?

Mary retraced her steps out the back door.
She followed me outside
, Mary thought desperately.
I’ve got to go after her—

But she knew better. Amy had been
inside the house
when she’d screamed and then the scream had been cut off with the terrifying finality of a plug being pulled.

Mary waded through the mud and weeds toward Joon’s dangling body.

“I can’t find Amy!” Mary sobbed, her hoarse throat burning with the strain of screaming. “Joon, hang on—”

Joon was violently shaking her head as Mary moved toward her. Ten feet, fifteen feet—and now she was finally close enough to see the whites of Joon’s wide, panicked eyes. Joon’s squeals and moans had become so frantic that she sounded like an animal caught in a trap. The sound was unbearable.

Amy
, Mary thought desperately.
What happened to you, Amy?

Mary took one more step and heard a thunderous wet crack and then suddenly the world was spinning … She had half a second to realize that the ground had given out beneath her and that she was falling painfully through sharp twigs and brambles and dead leaves, the edge of the earth slamming painfully into her forearms as she dropped.

“Aaah!”
Mary yelled, winded. She’d plunged through a jagged, gaping hole and was caught in the ground up to her chest. Her upper arms were on fire; the pain was overwhelming. Her feet had collided with something deep underground—rocks or tree roots—and her left ankle sang with agony.

She couldn’t move. She was completely, utterly trapped.

Above her, just ahead, she could see Joon wriggling again, moaning through her gag as she stared at her.

“Joon!” Mary screamed. “I’m trapped—I can’t move!”

She whimpered as she strained her body, trying to free herself. It was impossible. She was cemented in the ground as firmly as if a gardener had planted her there.

Joon kept wriggling—and as she did, Mary heard something new—the most horrifying sound she’d heard yet.

The rope was breaking.

Joon’s panicked movements were straining its fibers, and, before Mary saw it start to unravel, she heard the low, wet tearing sound of its filaments splitting and coming apart.

Joon heard it too. She arched her back, straining against her bonds, twisting her head to look upward. Then she started wriggling even more frantically.

“Don’t move, Joon!” Mary screamed. “Jesus, don’t—”

The rope cracked and snapped and tore apart all at once and Mary screamed
No
, practically breaking her spine trying to wrest herself free from the hole she’d fallen into, and then the rope came apart and Joon fell and there was a fleeting instant—frozen like a photograph—of Joon’s horrified, wide-eyed face blurred beneath her hair, which stood on end as she dropped out of view.

Mary was still screaming, but like in the movies, it was a silent scream—drowned out by the sound of the rain.

And then, after a long, long delay, the most horrifying sound of all—a distant, thunderous splash.

That’s where the stream is
, Mary remembered.
Way, way down there
.

“Joon!” she called out desperately.
“Joon, can you hear me?”

Nothing. No answer at all. She was alone, trapped in the wet earth like an animal, freezing, shivering, moaning. Amy was gone, and now Joon was, too.

T
HERE WAS NO WAY
to tell how much time had passed, but the rain had finally stopped. Mary hadn’t blacked out; she’d just stopped thinking. It was easier to stay half-buried in the cold ground and not think and just wait to die. Now she was slowly coming out of it, waking up from whatever shocked stupor she’d drifted into after the rope had broken and Joon had dropped out of sight like somebody tumbling down an elevator shaft.

She could still be down there
, Mary thought.
Legs broken, bleeding, dying—

But Mary didn’t believe it. No matter how hard she strained, she couldn’t
hear
anything—nothing after that horrifying cannonball splash that had sounded so distant, so far down below. Mary realized she was crying again, sobbing gently in a way that made her throat hitch painfully. In that moment, Mary wished she was dead.

And then, suddenly, she heard something.

A car was approaching. Somebody was coming.

I’m going to get my wish
, she thought. She was sure of it; the dull hum of an engine was getting louder, and, a moment later, she could just make out the dim sweep of headlights through the vast trees around her. There was no question about it: a car was approaching the house.

They’re coming for me
, Mary thought.
Whoever did this—whoever brought Joon here; whoever took Amy away—they’re coming for me now
.

There was nothing she could do. She couldn’t move. Her face stung with dried tears. She was all screamed out; she had nothing left.

The engine got even louder and the headlights swept over the far side of the house, casting crazy shadows against the trees. Then the engine cut and a car door slammed—a loud, metallic bang that made her flinch—and footsteps crunched in the wet gravel, coming toward her, around the house.

Make it quick
, Mary found herself praying.
Please, God, make it fast—whatever’s about to happen, whatever’s about to happen to me, make it fast
.

Heavy footsteps were approaching through the long grass and the weeds. She could only see a tall, thin silhouette, haloed in the damp air.

It’s him
, Mary thought. She was numb with terror, remembering her vision—the dark shape that loomed over her, coming closer, like a falling statue.
It’s him—the giant man
.

Mary heard herself whimpering in fear and was powerless to stop. The figure approached, getting closer and closer, growing taller and taller, looming over her like the sharp, jagged silhouette of a bare tree in the coldest depths of winter, and she found herself praying again:
Don’t hurt me—kill me if you’re going to kill me, whoever you are, but don’t hurt me. Don’t make it hurt
.

The giant figure stopped right in front of her, a tall, featureless shape like an angel of death, or a giant in a fairy tale, the kind of giant who strides through the dark primeval forest and snatches small children, who are never seen again.

“Please,” Mary whispered, gazing helplessly up at the black silhouette. “Please don’t hurt me—”

The figure leaned forward, reaching out a hand and, suddenly, she saw who it was. It wasn’t a giant at all.

“Come on,” Dylan Summer whispered urgently. “Grab my hand—we’ve got to get out of here
right now
.”

6
11:21
P.M.

“D
YLAN
?” M
ARY TRIED TO
blink the rain and tears and strands of wet hair from her eyes. “Dylan? Is that you?”

“Grab my
hand
,” Dylan repeated. He was crouching, his arms outstretched. His own sodden hair flicked back and forth as he whipped his head around in near panic like a trapped animal. “Come on
—do it!”

Mary reached up and fumbled with Dylan’s hands, grabbing his wrists with her freezing fingers as he did the same to hers. The rain was picking up again; big drops spattered on her shoulders and face as Dylan leaned backward and heaved, pulling her upward. She nearly screamed as her bare ankle scraped against rough tree roots and stones. Dylan was grimacing, his eyes clenched tight, his face crimson with the effort.

I can’t get out
, Mary thought, biting her lip at the pain as the roots scraped against her rib cage, tearing the green fabric that Amy Twersky had paid so much for—the fabric you were warned not to dry-clean too often, since it was so delicate.
He’s not going to be able to do it; he’s not strong enough
.

But he was. With a sudden, scraping sound like the screech of a nail being pulled from a piece of wood, Mary catapulted upward, muddy water flowing into the hole as she collapsed onto Dylan, knocking him into the tall weeds. Dylan grunted as her weight drove all the air from his lungs.

But he was trying to get out from under her, wincing with the strain as he clamped his fingers around her shoulder and pushed her aside. She rolled sideways into the mud and he wheezed as he got his legs under himself and awkwardly rose to his feet.

“Ow, ow, ow,” Dylan muttered as he clamped his hands around his shin—she realized he’d banged it against something. Beneath his thick, lined overcoat, he was still dressed in the charcoal suit she’d seen him in back when everything was at least
close
to being sane, before she’d dropped the rest of the way off the edge of the world and into this nightmare.

“Joon!”
Mary screamed as soon as she could breathe. Dylan was pulling her to her feet, hunching over and looking back and forth, like a fugitive escaped from a chain gang.
“Amy … Joon … Oh my G—”

Dylan clamped his hand over her mouth, nearly making her gag.

“Quiet,”
Dylan hissed. She could hear the fear in his voice. “For God’s sake, don’t make so much noise.”

“Mmm—mmm
—” Mary was shaking her head, trying to pull away. Her body was so wet and freezing that she suspected she might be in the early stages of hypothermia. It was still nearly impossible to see; the black, primeval forest hissed and swayed in the cold wind. Mary tried to push Dylan’s hand away from her mouth.

“Will you be quiet!” Dylan snapped. She stopped struggling and nodded and he took his hand away.

“They’re
gone,”
Mary sobbed, grabbing Dylan’s neck and pulling him toward her. She nearly toppled into the mud and then managed to regain her footing, but it was difficult, because her scratched feet were numb. “Oh my God, Dylan—we have to go down there—”

“We have to
leave
,” Dylan whispered grimly, pushing his sodden hair back from his face and pulling her toward the house. “Mary, Jesus,
come on.”

“But—”

“There’s
no time,”
Dylan insisted, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her. “Don’t you understand? We’re going to be next if we don’t leave.”

“But I have to save Joon,” Mary sobbed, pointing behind them at the frayed end of the rope that still hung from the tree. She was struggling frantically, trying to pull away from Dylan’s slippery yet firm grip. “She fell down into that stream and—”

“You can’t save anyone!”
Dylan raged in her face. “It’s too late! Now, for Christ’s sake,
come on!”

It’s too late
, Mary thought. She stopped struggling and slumped against Dylan, shaking as she sobbed, letting the tears come in earnest. Her blurred final view of Joon’s gagged face, her hair standing straight up above her head as she fell—the sickening finality of Amy’s last scream—everything was repeating over and over in her mind like an evil slide show that she couldn’t stop watching. She wanted to turn back the clock, to start over from the beginning of the day.

“We’ve—we’ve got to get away,” Dylan whispered as he pulled her along, around the side of the farmhouse, skirting the edge of the wide field she’d seen visions of all day. “Hurry up—my car’s over here.”

“But what’s—what’s happening, Dylan?” Mary was limping slightly from her ankle wound, but the pain wasn’t too bad and she could just manage to keep up with him. “What the hell is happening?”

“I can’t—I can’t explain now.” Dylan had let go of her waist and arms and was fishing in his pocket for his car keys. As they rounded the sagging edge of the deserted house, Mary squinted in the sudden glare. A battered Ford Taurus was parked next to Patrick’s car, its headlights gleaming through the rain, making wild coronas in her wet eyes. Dylan had left the driver’s door open. He pushed Mary roughly toward the car and she stumbled and collapsed against its fender—she could feel the engine’s heat throbbing beneath the metal.

“Get in,” Dylan ordered, pointing. He continued to look around, his head pivoting like a bird’s. In the glare of the four headlights, she could see his mud-streaked face clearly; she could see the barely contained panic in his eyes. “Door’s open. We’ve got to get away
right now
.”

Mary limped her way around the side of the Taurus and pulled the passenger door open. A chime started bonging as she collapsed on the seat, the thin, wet fabric of the ruined dress pressing against her thighs, freezing them. She pulled her scratched legs inside and yanked the door shut. Dylan had climbed in beside her and slammed his own door, fumbling with the keys as he turned them in the ignition. The headlights dimmed as the engine turned over, nearly stalling and then roaring to life. The instrument panel flared, casting an eerie green glow on Dylan’s hands and face. The wheels ground loudly against the gravel and the engine whined as Dylan twisted his head around, clenching his teeth with the effort of peering through the fogged windows, swerving the car as he propelled them backward, trying not to smash into any of the overhanging trees.

Mary’s teeth were chattering. She had her arms wrapped tightly around her body, but it was no use—she was frozen to the bone. Her breathing hitched with dry sobs.

Staring straight ahead, through the windshield, Mary watched the deserted house recede into the darkness and disappear. She got one final glance of Trick’s empty Mercedes, its long low doors spread wide open like gull wings, its sapphire headlights illuminating the emerald leaves, its windshield wipers flicking back and forth, back and forth.

H
E DROVE FAST
. T
HEY
were on the Saw Mill River Parkway, speeding south, heading back toward the city. The rain was pounding now, scattering from the highway in front of them in a fine spray that danced in the headlights. Dylan had punched a dashboard button that got the heat going full blast, and the car’s interior was warming up. The windshield wipers hummed as they worked.

“There’s a blanket,” Dylan muttered, flicking his head backward, keeping his eyes on the road. “Back there.”

Mary didn’t want to move. She wanted to sit in the uncomfortable seat and stare at the converging white lines and the passing aluminum guardrail and stop thinking, stop remembering Amy’s screams and Joon’s desperate struggle at the end of that fraying rope. She couldn’t make herself numb. It was impossible. Eventually, she twisted around and groped in the darkness of the backseat—her fingers brushed against a wool blanket and she pulled it forward, sending a stack of battered paperbacks toppling from the seat to the floor of the car.

“Thanks,” Mary managed to whisper.

“Yeah.”

Dylan was driving eighty-five miles an hour, she saw. There was almost no traffic—a few sedans whipped past, headed in the other direction, headlights dazzling her as they went by, but the southbound lane was nearly empty.

“How did you—” Mary coughed explosively, her hoarse throat aching with the strain. She pulled the thick blanket around herself, basking in the warmth. “How did you know? How did—What’s—”

“Don’t try to talk.” Dylan sounded as bad as she did. Turning her head against the seat, she could see his profile. He was checking the rearview mirror, over and over. “Please just let me drive.”

“Okay.” Mary was in no mood to argue. The sodden fabric of the ruined dress pressed against her skin like cold ropes. She was still shivering.

Headlights were coming up behind them.

Dylan noticed it too—he glanced in the rearview mirror again. Mary could feel her breathing quickening. A slow, steady wave of dread was beginning to creep over her, one more time.

It’s nothing
, Mary told herself.
Just traffic
.

Dylan didn’t seem fazed. His driving was steady. Rain beat down on the car’s windows. Mary heard a low rumble of thunder, far in the distance.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Back to the city.”

“Yeah, but
where?”

“What?”

Dylan sounded confused by the question. Glancing over at his profile, Mary saw an odd look on his face—a strange, puzzled cast to his eyes. The car behind them had caught up, and bands of bright light came sliding across the Taurus’s ceiling.

“Dylan,” she repeated, deliberately. There was something about his manner that she didn’t like—she couldn’t put her finger on it, but something seemed odd, out of place. “Where are you taking me?”

“I don’t—”

The car was slowing down, Mary was sure of it; she could hear the drone of the engine decreasing in pitch. She glanced over and saw the illuminated speedometer needle twirling backward, like a clock hand sweeping in reverse.

“Dylan, what’s wrong?” Mary didn’t like this at all. What had come over him? His hands were twitching the wheel oddly and the car was bucking and weaving. The car behind them was nearly tailgating—the Taurus’s interior was brilliantly headlit. “What’s—what’s happening to you?”

“I don’t—” Dylan shook his head quickly, as if he was trying to shake off his disorientation. His wet hair flopped over his forehead. Mary sat upright and peered behind them, squinting in the glare of the headlights of the car following them. She couldn’t see any details—just the lights, getting closer. “I can’t—I can’t remember what—”

The car behind them honked. The blast of its horn was deafeningly loud; Mary flinched, shivering as she stole another glance backward at the headlights that were
right there
, mere feet away.

“Dylan!” Mary yelled. She slapped her hands against the dashboard, bracing herself as their car drifted, nearly skidding. The car behind them gave another series of horn blasts. “Dylan, snap out of it! We’re going to have an accident—”

Dylan was blinking fast. Something was definitely wrong with him; his hands were slackening on the wheel and the car was drifting to the right, propelling itself toward the blur of trees along the parkway’s edge. Mary’s body was flooded with adrenaline. The other car swerved and weaved, its headlamps flashing like disco lights as its horn blasted again.

“Jesus Christ!” Dylan yelled.

Mary saw his hands tighten on the wheel. She was pitched against the passenger door, her bare shoulder banging against the window, as Dylan regained control of the Taurus and pulled back into the passing lane. A band of reflected headlight caught his eyes as he looked in the rearview mirror and punched the gas, propelling them forward—the speedometer showed them approaching sixty, seventy, eighty miles per hour.

The car behind them matched their speed.

“Dylan, what the hell is going on?” Mary shouted. The blanket had fallen to the floor and she leaned to gather it up as Dylan pulled the car to ninety. “What happened to you?”

“Fasten your seat belt,” Dylan told her. He sounded frightened. “Jesus, they’re right behind us—”

“Who’s
behind us?” Mary was fumbling with the shoulder belt, trying to yank it across herself while the car lurched forward. Thunder sounded, not that far off, as she snapped the seat-belt buckle home. The car was moving so erratically, she was absolutely convinced Dylan was about to flip it over. The pursuers’ headlights were falling behind.
“Who the hell is doing this to—”

The brakes screeched and Mary was flung forward against her seat belt as Dylan spun the wheel, throwing them into a corkscrew spin, aiming the car at an exit ramp. Mary screamed as Dylan hit the gas—she could almost feel the fillings ripping loose from her teeth as the Taurus banged over the curb of the embankment and sped forward along the narrow off-ramp.

The pursuing car roared past, missing the exit. Through the pounding rain, Mary heard a distant squeal. The other car’s brake lights flashed, bright red coals through the charcoal darkness, and then it was gone. Mary fell back against her seat, feeling like she was going to vomit—the feeling passed, just barely, and then she was hyperventilating. Dylan slowed down, breathing heavily himself, his hands shaking on the wheel. They drove beneath a yellow streetlight and onto a narrow Riverdale boulevard. Mary realized where they were—less than a mile north of Manhattan—as a flash of lightning lit up the deserted suburban street. The street was flanked by trees and lined with two-story homes.

“Okay,”
Dylan rasped. He was still shaking. Mary could see his whitened knuckles gripping the steering wheel. “Okay, okay. We lost them. I think we really lost them.”

“Who
were
they?”

“If I told you,” Dylan said, rubbing perspiration from his forehead with a shaky hand, “you’d never believe me.”

“But—”

“Just give me a minute,” Dylan muttered. He was looking around them, peering through the rain-streaked windows, apparently trying to find road signs, landmarks. “Okay? Please—just let me drive. I’ve got to figure out how to get us where we’re going.”