Brimstone (22 page)

No, this girl in the mirror, wearing Jessica Prime’s clothes, her hair, her boobs, was ugly. She had piggish eyes and a bulbous nose and as I watched, her face erupted in a minefield of gaping black pores and pus-filled pimples.

Jessica screamed. The sound echoed off the metal lockers and the tile floors. Some of the girls put their hands over their ears. Some were too appalled to move. They couldn’t see what Jessica saw in her reflection. To their eyes, her perfection was marred only by her emaciation and slipping sanity.

She reached her hands to her face and began to claw at it, to tear the skin. I jumped forward to stop her, dizzy from the dual vision of the girl, nearly perfect and utterly grotesque. As she raked her nails over her cheeks, in the mirror the pimples popped and ran, and I gagged on the putrid smell. It was as if, in the vision-Jessica, all the rot inside her oozed out of her face.

I squeezed my eyes shut and dragged her hands down as Coach Milner came to help. Jessica fought us like a wild thing, flailing and kicking, shrieking at the top of her lungs. Milner got her in a restraining hold, wrapping whipcord
arms around her from behind, and gently but inexorably lowering the struggling girl to the floor.

“Call nine-one-one,” she said as Jessica went limp. In her weakened state, she was no match for the coach. She subsided, sobbing, a wretched heap of sticks on the cold tile floor.

i
met Lisa after school at Froth and Java, desperate for a caffeine boost and some debriefing. “On the other hand,” I told her at the end of my tale, “I did avoid landing in detention for the second day in a row.”

Battlefield humor. We sat outside and the balmy afternoon with its endless blue sky stood in glaring contrast to my gnawing worry.

Lisa leaned back in her chair, arms folded. “How do you keep ending up in the thick of these things?”

I sipped my vanilla latte. “Believe me, it’s not by choice.”

“What do you care if Queen Jessica wastes away to
nothing? She took that humiliating picture so she and her friends could cackle at you.”

“Thanks for reminding me.”

Lisa plopped her elbows on the table. “I’m serious. If you were a different kind of girl, you might have slit your wrists.”

“But I didn’t. I never even thought of it.” In fact, I was shocked at the idea.

“That’s because you’re reasonably together, and you have me for a friend. But you
were
hiding in the toilet.”

My cheeks heated up. “That was temporary.”

“And yet you know how it felt.” She stabbed her finger on the glass table, nailing home her point. “How many girls commit suicide because of witches like Jessica? If not all at once, then slowly, by starving or eating themselves to death. Or by sleeping around to try and find some self-esteem.”

“So that makes it right that Jessica Prime got hauled away to the funny farm?” Her screams still echoed in my head.

Lisa scowled and traced a figure in the condensation that dripped from her soda. “It seems fitting, if a little extreme. But you can’t expect a Jessica to do anything without going over the top.” She took a drink and set the cup back down.

I could see her point. The bane of so many girls’ lives, flipping out in the locker room and having to be taken away in restraints? There
was
a kind of cosmic justice to it. But the cosmos, or Fate, or deity of your choice hadn’t set this in motion. Someone earthly had meted a malicious and disturbing vengeance.

Lisa changed the subject and I was happy to let her. “Who is this guy you were arguing with at Cadillac Grill?”

“Justin. A friend of mine.”

“Uh-huh. So why don’t I know this ‘friend’?” she asked.

I twisted the insulating sleeve on my cardboard cup. “Because he’s … new.”

“I heard he was cute.”

“Very.”

She gave me a squinty, what-is-your-damage sort of look. “Then why in heaven’s name are you going out with Brian Kirkpatrick tonight?”

“I sort of agreed to it by accident.” And since he was one of the six in the picture, I figured it might be a good idea to stick around him.

As if reading my mind—and I wouldn’t quite put it past her—Lisa said, “I don’t know what I think about your having this ESP, or whatever it is, if it’s going to keep you hanging around the Jocks and Jessicas.”

“Well, they’re dwindling fast, aren’t they? There aren’t any Jessicas left.”

“Oh, Minor will be back.” Lisa paused with a devilish smile. “When she makes bail.”

Now
that
I could laugh at.

Avalon High’s home games were held on the university’s baseball diamond. I arrived during the third inning; I could see the scoreboard from the parking lot. This was my compromise, to avoid seeming too eager for this to be a
date
.

It was a perfect baseball evening, with the kind of temperate weather that makes me love spring in Avalon. Under
a very slight breeze, the sun bowed out gradually, lending a warm light but not too much glare: the magic hour, in photography terms.

I brought my camera with me and took pictures of the spectators with the light of the setting sun on their faces, bags of popcorn in their hands. Of the left-field guy, hands on knees in an anticipatory crouch, dirt-streaked uniform against the vibrant green grass. Idyllic, boys-of-summer stuff.

Eventually I found a seat behind the home-team’s dugout. Brian got on base the first time I saw him go to bat. He was tagged out at second on what the guy beside me called “a really nice squeeze play.” He was of a parental age, and wore a blue-and-gold Avalon T-shirt. This was either very cute or very sad.

When Brian jogged back to the dugout, he seemed unsteady on his feet. He waved his coach’s concern away. Mine was less easily put aside.

“You all right?” I asked when he came over to say hi.

He pulled off his hat and rested his elbows on the fence. Even hat hair looked good on him. “I’m fine. Just a little hot. Are you having a good time?” he asked.

“Sure. Too bad about that squeeze play.” I hope that impressed him, because it was the only baseball I spoke.

He shrugged. “That’s how the game is played.”

If you say so
. What did I know?

The coach called out to him, “Hey, Kirkpatrick. Stop flirting and get on the field.”

“See you on the next side out,” I said.

Brian laughed and put his hat back on. “Funny. See you
next inning. Bye, Dad!” He waved at Mr. Squeeze Play, and then grabbed his glove from the bench and ran onto the field.

I reevaluated the parental unit. “You’re Brian’s dad?”

“You must be Maggie.” He grinned and offered his hand. Yep. They were definitely related. “Glad to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Heck. How did an accidental date turn into a meeting with a parent? “Enjoying the game?”

“I’d enjoy it more if we were ahead. But it’s only the fifth inning.”

“Right.” I returned to my seat. “I don’t know much about baseball, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll explain it if you want, but I know my wife finds it equally satisfying to just enjoy the weather and cheer when I do.”

“Sounds about my speed.”

The opposing team’s batter came up to the plate, and went back to the dugout. The next player hit two foul balls, then another one that managed to stay in the lines. He was out at first base, though, thanks to Brian. I cheered for that, too.

“Brian’s a pretty good player, isn’t he?” I watched as he took off his hat again, and wiped his face with his arm.

“Well, I think so. But the scouts from the University of Texas must agree. They offered him a full scholarship.”

“That’s great!” I tried to smile naturally while a chill spread through me. Anyone who has ever seen a movie—ever—knows that nothing dooms a character quicker than a bright future: pregnant wife, farm in Montana, baseball scholarship.… All the same to cinematic irony.

My eyes searched the grounds for Old Smokey. Though
the shadows around the field were lengthening, they weren’t deep or dark enough to hold the phantom as I’d last seen it, and I didn’t smell anything but peanuts and popcorn.

Out on first base, though, Brian swayed on his feet. He put his hands on his knees, but it wasn’t the usual wait-for-the-pitch stance. Even from the stands he looked green.

“He doesn’t look well,” I said, stating the obvious.

Grimly, his dad shook his head. “He’s been feeling bad all weekend. At first we thought it was because of his friend. You know, Jeff.”

The coach called for a time out. He walked to first base and talked to Brian, as if telling him not to be a macho idiot. Or maybe that was what I would tell him, if I were out there. Finally, the coach signaled another player in from the dugout.

Halfway off the diamond, Brian’s legs folded up under him. Mr. Kirkpatrick yelled in alarm and ran to the fence. “This way,” I said, and led him to the gate behind the home-team’s bench. We ran out onto the field, ignoring umpires, players, and the confused and concerned murmur from the stands.

Mr. Kirkpatrick dropped beside his son, putting a hand to his face, then placing his fingers against the pulse in his neck. I crouched by them. “Is he all right?”

Brian opened his eyes, blinking at the worried circle of faces that gazed down at him. “What happened?”

“You fainted,” I said. Pained embarrassment crossed his face, and I remembered that his teammates were clustered around us. “I mean, passed out. Uh … took a header.” What was the macho term for “swooned like a girl”?

“Did you lose consciousness?” his father asked, looking
into his eyes. I wondered if he was actually a doctor, or had just watched a lot of
ER
. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Three.” It was the wrong answer.

“Can you squeeze my hand?” Apparently the answer to that wasn’t good, either. “Raise your head? Move your legs?” He could, but with trembling effort, as if someone had tied sandbags to his limbs.

“Do we need to call an ambulance?” the coach asked.

Brian protested. “No, Dad. Let the guys help me up.”

Dr. Kirkpatrick—I felt pretty sure about the profession—sat back on his heels, and his son’s frightened gaze followed him. “You need to get checked out. Now. And I’m not taking any excuses.”

“I promise. We can go straight to the emergency room, if you want. Just let the guys help me off the field.”

Men.

I stood back as his teammates hoisted him up, his arms over their shoulders, and half-carried him off the field while the spectators clapped their encouragement.

Dr. Kirkpatrick went to move his car closer. On the field, play resumed, as Brian sat on the bench to wait, leaning wearily back against the surrounding fence. His hand caught mine and weakly pulled downward. I obliged the silent request and sat beside him.

“What’s going on, Maggie?”

“Your dad is taking you to the emergency room, I think.” The school should get a discount rate.

“No.” He shook his head, then swayed woozily, grasping my hand to steady himself. “I mean, first Jeff, then Jessica, and the other Jessica. What’s going on?”

His voice was so weak, I didn’t think his teammates
could hear. Still, I leaned closer, clasping his hand between my own. “I don’t know, Brian. Something bad.”

“You have to figure it out, Maggie.” He met my worried gaze, his eyes vivid blue in his pale face. “It’s all of us from that day, isn’t it? From the day with Stanley.”

He’d figured it out more quickly than I had. “Yeah. Except Karen.”

“Why didn’t you give the pictures to Halloran?”

It took me a moment to realize what that meant. “
You
told Halloran about the pictures? Why?”

“Crisis of conscience, I guess. Too afraid to stand up to them alone, but didn’t want them—us—to get away scot-free.” He rubbed his hand over his eyes. “I guess we’re not.”

“Don’t give up.” I squeezed his hand. “I’m working on it.”

He smiled. “I feel better already.” His expression seemed almost shy. Or maybe that was his weakness. “Can I call you to ask how it’s going?”

“Sure.”

When his dad reappeared, Brian had regained enough strength in his legs that it only took one teammate to help him to the car. I followed behind, distant enough to ask Dr. Kirkpatrick if he had any idea what was wrong.

He shook his head, not quite in denial, but in disbelief. “I know what it
looks
like, but it’s impossible for it to progress this fast.”

Impossible had become a relative thing in my life. “What does it look like, then?”

“Well, it
looks
like MS. But he’s never had any symptoms before. This is like a year of deterioration in a matter of days.”

Multiple sclerosis? Didn’t people with MS end up in wheelchairs?

I watched them drive off, then stood in the parking lot, unsure what to do next. I had failed to save anybody. Events had been escalating from mildly amusing to life-altering. As a ghost hunter, I was a total failure. I wasn’t much of a detective, either, since I still didn’t know exactly what the Shadow was or how to stop it. I’d even managed to lose my best ally. So far it was Powers of Darkness six, Maggie Quinn zero.