Cold Sight (17 page)

“Kenny? I don’t know,” she admitted. “He works part-time for the paper, doing odd jobs and cleanups. Walter has been good to him; obviously he was in some kind of accident.”

“Very sad. It takes courage to come out in public like this.” His voice lowered and he sounded thoughtful as he added, “He must really like football.”

“Well, he works here part-time, so he probably had to be here for the post-game cleanup. But coming early and being part of the crowd can’t be easy.”

As they reached the bleachers and picked their way up to a couple of vacant seats at the very top corner, Lexie took note of the atmosphere. The home team was winning out on the playing field. But in the stands, among the crowd, there was such a sense of anger, mistrust, and resentment, that nobody was doing a lot of cheering. Glares and sneers had replaced cheers and applause. Noticeably absent were any hints of sportsman-ship, community, or camaraderie.

The divide at the fifty-yard line had absolutely nothing on the separation between the residents of “old” Granville and those from below Woodsboro Ave, who eyed one another across the expansive field like two opposing armies sizing up a battlefield just before bloodying it.

The tension was so thick, the two sides so distinctly separated, it was like being in a gangland turf war rather than at a high school stadium. Lexie had lived in Granville for six years and had never seen anything like it. People in line for the bathroom or snacks jostled and shoved, insults were shouted, elbows flew. Several members of the police force were on hand to watch the game, and while they didn’t wear uniforms, they made their presence known, shouting down anybody who got a little too aggressive. Especially anybody from the opposing team’s side.

“It’s not usually like this,” she mumbled to Aidan. “I mean, there’s always the typical tension, but I’ve never felt this much . . .”

“Rage?”

“Yeah,” she admitted. “You can almost smear it on, it’s so thick.”

“Powder keg,” he said with a matter-of-fact shrug.

“People are afraid, pointing fingers. The tension’s going to cause an explosion if something doesn’t happen to release it. Dunston’s a fool not to see it.”

She only hoped they weren’t in the vicinity when it all exploded. Since she and Aidan were sitting on the visitor’s side, with those Dunston would undoubtedly call “rabble,” the last thing she wanted was to be caught in a riot. She’d probably get arrested for incitement.

Lexie had drawn a few curious glances, and wary nods from those sitting around them when they’d arrived at their seats. People were whispering about her articles, wondering if they’d been too quick to believe the chief who, the Boro folks now recalled, they pretty much hated anyway. Sensing their desire to question her, she figured if she’d been alone, a few would have done it. But Aidan’s presence at her side kept them from asking anything. They didn’t recognize him, saw only a stranger in their midst. With his dark good looks, his frown, and his deep, gleaming eyes, he didn’t inspire quick trust and ease. More like excitement and wary interest.

While he’d done as she’d asked and gotten rid of the black-on-black-on-black look, the dark jeans and navy jacket didn’t make him look any more like a typical guy next door. She didn’t think he was capable of that look. Not unless one lived next door to a mysterious wind-swept old mansion on the English moors. He resembled one of those alpha men who would inhabit an old Gothic novel.

She laughed at herself for the thought, knowing it was as much his personality—his innate draw—as his looks that put that strange image in her mind. But not entirely. Because even if she had no clue who he was, and just walked past him on the street, she somehow knew goose bumps would rise on her skin and she would tingle with awareness. He was just so there. Intense. Unlike anyone she’d ever met before.

Lexie had enjoyed her share of sexual affairs, though none recently. But she’d never known a man, not even one with whom she’d been intimate, who could glance at her and cause shivers of excitement to run up and down her spine. Not until Aidan.

This was utter physical attraction at its most pure, basic level.

“The chief’s making the rounds. Who’s that he’s talking to?” he asked, nodding toward the other side of the field, where Dunston stood with a small group of men.

“The one bursting the seams of that letterman’s jacket is Mayor Bobby Cunningham.”

“Reliving his own jock glory days?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes. “I think he bought that jacket at a thrift shop or on eBay. I snooped into his background a little bit and he never made it higher than batboy when he went to school here. That’s our illustrious mayor, all flash and show, nothing underneath to justify it.”

“The others?”

Shifting in her seat, she peered at the chief and his cronies. After naming two she recognized as members of the town council, she added, “The gray- haired guy is Principal Steele, and the tall one in the navy sport coat is his vice principal, Mark Young, who I told you about.”

“The one organizing search parties,” he said, quoting her.

“Right. The one with the Jay Leno jaw is Principal Ziegler from Hoover. I don’t know as much about him, except that he wouldn’t meet with me when I was working on the story.”

“At least the school administrators haven’t come to blows,” he said.

“Not yet,” she muttered. “Though the evening is still young.”

The only place the hits seemed strictly sports related was out on the field. Lexie wasn’t much of a football fan, but she knew a little about the game. Though she watched for any after-the-call strikes or low blows, she didn’t see any. The teams were playing their hearts out, just like any other Friday night under the lights; they seemed oblivious to their parents’ bad behavior.

Or maybe not so oblivious. She had to wonder when halftime rolled around. Because instead of running off the field with their teammates, suddenly the captains of each team, as if by unspoken agreement, strode to the fifty-yard line. They met face-to-face, each removing his helmet to engage in a serious conversation, appearing tense but cordial.

“What’s going on?” someone nearby whispered.

“Probably getting ready for a speech for the late coach they’re supposed to be honoring tonight,” she said, pulling a small notebook out of her pocket so she could jot down a few comments. Walter had given her a story to cover, after all.

“I don’t think so,” Aidan murmured.

The two boys—young men—spoke for a few moments, ignoring the shouts from their coaches. Gradually, everyone in the stands noticed. Conversations quieted, the spectators watching closely as the boys were joined by two teenage girls, one from each side’s cheerleading team. Lexie immediately recognized one of the Kirby twins, likely Taylor, who was captain of the squad. By virtue of her peppiness as opposed to her sister’s academics, Lexie assumed.

“This should prove interesting,” Aidan said.

“What?”

“I believe we’re about to see these kids put their parents to shame.”

She understood, and suspected he was right when the four young people moved in unison toward the sidelines, where a microphoned announcer had been calling the game. Though the two school principals waved the coaches over and tried to intercept the kids, they would not be deterred. The young man in the red and black Hoover uniform muscled past all of the adults, pulling the microphone right out of the volunteer announcer’s hand. He said something, realized the microphone was turned off, and flicked a switch. A sudden blast of screechy feedback got the attention of the few oblivious people who hadn’t already been glued to the unfolding spectacle.

“We got something to say,” the boy said into the mike, his voice echoing across the suddenly quiet stadium. “All of us.”

He waved an arm back, gesturing toward all the other students. Every member of both teams, and all the cheerleaders, had come forward, shoulder to shoulder in one long, uninterrupted line of solidarity across the football field. The coaches appeared beside themselves, running back and forth, shouting at their players, who completely ignored them.

The boy was joined at the mike by the other three, and Taylor handed him a folded sheet of paper, nodding her encouragement and squeezing his hand.

Lexie muttered, “That oughta send the old-guard racists running for their white sheets.”

“No shit,” said a woman sitting beside her. They exchanged a smile.

Unfolding the paper, the boy began to read, his voice a little shaky—nervous—yet his posture firm and resolute. “We the students of Granville High School and Hoover High School want to dedicate this game to . . . Vonnie Jackson.”

Even from here, Lexie heard the collective gasp rising from a number of people sitting over in the opposite bleachers. That had not been the name anybody had expected to hear.

The first boy offered the microphone to the captain of the Granville team. He took it, and the note, and read, “Today is Vonnie’s eighteenth birthday. We ask all of you to join us in a moment of silence to show our solidarity in hoping that she’s okay and that
somebody
finds her, and all the other missing kids, and brings them back home.”

Wow. Direct hit, right at the chief of police. And right in front of his most rich and powerful constituents.

“Nice,” Aidan whispered.

“Very nice,” she agreed. “Especially because that kid from Granville High is the son of a well-known local attorney.”

The four students took each other’s hands, boy-girl, boy-girl—different races, schools, and backgrounds—looking like a commercial for racial harmony and peace. They lowered their heads and fell silent. As Aidan had predicted, they humiliated everybody else in the place, including the inept police chief and the pig mayor, into doing the same thing.

Lexie joined them, pausing to send heartfelt good wishes to Vonnie. But as soon as it ended, she knew she would need to get to work. Though Stan would be covering the game itself, she would tell this part of the story in the paper, no matter what anybody had to say about it.

It was going to be a lot harder now for Dunston to try to keep her quiet. A big spotlight had been shone on the darkest corners of the town, courtesy of a group of teenagers who were able to see past their own differences to that which united them: Vonnie and the other victims.

It was one of the bravest things she’d ever seen, a moment she would never forget. And one she suspected also would be remembered by all the mostly decent, rational people who lived in this town and were sitting quietly in their seats, joining in the resounding silence.

Friday, 9:05 p.m.

You’ve pleased me in other ways.

At first when she woke from her brief, fitful sleep, Vonnie thought the monster was back, that his evening had ended sooner than he expected and he’d returned to read to her some more.

Or to beat her. Or to kill her.

But it was merely a whisper in her mind, the echo of the words he’d said earlier lingering like a wisp of smoke in her memory.

You’ve pleased me
.

She focused on the words, her head a little less spinny than it had been over the first couple of days. The tape he’d put over her mouth to keep her from screaming, and to teach her a lesson, had actually helped her in one way. He hadn’t been able to shove any pills down her throat. Nor, she suspected, had he laced her drink with anything. She had noticed no strange taste, and right now felt more clearheaded and in control than she had since she’d first woken up in this hole.

Had he simply made a mistake by not drugging her? Or had he merely assumed she was so weak, so broken, that she would no longer even try to escape, knowing how close she’d come to death after the screaming episode?

She had no way of knowing; she only knew it was damned nice to feel smart and focused again, even though she had a bitch of a headache. But the pain didn’t matter, only the clarity did. She had a chance to try to think her way out of this and she intended to use it.

Vonnie decided to start with her hands. Though her arms had long since gone numb from being bound behind her back, the tape he’d used to bind her wrists was getting a little old. She had felt its restrictive hold loosen over the past few days, and he hadn’t replenished it.

Rolling onto her side as much as she could beneath the chains looped around her body, she tried to flex her fingers. They didn’t feel a part of her anymore, just lumps of dead meat dangling from her hands, all sensation gone. She curled them, fisted them. Again, and again. Until prickles of sensation returned, stinging and hot.

Blessing the sensation, since it proved he hadn’t cut off her circulation to the point where he’d done permanent damage, she flexed and stretched, just her fingers, then just her hands.

She had no idea how she would get free, but knew her hands—and the looser binding at her wrists—was a good place to start.

You’ve pleased me
. The damned voice popped into her mind, interrupting her concentrated efforts.

“Not by choice, you son of a bitch,” she tried to say, though she could barely move her lips because of the tape.