Curse (Blur Trilogy Book 3) (5 page)

“I guess I usually just wing it.”

“Alright, so start with a compliment or by talking about something she likes, or offer to do a chore. Soften things up. Ease into it. Let’s try it again.”

“Hey, Mom. Your hair looks nice. The vegetables you grow are quite tasty. May I skin a potato for you?”

“Skin a potato for you? Seriously?”

I shrug. “I like potatoes.”

“Okay, forget all that for a second. Let’s just move on to the camp.”

“So, it’s feeling better, Mom. My shoulder is.”

“That’s good,” Nicole replies in a very motherly way. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“I think it’ll be fine.”

“I’m sure it will, as long as you rest it.”

“I mean for the basketball camp.”

“Dan, how are you supposed to play basketball with a dislocated shoulder—and don’t tell me it’s not dislocated anymore. You know what I mean.”

“Well, it’s not m
y—
”

“Don’t say it’s not your shooting arm.”

I stare at her. “How did
yo
u know I was going to sa
y
that?”

“I’m your mother.”

“Okay. But, Mom, there’s a lot riding on this camp.”

“There’s a lot riding on you recovering before football season too.”

Ah.

Now I have her.

“You told me last week you weren’t all that excited about me playing football.”

“I’m excited about you pursuing your dreams and being successful at whatever you do, and that’s not going to happen if you don’t take care of your shoulder and give it the time it needs to heal.”

“This isn’t fair. You’re better at being my mom than she is.”

“Just trying to keep it real.” She leans over and pats my leg reassuringly. “I’m sure it’ll go fine. I’ll be praying for you that it does.”

Considering how strong of a believer she is and how seriously she takes prayer, her comment doesn’t surprise me at all.

“Thanks. I appreciate that.”

After she leaves, I spend the rest of the afternoon giving more RICE to my ankle and when Dad shows up at six with an extra large pepperoni and jalapeño pizza from our favorite local pizzeria, Rizzo’s, I know it’s time to talk with them about letting me go to the camp.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Mom, who’s normally a fan of spicy food, decides against the jalapeños tonight and is picking them off her pizza and setting them aside. Dad adds them to his slices almost as quickly as she can remove them.

It seems like they’re both in a pretty good mood, so I say, as nonchalantly as I can, “This is good pizza.”

Mom agrees. “Yes.”

“I mean, really good pizza.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I like pizza.”

“Rizzo’s is the best.”

“I like potatoes too.”

“Okay.”

“And peeling them makes me feel pleasant.”

They’re both staring at me now. “Peeling them makes you feel pleasant?”

Okay, transition time.

“Almost as pleasant as my shoulder is feeling.”

“Oh. Well, that’s great.”

“My ankle too.”

“You’ve been staying off it?”

“Yes, and I’ve been icing it all day.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

We eat for a few minutes. She asks Dad about his day and he mentions that most of it was spent filling out paperwork, but I’m not really paying too much attention to that. Instead, I’m waiting for a lull in the conversation. When it comes, I say, “So, I’ve been thinking a lot about next week. About the camp.”

“It’s too bad you’re going to have to miss it,” Mom replies. It sounds like she really is commiserating with me. “I know how much you were looking forward to it.”

I glance at Dad, who has yet to say anything about all this. I’m not sure if he’s on her side or is just biding his time.

“Actually, I think I’ll be good to go.”

“Daniel, you were just in a serious accident. You need time to recover.”

“My ankle will be alright in a couple days and it’s my left shoulder instead of my right one, so it’s not my shooting arm. I’ve dislocated it in football before—no big deal. Besides, there’ll be a lot of coaches at this camp. It’s a good chance to get noticed.”

I wonder if Mom will bring up me pursuing my dreams like Nicole did earlier when we were practicing, but instead she just asks, “Does it hurt when you move it?”

“My shoulder?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I mean it’s . . . Yeah. It’ll be sore for a while.”

“And you should rest it in the meantime.”

“LeAnne.” My dad finally speaks up. “He’s a tough kid. He can handle it. I think he’ll be alright.”

“It’s not about if he can handle it or not. It’s about what’s best for him. Four to six weeks of rest. That’s what they recommend. Not one week, and then back to playing basketball for five hours a day.”

The five hours a day part is probably about right. “I’ll be careful and I’ll wear the sling whenever we’re not on the court.”

“You could dislocate it again if you’re not careful.”

“But I will be careful—I just said I would, and . . . ” I can hear myself sounding argumentative and that’s not going be good for my case, so I just stop mid-sentence.

Mom pries a tiny sliver of jalapeño off her pizza and plunks it down on the side of her plate.

During football season last fall, she was living in the Twin Cities with her sister. Her year away from Dad and me isn’t something we talk about much, or at least not something they talk to me about much.

When she was gone, Dad and I had to get used to managing things on our own, and we learned to do alright. Now, with her back, finding a wa
y
for ever
yo
ne to agree when we’re making major decisions doesn’t alwa
ys
work out so well.

There are cracks in every relationship. Things might look good on the surface, but there are always fault lines there where it’s hard to see.

So now, I wonder if her reaction is about more than just my shoulder.

“How about we see how things go this week?” Dad suggests. “We don’t have to make a decision right this minute.”

She goes for another jalapeño.

“How does that sound? Take a few more days and then evaluate how it looks?”

“I can’t believe you would be in favor of something like this, Jerry. Don’t you want what’s best for him?”

“What kind of a question is that?” His voice is steel. “Of course I do. You know that. I’m just saying that we don’t need to decide tonight.”

“And I’m saying we already know what’s best for him. Rest. It’s just a matter of whether we’re going to be unified in supporting our son’s recovery.”

“Okay, that’s not even fair.”

She pushes her chair back. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I think I’m finished.” She might be talking about the meal or the conversation—it’s not clear.

She rises and walks out of the room.

I wait for Dad to say something, but he doesn’t. He just stares at the doorway she disappeared through.

He knows how big of a deal this camp is to me, how important it could be in getting a scholarship offer—something all three of us know I’m going to need in order to afford college.

He’s silent.

The seconds tick by.

Finally, he glances at Mom’s remaining jalapeños, but leaves them on her plate rather than putting them onto his own. “You better do everything you can to rest that ankle and shoulder this week.”

“I will.”

Then he finishes his slice, dumps Mom’s unfinished pizza and jalapeños into the trash, and leaves me alone in the kitchen.

BILLINGS, MONTANA

Malcolm Zacharias watched as two men in their mid-twenties tossed a Frisbee back and forth at the other end of the park while, closer to him, a teenage girl tapped her white cane along the sidewalk in front of her, expertl
y
sta
yi
ng on the pavement, even as it curved around the lake.

He was expecting the call, so when his phone rang, he answered right away.

An electronically altered voice said, “I understand that Daniel Byers was hit by a truck last night.”

“I’ve been following the situation. He’s okay.”

“I thought you were in Montana?”

“I am.”

“So how are you following the situation if he’s in Wisconsin?”

“Through his phone’s mic. I turned it on remotely.”

“You’ve been listening in on him?”

“I took the steps that were necessary in order to monitor things.”

Malcolm still hadn’t met the person he was talking with and didn’t know if it was a man or a woman. Whoever it was just went by the name Sam.

Could have been short for Samantha.

Or Samuel.

Or something else entirely.

All communication had been masked, encrypted, or done through couriers and package drops at the office in Philadelphia or the educational center in Gatlinburg. While on the one hand, Malcolm understood that that’s how these things worked, on the other hand it would have been nice to know who was paying his expenses, who was heading the agency.

Ever since last September when he was first contacted, he’d been curious about it.

“Will Daniel still be able to be involved?” Sam asked.

“I believe so. He wasn’t seriously injured. I anticipate that he’ll be at the camp in Georgia. We’ll move forward with things then.”

“There are reports that he ran out in front of the truck. That he might’ve been trying to get hit. You don’t think he’s suicidal, do you?”

“Where did you hear that—about him purposely running into the road?”

“You’re not the only one who’s monitoring the situation, Malcolm.”

He hadn’t considered that Daniel might have intentionally tried to harm himself. “I don’t think he’s suicidal. No.”

“But it’s possible,
ye
s? He hallucinates. There have been instances when he’s experienced lost time and when he hasn’t been aware of his actions. He might have slipped too far.”

The two guys with the Frisbee disappeared over the rise.

The blind girl came closer.

“Things haven’t progressed to that point yet.”

“Malcolm, I’m a little concerned. You remember the boy from New York and that girl from South Carolina? What happened with them? How they ended up?”

“That won’t happen with him.”

“But how can you be sure?”

“I’ve met him.”

“Last December.”

“Yes.”

“And you haven’t spoken with him since then?”

“I will next week in Georgia.”

“If he goes.”

“Yes.”

“And if not?”

“I’ll pay him a visit in Wisconsin.”

“I’m counting on you here. I want all four present before we move forward.”

“Don’t worry. We’re on the same page.”

“Have you arranged for the arrival of the others?”

The seventeen-
ye
ar-old girl with the cane was now less than fift
y
feet awa
y.
No one else was on this side of the park.

“I have eyes on Alysha right now.” He kept his voice low, so that, even with her sharpened sense of hearing, she wouldn’t be able to make out what he was saying.

“You know how important this is to me.”

“Yes.”

“What are you going to tell her parents?”

“Leave that to me. I’ll take care of it.”

Then Malcolm hung up, rose from the bench, pocketed the phone.

And went to get Alysha Caruthers.

CHAPTER NINE

Four days have passed.

It’s Wednesday afternoon.

I’ve been wearing the sling, giving my ankle lots of RICE, and taking the pain meds to reduce the swelling—all the things I’m supposed to do.

Every day Mom asks me how I’m feeling and I tell her, “Better.” And it’s true. The shoulder is hurting less and less. The ankle is recovering.

She doesn’t seem convinced by my reassurances, but she doesn’t argue with me either. We don’t really talk too much. She keeps to herself. So does Dad.

In the last few days my friends and I have done what we can to figure out what the blur of the boy in the road might mean, but we haven’t come up with anything that seems relevant to what I saw.

I think about m
y
dream of the bo
y
and the bats, and recall that when I was little, I used to be scared of them. Ma
yb
e that fear from m
y
childhood was pla
yi
ng into all this.

In my dream the boy said, “He never meant to go. It all began right here. Follow the bats. Find the truth.”

I’m still not sure what that might be about.

Grandpa’s death? And what does following the bats mean?

Still a mystery.

No more blurs since that night.

And the nightmares have been leaving me alone too.

Now, it’s quarter after four and I’m in my room writing in the journal I’ve started keeping.

Last year when our English teacher, Miss Flynn, gave us the assignment to write some blog entries about our dreams, Kyle, who can completely kill it when it comes to English, told me to try writing by hand rather than typing.

I was skeptical, but honestly, it did help me sort out my thoughts.

Ever since the blurs started, my writing has become more imaginative. Some people say we only use ten percent of our brains. Well, if that’s true, then maybe the blurs have opened up a channel for me to tap into my creativity more.

Lately, the Greek myth about Pandora’s box has been on my mind for some reason. And so, I write:

The world is young and screaming its first life-breath, still so close to the womb of the gods.

Granite-gray clouds hang heavy and foreboding in the sky, lurking on the edge of the fierce storm that I see churning toward me.

Sky light still makes me tremble.

I see day and night wrestling for control of the future.

Beside me, a terrible cliff towers high above the tangled green of the jungle. Screeches echo from the unseen depths of the darkened trees—of the unmapped world just beyond the meadow. I shudder, for I have seen some of the creatures spawned by the wild imagination of the gods.

Ah, now.

The box lies at my feet. The wood is carved with divine runes. Secret letters, another tongue beyond the knowledge of my heart.

What is in this box? What futures? What possibilities?

I finger the clasp that holds it shut. The gods have given me their gift but not their secrets. Why flaunt this in front of me? Why taunt me with these things I cannot experience—
y
et cannot help but desire?

The sky swirls around me, deep with the shadows of the coming night.

And I unsnap the latch.

Pandora’s box.

She was warned by the gods not to open it.

Because once you do, all hell breaks loose.

Pain.

Disease.

Evil.

All of them given free rein in the world.

As I’m thinking about that, I hear the sound of something behind me dripping onto the floor.

Turning from m
y
desk, I see a small pool of blood forming.

It’s coming from my ceiling, from a swollen, damp circle about two feet wide.

A blur? Is this a blur?

The center of it puckers down and releases another drop of blood.

I’ve been caving with Dad plenty of times over the years, and the blood coming from the ceiling reminds me of a miniature stalactite.

A grisly, red one.

Drip.

Hesitantly, I go over to the pool of blood and touch it.

Sticky. And wet.

Drip.

And warm.

Dad is running errands, so I know he isn’t home.

“Mom?”

She doesn’t reply.

She’s with him. She’s running errands too.

But I’m not sure that’s true.

I wipe off my finger and go to the window. Her car is in the driveway.

Entering the hall, I call out to her, “Are
yo
u home, Mom?”

My voice echoes dully through the house.

No one replies.

I go to the end of the hallway and eye the ceiling access panel to the attic.

Something up there is the source of all that blood.

I’ve only been up in the attic a handful of times, mostly when Dad and I were replacing some insulation last year.

There’s a small window at the far end, but I doubt it’ll provide enough light for me to get a good look at the area above my room, so I grab one of the headlamps from the stash of camping gear in my closet. Then, I retrieve the stepladder from the garage, bring it upstairs, and position it under the access panel.

With only one good arm I’m not sure how I’ll be able to hoist myself up and I don’t want to take the chance that I’ll pull my shoulder out of its socket again, but I need to see what’s up there.

I climb to the third step, slide the panel aside, and stare up into the darkness.

“Mom?”

My heart is drumming steadily in my chest and it seems like it’s too large for its cage in my ribs, like it’s been crammed in there and now it’s pushing and pounding, looking for a way to get out every time it beats.

You have to find the source of that blood.

After securing the headlamp’s elastic strap, I climb the rest of the way up, using my one good arm.

Balancing myself on the top of the ladder, I maneuver my way into the hole, then ease my butt onto the attic’s floorboards and sit with my legs dangling in the hall.

It’s a relatively warm day outside, but the heat up here is harsh and stifling.

Turning my head, I sweep the beam of light through the dust-speckled air.

Near the corner, over where the roof slopes down above m
y
room, there’s a bod
y
l
yi
ng on its side with its back to me.

From where I am, I can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman.

“Mom?”

The figure doesn’t move.

Despite the heat, I shiver.

For some reason it brings to mind my dream on Friday night, the one about me leaning over the boy when the bats crawled across his face.

But that was a dream.

This is not.

Maybe it is.

Maybe this is all a dream too.

The ceiling is too low for me to stand up and I can’t crawl with my arm in its sling, so, carefully and somewhat painfully, I ease it off.

Two voices speak to me.

The first:
This isn’t smart, Daniel.

The second:
It doesn’t matter—you have to find out who that is.

It’s a blur.

Well, even if it is, you need to see who’s there. You need to figure out what it means.

I start crawling forward, but only make it a couple of feet before the pain in my shoulder becomes too much.

So, giving that up, I use my good arm for leverage and scoot sideways toward the body instead.

Blood surrounds whoever it is, and as I ease my way closer, the figure’s leg twitches slightly.

I hesitate.

Wait.

My heart, thick and wild, keeps probing for a way out of my chest.

The person’s leg becomes still and after a moment I edge forward again.

The heat begins wearing on me. Even in the brief amount of time I’ve been up here, I can already feel pinpricks of sweat forming beneath my arms.

Maybe it’s not just the heat, but nerves.

A shot of fear.

As I move closer, the size of the body makes me think that it’s probably a guy.

Because of how the roof angles down, I can’t get around to the other side to look at his face. So, if I’m going to be able to see who this is, I’ll need to roll him toward me.

I reposition myself so I’m kneeling in a way that I won’t have to use my bad arm for support, then I place my hand on his shoulder.

And tip him in my direction.

His arm flops over first, the knuckles thudding roughly against the floorboards. His torso follows and, because of the momentum as he rolls onto his back, his head lolls in my direction.

I gasp and lose my balance.

It’s me.

I’m looking into my own eyes, staring at my own face.

My own dead face.

Grayish skin. A blank, deathly stare.

The blood is coming from a gaping wound in his chest, visible through the torn fabric.

I reel backward as his eyes slowly dial into focus and direct themselves at me—a piercing, knowing stare.

Then, he grins and pushes himself onto all fours, and begins crawling toward me.

Scrambling as quickly as I can, I make it to the access hole and swing my legs down, but I accidentally kick the top of the stepladder, sending it toppling to the floor.

The figure hasn’t slowed, his wide smile revealing wickedly sharp teeth.

That’s not you. It’s not you.

But it is!

With no other choice, and trying my best to avoid landing on the ladder, I drop through the hole to the floor of the hallway.

Despite my best efforts, I crash down clumsily onto the ladder’s edge, then roll to the side, and smack hard against the wall.

Thankfully, it’s my good shoulder that takes the impact, but still, I need a moment to assess myself. The ankle seems oka
y—
so does the shoulder.

I can still hear movement on the floorboards above me as the corpse that looks just like me moves toward the access hole.

With my heart thundering in my chest, I stare up at the opening, expecting that at any moment that thing will appear and pitch itself down on top of me.

I wait.

The sounds stop.

A square of black.

Just a square of black.

It’s a blur. It’s not real. You’re not dead.

I catch myself holding my breath as I wait, but nothing happens.

The creature doesn’t lurch through the hole at me.

But as I’m getting to my feet, I realize that I left the sling for my shoulder up there in the attic.