In the Blood (35 page)

“Anhedonia,” he said.

“What does that mean?” I asked, even though I already knew.

“It’s the inability to feel pleasure,” he said. “It’s a common side effect of antipsychotic drugs.”

“Yes,” I said.

“You didn’t seem to be experiencing that with her,” he said, nodding toward Beck. There was anger, bitterness in his tone, and I found myself repulsed by him. But I held my ground as he moved closer.

“So you wrote that last poem?” I asked.

He nodded.

“And the one before it?”

“I wrote them all.”

“You used him?” I asked. He had access to Luke at Fieldcrest. He’d pulled that ad from the board and handed it right to me. “You used Luke to get to me?”

“He was easy to use,” he said. He offered a slow shrug. “The kid’s a wreck. So desperate for male attention, he’ll do just about anything.”

I felt a deep twist inside—sadness and sorrow for Luke. We pick our own predators. The flower gives off the scent that attracts the insect that nature designed specifically for the task. Had he picked Langdon? Had I? We draw them to us, sending out messages we often don’t even know we’re sending. Luke and I were both easy victims. In other circumstances, we might have been the predators, especially Luke, if he were older. Instead we were prey.

He took a step closer, approaching me tentatively. He’d only undone the bindings on my wrists. My legs were still tied. He didn’t want me to run. I tried to smile, but it felt tight and insincere on my face. My hand was itching to reach into my pocket. But still I held my ground.

“Just let her go,” I said.

It was a mistake. His face became a cold, hard mask. He reached
for me, and as he did I shoved my hand deep in my pocket and brought out the tube, spraying.

He roared, stumbling, clawing at his eyes. And I dove my way out of his path. As he doubled over, screaming, I quickly undid my bindings and bolted for the grave where he’d dumped Beck. He was after me, but slowly—one hand rubbing at his eyes, one arm outstretched, feeling his way.

I jumped down, and landed beside her, nearly on top of her. Then I bent and lifted her shoulders, and nearly died with relief when she lolled her head and opened her eyes. They were glassy, and staring. She was heavily drugged. Shit. She was
heavy
. How was I going to get her out of this place? I had jumped into the grave without any notion of how to get us out.

“You left me,” she said. Her words were slurred and slow. “You asshole. You left me.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry. Beck, I’m sorry.”

“Fuck you, Lane.” She reached up to hit me, but her arm fell heavily on my shoulder.

“Okay,” I said. Yes, that was my name: Lane. My real name. “Fine. We’ll fight about it later.”

That’s when Langdon started raining dirt down on the grave we were sharing.

For all the talk in our culture about how important it is to find ourselves, we don’t have a lot of patience for the task, do we? It’s kind of a joke, a mode of light derision, to say that someone is still finding himself. Most people, it seems, have a pretty good idea of who they are. At least that’s how it appears to someone as lost as I have been. The big things usually seem to be in line for other people anyway, like gender for example.

We have more patience for girls who act like boys than boys who act like girls. A tomboy is considered cute. One day she’ll shuck her muddy jeans and put on a dress, and everyone will gasp at her beauty. They’ll all laugh about her tree-climbing, frog-catching days.

But there’s no such tolerance for the boy who puts on a dress, who wants a toy kitchen or a baby doll to love. Jung would say that this is because, even culturally, our anima is repressed, hated, derided. We hate our female selves. A boyish girl is perfectly acceptable. A girlish boy? Not so much. In certain places, you’d get your ass kicked, find yourself “gay-bashed.” You might even get yourself killed. That’s how much we hate our anima.

Beck was fully unconscious, and I was trying to keep the falling dirt off her face, away from her nose and mouth.

“Why are you doing this?” I yelled at Langdon.

He walked to the rim of the grave.

“Why?”
he asked. He seemed incredulous, as if he couldn’t believe I’d ask such a stupid question. I could see the sweat pouring down his flushed face in spite of the cold. The walls around me seemed high, but they were crumbling and I started clawing at them, trying to create a foothold to lift myself out.

“I came here for you,” he said. He swept an arm to the trees. “I followed you to this dump in the middle of nowhere.”

I didn’t know what he was talking about. He must have seen it on my face.

“Don’t you know me?” he asked.

Now he looked hurt, as though I’d let him down terribly. He was a different person than the man I’d known all these years. There was nothing of the mellow, kindhearted adviser and professor that I had grown to rely upon.

“Dr. Chang was my mentor,” he said.

It took a few seconds for the name to register. I thought about those years so little. The space between then and now was a dark and chaotic parade of horrible events. I didn’t think about Dr. Chang and his crazy school, even though I suppose I owed him a debt of gratitude.

It had been a place much like Fieldcrest. But my memories of my old school, my teachers, the day-to-day, were somewhat fuzzy and vague. Did I remember Langdon? It would have been more than ten years ago. He would have been one of the young doctors that rotated through for a semester.

For a medicated, mentally ill person such as myself, ten years
might as well have been a million years. I could hardly remember my mother’s face, if I closed my eyes. She’d been slipping further and further away from me.

What should I do? I thought. Pretend that I remember him? Tell him the truth? Instead, I did what I always did, stared blankly at him, trying to figure out what he wanted.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t remember much from that time.”

“I assisted in your group therapy sessions,” he said. “You were a standout. Sensitive and gifted in a room of maniacs.”

I was struggling to place him. But I really only remembered Dr. Chang, and some of the others—Dr. Rain, who taught science; Dr. Abigail, who did art therapy. There was a music teacher, young and very pretty. I remembered her, but not her name. I had no memory of Langdon at all. Really, in all the years we’d spent together at Sacred Heart, wouldn’t I have remembered before now? But was there something? Something deep within me that remembered him and had been drawn to him because of the memories? I don’t know.

“I’m sorry,” I said again.

Now it was his turn to stare, the shovel in his hand. I waited for him to say something else. But he walked away from the grave then. As scared as I was, part of me was grieving, too. I’d trusted him and cared about him.
Why is it that no one you love ever seems to stay?

When he came back, he had a gun. It didn’t look right in his hand. He was the kind of guy to carry a book, a laptop, a pen, not a semiautomatic.

“You killed her because she discovered your secret,” he said flatly. “You dug her grave. Then, in despair, you killed yourself and fell in with her. That’s how I found you. That’s what I’ll tell the police, and they’ll believe me. I’ll tell them that I’ve been watching you, following you for days, because I’ve been so worried.”

It would work. It really would. It was a perfectly logical story, fit right together when all my lies were revealed. It would make a fitting end to a tragic, titillating tale. Everyone loves a good murder-suicide.

“Don’t do this,” I said. “Please. We can both walk away from this, all of us can. Nothing has happened yet that can’t be fixed.”

“You confided in me that you had killed your mother,” he went on, blankly, almost trancelike. “That you let your father go to jail to protect you.”

“Is that what this is about?”

“Your father is a friend of mine,” he said haughtily. “We’re close.”

Was that true? I had no way to know. Was my father pulling strings from behind bars?

“This is not going to work,” I said. “It’s almost impossible to get away with a crime these days. The forensic science is too advanced. They’ll see the trajectory of the bullet. You’ll get caught and go to jail. You might even get the electric chair.”

I know I sounded rambling and desperate. And I saw with despair that he was beyond listening.

“If my father has anything to do with this,” I said, “he’s using you. Just like you used Luke. Just like you’re using me. We collude with our predators, Professor. Wasn’t it you who taught me that?”

He lifted the gun on me, and I closed my eyes. When the shot rang out, I wondered what it would be like to die, how long it would take, if it would hurt, what was waiting for me on the other side . . .

It was silent then for a long time, and finally I opened my eyes. I saw Langdon’s arm dangling over the side of the grave. Inspecting
myself, I realized that I hadn’t been shot at all. Then a small white face, as pale and round as a moon, was floating above me.

Luke looked down at me and smiled. I could see that he held Langdon’s shovel.

“I hit him,” he said. He held up the heavy shovel. “With this. He was going to kill you.”

“Good job,” I said, for lack of anything better to say.

As glad as I was to see Luke, as glad as I was to see anyone, there was something unsettling about him standing so high above me, holding a shovel.

“Are you okay?” he asked. He dropped the shovel and started rummaging in his pack.

I shook my head and said, “Can you get us out of here?”

He looked up from his pack, and he gave me a grim little nod. “I’ll get you out. I brought a rope.”

“Do you see my pack up there?” I asked. “I need my phone.”

He didn’t answer me.

“Did you bring anyone with you, Luke? Did you call the police?”

“No,” he said. “I came alone.”

“Luke,” I said. “Where’s the gun?”

He looked over the side at me. “Who’s that?”

“That’s my friend,” I said. “She needs help. I need you to find that phone before you get me out of here.”

“Okay,” he said, and he walked off.

“How did you get here?” I called, just to keep him talking. The cold air was starting to feel painful now that I didn’t have adrenaline pumping through my blood.

“Same as always,” he said. He was still out of sight, and it was
making me nervous. I got to work on that foothold again. “I rode my bike,” he was saying. He sounded far away. I looked up to see Langdon’s lifeless arm still dangling over the side.

“You’ve been here before?”

“You know I have,” he said. He was closer now. The sky was clearing and I could see a few stars. Beck was moaning, muttering something I couldn’t understand. I put my hand on her head, offered her some soothing words . . . “It’s okay . . . we’re okay . . . we’re going home.”

Then Luke was looming again, this time holding my phone. “You were in my room today, in my crawl space.”

I didn’t say anything. This was not the time for a tantrum.

“Right?” he said, when I stayed silent.

“We have a lot to talk about,” I said. I put on my best Dr. Cooper voice, soothing but firm. She always has such a clear idea about the right things to do and the right order in which to do them. I always admired that about her. “And we’ll do that. But right now we need to get me out of this hole, and call the police.”

“But I want to talk now,” he said.

He knelt down and I saw that he was binding Langdon, which probably wasn’t a bad idea. But I
needed
that rope, or the phone. And he obviously wasn’t in any hurry to deliver on either one.

“How about we play a game?” asked Luke.

Oh my God, really?
I struggled to keep my composure, but the stress was starting to mount. I looked up to see that the gun lay on the edge of the grave and he had his hand on it.
For fuck’s sake.
I leaned against the wall and drew in a deep breath as I dug my toe into the hole I’d made, and started, as subtly as possible, pushing it in deeper. The dirt was cold and hard, and my progress felt painfully slow.

“What kind of game?” I tried to keep my voice steady. I didn’t want him to know how close to the edge of my endurance I was. Or that I was scared. So far, I’d never beaten him at any game we played.

“Twenty questions,” he said.

“And if I win?”

“Then I’ll help you and your friend out of the hole. And you can call the police.”

“And if
you
win?”

He smiled a little, and his eyes were shiny and dark with mischief.

“Maybe I’ll kill you all and fill in this hole, then go home and climb back into my bed. They’ll think I was locked in my room all night. The only two people who know I can get out are right here.”

I didn’t answer, just kept pressing my foot in, scraping and pushing, scraping and pushing.

“They’ll figure it out, Luke.”

He shrugged. “Or maybe I’ll help you anyway. If I win, I get to do whatever I want. Because you know what? I
never
get to do what I want. Do you know that? Kids
never
get to do what they want. It sucks.”