Instinct (12 page)

“Where are we
going?” I demand, determined not to take a step further. We’ve had ample time
for a brief private discussion, and I am becoming more and more certain I don’t
want to hear what he has to say.

Jake spins
around and clenches his fists at his side. Not thinking, I take a step back. He
catches the movement and his face falls, hands loosening and his whole posture
slumping with defeat.

“I’m not going
to hurt you, Derry. I just want to talk.” His voice is quiet and non-threatening
now, reminding me of the injured tone he had when I accused him of abusing
Miranda. A finger of remorse claws my stomach.

“What’s wrong
with right here?” I ask, not willing to give in to irrational bouts of guilt. I
have a lot of practice with that from my mother.

Glancing
around, Jake shrugs. “Nothing I guess. I just don’t want to be interrupted.
Would you feel more comfortable here?”

Startled by
his sudden concern for my feelings, I just stare at him. His behavior is not
tracking with what I’ve come to expect.

“There’s a
classroom that’s not being used this period just down there,” he says, pointing
to the end of the hall. “But we can talk here if you’d rather.”

I hesitate,
but something in his expression tells me that he really isn’t intending to lay
into me again. There is actually a trace of shame in the way he ducks his head
slightly and doesn’t quite meet my eyes.

“No, it’s
fine. Lead on,” I say, biting back my reservations. We’re still at school, a
public place. He won’t dare to attack me here.

A faint smile
tugs at his lips and my pulse flutters. Without a word, I follow him into the
dimly lit classroom and take a seat by the window, figuring that if he does
start flipping out, I can scream and get someone’s attention.           

He sits down
opposite me, starting to scoot his chair closer until I give him a pointed
look. Abashed, he moves back and finally looks me in the eye, his expression
rueful.

“Derry, I just
wanted to apologize. I have been really rude to you since the moment we met,
and I want to explain.” I nod slowly. Encouraged by my reaction, he leans his
elbows on his knees and fixes me with an earnest gaze. “I’m really not like
this normally, but I was pretty angry that Shockey gave you my beat, and I took
it out on you. I know it wasn’t your fault, you didn’t ask for it, and I should
have given you the benefit of the doubt. I let my anger get out of hand, and
I’m afraid I’ve made you…nervous around me.”

I serve him a
skeptical look. My skin has picked up a low-level hum, indicating that he is
not telling me everything. “Yeah, you did. But that doesn’t really explain the
level of your anger. Seems a little out of whack to me,” I say, reining in my
own irritation and keeping my tone even.

Jake’s eyes
flash again, and I could swear that for a moment the slate-blue of his eyes is
swallowed by black. “It’s not all about you, I just…projected or something,” he
says, some of the contrition draining from his tone. The hum under my skin
picks up to a buzz.

“I don’t think
that’s true. It certainly doesn’t explain this,” I say, jerking up my sleeve to
uncover the bruises from the day before, which have darkened to a black-tinged
purple now. His eyes lock on the marks and something akin to despair pulls down
his features.

“I’m so
sorry,” he whispers, unable to remove his gaze from the bruises. Uncomfortable
with the intensity in his eyes, I pull the sleeve back down and rub my arm. “I
don’t…I didn’t mean to do that.”

The buzz
stops, and I know he is telling the truth. I soften slightly, remembering how
Cole had mentioned Jake has some kind of ability linked to rage. It’s possible
he is not aware of how dangerous he is, but I am still wary of anyone who can
snap so quickly.

I sigh. “I
believe you.” Relief widens his eyes and some of the tightness leaves his
posture. “But I don’t understand what I’ve done to get you so angry. And
yesterday with Cole…you were pretty scary,” I say honestly, unable to forget
the blaze of fury in his eyes when Cole stepped between us.

Jake slumps
and drags a hand over his face. “I know. I just get so angry and I don’t know
how to shut it off.” His voice is so weary and hopeless I have to stop myself
from reaching out to take his hand. With a sigh he straightens and locks his
eyes with mine. “But that’s no excuse. I should never have acted like that
around you, and I don’t want you to be scared of me.”

His words have
the harmony of the truth, sinking into my mind with no resistance. Curiosity
takes the place of my initial doubt and I move my chair closer to him slightly.
His eyes drink in the movement and he watches me with the vigilance of a hunter
approaching a wounded animal. 

“I don’t want
to be scared of you either, but I still don’t understand what I’ve done to get
you so angry. You don’t even know me.”

Color rushes
his cheeks and he looks away. “I don’t know,” he lies. I fix him with a
critical look.

“That’s not
true, I can tell.”

“It wasn’t you
I was angry with, it was Cole,” he counters. My skin amplifies its telltale
vibration, and I know he’s still not telling the whole truth.

“Look, Jake.
I’m pretty good at knowing when someone’s lying, and there’s something you’re
not telling me. If you want me to be comfortable around you, you’ve got to be
honest.  Why are you so angry with me?”

For a moment,
his whole body tenses and I am sure he is going to either lunge at me or flee,
but he remains seated and looks at me with undimmed ferocity in his eyes.

“Fine. I’m
angry because the moment I saw you I wanted you, and I hate you for it,” he
growls, and this time I can clearly see his pupils expand, blackening his gaze
completely.

I twitch back
in surprise, my heart pounding with a blend of terror and fascination. The black
fades from his eyes and he looks almost as astonished as I am.

“Why…why did I
just say that? I’m sorry, I don’t know why I just…”

But I do. It’s
strange that I’ve never really considered before just how easily people confess
things to me. Like the time I got that city councilman to tell me about his
underhanded dealings with contractors for the city’s utilities, the news story
with which I made my name. I had known from the start he was hiding something,
and pumped him with leading questions, but even I had been shocked at how
freely he gave up the dirty details. Almost as though he couldn’t help himself.

I think about
yesterday, how much of himself Cole had revealed to me, so much more than he
had planned. And today, Nicole shared her secrets and insecurities with me.
Even Cathy succumbed to my questions with little resistance, and we’ve had
precisely two conversations.

With a sick,
dizzy feeling, as though the world slipped off its axis for a moment, I am
forced to accept that there is more to my gift than I knew. Not only do I see
and hear the truth when I first encounter someone’s words, not only can I sense
with my entire body when someone is lying, it seems the more I want to know
something, the more others are compelled to reveal to me.

The danger of
this ability astounds me for an instant, and I almost forget Jake’s presence,
feeling ashamed on so deep a level that my bones ache. The unfairness of my
situation staggers me. Every question I have ever asked, ever will ask is
morally unacceptable. If people have no choice but to answer me, how can I ever
ask for the truth again?

“I have to
go,” I say abruptly, jumping to my feet, and reel unseeing toward the door,
bumping into desks as I try to escape from the suffocating guilt that grips me.
I am nearly to the door when Jake grabs my arm, his fingers falling almost
precisely on the bruises he has already given me, swinging me around to face
him, pulling me so close we are barely an inch apart. He glares down at me with
fevered intensity, such fervor in his expression that I quiver with unexpected
pleasure, nearly drowning in the sensation, almost wishing he would pull me
under.

“Don’t walk
away from me,” he growls and his lips are suddenly crushing mine, savaging my
mouth with all the unspent fury of the moment before. His body is huge,
towering, as he crushes me against the wall with enough force to knock out my
breath, and for a moment I can do nothing but tremble beneath him, every nerve
ending screaming for me to run even as a dark heat spreads through me, settling
in my core almost painfully. My knees give way, and it is only the pressure of
his body against mine that keeps me upright. His hands tangle my hair as he
deepens his kiss, and everything about him is as hard and unyielding as the
wall behind me.

Dark spots
float before my eyes and I tear my lips from his, gasping for air. He gives me
only a moment’s reprieve before he renews his assault, and I can taste the
anger and passion on his tongue like burnt cinnamon. With my breath returns
sanity and I begin to struggle, shoving against his immovable chest with the
panicked flailing of a trapped bird. When he doesn’t release me, but thrusts
his tongue into my mouth, I fight in earnest and land a kick on his shin.

With a
shuddering gasp he lets me free, breathing heavily, his eyes black with
arousal. I ram as hard as I can against his chest and he staggers back enough
for me to break away. My mouth is throbbing from the harshness of his kiss and
as I fling myself through the door, not daring to look back or to stop, I hear
him give a hoarse cry.

My heart is
pounding so hard it hurts as I run at top speed down the hall and slam my way
out the door to the student parking lot, whipped into lucidity by the frigid
air that blasts into me with the force of physical blow. I stumble over to the
wall and lean against it, sinking to the ground, sucking in the cold air as
though my life depends on it.

I am too
stunned to do anything but drink the air in great gulps, trying to slow my heartbeat
down to something other than a rib-shattering pace. Several minutes pass before
I am able to think straight, and as feeling returns, pain springs up all over
my body. My arm aches, the bruises imprinted deeper in my skin from Jake’s
grip. A spot on my shoulder-blade begins to complain from being struck against
the wall, and my mouth is a raw wound, even the edges of my lips pulsing cruelly
from the force of Jake’s onslaught.

I put my
fingers over my mouth and am startled by wetness. Pulling them away, I look
down in horror at a plump drop of red resting on my fingertip and lick my lip,
tasting the coppery bitterness of my own blood.

Tears stream
down my face, burning my skin in contrast to the iciness of the wind lashing
against me, and I hug myself against the wall, trembling from the cold and the
crash of adrenaline.

The squeal of
a door startles me and I freeze. Jake rounds the corner, his face aghast as he
takes me in. Panic and rage fight for dominance in my chest and I rise shakily
to my feet, forcing myself to meet his eyes. He takes a step forward, his arm
outstretched, but I dart out of his reach, relieved to find that rage is
winning the day.

“Derry, I…”

“Don’t. Don’t
speak to me. Don’t touch me. Don’t even look at me,” I hiss, my voice a threat.
“Don’t ever come near me again, do you understand? I don’t exist for you.”

Pain is etched
on his face and for a moment I almost relent, but I taste the blood on my lips
and firm my resolution.

“Please,
Derry. I’m so sorry…” he begs, taking another step toward me. I hold my ground,
but I can feel my pulse picking up again, knowing only too well that it doesn’t
take much for his remorse to turn to mania.

“Stop it. Or
I’ll scream,” I promise, and he halts, his entire body limp from the rejection.
“Sorry doesn’t cut it, Jake. Don’t come near me again. I mean it. I want
nothing to do with you.”

Finally
recognizing the sincerity in my voice, Jake just nods and turns away, limping faintly
from my well-placed kick. He pauses at the door and looks at me pleadingly over
his shoulder, but I keep my expression stony, and he nods again and disappears
into the building.

The moment he
is gone, I sag to the ground and shake uncontrollably. It is nearly ten minutes
before I am able to drag myself to my feet and contemplate returning to class.
Underneath the slowly fading terror and anger is a deep well of confusion. I
cannot understand what has just happened, how someone so much a stranger to me
could act like that, could possess me so completely even for a moment; and even
more baffling is how I let it happen. And why it took me so long to fight back.

And how, for
just a moment, it felt better than anything I’ve ever known.

When I finally
reenter the journalism lab, Jake hasn’t returned. It took me nearly fifteen
minutes to get myself looking presentable again and stop my lip from bleeding.
It is swollen and my eyes are still puffy from crying, so I pull my hair over
my face as much as possible and keep my head down as I make a beeline for my
computer. The room is dead silent for a moment, and then a snicker explodes
behind me. I am pretty sure it’s Megan, but I don’t turn around to confirm,
instead keeping my eyes locked on the computer screen as though my life depends
on it. After a minute a hand rests lightly on my shoulder and I am forced to
look around.

Shane is
looking down at me with his usually impish expression clouded by concern. His
eyes survey my face, pausing on my split lip, and his lips press together
tightly.

“My dad abused
my mom.”

I just blink
at him and he frowns.

“C’mon, Derry.
What happened?” he demands quietly but firmly.

I just shake
my head and try to turn back around, but he tightens his grip on my shoulder.
His thumb presses into a nascent bruise and I wince. Immediately he releases
me, but a discerning look is in his eyes.

“That son of a
bitch,” he whispers and spins around, headed for the door. Acting on instinct,
I lunge and grab his t-shirt, dragging him back. With a sigh, he halts and
drops to one knee next to me. “What happened?” he asks in a gentler tone.

I just shake
my head, knowing beyond a doubt that Shane is the kind of guy who will confront
someone he thinks has hurt a woman, which is a wonderful quality, but one that
might get him really hurt with someone like Jake. Recalling how Cole mentioned
a link between Jake’s rage and increased strength, I am convinced that if Shane
goes looking for him now, he may get more than he bargains for.

“Nothing,” I
lie. “I…tripped. Don’t worry about it.” I try to put some real conviction in my
voice, but I know I am failing.

“Derry,
please. It was Jake wasn’t it?” His voice is a sibilant whisper, full of
menace, and I realize with blinding certainty that Shane knows that Jake hurt
Miranda.

“It was an
accident, Shane. I promise. He didn’t hit me. Just let it go.” Technically this
is true, if not a complete picture of what happened. Shane reads my eyes for
sincerity and is apparently somewhat satisfied.

“Look, I know
everyone worships the ground he walks on, and most of the time he’s a decent
guy. But I’ve seen him when he’s angry and I know what he’s like. If he does
anything like this again, you tell me. I’ll look out for you,” he promises and
unbidden tears spring to my eyes at his willingness to protect someone he
barely knows.

“Thanks,
Shane. But why? You just met me,” I ask, curious.

Shane rolls
his eyes and a little of his usual humor makes an appearance. “Well, first,
you’re hot and I want to get in your pants.” He wiggles his eyebrows
lasciviously and I can’t help the snort of laughter that escapes me. A grin
stretches his wide mouth before his expression grows serious. “And anyway, I
don’t like seeing girls getting roughed up. Period.”

I just nod and
give him a weak smile, trying not to wince when my lip protests. The door
swings open to my left and I look up with a sense of dread, expecting Jake, and
it’s not exactly a relief when Shockey saunters in, his gaze instantly fastening
on my swollen mouth. His tongue darts out to moisten his lower lip and a
frantic gleam touches his eyes before he clears his expression.

“Seeing you
injured is a turn on,” he says, voice filled with concern. Nausea digs at my
insides and the back of my tongue burns with bile.

“She just
tripped, Mr. Shockey. She’ll be alright.”

I am grateful Shane
answers since I am too busy trying to hold back blistering revulsion. Shockey
just nods, his eyes lingering on me before he turns to address the others.

“I need your
stories by the end of class tomorrow so we can go to press Friday. Make sure
Jake gets a chance to look them over first. Any questions?”

Megan raises
her hand and he strides over to her, his hand clenching and unclenching
restlessly. I am stunned that this man has been let anywhere near children,
finding it hard to believe that no one else notices his deviant behavior. While
they are busy talking I force myself to smile at Cathy.

“Did you get a
chance to look over my story?” I ask, pleased to note that my voice has
regained its normal tone.

“I hate you,”
she says quietly and I blink in surprise. Her normally sweet expression is
petulant and sharp as she glares at me.

“Sorry?” I
say, stunned by her unconscious admission.

“I think it’s
fine. But you should get Jake to look at it, since you two get along so well.”   There
is no missing the edge in her tone and it occurs to me that she must believe
Jake and I snuck away for some kind of romantic rendezvous. Right after she
told me he turned her down. Irritation flares at her incredibly off-base
assumption, but I keep my voice steady as I answer.

“I don’t think
that will work. Jake and I…I don’t think we’ll be working together much.”

Cathy’s eyes
narrow, but she doesn’t answer, just shrugs and spins back around to her
computer, presenting me with a cold shoulder. I sigh, abruptly worn out with
trying to get along with everyone, particularly when no one but me is
interested in the truth.

Shane stands
up and pats me on the shoulder, giving me a sympathetic look. My heart swells
with gratitude, glad to know that at least one person doesn’t hate me.

By the time
the tone signals the end of the school day, I am hard pressed to remember why I
wanted to come here in the first place, thinking maybe my mom was right about
me dropping out and just working with her until college. Only the thought of my
budding friendship with Nicole prevents me from stopping by the main office to get
the paperwork.

I get into my
mom’s clunker of a car feeling like I’ve been given a stay of execution. When
she asks, I try to answer her questions about my appearance reasonably. Since
most of the time Mom isn’t terribly concerned with how I’m feeling apart from
if I’m capable of working or not, she accepts with aplomb my lame explanation
about getting hit in the face with the locker door. Instead she fills our
conversation with talk about the vintage flapper dress she sold to a buyer from
D.C. this afternoon, and how the woman promised to return over the weekend with
her other well-to-do friends.  I am happy for Mom, but there is too much on my
mind to settle on something so trivial just now.

She drops me
off at the newspaper office, which sits at the top of the hill all the shops
and restaurants are on. The
Daily Holler
office is small and cramped,
one open room with a receptionist’s desk and a bevy of shoddily constructed
cubicles. I greet the receptionist, telling her I have an appointment with
Derek, and she points back toward the left without taking her eyes off the
computer screen or opening her mouth. I swallow my nervousness like a too-large
vitamin and head in the right direction, glancing in each haphazard cubicle
until I find a plaque on one reading
Derek Wise, Community
.

“Hi, I’m Derry
MacKenna, from the high school. You told me to drop by today,” I say, and the
man in the cubicle swings around on his swivel chair with a grim smile. I have
to school myself not to take a step back, he looks so much like Jake. I give
him a shaky smile and take his outstretched hand.

“I’m going to
give you a hard time,” he says pleasantly, and I repress a sigh. I could really
stand to have the rest of the day go without any other challenges or
difficulties.

“Is now a good
time?” I ask, hoping he didn’t say anything that required a different response.

He shrugs and
gives me a quick once-over. I return the favor, noting that while he looks similar
to Jake at first glance, his face is longer, his jaw more pronounced, and he’s
about fifteen years older and thirty pounds heavier. Something inside me
relaxes as I notice the dissimilarities.

“As good as
any. Jake told me about you. You’re some kind of hot-shot, right?” His crooked
brow indicates he believes otherwise.

With a
struggle, I smother all my other worries for the moment and focus on my newest
adversary. “I think that’s an exaggeration. I’ve been fortunate enough to
freelance for several papers in Virginia over the past few years. One of my
stories was picked up by the AP.” I dig through my bag and hand him the
portfolio I’ve been carrying around for days. He takes it with a skeptical look
and glances through it perfunctorily. I can tell he isn’t reading any of the
material. He’s going to be tricky to work with.

We talk for
another five minutes, while he gives me a rundown of what’s happening in the
community, limiting his information to church bake sales and the closing of the
“Old Tyme Christmas Festival.” I take notes, all the while thinking that I’m
going to have to find a more forthcoming source if I want to get any good
stories. Derek’s phone rings and he doesn’t even glance at the caller ID before
he tells me he has to take it, and to email him if I have any questions. Biting
back a snippy retort, I smile and thank him for his time.

Instead of
walking back the way I came, I round the corner of cubicles and stroll down the
next aisle, looking for someone more affable to connect with. I halt by the
third cubicle down, recognizing the name plaque as the same byline from the
story about Miranda.

“Mr.
Householder?” I query the slouched figure of the older man in front of an
outdated computer.

He jerks
slightly, and spins around to greet me.

“I’m undervalued
here and tired of it,” he says gruffly, his bushy snow-white brows drawn
together. Householder looks to be in his sixties, with thick white hair topped
by a round bald spot that reminds me of a monk’s. He brushes crumbs from a
well-worn green plaid shirt hanging loose over wrinkled khakis and squints
muddy brown eyes at me before he puts on the glasses that hang on a chain
around his neck. He is comfortably overweight, a man who enjoys his donuts in
the morning and his fried chicken in the evening, and his clothes are sloppy; but
there is a canny look in his eyes, and I have a feeling he is good at seeking
out the truth too.

“Hello, sir.
I’m Derry MacKenna, from the high school newspaper. I just took over the
community beat and wanted to acquaint myself with the town’s paper. I’ve read
several of your stories and really enjoyed them.”

He narrows his
eyes at me and then his thin lips twist into a grudging smile. “Oh you did, did
you? Well, you’d be the only one.”

It doesn’t
take a rocket scientist to figure out that this is a discontented journalist
who just needs someone to ask him the right questions.

My specialty.

“Is there any
advice you can give me on covering the news in Harpers Ferry? I could really
use a professional’s perspective,” I ask, pulling out my notebook, pen poised
as though prepared to take down every word.

Householder
laughs, a deep guttural sound that makes me think of cigars. “You’re a sharp
one, aren’t you? Playing on my ego.  Alright, Miss…”

“Derry.”

“Derry. You
can call me Simon. What do you want to know?” he asks jovially, clearly amused
by me. I’m not entirely sure why, but I do know not to look a gift horse in the
mouth.

“I just wanted
to find out about some of the major news events in town. In particular, I heard
that a girl from the school died last semester. I’m new here, but I believe you
covered it?”

His smile
fades and he sighs, looking off to the side. “Yes I did. Sad thing. Everybody
thinks she killed herself.”

I catch his revealing
choice of words and pursue them. “Thinks she did? You don’t agree?”

Simon trains a
shrewd expression on me, as though considering my mettle before he answers.
Finally he turns around to shut down his computer and gives me a half-smile.
“Buy me a cup of coffee and we’ll talk,” he offers.

“Absolutely,”
I return, my answering smile delighted.

Ten minutes
later we are comfortably situated in a booth at the same café to which Cole brought
me. Steaming mugs sit in front of us, mine filled with apple cider, Simon’s
with black coffee.

“So what do
you really want to know?” he asks, and I can’t help a small chuckle. It’s kind
of refreshing to have someone else be able to see to the heart of the matter.

“I’m
interested in the circumstances of her death. From what I’ve heard, there was
some evidence that she may not have been alone on the bridge.”

Simon looks at
me with more attention, his gaze calculating. “Not many people know that, young
lady.”

I give him an
enigmatic smile. “I have my sources.”

He snorts and
takes a drink of his coffee. “Quite the little reporter, aren’t you?”

“This is my
first time working on a high school paper. I’m used to freelancing,” I explain
and when he asks for details I hand him the ever present portfolio. He looks
through it with interest, and I can see by the quirk in his lips that he is
both impressed and entertained. Finally he slaps it down on the table and gives
me a sharp look.

“Alright, young
lady, you’ve proved your point. There was quite a bit of dirt on the bridge
where the girl jumped. And there were two sets of footprints. One the same size
and shape of the girl’s, and one larger set that could’ve been male. A couple
people were questioned, namely the boyfriend and the ex, but neither was
charged.”

I process this
information in silence, listening to the thrumming in my bones telling me once
again that there is more to Miranda’s death than meets the eye. “Is that all?”
I ask, leaning forward.