Over Your Dead Body (9 page)

She leaned in closer and her lips brushed my chin.

Brooke’s lips.

I pulled my head back, turning away from her. “We can’t do this.”

“I haven’t kissed you in two years—”

“It’s not your body,” I said. My arms were shaking and I balled my hands into fists to try to steady them. “It’s not right.”

She let out a breath, long and slow and sad. “Did you…? I guess it makes sense that you moved on after two years, right? You and Brooke, now, I guess?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Somebody else?”

“It’s not your body,” I said. “It’s you inside of it, maybe, but it’s Brooke. If I kiss you I’d be kissing Brooke.”

“And you’ve never kissed her?”

“Of course I’ve never kissed her,” I said, “She’s a … I don’t know. Can’t you see?”

“You’re right,” she said, pulling away from my side. “You’re right, it’s like … date rape or something. It’s like she’s unconscious and we’re using her body.”

“Yeah.”

She pulled her knees up to her chin, wrapping her arms around them. “Well this sucks.”

“I know.”

“I’ve been waiting two years, and now you’re here, but…”

“But you’re not,” I said gently. “Not really.”

“This is stupid,” she said. “This is stupid and it sucks and I hate it. I can’t even … this isn’t even my body, these aren’t even my legs or my arms.” She let go of her knees, swinging her arms wide, like she’d touched something that repulsed her. She stared at her knees for a minute and then stood up, shaking her hands back and forth in a blur. “How do I even walk around like this? How do I even live?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know, and it’s not—” She pressed her hand into her face, then pulled them quickly away. She was crying. “It’s not your fault,” said Marci. She was silent for a long time, and I hugged myself to stay warm. “How do you sleep, doing all of this? Knowing what you know?”

I shrugged and looked up at the narrow band of stars between the shed and the fence. “Most of the time I don’t.”

7

Dillon seemed larger during the day, probably because the light helped fill in the background, adding barns and hills to the middle distance, making the whole thing seem less isolated. The people helped as well. It wasn’t exactly a bustling city, but there were cars on the roads, and people at the stores and churches. I realized that it must be Sunday and wondered if Brooke would insist on going to church, like she sometimes did. As we walked down the only major road in town, looking at the one stoplight far in the distance, we passed a church with a slowly filling parking lot. Brooke didn’t say a thing and I realized she must be somebody else right now.

“Who are you?” I asked.

Brooke raised her eyebrow. “You mean, like, philosophically?”

“I mean, are you Brooke or … Lucinda, or whoever?”

A look of hurt flashed across her face, followed almost immediately by a sinking dejection; she looked down, her shoulders drooped, and she took a slow breath. “Sorry, I should have realized that would be a common question. But it’s still me, it’s still Marci.”

I felt relief and despair and confusion, all at once, and tried to hide my grimace. “You’ve never been one person that long. Not since Fort Bruce, I mean.”

“Dr. Trujillo helped keep her grounded,” said Marci, then stopped in place for a moment, frowning. “Who’s Dr. Trujillo?”

“He was our therapist in Fort Bruce,” I said. “Looks like you’re sharing memories, like we wondered last night.”

I didn’t know how to react to the idea that Marci was here long term. It had been hard enough to come to grips with her sudden appearance, and eventually I’d just given up and focused on solvable problems instead: how to get into the theater, how to get rid of the boys, where to find a new place, what to eat. When Marci had finally gone to sleep I’d laid awake for hours, clenching my fists and trying to sort through the situation, but nothing made sense. I didn’t know what I wanted or how to get it; things had been so much easier when all I’d had to do was plan the next kill. Death was so much easier than life. It made me feel weak to prefer the easy one. I couldn’t even light a fire to ease my tension because I didn’t want those boys or the cops or the gardener to come looking for us. Now it was morning, and I’d hoped the problem of Marci’s presence had solved itself, but here she was, and I was at war with myself. I couldn’t live with her but I never wanted her to leave.

And all the while, Brooke was trapped inside, looking out.

Marci raised Brooke’s hand to a sudden breeze, feeling the cushion of air as it swept past our faces. It would be hot today, I could tell by the sky, but the morning was still comfortable. “I like Brooke’s memories,” said Marci, walking forward again. I kept pace with her, watching the town carefully for signs of trouble—the last thing we needed was for Corey or Paul or Derek to see us. Marci mused out loud: “She had a good life, with a good family. And I mean, so did I, but … now I have more, you know? Now I can remember my happiness and hers, without letting go of either one. It’s like … watching a really happy movie.”

“Brooke’s life hasn’t been a very happy movie,” I said.

“Not all of it,” Marci agreed. “But more of it than you think. We’re eighteen years old and she’s only been chased by demons for three of those years. And there’s gaps in the middle when things were calm, and she … got to be with you.”

“I didn’t mean to drag her into this—”

“I like it,” said Marci, reaching for my hand. “I only knew you—only really knew you—for a few months. She’s known you for years and spent every day with you for the last two of them.”

I had never been a physical person, I was leery of personal contact, but when I’d finally held Marci’s hand all those years ago, it had been one of the simplest, most comforting things I’d ever felt. I looked down now at her hand in mine and tried to conjure up those same emotions, but it was still wrong, just like last night. I pulled my hand away. She looked sad, or I thought she did. I wondered how I looked.

“We need to find a bus station,” I said, trying to bring my mind back to more pressing issues. “I seriously doubt they have one in a town this small, but you never know. Normally I’d ask in a bank, because there are fewer repercussions that way, but nothing’s going to be open on a Sunday.”

“So let’s ask back there,” said Marci, turning and pointing at the church.

“We can’t just ask anybody,” I said, realizing I would have to explain my system. “People in small towns—”

“Are nice,” said Marci.

“Not to outsiders.”

“The ones in a church will be.”

“Why?” I asked. “Because they’re in a church?”

“Have you ever been to church?”

“I lived upstairs from a chapel,” I said. “I can quote the Bible all day. But people don’t go to—”

“Only the verses about death,” said Marci.

I stopped, staring at her. “What?”

“You can only quote the verses about death,” Marci repeated. “And, I assume, resurrection, which is really the same category.”

I wanted to argue with her, but for every counter I thought of, I was able to prove myself wrong before I even said it out loud. Could I quote a verse that wasn’t about death? No. Weren’t those the only verses in the Bible? Of course not; there had to be other verses about other topics, I’d just only ever heard the ones they use in funerals.
For a time is coming when all who are in their graves will hear his voice and come out.
Death. “I’ve never thought about religion enough to take it seriously,” I said. “But I don’t remember you being religious, either.”

“Christmas and Easter,” said Marci. “That’s enough to know that the people in a church are good people.”

“But they don’t go to church because they believe it,” I said. “They go because someone died, or because it’s a holiday, or because they’re a pastor and it’s their job.”

“Is it really that hard for you to accept that some people actually believe in something?” asked Marci. “You believe in things—big, build-your-life-around-them things, just like they do. You believe in the Withered. And death.”

“Death’s not a religion.”

“It is for you.”

I scowled and changed the subject. “You haven’t been driven out of a dozen little towns just like this,” I said. “Brooke and I have. Look at us: we’re filthy, we smell horrible, and even those idiots last night could tell we were homeless—what is an adult going to do the instant he sees us like this?”

“Ask if we need help,” Marci insisted.

“And then call the nearest social worker,” I said. “Which means police, which means official reports, which means the FBI finds us.”

“You just don’t know the right people to talk to,” said Marci, and she pulled me back down the street. “Come on, John, this is a church. Have faith.”

I followed her slowly, resolved to run at the first sign of trouble. We had to stay in the town long enough to find a Withered; we had to lay low and arouse as little suspicion as possible, and I’d already threatened three guys with a knife. We needed to contact the locals, but how much contact could we afford?

The church sat on a corner lot, fronting onto the main street, which we were on, and a small cross street ran alongside it. The parking lot was on the far side from us, by the cross street, and I felt my heart rate speed up as we came around the near fence and saw a handful of people moving from their cars to the building.

“I don’t like this,” I said.

“Trust me,” said Marci.

“I wish you’d let me do this my way,” I said. “Brooke did things my way.”

“No wonder you fell in love with me instead.”

“Don’t say that,” I said, stopping at the corner of the fence.

She looked back at me. “Didn’t you?”

I didn’t want her to assume it, I wanted to say it. I wanted it to be
a moment
. But I’d only ever said it to her corpse, and saying it to someone who could hear me was something I totally wasn’t ready for.

“I have a system worked out,” I said, changing the subject again. “Exposing ourselves like this feels wrong.”

“That’s because it hurts,” said Marci. “You’re not used to it. It’s risky and that hurts. But sometimes the thing that hurts most is the right thing to do.”

I sighed. “Fine.”

“So relax,” said Marci. “Talking is what I do. I haven’t done it in two years, and I’m dying to get … Sorry.” She grinned sadly. “Poor choice of words.”

I expected her to take us straight up the front walk to the main door, but instead she pulled me along the fence, across the lawn, and down the narrow passage between the side wall and the fence. We reached the back and came around the corner, bypassing another door and reaching the rear corner of the parking lot without running into anyone. Marci put a hand on my chest, holding me back, and whispered.

“Wait.”

More people arrived in trucks and small cars: men in cowboy hats and bolo ties; women in bright blouses and floral skirts; little kids in dresses and collared shirts, their hair slicked and combed. I didn’t know what Brooke was waiting for, so I watched the crowd and the way they moved, the way people smiled at neighbors or snapped at an unruly child.

“What if there’s no Withered at all?” she asked softly.

“This town is where Brooke said to go.”

“And is there always a Withered everywhere she says?”

I shook my head. “Her information is old. Some of them haven’t had contact with each other in decades. Even if Attina was here once, he might have left.”

“So then what do we do?”

I watched the people walking into church. Was it one of them?

“We leave,” I whispered.

“And go where?”

“I don’t know.”

Soon the crowd thinned out, and I figured the meeting was either starting soon or had already started and these were the last few stragglers. An old woman pulled up in a wide sedan, her head tilted up so she could see over the dashboard. Marci pulled me out of the shadows.

“Here we go,” she said. “Don’t do anything creepy.”

“Give me a little credit.”

“I’m teasing.” She walked toward the old woman, reaching her just as she was getting out of her car. “Let me help you.” Marci held out her hand, and the old woman smiled and grasped it delicately, pulling herself out of the seat with a grunt.

“Thank you, young lady.” The woman was short and plump, her hair mostly white, flecked here and there with gray. She turned back to reach for her purse, and Marci held the car door open.

“I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am,” said Marci, “but we just got into town, and we don’t really know anybody.”

The woman smiled. “Well, dear, you’ve come at a beautiful time. Dillon in June is absolutely lovely.” She closed the car door and faced us directly, getting her first really good look at our faces and clothes. I braced myself for a judgmental stare followed by a lecture or a curt dismissal, but instead she smiled again. “My,” she said, “you’re so young! It’s nice to meet you, dear, what’s your name?”

“Marci,” said Marci, smiling back.

“Everyone in there will call me Mrs. Potter,” said the woman, “but please just call me Ingrid. It’s not my name, but I like it so much.”

“I … okay,” said Marci, apparently as surprised as I was by the comment. The old woman laughed.

“Of course it’s my name, it’s just a joke I like to tell because so many people don’t. I’ve always loved it, but then, I got it from my grandmother, and I always loved her—and I figured any man who didn’t like my name wasn’t worth chasing anyway, no matter how good he looked in his uniform.” She laughed again and looked at me. “And you, young man, what’s your name?”

“David,” I said, sticking to the same fake name I’d used the night before. I watched the woman in awe, wondering how Marci had managed to pick exactly the right person to talk to: she was kind, she was accepting or somehow ignorant of how filthy we were, and with the last few churchgoers streaming into the building, we were practically alone. If Ingrid was willing to talk, we could get all kinds of information out of her without raising any alarms or red flags.

“Like I said before,” said Marci, “we’re new here and we don’t know anyone. Do you mind if we sit with you at church today?”