Pretty Please (Nightmare Hall) (9 page)

Telling him she’d see him later, she hurried off toward the infirmary. She glanced over her shoulder only once.

He was still standing there, watching her go. She thought he looked puzzled.

No wonder. Last night, they’d been getting along so well. And now, here she was, the very next day, acting like she’d rather have someone poking at her stitches than spend time with Evan. He must be very confused.

Join the club, Jo thought, and yanked the infirmary door open.

When Dr. Trent had checked the stitches, announced that they were a “little inflamed” and given Jo a small tube of ointment, Jo slid off the examination table and said casually, “Dr. Trent, did you know that girl who disappeared? Sharon Westover? The freshman the police have been asking about?”

Dr. Trent nodded. “Yes, I knew her. She had a lot of problems after she came back to campus following her accident. The incisions on her face weren’t healing properly. I saw quite a bit of her. She was horribly depressed. Can’t say that I blame her. She’d been a very pretty girl.”

“Couldn’t she have plastic surgery?”

“Oh, of course. But there’s only so much they can do, Jo. Her face was badly crushed. Most of her facial bones were shattered. And the major reconstructive work couldn’t be done right away. She wasn’t handling the wait very well.”

Saddened, Jo fell silent.

“I’m not surprised that she left campus,” the doctor continued as she returned supplies to a cabinet over the sink. “It was hard for her. She was homecoming queen at her high school, I understand. The change in her appearance was probably impossible for her to bear. Many people your age who sustain facial injuries retreat to their rooms and never come back out.” Dr. Trent smiled. “I think you’ve handled your injuries remarkably well, Jo. And your reward will be that you’ll look good as new when your stitches come out.”

That thought comforted Jo as she left the infirmary. Maybe she
was
handling her injuries well. But maybe that was because she’d been told from the beginning that there would be no permanent damage. If she’d been given the same verdict that Sharon Westover must have been given, she probably would have reacted pretty much the same way. Wanting to hide from curious or pitying or even repulsed eyes.

The construction site was silent. The crew left early on Saturdays. Because there were no workers there to observe her, Jo decided to take a walk along the riverbank instead of going directly back to Lester. There’d still be time to call Tina when she returned.

We take our looks for granted, she thought, hiking along the dirt path beside the river, now overcoated with a thick layer of ice. All of us…we get up in the morning and comb our hair and wash our faces and when we look in the mirror we never think how lucky we are. We never even thought very much about Sharon when we heard about the accident. We said things like, “Isn’t that awful?” and “poor Sharon,” but none of us thought to go see her when she came back to campus. Okay, so we didn’t really know her. But we still could have welcomed her back. Showed her that she’d be okay.

Maybe we didn’t
want
to see her. Maybe we were afraid, secretly, that if we saw her, we’d realize the same thing could happen to us.

It was colder out than Jo had expected, in spite of the bright sunshine. And the river wasn’t nearly as interesting now that it was frozen solid under a thick sheet of snow-covered ice.

She turned around to retrace her steps to campus.

A noise behind her made her turn her head.

Nothing there.

Still, realizing how far from campus she’d come, she instinctively hurried her steps.

And clearly heard footsteps behind her, padding softly.

She stopped, turned around.

Nothing behind her but bushes on both sides of the path, and huge old willow trees lining the riverbank.

But she was positive she’d heard footsteps.

Paranoid, she told herself with some disgust. You’re getting positively paranoid. Even if there is someone back there, it’s the middle of the afternoon. It’s broad daylight. What can happen in broad daylight? It’s probably someone out for a nice, healthy Saturday afternoon jog.

Nevertheless, she decided to break into a nice, healthy jog herself.

Instantly, the footsteps followed suit. Closer…they were getting closer.

But when she glanced over her shoulder a third time, the sound stopped. There was no sign of anyone in jogging sweats running along the path behind her.

If someone were out for a nice, innocent jog, they wouldn’t stop running each time she did, would they? And they certainly wouldn’t hide. They’d keep going, catch up with her, and pass her by.

Why were the footsteps stopping each time she did? And why was no one there when she looked?

Taking a deep breath, Jo broke into a run.

Immediately, the feet behind her did the same. Heavy pounding on the path signaled someone running as fast as she was. Maybe faster. Running…after
her
?

Jo ran hard, but her heavy boots and jacket weighed her down. Her breathing became erratic, her chest began aching with the effort, but she never slowed down or paused on the path.

The steps behind her became louder. The person was closing in on her.

Broad daylight…it was the middle of the afternoon! Why was someone chasing her behind campus in the middle of the afternoon?

There…just ahead…Butler Hall, the big, stone administration building. There might be people there…someone to help, her….

The footsteps were just behind her, and to her horror, she could hear heavy breathing close at hand. Not labored, like hers. She was exhausted, but her pursuer wasn’t.

A few more steps…keep going…don’t stop now…almost there….

The arm came out of nowhere. It wrapped itself around Jo’s neck from behind and a voice cried hoarsely, “Gotcha!”

As her feet were lifted off the ground, something black and slippery was thrown over her head. She couldn’t see. The slick, slippery material melded itself to her nose and mouth. She smelled plastic…like…garbage bag plastic….

One hand remained around her neck while another wrapped itself around her chest, pinning her arms to her sides. She was helpless.

Each time she breathed in, the thick black plastic plastered itself against her nose and mouth like wallpaper. Fighting panic, she whooshed air from her mouth to push away the oily, suffocating gag.

Struggling to free her arms, she opened her mouth to scream, but the intake of breath pulled the plastic back into her mouth. She spit it out and tried again. The same thing happened.

Afraid of suffocating, she gave up the attempt to scream. But she continued to kick out with her feet and wrestle to free her arms. In vain. Her attacker retained a firm grip around her neck.

“You didn’t put a bag over your head the way you should have,” the voice whispered in her ear, “so,” chuckling, “I’m doing it for you. Isn’t that nice of me?”

Rough fingers fumbled at her throat. The plastic over her head was drawn so tightly down over her face it was pressed up against her mouth and nose, and this time she couldn’t blow it away. It was being held there while something…something was being wound around her neck. She could feel it. A rope? String? She felt it circling once, twice, then being pulled so tightly, it cut into her neck.

She couldn’t breathe. And she couldn’t get her arms free to yank at the plastic over her mouth and nose.

Suddenly, the arm around her chest fell away. Her arms were free. Immediately, she began flailing out wildly, her fists clenched, as rough fingers fumbled at the back of her head. Tying something…he was tying the black plastic around her neck. That’s why he’d had to let go of her arms. He couldn’t make a knot with one hand.

Each breath she drew sucked the plastic into her nostrils. And her searching fists met only air. He was behind her. How could she hit him when he was behind her?

Desperate, Jo kicked out with her legs. She connected once, twice. Her attacker yelped. But the efforts to tie the rope around her neck continued. She could feel it being knotted into place.

Then she heard crazy, frenzied laughter and the sound of footsteps running away.

Silence.

She was alone.

She was on the river path behind Butler Hall, alone with a plastic bag tied tightly around her head and neck.

And she couldn’t breathe.

J
O STOOD IN THE
middle of the path, gasping for breath, clawing at the cord that held the black plastic firmly in place.

It was tied too tightly. Her fingers fumbled desperately to loosen the knot. And failed.

Blowing against the plastic to force it away from her mouth and nose, Jo staggered forward, pulling, tugging, on the knot at the back of her neck. Afraid that, blinded as she was, she might misstep and find herself out on the river’s ice, she took only tiny steps forward.

Small blue and orange dots began to dance before her eyes.

Calm down, she warned herself sharply. If you panic, you’ll hyperventilate…then you’ll pass out…you’re way out here behind Butler Hall…by the time someone finds you, you’ll be long dead and frozen solid like the ice on the river. Calm down, Jo, calm down.

Continuing to puff against the plastic to keep it away from her mouth and nose; Jo gave up on the knot and focused instead on digging her fingernails into the plastic over her face. Twice, she misjudged and accidentally dug into the cuts on her face, crying out in pain.

But she kept trying.

Her efforts were futile. The plastic was tough, and wouldn’t give.

If only she had something sharp…a knife, a nail file.

She had nothing.

Something sharp…
teeth
were sharp, weren’t they?

Desperate for air, Jo drew in a breath, deliberately pulling the plastic into her mouth. Then she bit down on it, hard. When she had a firm grip, she ground her teeth together as hard as she could. Her jaw ached with the effort, and she gagged on the oily black slickness in her mouth.

But she kept chewing until she heard a faint ripping sound.

Her hand went to her mouth, searching for the hole.

It was tiny. The tiniest of tears, ripped into the plastic by her teeth.

But it was enough. She thrust her fingernails into the tiny tear and pulled in opposite directions with all her might.

This time, the ripping sound was more substantial, and the black plastic parted, leaving a big enough hole for her to draw in huge, grateful gulps of fresh air.

The blue and orange spots evaporated.

Continuing to pull, she ripped the plastic away from her face and yanked the divided pieces down around her neck. The sun’s brightness blinded her, and cold, fresh air surrounded her. She drank it in gratefully.

Weak and shaking, Jo sank to the ground. She knelt there, shaking, for long minutes.

When she had calmed down a little, she bent her chin to look down at the thick strips of black still wrapped around her neck. They hung there like a muffler, a grim reminder of how close she had come to death.

But…he hadn’t meant to kill her, had he? If he had, he would have tied her arms so she would have no way of freeing herself. If he’d done that, she’d be dead now. As dead as Sharon Westover….

Jo gasped. Whoa! Hold the phone. No one had said Sharon Westover was dead. They’d simply said that she had disappeared.

But she
was
dead. Jo
knew
it. Suddenly, clearly, emphatically, she knew that Sharon Westover would never be seen alive on campus again.

As shaky as a newborn colt, Jo got to her feet. Ignoring the bag still wound around her neck, she walked as quickly as she could back to Lester. People running or walking across campus stared at her, and some laughed, but Jo ignored them. She was used to the staring by now, and she had more important things on her mind than how she looked to other people. It really didn’t matter. Not now.

Jo’s room was empty. She wasn’t surprised. On a beautiful Saturday afternoon, why would anyone be inside? But she was disappointed. She didn’t want to be alone just now.

A minute later, as if her wish had been heard and granted, Kelly and Nan burst into the room, laughing. The laughter stopped when they saw Jo standing in the middle of the room, struggling with the knot at the back of her neck.

“What is
that
?” Kelly cried. “It looks like…”

“A garbage bag,” Nan finished, hurrying over to help Jo with the rope. “What is it doing around your
neck
?”

“Jo,” Kelly said, as Nan worked on the knot, “your face is bleeding again.” She couldn’t hide the expression of distaste on her face. “It’s a mess.”

“I know. I scratched it when I was trying to get this thing off my head.”

Kelly’s eyes widened. “That bag was on your
head
? Over your face?”

Jo nodded. The knot came free and Nan unwound the rope and held it up triumphantly. “It pays to have long nails,” she said. “Now tell us what’s going on. How did this thing,” unwrapping the black plastic from Jo’s shoulders and removing it, “get on your head? That was a serious knot, Jo. Someone meant that rope to stay tied for a good long time.”

Jo tottered over to her bed and flung herself down on it. “I know.” Her voice was low and hushed. “I really thought I was going to die.”

“Jo!”

She lifted her head and stared at both of them with tear-brightened eyes. “I mean it. I couldn’t breathe. Someone ran up behind me on the path behind Butler Hall, threw that bag over my head, and tied that rope around it so tightly, the plastic was smashed into my mouth and nose. I
couldn’t
breathe! He said…he said I shouldn’t go out without a bag over my head, and then he ran away. I tried…I tried to get the knot untied, but I don’t have long nails like you, Nan, and I couldn’t do it.”

“How did you get it off your face?” Kelly asked. She moved toward the bathroom. “I’ll get you some clean bandages for your cuts.”

“I bit through the plastic.” Jo made a face. “It tasted horrible. But it was the only thing I could think of.” She forced a weak laugh. “And I’m never going anywhere again without a very sharp nail file in my pocket.”