Reunion (13 page)

She was trying, I knew, to get me to not be mad at her. As if a chocolate-dipped twist would help. Actually, it sort of would, now that I thought about it.

“Sounds good to me,” Sleepy said.

Dopey, on my right—as usual, I'd ended up sitting on the hump in the middle of the backseat—muttered, “I don't know what you see in that headcase Meducci anyway.”

Doc said, “Oh, that's easy. Females of any species tend to select the male partner who is best able to provide for her and any offspring which might result from their coupling. Michael Meducci, being a good deal more intelligent than most of his classmates, amply fulfills that role, in addition to which he has what is considered, by Western standards of beauty, an outstanding physique—if what I've overheard Gina and Suze saying counts for anything. Since he is likely to pass on these favorable genetic components to
his children, he is irresistible to breeding females everywhere—at least, discerning ones like Suze.”

There was silence in the car…the kind of silence that usually followed one of Doc's speeches.

Then Gina said reverently, “They really should move you up a grade, David.”

“Oh, they've offered,” Doc replied, cheerfully, “but while my intellect might be evolved for a boy my age, my growth is somewhat retarded. I felt it was inadvisable to thrust myself into a population of males much larger than I, who might be threatened by my superior intelligence.”

“In other words,” Sleepy translated for Gina's benefit, “we didn't want him getting his butt kicked by the bigger kids.”

Then he started the car, and we roared out of the parking lot at the usual high rate of speed that Sleepy, in spite of my private nickname for him, chooses to employ.

I was trying to figure out how I could make it clear that it wasn't so much that I wanted to breed with Michael Meducci, as get him to confess to having killed the RLS Angels, when Gina went, “God, Jake, drive much?”

Which was sort of amusing since Gina, whose parents very wisely won't let her near their car, has never driven before in her life. But then I
looked up and saw what she meant. We were approaching the front gates to the school, which were set at the base of a sloping hill that opened out into a busy intersection, at a higher rate of speed than was usual, even for Sleepy.

“Yeah, Jake,” Dopey said from beside me on the backseat. “Slow down, you maniac.”

I knew Dopey was only trying to make himself look good in front of Gina, but he did have a point: Sleepy was going way too fast.

“It's not a race,” I said, and Doc started to say something about how Jake's endorphins had probably kicked in, due to his fight with me and his near-fight with Michael, and that that would account for his sudden case of lead foot…

At least until Jake said, in tones that weren't in the least drowsy, “I can't slow down. The brakes…the brakes aren't working.”

This sounded interesting. I leaned forward. I guess I thought Jake was trying to scare us.

Then I saw the speed with which we were approaching the intersection in front of the school. This was no joke. We were about to plunge into four lanes of heavy traffic.

“Get out!” Jake yelled at us.

At first I didn't know what he meant. Then I saw Gina struggling to undo her seatbelt, and I knew.

But it was too late. We had already started down the dip that led past the gates, and onto the highway. If we jumped now, we'd be as dead as we were going to be the minute we plunged into those four lanes of oncoming traffic. At least if we stayed in the car, we'd have the questionable protection of the Rambler's steel walls around us.

Jake leaned on the horn, swearing loudly. Gina covered her eyes. Doc flung his arms around me, burying his face in my lap, and Dopey, to my great surprise, began to scream like a girl, very close to my ear….

Then we were sailing down the hill, speeding past a very surprised woman in a Volvo station wagon and then a stunned-looking Japanese couple in a Mercedes, both of whom managed to slam on their brakes just in time to keep from barreling into us.

We weren't so lucky with the traffic in the far two lanes, however. As we went flying across the highway, a tractor trailer with the words
Tom Cat
emblazoned on the front grid came bearing down on us, its horn blaring. The words
Tom Cat
loomed closer and closer, until suddenly I couldn't see them anymore because they were above the roof of the car….

It was at that point that I closed my eyes, so I
wasn't sure if the impact I felt was in my head because I'd been expecting it so strongly, or if we'd really been struck. But the jolt was enough to send my neck snapping back the way it did on roller coasters when the train car suddenly took a violent ninety-degree turn.

When I opened my eyes again, however, I started to suspect the jolt hadn't been in my head since everything was spinning around, the way it does when you go on one of those teacup rides. Only we weren't on a ride. We were still in the Rambler, which was spinning across the highway like a top.

Until suddenly, with another sickening crunch, a loud crash of glass, and another very big jolt, it stopped.

And when the smoke and dust settled, we saw that we were sitting halfway in and halfway out of the Carmel-by-the-Sea Tourist Information Bureau, with a sign that said
WELCOME TO CARMEL
! pressed up against the windshield.

“They killed my car.”

That was all Sleepy seemed capable of saying. He had been saying it ever since we'd crawled from the wreckage of what had once been the Rambler.

“My car. They killed my car.”

Never mind that it hadn't actually been Sleepy's car. It had been the family car, or at any rate, the kids' car.

And never mind that Sleepy did not seem capable of telling us who this mysterious “they” was, the “they” he suspected of murdering his automobile.

He just kept saying it over and over again. And
the thing was, the more he said it, the more the horror of it all sank in.

Because, of course, it wasn't the
car
someone had tried to kill. Oh, no. It was the people in the car that had been the intended victims.

Or, to be more accurate, one person. Me.

I really don't think I'm being at all vain. I honestly do think that it was because of me that the Rambler's brake line was clipped. Yes, it had been clipped, so all the brake fluid had eventually leaked out. The car, being older, even, than my mother—though not quite as old as Father D.—did have only the single brake line, making it vulnerable to just that sort of attack.

Let me see now, who do I know who might like to see me perish in a fiery blaze?…Oh, hang on, I know. How about Josh Saunders, Carrie Whitman, Mark Pulsford, and Felicia Bruce?

Give that girl a prize.

I couldn't, of course, tell anyone what I suspected. Not the police who showed up and took the accident report. Not the EMS guys who couldn't believe that, beyond a few bruises, none of us were seriously hurt. Not the guys from Triple A who came to tow what was left of the Rambler away. Not Michael who, having left the parking lot just moments before us, had heard
the commotion and turned back, and had been one of the first to try to help us out of the car.

And certainly not my mother and stepfather, who showed up at the hospital looking tight-lipped and pale-faced, and kept saying things like, “It's a wonder none of you were hurt,” and, “From now on, you're only driving the Land Rover.”

Which caused Dopey, anyway, to brighten up. The Land Rover was way roomier than the Rambler had ever been. I suppose he figured he wouldn't have as much trouble getting horizontal with Debbie Mancuso in the Land Rover.

“I just can't understand it,” my mother said, much later, after the X rays and eye tests and poking and prodding were over, and the hospital personnel had finally let us go home. We sat in the dining room of Peninsula Pizza, the place Sleepy worked, which also happened to be one of the only places in Carmel you could get a table for six—seven, if you counted Gina—without a reservation. We must have looked, to an outsider, like one big, happy family (well, except for Gina, who sort of stuck out, though not as much as you might think) celebrating something, like a soccer game victory.

Only we knew that what we were celebrating
was the fact that we were all still alive.

“I mean, it must be a miracle,” my mother went on. “The doctors certainly think so. That none of you were more seriously hurt, I mean.”

Doc showed her his elbow, which he'd scraped on a piece of glass while slithering out of the car after it had come to a standstill. “This could prove to be a very dangerous wound,” he said, in a wounded little boy voice, “if it happens to become infected.”

“Oh, sweetie.” My mother reached out and stroked his hair. “I know. You were so brave when they put in those stitches.”

The rest of us rolled our eyes. Doc had been playing up the injury thing all night. But it was making both him and my mother happy. She'd tried that hair-stroking thing with me, and I'd nearly broken my arm trying to get away.

“It wasn't a miracle,” Andy said, shaking his head, “but simple dumb luck that you weren't all killed.”

“Dumb luck nothing,” Sleepy said. “My superlative driving skills are what saved us.”

I hated to admit it, but Sleepy was right. (And where did he learn a word like
superlative
? From all the SAT review he surely had to do last year?) Except for the part where we'd crashed through
the plate glass window, he'd driven that tank of a car—brakeless—like an Indy 500 pro. I guess I could sort of see why Gina wouldn't let go of his arm, and kept looking up at him in this worshipful way.

Out of my newfound respect for Sleepy, I didn't even look to see what he and Gina were doing in the back of the Land Rover on the way home.

But Dopey sure did. And whatever he saw back there put him in as foul a mood as I'd ever seen him.

His stomping around and turning up of Marilyn Manson in his room only served to annoy his father, however, who went from grateful humbleness over how close he'd come to losing his “boys—and you, Suze. Oh, and Gina, too,” to apoplectic rage upon hearing what he termed “that noxious mind-poison.”

Alone in my room—Gina had disappeared to parts of the house unknown; well, okay, I knew where she was, I just didn't want to think about it—I did not mind the noise level in the hallway outside my door. It would keep, I realized, anybody from overhearing the very unpleasant conversation I was about to have.

“Jesse!” I called, switching on my bedroom lights and looking around for him. But both he
and Spike were MIA. “Jesse, where are you? I need you.”

Ghosts aren't dogs. They won't come when you call them. At least, they never used to. Not for me, anyway. Only lately—and this was something I hadn't exactly talked over with Father Dom. It was a little too weird to think about, if you asked me—the ghosts I knew had been popping up at the merest suggestion of them in my mind. Seriously. It seemed all I had to do was think about my dad, for instance, and poof, there he was.

Needless to say, this was quite embarrassing when I happened to be thinking about him while I was in the shower washing my hair, or whatever.

I kind of wondered if this had something to do with my mediator powers getting stronger with age. But if that were true, then it would stand to reason that Father Dom would be a way better mediator than me.

Only he wasn't. Different, but not better. Certainly not stronger. He couldn't summon a spirit with a single thought.

At least, I didn't think so.

Anyway, so even though ghosts don't come when you call them, Jesse always seemed to lately. He appeared before me with a shimmer, and then
stood staring at me like I'd just stepped off the set of
Hellraiser III
in full costume. But may I say that I did not look half so disheveled as I felt?

“
Nombre de Dios,
Susannah,” he said, paling visibly (well, for a guy who was already dead, anyway). “What happened to you?”

I looked down at myself. All right, so my blouse was torn and dirty, and my thigh-highs had sort of lost their stick. At least my hair had that all-important windswept look.

“As if you didn't know,” I said sourly, sitting down on my bed and slipping out of my shoes. “I thought you said you'd baby-sit them all day, until Father D. and I had a chance to work on Michael.”

“Baby-sit?” Jesse knit his dark brows, revealing that he was unfamiliar with the word. “I stayed with the Angels all day, if that's what you mean.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “What are you saying? You went with them on their little field trip to the school parking lot to clip the Rambler's brake line?”

Jesse sat down next to me on the bed.

“Susannah.” His dark-eyed gaze was riveted to my face. “Did something happen today?”

“You better believe it.” I told him what had gone down, though my explanation of exactly
what had been done to the car was a little sketchy given my complete ignorance of all things mechanical, and Jesse's particular lack of knowledge about the workings of the automobile. Back when he'd been alive, of course, horse and buggy had been the only way to go.

When I was through, he shook his head.

“But, Susannah,” he said, “it could not have been Josh and the others. As I told you, I was with them all day. I only left them now because you called to me. They could not possibly have done what you are describing. I would have seen it, and stopped them.”

I blinked at him. “But if it wasn't Josh and those guys, then who could it have been? I mean, no one else wants me dead. At least, not at the moment.”

Jesse continued to stare down at me. “Are you so sure you were the intended victim, Susannah?”

“Well, of course it was me.” I know it sounds weird, but I was almost offended at the idea that there might be someone else on the planet worthier of murdering than myself. I must say, I do pride myself on the number of enemies I've acquired. In the mediator business, I've always considered it a sign that things were going well if
there were a bunch of people who wanted me dead.

“I mean, who else but me?” I gave a laugh. “What, you think somebody's out to get
Doc
?”

Jesse, however, did not laugh.

“Think, Susannah,” he urged me. “Isn't there anyone else who was in that car that someone might want to see badly hurt, or even dead?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “You know something,” I said flatly.

“No.” Jesse shook his head. “But—”

“But what? God, I hate when you do the cryptic warning thing. Just tell me.”

“No.” He shook his head quickly. “Think, Susannah.”

I sighed. There was no arguing with him when he got this way. You couldn't really blame him, I guess, for wanting to play Mr. Miyagi to my Karate Kid. It wasn't like he had a whole lot of other stuff to do.

I exhaled gustily enough to send my bangs fluttering.

“Okay,” I said. “People who might not be too happy with someone—besides me—in that car. Let me see.” I brightened up. “Debbie and Kelly aren't too happy about Gina. They had a nasty little interlude in the girls' room just before it
happened. The car thing, I mean.”

Then I frowned. “But I hardly think those two would clip a brake line to get her out of the way. In the first place, I doubt they even know what a brake line is, or where to find it. And in the second place, they might mess themselves up climbing under a car. You know, break a nail, or get oil in their hair, or whatever. Debbie probably wouldn't mind, but Kelly? Forget it. Plus they had to know they might end up killing Dopey and Sleepy, and they wouldn't want that.”

“Of course not,” Jesse said mildly.

It was the very tonelessness with which he uttered the words that cued me in.

“Dopey?” I shot him an incredulous look. “Who'd want Dopey dead? Or Sleepy, for that matter? I mean, those guys are so…dumb.”

“Hasn't either of them,” Jesse asked in that same toneless manner, “done anything that might make someone angry?”

“Well, sure,” I said. “Not Sleepy so much, but Dopey? He's always doing asinine stuff like grabbing people in headlocks and throwing their books everywhere….” My voice trailed off.

Then I shook my head. “No,” I said. “That's impossible.”

Jesse only looked at me. “Is it?” he said.

“No, you don't understand.” I stood up and started pacing my room. At some point during our conversation, Spike had slunk in through the window. Now he sat on the floor at Jesse's feet, vigorously lashing himself with his sandpapery tongue.

“I mean, he was there,” I explained. “Michael was there, right after it happened. He helped us out of the car. He…” My last sight of Michael that evening had been just as the ambulance doors closed on me and Gina and Sleepy and Dopey and Doc. Michael's face had been pale—even more than usual—and concerned.

No. “That just…” I got as far as Gina's daybed before I spun around to face Jesse again. “That just can't be,” I said. “Michael would never do something like that.”

Jesse laughed. There was no humor in the sound, however.

“Wouldn't he?” he wanted to know. “I can think of four people who might have a very different opinion on the matter.”

“But
why
would he do it?” I shook my head again, emphatically enough to send the ends of my hair flying. “I mean, Dopey's a butthead, it's true, but enough of one so that someone might feel compelled to
murder
him? Not to mention a bunch
of innocent people along with him? Including
me
?” I raised my indignant gaze from the sight of Spike chewing on his own foot, trying to get the grime out from between his toes. “Michael couldn't possibly want to see
me
dead. I'm the best chance he's got for a date to the prom!”

Jesse didn't say anything. And in the silence, I remembered something. And what I remembered took my breath away.

“Oh, God,” I said, and, clutching my chest, I sank down onto the daybed.

Jesse's neutral expression sharpened into one of concern.

“What is it, Susannah?” he asked worriedly. “Are you ill?”

I nodded. “Oh, yeah,” I said, staring unseeing at the wall across from me. “I think I'm going to be sick. Jesse…he asked me if I wanted to ride with him. Right before it happened. He was insistent I ride with him. In fact, when Sleepy said I had to go with him or he'd tell Mom, I thought the two of them were going to get into a fist fight.”

“Of course,” Jesse said in what was, for him, a very dry tone. “His—what did you call it? Oh, yes—date for the prom was about to be exterminated.”

“Oh, God!” I stood up and started pacing again.
“Oh, God, why? Why
Dopey
? I mean, he's a jerk and all, but why would Michael want to
kill
him?”

Jesse said, quietly, “Perhaps for the same reason he killed Josh and the others.”

I stopped dead in my tracks. Slowly, I turned my head to look at him. But I didn't see him. Not really. I was remembering something Dopey had said—weeks ago, it seemed like, but it had actually only been a night or two before. We'd been talking about the accident that had killed the RLS Angels, and Dopey had said something about Mark Pulsford. “We happen to have partied together,” he'd said. “Last month, in the Valley.”