Ten (26 page)

She had to.

Ben couldn’t get away with it.

“W-why?” she asked, stumbling over her words. “Why us?”

“Well, ideally, I mean, in my fantasies about this weekend, it was you and Minnie left as Eight and Nine. You having figured out what was going on based on the clues I left you....”

Clues. Meg caught her breath. The diary.

“Yes, Claire’s diary. I kind of hoped it would look enough like yours. That was just luck.”

“You planted it with my stuff.”

He smirked.

“And you forged the last page so I’d think … I’d think …”

“You’d think your boyfriend was the killer? Brilliant, right?”

“You’re sick.”

“It makes you more comfortable to think so, doesn’t it? That I’d have to be insane to do all this? Not true. I’m saner than your little friend down there.”

Meg’s eye drifted down to Minnie’s face, contorted, bloody, lifeless. Heavy tears cascaded down Meg’s cheeks. Her best friend was gone.

“I had this glorious scene in mind,” Ben continued, “where you figure out that I was the one knocking everybody off and try to tell Minnie, but she’s so far over the edge with paranoia and insanity that she kills you anyway, then kills herself.” He sighed and shook his head. “Leaving me, Number Ten, the winner. I had her almost completely convinced you were the killer. Right until the very end, I think. Oh well. No murder-suicide, but it
was
fun to watch her pull the gun on you.”

Meg wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. She was disgusted at the idea that Ben had been fantasizing about all these deaths for God only knows how long. Her stomach clenched and she had to fight back the urge to vomit.

“Like I said, you surprised me. But in the end, you didn’t quite figure it all out, did you?”

“I figured out enough.”
Keep him talking, Meg.
Keep him talking then figure out an escape route. “That everyone here was connected to Claire Hicks somehow. That you were killing us off in the same ways you thought we’d wronged her.”

“
Thought
you’d wronged her?
Thought?
” Ben roared. The ferocity came out of nowhere, and Meg involuntarily took a step back. “The nine of you killed her. You’re all murderers.”

“Look who’s talking.”

Ben’s dark brows lowered. “I’m not a murderer. I’m a vigilante. I’m bringing down the swift sword of justice.”

“Justice?” Meg couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Really? What, because Kumiko blamed Claire for a failed science experiment and Lori beat her out for a choir solo?”

“Kumiko went to the science teacher and asked permission to do the experiment again, this time without a partner. She got an A while Claire still got a failing grade. She was stuck in the remedial class the next semester, with a bunch of freaks and morons. And Lori didn’t beat Claire out for anything. She stole that solo by lying to my sis—”

Ben caught himself but it was too late. Meg had heard what he started to say. “Sister. Oh my God.”

Ben didn’t say a word, but he didn’t need to. Meg’s brain whirled. She looked him directly in the eye: those bright blue eyes, pale skin, sharp jaw. Of course. How could she not have seen it? The hair had thrown her off, but if you took away Ben’s bleached-blond hair and made it dark, practically black … just like Claire.

“You’re Tom,” she said. It wasn’t a question. “You’re Claire’s brother.”

He flinched.

“It was you who caused those accidents at school, Bobby’s car brakes and Tiffany’s infection.” Another realization dawned on Meg. “But … the real Ben. The blond guy in the diary. Who was—”

“She sent me that diary the night she killed herself.” Tom’s voice had lost the false lightness. It was lower now, raspy and tight. “I realized then that she had to be avenged. She wasn’t that girl. She was happy. She just wanted to fit in at Roosevelt, Mariner, even at Kamiak. She was kind and sweet, but you guys beat that out of her.”

“And you killed Ben.” Meg recalled Ben’s taunts from Claire’s diary.
Burn
. The body in the locker room at Mariner. Burned. “You killed him and took his place.”

“Don’t worry, I made sure he suffered appropriately, just like the rest of you.”

“How is any of this appropriate?”

Tom shrugged. “Claire sent her diary with a note.
Make them understand what they did, Tom. All of them
. So that’s what I’m doing. Making you understand.”

“It’s not our fault she killed herself.”

“YOU KILLED HER!” he roared. “Understand that. You killed my sister. She was special, sensitive, and trusting, and you killed her. All of you.”

“You can’t really believe that.”

“I
know it.
” His voice was shaky now. The emotion creeping in. At least something she was saying had gotten to him. “She was better than all of you and you never understood her.”

“I never even knew her!” Meg’s eyes darted around the boat, looking for a way to escape. She caught sight of the gun Minnie had dropped when she was shot, lying in a pool of Minnie’s blood by the stairs that led down to the main deck. She squeezed her eyes shut, holding back another wave of tears. Minnie had died for nothing, and Meg was the only one left to tell the authorities what really happened on Henry Island. Meg opened her eyes and glanced back at the gun. If she could just get …

“Don’t move,” Tom snarled. He unshouldered his crossbow and pointed it straight at her. “Don’t even think about reaching for that gun.”

Meg felt the hope drain from her. This was it. This was the end. But she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear.

She thrust out her chin in defiance. “You won’t get away with it.”

“Meg,” he said. “I already have.”

THIRTY SIX

MEG WASN’T A PSYCHIC. THERE WASN’T AN
intuitive or supernatural bone in her body. But somehow she picked up on Tom’s intention, saw it in his eyes or his movements. Even as his finger pulled the trigger, her body was in motion. No time to think about it, no time for a logical plan of action. She threw herself to the right, diving into the wheelhouse. She could actually feel the force of the arrow. It missed her head by inches. As she rolled on her side, she heard it puncture the wooden frame.

Thank God he was going for a kill shot. If he hadn’t aimed for her head, she might have been hit.

Tom swore.

She heard him toss the crossbow onto the ground. He must be out of arrows. Well, that was something. Time to move.

She leaped to her feet and ran to the captain’s chair. The keys were still in the ignition, and as she frantically tried to turn the engine over, she said a silent prayer promising to go to church with her mom every day for the rest of her life if only the damn engine would start.

“The harder you make it,” Tom said, “the worse you’ll suffer, I promise. Just come out and let me shoot you.”

She felt the boat shift.

Oh my God. He was climbing aboard.

Meg spun around, frantically searching for a place to hide just as a gunshot rang out. She instinctively hit the floor as the port window of the wheelhouse shattered. Broken glass sprinkled across the cabin floor. Shit. She’d forgotten about the gun.

Meg huddled behind the captain’s chair and forced herself to think as rationally as possible. Forget the crazy maniac trying to kill you. Her eyes drifted to the dark outline of Minnie, lying lifeless on the deck outside the wheelhouse. She wanted to give up. To give in.

No!
She shook herself, trying desperately to clear her head.
Focus, Meg.

She had two choices. There was the staircase leading belowdecks from the wheelhouse. It was the fastest and surest escape, but also the one Tom would probably follow. And once he had her below deck in the dark, she’d pretty much be trapped. The second option was the door on the starboard side of the wheelhouse. As best as Meg could remember, it led to a balcony that stretched around the front of the boat. Maybe if Tom went below she could lower herself to the main deck and escape before he even realized she was gone? It was worth a shot.

Meg cringed. Bad choice of words.

As quickly and quietly as she could, Meg crawled across the floor of the boathouse. She had to bite her lip to keep from crying out as shards of broken glass cut into her palms and knees, digging deep into her flesh. The three feet across the wheelhouse felt like three miles, and her hands and legs were bloody by the time she reached the starboard door. She silently unlatched it, then pushed the metal door open a fraction of an inch. By some stroke of luck, the hinges swung open silently. Without a second thought, Meg slipped out onto the balcony, then carefully closed the door behind her.

Just in time. She barely got the door completely closed when she heard a crunching sound. Boots on broken glass.

Meg hardly dared to breathe. She crouched on the far side of the door, her hand still gripping the handle. Had he seen her? Had he seen the door close? Her heart thundered so loudly in her ears she was positive he could hear it. She waited, half expecting a bullet to shatter the window above her head, or for the door she leaned against to come crashing open as Tom barreled through. Her legs burned. Her palms stung with a mixture of sweat and blood.

Crunch, crunch, crunch
. Then his footsteps sounded more hollow.
Thud, thud, thud
.

He was going downstairs.

Yes!

As soon as Tom’s muffled footsteps faded from earshot, Meg sprang to her feet.

She tiptoed around to the front of the pilothouse, crouching low and trying to keep her head below the cockpit windows. If she could just make it to the port side of the yacht, she was pretty sure she could jump onto the floor of the boathouse. And then she’d run. And keep running. That was the extent of her plan.

She had just rounded the front of the pilothouse when gunshots erupted from the darkness. The window above her shattered. Meg screamed and ducked back behind the pilothouse, covering her head with her arms as broken glass rained down on her. She wasn’t sure how many shots he fired, but the next sound Meg heard was a shallow clicking.

No more bullets.

Finally. Finally something was going her way.

“Shit,” Tom swore from somewhere near the back of the boat. He was between her and the safety of the darkened boathouse.

She climbed over the rail of the pilothouse and lowered herself onto the foredeck below. At the bow of the boat, there was a small inverted dinghy mounted on a rack. She crawled beneath it, then wedged herself behind the winch that lowered the anchor, right in the pointed bow. It was an obvious hiding place and it wouldn’t take him long to find her. She needed to think.

Meg felt around her in the darkness. Was there anything she could use as a weapon? A coil of thick rope, the taut chain attached to the anchor, a life preserver hanging from the bulwark. So unless she was roping sheep or going overboard, she was out of luck. Perfect.

But instead of footsteps pounding toward her hiding place, she felt the weight of the boat shift again. Tom was climbing off.

She heard a clanging sound and a groan, before Tom spoke. “I meant what I said, Meg.” He sounded out of breath. “I’m going to make you suffer. After your little friend over there, you deserve it most of all.”

Meg poked her head around the dinghy and squinted into the darkness. What was he doing? “How do you figure?”

“You were there. You know.”

She heard a splashing noise, like he was throwing water onto the deck of the boat. Then the smell hit her. Gasoline.

He was going to burn her alive.

For one sick moment, she almost wished she was Minnie, lying there dead on the deck of the boat.
No, don’t think that
. She had to stay calm. She could figure a way out. She just had to think.

And keep Tom talking.

“Look, I don’t know what game you’re playing,” she said, mustering up as much false bravado as she could manage. “But I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Meg crawled out from her hiding place. There was just enough light from the failing lantern in the pilothouse for her to see over the side of the boat. There were only a few inches of clearance between the starboard rail and the side of the boathouse, but up where the bow curved inward there was a little bit more space, especially between heaves of the waves. If she timed it right, she could probably jump into the water without being crushed between the boat and wall, and maybe she could swim beneath the boathouse and get back onshore. Maybe.

It was the only chance she had.

“Fine,” Tom said. She could hear the impatience in his voice. “Let me refresh your faulty memory. Homecoming night.”

Homecoming. There it was again. Maybe this was all her fault after all? If she’d just gone to the dance with T.J., maybe Minnie wouldn’t have attacked Claire? And now they were all dead: Claire, Minnie, T.J., and most likely Meg too. All because she’d been afraid to confront her best friend.

She heard Tom flicking a lighter, then the entire boathouse was aglow in orange light. She peeked around the side of the dinghy and saw him standing with a homemade torch in hand, his shirt tied around an oar, doused in gasoline, she guessed. She was running out of time.

“I’m sure to you and Minnie and your intellectually challenged dates, what you did that night barely registered on your scale of importance, but it was an arrow through my sister’s heart. Pardon the pun.”

“That’s not a pun,” Meg said. She couldn’t stop herself; the words just flew out of her mouth. Even though she was about to go up in flames Joan of Arc–style, she was tired of feeling like a victim. If she was going out, she was going out swinging.

“
SHUT UP!
” he roared.

Way to go, Meg. Poke the angry man-eating lion with a stick, why don’t you. But he was still talking, which gave her more time to try and read the timing of the heaving boat. The more she stalled, the better her chances.

“I don’t know,” she said, trying to sound unimpressed. “I mean, killing a bunch of us idiots off shouldn’t be that hard.”