The Conclusion (7 page)

Today I expected to pass. As I said, I had it all planned.

I ducked low behind a parked car as Margie hesitated in front of the cleaners where she works. Marv'lous Dry Cleaners. Could you work for a place called Marv'lous Dry Cleaners? Doesn't that name make you want to slap somebody?

I've checked the place out carefully. It's run by a guy named Marv. Get it? Marv'lous? Ha-ha.

A few days ago, I brought in some shirts to be dry-cleaned. Just so I could check out the place. And so I'd have an excuse to come back when Margie was there.

She works there four afternoons a week. You know. Writing up the laundry tickets. Running the cash register. Most of the time, she's in back. Organizing the clean clothes, pulling plastic over them.

She's cute as a button, Margie. With that squeaky mouse voice and little turned-up elf nose that you just want to smash until it's red and pulpy like shredded newspaper.

I'm
going
to smash her nose, I thought, watching her enter the store. Her nose—and everything else.

Hey, I know that's cold. I'm a real cold guy. You've got to be cold if you want to stay with Hope.

Hope constantly needs to know that I care. That I'm there for her.

I've got to be cold for Hope.

I walked the block several times. I wanted to give Margie time to get settled in. I had to make sure she was working in the back room.

No way I could take care of her if she was out front where everyone could see.

About the fourth time I passed the cleaner, I stopped and peered in the big front window. I could see Marv'lous Marv behind the counter. All by himself.

Good, I thought. Margie is working in back.

Sometimes things have to go your way. I smiled. Today might just be one of the good days.

Good for me. Not for Margie. Ha-ha.

I shoved my hand into my jacket pocket and pulled out the pink cleaning ticket. I had to be ready. I had to time it right.

Know what would be really cool?

To take care of Margie—
and
get my shirts back at the same time!

But that's asking too much—isn't it? Ha-ha!

People hurried back and forth along the sidewalk. Late afternoon is a busy time of day on Pine Street near the campus.

A woman had her eyes on the store windows and nearly ran me over with her baby stroller. I had to jump out of the way. And she didn't even apologize.

I had a sudden urge to grab the stroller from her hands and send it rolling down the hill.

But I didn't do it. Sometimes I can fight down these sudden urges. Sometimes—not always.

I made my way back to the cleaners and waited until three or four customers had lined up in front of the counter.

Marv had his hands full, I saw. So, holding my cleaning ticket, I pushed my way into the store.

I'm pretty sure Marv didn't even see me. I held up the ticket so he wouldn't get suspicious. But he was busy arguing with a lady about a stain on a sweater, and he didn't even look up.

Taking a deep breath, I slipped around the counter and ducked through the narrow door into the back room.

So far, so good.

The back room held two long rows of dry cleaning, all wrapped in plastic, hanging on a ceiling conveyor belt. At the side stood the steam press, shaped like a huge ironing board, its lid standing straight up.

“Where are you, Margie?” I whispered, feeling a rush of excitement. “Where are you, girl?”

I let the cleaning ticket flutter to the floor when I saw her. She was standing with her back to me between two clusters of cleaning. She had a stapling gun raised over her head and was reaching up to staple cleaning tickets onto the plastic wrap of a bunch of sports jackets.

Perfect. Perfect.

Could I have planned it any better?

I moved quickly now. The excitement made me fast and alert. I could practically
feel
the blood coursing through my body. My skin tingled. The top of my head felt as if it might shoot right off like a cannonball out of a cannon.

I came up behind Margie.

Wrapped one arm around her waist. Squeezed hard to take her breath away.

Grabbed the staple gun away from her with my other hand.

Smashed it hard against the side of her head.

It only stunned her. But it kept her from screaming for help.

Her eyes rolled. She looked dazed. I gave her another hard tap. Then tossed the staple gun aside.

And dragged her. One hand over her mouth. One hand around her waist.

Dragged her to the steam press.

The excitement made me strong. She felt as light as a bird.

I dragged her. Then hoisted her easily onto the big machine.

I brought down the lid fast.

It let out a long, loud
hissssssssssss
as I squeezed her, squeezed her . . .

Hot steam poured out from under the lid.

An arm and a leg dangled limply out of the machine.

I pulled up the lid. Then brought it down and steamed her again.

And one more time for luck.

One more time for Hope.

Hope, my soulmate. My Hope.

I wish you were here with me now, Hope, I thought. I wish you could be here to see me work so hard for you.

A
ll the way to the coffee shop, I kept thinking,
Chris won't be there. He doesn't really want to see me. He forgot all about it by now.

I had worked myself into a frenzy. Convinced myself that he was just teasing the night before. That he really had no interest in me at all.

Why would anyone want to see
me?

I wasn't slinky and sexy like Angel. And I didn't have Jasmine's emerald eyes or great smile.

He won't be there, I told myself, practically running to get to Pine Street. Don't get your hopes up. He won't be waiting for you there . . .

So when I pulled open the glass door and saw Chris sitting at the counter, I nearly cried out.

He lowered his newspaper when he saw me, and a smile crossed his face. He patted the red vinyl stool beside him.

“Hi!” I called, too loudly. I hurried over and climbed up beside him. “How are you?”

“Okay,” he replied. But his smile faded. “Kind of upset, actually. Did you see the paper?”

He held it up, and I reached for it.
NEW CAMPUS MURDER
. The big black headline nearly hit me in the face.

“Another girl from my dorm,” Chris murmured softly. He shook his head. “I
knew
her. I mean, I met her. Wow . . . I can't believe someone I just met was
murdered.”

Chris continued talking, but his words faded to the background of my mind. I stared at the photograph beneath the headline. A high school yearbook photo. Of Margie.

Margie. Margie.

So Darryl had struck again. More dirty work on my behalf.

I suddenly felt sick. The photo blurred. The whole restaurant blurred and started to tilt crazily. My ears filled with a loud, roaring sound. I grabbed the countertop to keep from falling off the stool.

“Hey—what's wrong with your hands?” Chris's voice broke through the roar.

“Huh?” I blinked several times, struggling to focus.

Chris took my right hand and turned it palm up. We both stared at the line of little red bruises in the center of my palm.

“Did you cut yourself?” Chris asked.

“In my sleep, I think,” I told him. “I dug my nails into my skin. Must have been having a bad dream.”

He examined the palm, holding my hand gently. I
liked the way he held my hand. It sent a tingling feeling up my arm.

“It must have been a
really
bad dream,” he said, finally letting go. “I don't blame you for having bad dreams, Karen. Not with the horrible murders on this campus.”

I felt guilty about not telling him my real name. It was probably better to play it safe, though. He might slip and tell someone he'd met a girl named Hope. Then I'd be in big trouble. It was better to let him go on thinking my name was Karen.

Chris shoved the newspaper away. “Can you believe it? Two girls from the same dorm room?”

I didn't know what to say. I almost blurted out that I knew them too.

But of course that would be a stupid thing to admit. It would bring up too many other questions. I certainly didn't want to tell Chris that I knew Mary and Margie because I had lived across the hall from them!

It wouldn't take Chris long to figure out that I was the girl the police were looking for. So I just shook my head sadly and didn't say a word.

“I think we should talk about something else,” Chris suggested. “Sorry. I didn't mean to bring you down.”

“It's okay,” I told him. “I've been thinking about the murders too.”

We ordered tall iced mochas and split a plate of cookies. I think he felt as shy as I did. But when we finally started talking easily, we couldn't stop.

I told him some stories about Jasmine and Angel. After I described Angel to him, he started teasing
me, saying I should definitely bring her along next time.

Next time?
I thought.

Is there really going to be a next time? Does he like me enough to see me again?

We ordered more iced coffees and another plate of cookies. He told me about Big Al, his roommate at the apartment that burned down. Chris said that Big Al could talk his way out of anything.

“You won't
believe
how Big Al talked a police officer out of giving him a speeding ticket,” Chris said, snickering.

“What did he say?” I asked.

“Al told the cop that it wasn't his fault he was speeding because he had fallen asleep behind the wheel, and so he had no way of knowing how fast he was going!”

We both laughed.

“And the cop bought that excuse?” I cried. “He didn't give your friend the ticket?”

“No,” Chris replied. “He just walked back to his cruiser, scratching his head.”

We laughed some more.

And talked some more.

It was well after dark when we finally made our way out of the coffee shop. I was feeling so happy. Warm all over.

I took Chris's arm and wrapped it around my waist. We sort of snuggled together as we walked. At the corner, I leaned closer and kissed him.

The kiss lasted a long time. I didn't care if people passing by wanted to stare. I felt so good.

“I'll walk you home,” Chris said, when we finally pulled apart.

His words ruined my warm feeling. “No!” I cried, way too sharply.

I could see his surprise.

“No. That's okay,” I said, softer. “I live that way.” I pointed away from Fear Hall. “It's way on the other side of campus. Too far out of your way. You don't have to walk me.”

“Okay. When can I see you again?” he asked.

Yesssss!
I thought.
He really does like me!

I told him I'd call him at his dorm. He gave me his number. Then I turned and ran off before he insisted on walking me home again.

I practically flew home. I crossed streets without looking.

I'm not sure, but I may have been singing at the top of my lungs.

I knew he was the guy for me, I told myself. I knew it the first time I saw him.

Love at first sight. What a concept.

I jogged along Vermont. Then I trotted up the cracked and broken walk to the abandoned sorority house. It loomed dark and cold over the weed-choked yard. But I didn't care. It looked like a palace for a fairy princess tonight.

I pulled open the door. I couldn't wait to tell Jasmine and Angel about my time with Chris.

I burst into the living room.

A few steps from the entryway, I stopped—and uttered a cry. “Oh—!”

I pressed my hands against the sides of my face. “Darryl!” I cried. “What are you doing here?”

H
e scowled at me. He was breathing hard, and his face was bright red. He tore off his leather jacket and heaved it at the wall.

I pressed my hands to my waist and glared back at him. I stood my ground. I didn't back away. I'd seen Darryl like this before.

“Well?” I demanded. “What are you doing in my house?”

His lips twisted into a bitter sneer. “
Your
house? This old wreck is now
your
house?”

I tried to hold back my anger. But it wasn't easy. “Darryl, it's all your fault that I have to live here,” I told him, spitting out the words. “It's your fault I had to run from the dorm.”

His pale blue eyes grew even colder. “I did it all for you, Hope. You know that.”

“I didn't ask you to kill Margie and Mary,” I cried. “I didn't ask you to kill those girls!”

“You didn't ask me,” he snapped. “But you
wanted
me to. Admit it.”

“I won't admit it,” I shouted, folding my arms over my chest. “I was angry at them. But I didn't want them to die. That—that's
crazy!”

He stared at me for a long moment without speaking. Then he said softly, “I didn't come here to talk about that.”

“I want you to stop killing—” I insisted.

“I saw you with that guy,” Darryl said. His cheeks darkened to purple. “I saw you with him, Hope. You know I can't allow that.”

“Allow
that?” I shrieked. “Excuse me? Did you say you can't
allow
that?”

I balled my hands into tight fists. My fingernails dug into the bruises in my palms, but I hardly noticed the pain.

I wanted to rush over and strangle Darryl. I wanted to wrap my hands around his throat, and squeeze and squeeze and squeeze.

How could I have cared about him so much? How could I have felt so close to him?