The Epidemic (8 page)

I ram my palms against his back, sending him chest-first against his car. In the same motion I turn away, set to run, when I hear him yelp. The wounded sound makes me pause, and I look back at him. I wasn’t trying to hurt him, and the thought that I did weakens me slightly.

August turns, and I see the syringe sticking into his hip. He yanks it out and tosses it aside, groaning. “That fucking burns,” he mutters, wincing.

“I apologize that I don’t feel bad that you stabbed yourself,” I say, although if I’m honest, I do feel a little bad. “You drugged me last night,” I accuse, out of breath.

August laughs, limping over to rest against the hood of his car. The fight is gone out of him now that he knows he won’t have time to secure me. “Sure, but it was harmless. Should have made you euphoric.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t have much to be happy about these days,” I tell him. “Now why are you doing this? Who sent you?”

“The grief department requests your return, Miss McKee.” He rubs his hip where the syringe jabbed him, the drowsiness already distorting his expression. “They messaged me yesterday and told me you’d disappeared in my town. I studied your boyfriend’s records, things he told his advisor. And then, in the files, I saw you’d once had an assignment here. Researched the family and found the bike shop. It wasn’t a great choice, Quinlan,” he says.

“Obviously,” I reply, angry at myself for not having been more careful. He snorts a laugh. “And Eva?” I ask.

“I told you she wanted to be a closer, right?” he says. “That includes being around them—she helps me where she can. She’s damn good, too. She did like you, though, if it matters.”

“It doesn’t,” I say. The idea that Eva was playing me stings more than it should. God, I’m so naïve. I’ll have to do better if I’m going to survive this.

August pretends to pout. “Poor Quinlan,” he says. “But hey, on the bright side, you get to go home.”

“Not today,” I tell him. “In case you didn’t notice, you’re over there, all fucked up, and I’m about to run away.”

August shrugs sheepishly. “Well, yes, clearly, this”—he holds up his hand to motion around us—“wasn’t supposed to happen. I was only charged with monitoring you and earning your trust. Seeing what you were up to. But after you contacted your father, I was instructed to bring you home. You’re in breach of contract.”

Across the way the bus driver steps off the stair and makes a final boarding call. It’s time for me to go. “Do me a favor, August,” I say, hiking my backpack up on my shoulders. “Or whatever your name is.”

“Roger,” he says with a small smile.

“Well,
Roger
. Tell the department that I’m on vacation.”

He mock salutes me, his eyelids drooping. I leave him, jogging toward the bus, but I check to make sure he isn’t following me. I don’t think he can.

I meet the bus driver at the door and let him scan the bar code on my phone. Then, when he steps aside to let me climb the stairs, I slip open the case on the phone and pull out the SIM card. I pop out the battery and dart over to the closest trash bin to toss in the phone parts. I get on bus eighty-four at the last second, earning a dirty look from the driver for making him wait, and find a seat near the back. The bus is mostly empty, and I take a spot near the window, facing the street where Roger’s car is parked. I watch as he stumbles and climbs into the driver’s seat. I sit up straighter, worried he’ll try to drive and get into an accident. But he doesn’t even turn on the engine.

As the bus pulls away, Roger slumps over in his front seat and disappears from view. My heart is still racing, but I relax slightly and close my eyes, trying to regulate my breathing. I was stupid to trust him, to go home with him. I’m glad I called my father—he saved me.

After a moment I open my eyes and stare straight ahead toward the front of the bus, knowing there will be no rest for me. The grief department knows where I’m heading. I’m just not sure if they know why.

I’M A BUNDLE OF NERVES
when I exit the front doors of the bus station in Roseburg. Once on the street, I slip my hands into the pockets of my jacket and glance around. Whether I mean to or not, I immediately check for Deacon. I’m both relieved and disappointed when I don’t see him.

Roseburg itself looks mildly familiar, even though I’ve never been here. It could be the landscape; it’s not much different from Corvallis. I try to find a building or a tree in particular, but it’s just a general sense of familiarity. Then again, as Roger proved, I may be searching for a connection that doesn’t exist. Surely I accepted him as a friend because I miss Deacon. Now I’m doing the same thing with landscaping. This could all be a symptom of homesickness.

So with that I turn and start down the main street in search
of a motel. And once the school day is nearly done, I’ll head to Marshall Senior High in search of Virginia. It’s not like I can get to her while she’s in class.

I see a sign jutting out from a building up ahead. Even though one of the letters has worn off,
SHADY PINES OTEL
seems like it might fit my criteria exactly. Meaning I can afford its weekly rate in case I need to stay long-term.

I cut across the parking lot toward the front office and see that the building has been recently painted Pepto-Bismol pink with green shutters. It’s an absolutely awful combination that gives me little confidence in the room amenities. This is the sort of motel Deacon and Aaron would
want
to stay in just for the story factor. Aaron always jokes that sketchy motels make the best retellings because there is always the possibility of finding blood on the carpet. God, I hope not.

In the front lobby I find a small man with patchy facial hair and a twitchy brow. I use Elizabeth’s ID and pay cash for the week. The man only glances at me, uninterested in my appearance. I almost ask for a room with a pool view, but I decide that humor would only make me stand out more.

He slides a key card across the counter. “One person per room,” he says gruffly. “Guests pay ten extra dollars.”

“Got it,” I say, holding up the card. He narrows his eyes as if he doesn’t believe me, but then he turns and disappears behind a curtain into a back room.

I sigh heavily, taking one more look around the lobby, hoping for some water. But there is only a plastic yellow jug
on a folding table in the corner. I have a sneaking suspicion it wasn’t set out today, and I opt to take my chances with water from the faucet.

When I get upstairs, I’m surprised to find that the room is decent, although the smell of cigarette smoke from past tenants hangs in the air. I don’t know how long I’ll be here, and I don’t have any real plan yet, but I hope this will be over soon. More than anything, I just want the truth. And then I want to live my life. Away from the grief department.

I drop my stuff on the bed and take a seat at the small table near the window, too anxious to sleep after all. I push aside the curtain and survey the complex. No one is outside, and in that isolation my fear deepens.

I was nearly kidnapped today.
The thought strikes me hard in the chest, knocking the air out of me, crushing my lungs. The helplessness of the moment with Roger strips me down. It tears at my skin, at my confidence, at my person. He almost got me.
They
almost got me.

But why? What does the grief department really want with me? What would they do? The only outcome I can imagine is that they want to silence me—stop me from talking about closers. Or maybe it’s because of Catalina’s suicide. All I can do is guess right now. And that unpredictability makes them scarier.

I wrap my arms around myself. I’ll give Aaron until tonight to find Marie, but if that doesn’t work, I’ll have to chance another call to my father. No more strangers. Except, of course, Virginia Pritchard.

I glance at the clock on the nightstand and see that it’s not even noon yet. So after checking the locks and moving a chair in front of the door, I go to the bed and rest back, staring at the ceiling. I try to clear my head, block out the worry, and put together a real plan.

*  *  *

I’m a little early when I arrive at Marshall Senior High. School is still in session as I stand at the edge of the parking lot trying to be invisible. The school is a modest one-story building with a gated entry and a courtyard just beyond. I imagine that it has a small student population, which must make a suicide (possibly two) a pretty big deal.

The bell rings, startling me, and I walk toward the cars as the doors open and students begin filing out. I swim through the crowd, nothing about me drawing anyone’s attention. I get about midway through the parking lot and then stop and discreetly look around. I don’t know what Virginia looks like. I scan faces, and after a moment I admit I wouldn’t recognize her just because I got a glimpse of her father for five minutes two days ago. I’ll have to talk to someone.

I let my facial expression relax naturally, practice scrunching my nose when I laugh. It’s nonthreatening. I smile softly—not too eager—and when I see a girl, mousy with brown hair and a cardigan, I walk toward her.

“Excuse me,” I call, sounding vulnerable and yet confident—as if I belong here. The girl lifts her head and looks me over hesitantly. “Hi,” I say, crinkling my nose. “I was wondering if you’ve seen Virginia Pritchard?”

I study her face and notice when there’s a flash of recognition. “Uh . . .” She looks behind her and then pulls her cardigan around herself. Not exactly the response I was expecting. “Who’s asking?” she says.

I fumble for the right words and then finally spit it out. “I’m Liz. I just transferred here, and the front office told me to talk to Virginia to shadow for classes. I couldn’t find her, so . . .” I shrug, deciding to go less confident. It works.

“Sorry,” the girl says. “There’s been a lot of reporters. Someone was here from the
New York Times
this morning asking questions.”

“Really?” I ask. “Questions about what?” She flinches, and I quickly explain, “I just moved here from Eugene.”

This seems to placate her momentarily.

“I can always catch up with Virginia on Monday,” I tell her, turning slowly so that she’ll have time to stop me.

“It’s club ball season,” the girl says. “She and the other volleyball players will be practicing in the gym. They’re pretty hard-core.”

I glance back over my shoulder. “Thank you!” I smile, warm and affectionate, and then I wave before heading toward the school. The minute my back is turned, my smile fades.

I wasn’t entirely planning the “new student” excuse, but it was all I had. I’ll go with it, and if I get questioned by the office, I can actually fill out the paperwork as Elizabeth Major. I’ve heard my father and Marie complain about educational red tape before. I’ll use fake numbers, fake school information, and
by the time the office requests my records to get more information, which can take up to a week, I’ll be gone.

The main hallway of the school is wide and open, lockers on either side. A few bulletin boards are placed outside classrooms, displaying art and poems I don’t have time to look over. It’s nice, though. It seems . . . safe. Encouraging. Way more encouraging than the talk shows I’d have on in the background while writing essays for my online class. I think I would have liked this.

There is a set of metal doors at the end of the hallway with the word
GYMNASIUM
in block lettering posted on the wall above them. I continue forward, wishing I’d brought a backpack or something more scholarly so I could have fit in. I feel too much like myself—which feels the same as exposed. But I can’t turn back now. I’m just steps away from finding Virginia Pritchard.

I open the doors and slip in, trying not to draw too much attention. I hear the squeaking of sneakers on wood floors, the shouts of players. I don’t look at them. I duck my head and start for the bleachers, where a few other people are sitting.

The bench creaks as I climb up a few rows and sit. I wait a beat and then lift my head, relieved when I don’t feel anyone watching me. I look out at the court, searching for the face of Virginia.

I realize then that I’ve never really considered who I’ll find here. Do I expect a girl who’s drawn and sad because she recently lost two friends in Lake Oswego to suicide? Do I think she’s like her father, calculating and cold? Or is she something worse than I imagined?

And yet, as I search, no one sticks out. I settle in and watch the girls on the court. They’re in the middle of a scrimmage game, a detail I overheard from the girl in front of me. I’ve never played a sport, and I’m in awe of how easy it seems for these athletes. One girl actually throws herself forward, hitting the volleyball with the inside of her wrists before her padded elbow smacks the court. She hops up, unfazed, and I smile, admiring her tenacity.

About fifteen minutes go by, and I forget my task, absorbed instead with watching the scrimmage. But then I notice her. She’s wearing a uniform, and her muscles are flexed from playing, her brown hair tied back in a ponytail. In an instant I know it’s Virginia, although I can’t pinpoint exactly how I know. Perhaps it’s the way she’s apart from everyone. Not in location—she’s on the team—but emotionally. She doesn’t seem to register the game the same way the others do.

Virginia dives for the volleyball, spinning and landing on her back as she sets up the score for another player. The other girl makes the shot and then helps Virginia up from the floor before slapping her hand.

I’m fascinated, wondering how a person who recently experienced such heavy loss could carry on like nothing was wrong. Then again, I just found that my whole life was a lie, and I still managed to have a burrito on my way over here. I guess even in grief we have to continue to live. Continue to play volleyball and eat burritos.

Which tells me that Virginia Pritchard is an excellent liar.

AT THE END OF THE
game the coach blows her whistle, and the girls slap hands and laugh together. The group of people in front of me leaves to meet their friends on the court, and I stand up, watching Virginia as she talks to her coach. I never did make a plan. I figured I would seem more authentic if I didn’t overprepare, a trick I sometimes used when providing closure. I’m a little wary; I’ll need to be damn convincing if I plan to earn her trust and ask her about Catalina.