The Girl Who Was Supposed to Die (6 page)

I'm so tired. It's almost tempting to do what Ty says, even though he didn't mean it. To walk out there and give myself up. To pretend that if I do, the next stop will be a clean white bed at the Sagebrush Mental Health Center. Instead of a muddy grave in the woods.

Then I remember the pink and white chips that used to be my fingernails. If I give myself up, maybe it will be worse than just a bullet in the head. “Okay. What's your plan?”

Five minutes later, Ty wheels a big brown square garbage can into the restroom. It barely fits through the door. I open the lid. He's put a new black plastic liner in it, but my nostrils flare at the reek of mold and rancid grease that still wafts from it. I lift my leg to climb inside, but the top edge is higher than my waist and too flimsy for me to balance on.

“Here. Let me help you.” He clasps his hands and leans down to make a step for me. I put one foot in, then raise the other and swing it over the edge of the can. Nearly losing my balance, I steady myself on his shoulder. I start to put my foot down, but have to turn it sideways when I realize there's only a narrow rectangle at the bottom. The rest of the space is taken up by big indents that must hold the wheels. After I jam my first foot behind the second, the plastic creaking at every move, I crouch down and try to figure out where to put my arms. My mind offers up a memory, not really my own, but of a photograph from the 1950s, people crammed into those phone booths shaped like upended glass coffins. My right knee is pushing against my chin, one shoulder is twisted awkwardly. But I'm in.

When Ty closes the lid, it stinks even more and it's hard not to feel like I might smother. He groans when he tries to tip it back on its wheels. “Give me a lever and a place to stand and I can move the world,” I think. Or rather, I
remember
. I have a dim memory of a classroom, a blackboard, a teacher reciting those words.

For a minute I forget about the smell and how cramped I am. All I can think about is how two little shards of knowledge—a photo from the 1950s and an old quote from some Greek or Roman philosopher—just got knocked free in my brain. Does that mean I might start remembering more?

We go bumping along. I'm so crammed in that I don't get thrown around too badly, but I can feel my bones aching where bruises will probably show up tomorrow. If there is a tomorrow. A few times the cart drops down over a stair or a curb, and then the sound of the wheels gets deeper and more spread out, and I realize we're outside. He's wheeling me to the spot where they keep the shopping mall's Dumpsters behind red brick walls. Consumers out to buy a bunch of new shiny stuff don't want to be reminded that everything eventually gets used up and tossed aside.

Finally we stop. “Back in a sec,” Ty says in a low voice, and then his footsteps move off as he goes to get his car. The plan is for him to drive around the block a few times, making sure he's not followed, and then to take the back entrance into the mall and drive straight into this walled-off area to retrieve me.

But what if someone else comes to get me first? I realize, too late, that the gun is in my pocket, not my hand. I try to twist my hand back to get it, but it's impossible. Another memory comes to me, but this time it's a real memory, it's my memory, it's not something I learned in school or saw on the Internet. In my memory, I am hiding underneath a bed, waiting for someone to find me. Playing hide-and-seek. I don't know who I was playing with or how old I was or even whose house I was in. But I do remember what it felt like to tremble and wait and concentrate on not making a sound. To try to not even breathe.

But back then it was half delicious. Now it's just pure terror. Because the next person who swings that lid back could be the man in the oxblood shoes. The man who ordered my death.

And then I hear something. The hairs prickle on my arms as I concentrate. The sounds become clearer. Footsteps. Coming closer.

 

CHAPTER 13

DAY 1, 9:49 P.M.

 

Should I stand up now, grab the gun as I unfold my legs, try to take advantage of the element of surprise? But what if I knock the cart off balance and tumble out? I'm not sure I can even get out of here without someone helping me.

A new sound is layered over the footsteps. My heart hammers in my chest. But then I recognize it. Some guy is humming. And saying an occasional word. “Baby … love … do that…”

I raise my head infinitesimally, lifting the lid. I ignore how it feels wet against my scalp, until I can just see through the tiny crack between it and the can. About twenty feet away, a gangly guy is throwing a stack of cardboard into a large bin. White cords dangle from his ears. I let my head drop.

And feel a jolt of panic shoot down my spine when the lid makes a clunk settling into place. I freeze. Did the guy hear it? I hold my breath. He's not humming or singing anymore. And I haven't heard him walk away. Then I hear his footsteps start up again.

What I can't tell is if he's coming toward me. Okay, I remind myself, he's not one of the bad guys. He's just somebody who works at the mall. If he does figure out that I'm here, I just need to make sure he doesn't say anything. Most especially that he doesn't yell.

A bead of sweat traces down my back. I'm trembling so hard I'm sure he'll see the garbage can shaking. Just when it seems the worst, when it seems that he will surely flip over the lid, his footsteps pass me by.

I haven't stopped shivering when I hear a car driving slowly toward me, the sound of its engine changing as it enters the walled space.

It's either Ty or the bad guys. Because who else would drive in here? And while I know it's probably Ty, I hold my breath again as the engine is turned off, the door opens, footsteps approach. Then Ty's voice says in a low whisper, “Okay. It's me.” He flips open the lid. “Hurry.”

“Why? Are they still here?” I put my hands on his shoulders and manage to get myself out without knocking over the garbage can. I'm too keyed up to think about how our bodies press together for a second.

“That SUV you drove here is still parked in the lot, but I think someone's keeping an eye on it. And it looks like there are two guys waiting outside the movie theater. One's watching the main entrance; the other, the rear exits.” He opens the back door to his car. It's something dark colored and small, with a narrow, deep dent in the front bumper and part of the hood that must match up to a pole someplace. “Cover yourself up with the blanket. We need to get you away from here.”

I do as he says. It's my second time lying down on a back seat today, but at least this time there's no Plexiglas, no doors that won't open. And it doesn't smell like pee or vomit. Instead, the scratchy gray blanket smells like dog.

For a minute, I'm distracted. Do I have a dog? Do I like dogs? Am I allergic to them? I have no idea. I can picture what I think are all the basic breeds and name them—Labs and German shepherds and poodles—but my memory and my knowledge don't go any further than that. It's like there's a door in my mind. I wonder again how the wall got there.

I wonder what's behind it.

“Don't say anything for a second, okay?” Ty says. “I don't want anyone to see me talking.” The car turns around, the sound of the motor changing as we enter the parking lot and he heads for the back entrance.

Then Ty swears softly.

“What? What?” I fight the urge to sit up.

“There's a car behind me.” His voice sounds funny, and I realize he's trying to talk without moving his lips. “It might be following us.”

“Can you see who's inside?”

“Just somebody with short dark hair. I think it's a guy. He's about half a block behind me. I'm going to make some turns and see if he follows me. If he does, I think I can lose him.”

It's like we stepped into some TV show about cops or spies. Only we're not cops or spies. We're teenagers.

“Wait a minute, Ty. If you drive too fast or too crazy and this guy is wondering if I'm in the car, then he'll realize he's right. And those people probably have guns and you don't.”

I reach toward my pocket. I have a gun. The thing is, I'm not exactly sure how to use it. I obviously know karate or kung fu or whatever, but I'm not sure I want to also be the kind of person who is an expert on guns. Then I really would belong in a movie about cops or spies.

The car turns left, then a quick right. “Is he still there?” I ask when I can't bear it any longer.

“No.” Ty sighs. “He took the first turn but not the second. It must have just been a coincidence.”

What am I doing, dragging some perfect stranger into a mess that even I don't understand? “Maybe you should just let me off someplace.”

There's an odd note to Ty's voice. “What? Why?” He almost sounds hurt.

“Because those guys want me. I don't know why they want me, but I don't think they're going to stop looking. And I don't think they're going to let anyone get in the way. It's not safe for you to try to help me. I can figure something out.” A yawn surprises me in the middle of my last sentence, so the word “out” is stretched and slightly strangled sounding.

“Maybe what I should do is just take you to the cops. It's not like anyone is going to gun you down while you're at the police station.”

“Before I went into your McDonald's, I went to Newberry Ranch. They don't have real cops there, just a security guard. When I was talking to him, he got this phone call from someone. And he said the caller ID showed it was from Sagebrush. I know that's not true. But he believed them. He locked me in the back of his car and was going to hold me for them, but I managed to get away. I can't take the chance that the cops here might do the same thing. I mean, the stuff I remember sounds crazy. Why would two men pull some girl's fingernails out in a deserted cabin? And those men
want
people to believe that I'm crazy. So it all fits. But I know I'm not crazy. So you should just let me out before they decide they want to kill you, too.”

“Do you have any money?” Ty asks. When I don't say anything, he adds, “You don't, do you? It's not safe for a girl to be out on her own here at night. I've seen what can happen. I'm just saying come back to my place, one of us can spend the night on the couch, then in the morning we'll try to figure something out.”

“Won't your parents ask questions?”

“I live on my own now.” The words are flat, but I can hear some emotion behind them.

I don't know what to do. I don't know who to trust. So I end up saying, “Okay.”

Saying yes to this stranger. I know as much about Ty as I do about myself. More even.

 

CHAPTER 14

DAY 1, 10:11 P.M.

 

Suddenly I feel like I'm suffocating, lying on the back seat covered by a blanket.

“I want to sit up,” I tell Ty. If I could just see where we were going.

“Hang tight. We're almost there.”

He makes a turn, another, slows down as we go over a bump, takes one sharp left, then turns off the motor. “Just stay down for a second. Let me make sure no one followed us.” After what seems like a long time but is probably only a minute, he finally says, “Okay, let's go.”

When I open the door and get to my feet, spots of white light dance in front of my eyes. I lean against the side of the car for a second. Ty is walking into the dark. What am I doing, following some stranger into a run-down apartment building?

Three stories high, it stretches the length of the block—dozens of units, each with one vinyl-trimmed window overlooking the parking lot, and one sliding glass door leading onto a metal-fenced concrete balcony that serves as a place to park a bike, a barbecue, or a couple of plastic outdoor chairs. Finally, I straighten up and walk to where Ty is fitting his key into a door on the ground floor.

What else am I going to do?

A little kid is crying in the next unit. I think of the little kid in the picture of my family. Did my brother cry all the time? But that doesn't feel right.

Ty pushes open the door. “Hey, James. I hope you're decent!”

I freeze on the threshold. He didn't say anything about living with someone else. But before I can decide what to do, a guy stands up from the couch where he was stretched out watching TV. His straight hair is dyed black and bleached blond on the tips. He pushes it back from where it hangs over one eye, then bends down and gets the clicker to turn off the TV. James is wearing skinny jeans and a tan T-shirt with a silk-screened brown bear standing on its hind legs, arms raised. He looks a few years older than me, but he's about my height and probably skinnier.

“James, this is Katie. She needs a place to sleep tonight, so I said she could crash here, and I'd take the couch.”

“Hey.” James gives me a nod, and then exchanges a wordless look with Ty.

Just when I want to run back out the door, a little ball of fur explodes around the corner, yapping. Ty scoops it up. “Hey, Spot. Did you miss me?”

“Spot?” I echo. The dog is solid black. I hold out my hand, and Spot licks the back of it.

“Just think of him as one big spot,” Ty says. He sets Spot down. The dog puts his paws on my knee and starts sniffing my pant leg. I wonder if he smells the blood. I see James noticing the stains, too, although he pretends not to when I catch him staring.

“I'll heat up some food for you,” Ty says and turns right to go into a kitchen with a breakfast nook. The three chairs at the table don't match. I wonder how comfortable the old couch—which is brown and bears only a passing resemblance to leather—will be to sleep on.

“Where'd you meet Ty?” James asks, perching on one of the arms.

“At McDonald's.” It seems like a good idea to leave out the part where I pulled a gun on him.