What Happened to Cass McBride? (3 page)

I didn't know until that moment that a person's teeth could actually chatter. But mine did. Fear, real fear is physical. David's name was a cold wave that washed over me, and I shivered from toenails to teeth. I shook too hard to keep my left fist clenched; my teeth wouldn't grit; nothing worked according to my will.

“Having a guilty little moment in there?” His whisper was calm and quiet. “Wondering how much I know? How much to deny?”

Teeth still clattering, I couldn't have answered if I had anything to say.

The first time I saw Kyle he was half naked. Buff and blond and hot in the icy Aryan way. Sweat glazed his tan, muscled torso and he attacked the weeds in the country club flower beds as if he hated each one.

“Hottie alert,” Erica said. “Kyle Kirby. My mom knows his dad.” She started ticking off stats like a reporter. “He's on the baseball team. Moody. Doesn't date much. Never had a steady girlfriend, as far as I know. In fact, I don't know much more. Keeps to himself.
”

Erica's mom had dropped us at the club for an afternoon at the pool. Three girls from school, juniors, sashayed in front of us.

“Hey, Kyle,” one of them singsonged. He glanced over, wiping sweat off his cheek by hunching one shoulder and shoving his face across it. He never removed his grip on the weeds. He didn't speak but gave a half-assed nod and jerked up the weeds in the same motion.

Standoffish catnip, I thought. He never glanced at Erica or me. And that was the surest way to my heart.

When school started, I made it my business to find out his schedule. Following Ted's rules, I knew to do my research, then I managed to be “around” or “just leaving” the area where Kyle would be. It was a first for me to pursue a boy. The only reaction I got for my trouble was one guarded look. Something akin to distaste. When a deal goes sour, accept and stop selling. I forgot about Kyle Kirby.

The spot of light appeared above me.

“See this, Cass? That's the end of an air tube.” A snap and the light dimmed. “I put a filter on it—keeps out dirt and stuff. Now I let the tube fall along the ground.” Darkness again. “And you can't see the light from my flashlight. In faaaact”—he stretched this out like he was singing it—“you should be seeing pretty much what David sees.”

A groan escaped me.

“Feeling sorry for yourself? Hoping you weren't buried?” He laughed, low and seemingly satisfied. “Well, believe it. You're not in a nice casket like David. You don't deserve satin lining and pillows. You just get a crate for your grave.

“But, I wasn't sure you'd know
why
you were there. I couldn't just leave you. Honestly, Cass, you're too damn self-centered to figure it out without me to pound it into your head.”

Self-centered? He buried me because I was
self-centered
? Not even I could think this was all about me. This had to be about the note—about words that I didn't expect David to see. But, let's get real here, there had to be a lot wrong with David to go sailing off a limb because a girl rejected him. And since when does self-centered stack up against kidnapping and burying someone alive? Think about that awhile, asswipe.

“So you have an air tube and there's a pump to get all your carbon dioxide out through a little hole in the other end. It's crude, but it will work for a while. I don't have a lot of time anyway.”

“What do you mean? A lot of time? For what?”

He paused and paced above me. “I don't know how long you've got either.”

“How long for what? What are you talking about?” I screamed.

“Damn, you took a long time to wake up. I wondered if I'd killed you with that drug. I hope you drank a lot of water before you went to bed on Friday. Dehydration is—”

“Kyle—”

“Don't! Do
not
say my name. You have no right to use it. Say my name and dirt comes down the tube. Got that?”

I nodded.

“Answer!”

“Yes. I've got it. I won't use your name. I won't.”

“And there's something else. Try to deny, just try to deny that you did this to David, make excuses for yourself, and I jerk the air tube and walk away. Understand?”

I almost nodded again but then realized he couldn't see me.

“Understood.”

“Fine, now it's late and I have to go back to…a whole different kind of hell. You stay here and I'll be back. Or maybe not.”

And nothing. Not even vibrations.

I was alone.

BEN

Ted pulled a picture from a leather frame angled precisely on a polished chrome desktop that seemed to float on glass or Lucite legs. It gave Ben the jeebies. How could you put your feet up on a desk like that? Drop a heavy box on it? Nothing in this house felt like it had substance. Except Ted. Maybe that was the point.

“Cass knows where she's going and how to get there,” Ted said as he handed the picture over. “She's going East to school, PR and marketing. She's going to be an events manager. Handle the movers and shakers. She knows how to do that. Network. I taught her to read people. She's a natural.”

Ben looked at the photograph. Attractive, but not threateningly so. Poised. Leaning against a large tree. Dressed in white shorts, peach knit shirt, athletic shoes, and socks. She gripped a tennis racquet loosely in a tanned hand. Brown hair pulled back, makeup natural, smile easy and confident. Wholesome, Ben thought. An old-fashioned word, but that's how she appeared.

A quick search of her clothes didn't show a split personality. The kid didn't pose as an angel then go hoochie mamma to parties.

Ted paced the carpet. “Who would kidnap Cass?” He tugged his rumpled hair. “My ex doesn't have the nerve. Even if she doped Cass and took her, when Cass woke up, she'd just leave. Leatha knows that.” Ted turned and paced back the other direction. “Cass can visit anytime and she doesn't want to. No, Leatha's not a possibility.” He stopped and looked at Ben. “Do you think I should call her?”

“If you don't mind, if you haven't told her, we'd like to do that,” Ben said. “It helps to see someone when we tell them about a kidnapping if there's any chance—”

“I get it,” Ted said. He resumed pacing. “Sure. But I'm telling you. Waste of time.”

Ben nodded. “Probably, but talking about a waste of time…you mind taking a polygraph? Personally, I don't take you for a suspect.”

Ted waved him off. “Fine. But I could talk my way past your electrodes even if I was guilty. Cass could too. We have a way.”

KYLE

The dark soothed me a little, but the quiet—nobody can understand how great quiet sounds unless he's never had it. Or what it feels like to talk
with
a person when you usually have someone talk
at
you. At you. And at you.

“Do you have flying dreams?” David asked.

“I think most people have them. But yeah, I do.
”

We were in the park. I sat on the bench reading
A Confederacy of Dunces.
“Can't you sit like a normal person?
”

“I'm not normal. Not even close. Ask
her.”
David's feet were on the back of the bench and his head hung over the seat. “Besides, I like watching things upside down.
”

“Knock yourself out, bro.
”

“I know why we have flying dreams.
”

I sighed and closed my book. I might be here for the quiet, but David had so few opportunities for conversation. “Tell me.
”

“Nope.
”

“Arrggh.” Sometimes he was a cretin.

David put on a fake Freud voice. As if he knew anything about Freud. “The answer is here. Right here in this park. You just have to look.” He dropped the accent. “And you'll know why
my
flying dreams are always bad.
”

I looked around. Kids playing with each other. Mothers watching. Dogs playing with the bigger kids or adults. Little kids in sandboxes.

“I don't…” And then I saw what he meant. A little kid flew, just flew right into the air.

The kid in the sandbox had been playing with a pail and shovel, filling up the pail and dumping it out, filling his shoes with sand as he dumped. Then he filled the pail and held it high and dumped the sand over his head.

She swooped down like a vulture. One arm under his butt and the other around his chest.

“Stop that this minute. If you can't play nice, you can't play.
”

And then he was airborne. One minute his sneakers rooted in sand, the next he's picked straight up and flying away, his feet dangling over the grass and zipping along through the air with no control, the wind against his face until he landed astraddle her hip, her voice in his ear in the punishment zone.

Sure, I knew why David's flying dreams were nightmares. And I knew how that voice wasn't just in his dreams. It followed him everywhere.

The door opened and the light flared.

The big cop stood, placed his knuckles on the table, and leaned, straight-armed, toward me. His tone was gentle. Kind. And leading. “Kyle, I think you need to help yourself here. Hope that girl makes it and keep talking.”

CASS

He was gone. Somehow I was certain that he wasn't faking. Wasn't a few feet away, listening. Getting off on my screams.

And I did scream. Ripping my throat raw. First they were words.
Help me.
Then just
help.
Then just ragged sounds in all sizes and kinds. They were angry, terrified, primal, and the last, the worst, lost.

I thrashed, kicked, hammered, and battered. My skin split and bruised and I broke a finger. The pain was good. It drove the fear off to the side a little. When one corner of the box edged a fraction of an inch out as a result of one mulish kick, I froze.

The box was prison and protection. It kept the earth from crushing and suffocating me. Fighting my coffin would kill me quicker than accepting it.

Okay, I told myself. Stop. Cass. Stop and think. Try to go Zen. Take a deep breath. I stilled myself then drew in a breath, soft and even, held it, then let it out slow. Did it again. Again.

That's better. Now. Don't think about where you are. You're in the dark. A dark room, resting. Your eyes are closed and you're resting. Come on, Cass, you can do this. Concentrate.

Think. Slow. Breathe. In. Out. Slow.

I imagined myself stretched out in a field of grass, at night, stars overhead, my eyes closed.

Breathe slow. In. Out. Slow. Slow.

Good. Calming down. Good.

Now, think.

Concentrate.

Fear is a weapon.

His weapon.

Right now, you're shooting yourself with his gun. Accept the fear and deal with it. Just fuckin’ deal.

Breathe.

Slow.

In and out.

Work through this.

Let me think like my dad.

Kyle Kirby.

Kyle Kirby put me in this box and covered me up with dirt and now he says I can't say his name.

It's all about control. Kyle has physical control. I have to get mental control. That starts with me. I have to get control.

Kyle.

Kyle.

Kyle Kirby.

There. It's mine.

I'll think your name all I want, jackass. I control what's in my head.

But then panic swooped back over me and I dragged in harsh, rapid breaths. Why did the dark seem so heavy?

Breathe.

Slow.

In and out.

Don't think about where you are.

Get the
where
out of your head. Concentrate on
why
you're here.

Answer: David Kirby.

I closed my eyes and tears leaked out.

David Kirby.

Dorky David Kirby asked me out. What made him think he could dare ask me? Can U imagine? How far down the food chain would he have to go for a date? God, I thought he was gay.

If our school gestapo allowed cell phones, we could text and none of this would have happened. But I scrawled it on a piece of notebook paper and folded the page in half once and then again, and then over on itself. I left it under the seat of my desk in American History.

Erica would be in the class the next hour. She was coming from across campus and I had to scoot in the other direction, so I couldn't hang around for a handoff. This had been our mail system since September, when we had to reinstate our sixth grade CIA, dead-drop, secret agent stuff that we had made up back when we had yearned to be spies.

David Kirby had shuffled up to me before class, tugging one ear and clearing his throat. “Um, Cass, I wanted to ask you something.”

I would have swept right past him, but I was stunned. David Kirby. Loser with a capital
L.
Well, capitalize
all
the letters. Had he spoken to me?

It wasn't like he was an upright maggot. Not ugly, but not good-looking by any means. Face too long, expression to match. Spaniel eyes. Not cute, needy. A guy you want to push away. He was skinny, always in clothes a size too big, looking like his bones had been pitched into his shirts and pants unassembled. Long-sleeved shirts, buttoned up to the chin. Good clothes—Hilfiger, Lauren, Abercrombie & Fitch—but it was the way he wore them. He leached the cool factor out of them.

David Kirby was one of those kids that gets shoved in their lockers, gets their butt cheeks taped together in gym, well, if he gets any attention at all. Never saw him with a girl. Ever. Just skulking around alone. Not banger, not Goth, not goat roper, born-again, grade-point grubber, or jock-remora. Not even one of those who floats between the groups. David Kirby couldn't be described in positives—just what he wasn't. He wasn't a wannabe. He wasn't-ever-
gonna
-be.

And he had stepped into my zone.

I turned to him, he made eye contact, and I looked around, making sure he got the idea that I was embarrassed to be seen talking to him.

“I wondered,” he sputtered. “I mean, I'd like it if you'd…” He tugged his ear again. God, soon his lobes would be different lengths. “If you'd go out with me. This weekend. Or next, maybe. Whenever you're free, to a movie or whatever. Miniature golf.”

He said it in
one
breath. Eyes on the floor. Had he rehearsed? I didn't know whether to laugh or gag. Either made
me
look bad.