Wish You Were Dead (23 page)

I slowed the car.

“Keep going,” Ethan said.

I drove up the hill about a quarter mile, where the road ended at a driveway leading to the remains of a small dilapidated house. The roof had sunk in and the windows were broken. It was clear that no one had lived there in a long time.

“Okay,” Ethan said. “Turn around and go back down. I’ll tell you where to park.”

About a quarter of a mile back down the road, he pointed at a small clearing. “Pull over here.”

I did as I was told.

Ethan sat still for a moment. Then he said, “You don’t have to come. It would probably be better if you didn’t.”

I didn’t want to go. I was scared half out of my mind. Heart thudding, stomach twisting. But I felt like I’d spent my whole life being scared. At some point I just had to stop and do something. “They’re my friends.”

He leveled his gaze at me. “Think about it. I have nothing to lose and everything to gain. You have a lot to lose and not that much to gain.”

“Please stop trying to talk me out of this. If you try hard enough, you just may succeed, and I don’t want you to.”

He raised an eyebrow skeptically but said, “Okay, let’s go.”

We got out. The air was cold and moist, the kind of chill that
creeps through your clothes. The rain had turned into a thick, misty drizzle, and our breaths came out in white vapor. The faint smell of wood smoke was in the air. Someone somewhere had a fire going. Ethan walked along the side of the road, looking to his left, in the direction of the kennel, even though it was invisible beyond the myriad tree trunks. He paused for a moment, then tilted his head toward the woods. We started to walk through the trees, the wet, dead leaves squishing under our feet.

Ethan stepped carefully, avoiding sticks that might crack loudly underfoot, and I did the same. All I could see were bare, dark tree trunks, but the scent of smoke seemed to grow stronger. I don’t know how Ethan could know where he was going, unless he was following that scent. I still couldn’t quite believe I was following this stranger—this person who’d broken into my own home, who was on the run from the law—deep into unknown woods. Had I lost my mind? Was I completely insane? And yet somehow I’d come to believe, very quickly, that I could trust him. I’d heard his side of the story. It made sense. Sometimes you had to take a leap of faith. Especially if it might mean saving your friends’ lives.

Ethan stopped. Up ahead, barely visible through the wet tree trunks, was a low, dark green house. Smoke curled up from a narrow cinder-block chimney. Ethan looked back at me and nodded as if to say,
This is it
. He started walking again.

I followed, glancing from his back to the house ahead. As we got closer, I could see a fenced-in enclosure. It could have been an outdoor kennel. There were low, wooden shelters inside—doghouses.

Ethan paused beside a tree. So far there’d been no sign of life
or movement around the house. I moved up close behind him and whispered, “What do you think?”

“I think if there are dogs there and they start barking, we’re toast,” he answered, and gazed past me back in the direction of the road. “You don’t have to do this. You can still go back.”

“I know,” I said.

Our eyes met, and he nodded slightly as if accepting my decision. Then he turned and continued. I could see the fenced-in area now. Something moved quickly back and forth along the fence. A medium-size black dog. Ethan stopped. The dog was excited, as if it knew we were coming. Its tongue hung out and its tail wagged rapidly. Ethan didn’t move. I wondered if he was waiting to see if it would bark, or if the dog’s excited movements brought someone out of the house.

But nothing changed. The dog kept turning and turning by the fence. Ethan stepped slowly. The low green house looked neglected. A shovel and hayfork leaned against the wall near a door. The roof was missing shingles, and old branches lay on it. Some of the windows were cracked, and most appeared to be covered on the inside with plastic sheeting.

Ethan stopped about ten yards from the fence. The dog paced more frantically than ever, emitting little yelps and cries but not barking. I realized Ethan was staring at the small black box attached to its collar—one of those awful things that sent a shock each time a dog barked.

The kennel was divided into pens, each with its own doghouse. But no other dogs appeared. The foul odor of excrement replaced the scent of burning wood. Ethan took a few steps
closer, then stopped again. I could almost feel him stiffen. He was looking at the doghouse in one of the pens. Protruding from the opening were human legs, covered by filthy jeans, ending with dirt-covered bare feet. Male feet.

I felt a gasp burst from my lungs. Ethan heard it and turned quickly, cautioning me with his eyes against making any sounds. Despite my beating heart and churning stomach, I nodded back.

We moved closer. The smell got worse and I could see evidence that the cages hadn’t been cleaned out in a long time. The human feet didn’t move. Were they Adam’s. Was he alive?

We were a few yards from the kennel. Inside were half a dozen pens, each in its own doghouse. The black dog charged back and forth frantically, its tail whipsawing. I got the feeling that it desperately hoped that whoever we were, we would take it away from this place. Meanwhile the legs protruding from the doghouse had yet to move or give any sign of life.

And then I saw something else. The slightest movement through the opening in one of the other doghouses. A face appeared, streaked with dirt and surrounded by long black matted hair streaked with pink and blonde.

I touched Ethan’s shoulder and pointed. Courtney cowered inside the doghouse, her eyes wild and darting. There was something square and black strapped to her neck. I lost my breath when I realized what it was—the same thing the dog was wearing. My lungs stopped and my stomach unknotted and reknotted itself more tightly. I fought the urge to turn around and run.
You’ve come too far.…
I caught her eye and gestured for her to come
out. Her eyes widened and darted again. Something was scaring her out of her mind.

Crack!

The impact of metal against skull made me jump. Next to me, Ethan collapsed in a loose-limbed heap.

I started to turn when a hand grasped the back of my head. Another came toward my face with a rag. The wet cloth slammed against my nose and mouth. The smell was pungent and sickeningly sweet. I reached up to pull the rag away, but my thoughts were already disappearing into a white cottony cloud. My arms began to feel heavy and I couldn’t get my hands to work. My knees went rubbery and I began to fall.

My shoulder throbbed with pain. I opened my eyes and saw chair legs. A rug spread out before me like an ocean. A prairie of silvery dust under the couch. A long, fat green duffel bag lay beside a black garbage bag held closed with a yellow tie. Voices came from somewhere close by.

I lay on my side on the floor, on my aching shoulder, my hands tied tightly behind my back. My ankles were bound and when I tried to straighten my legs, it pulled at my wrists. So I knew my hands and feet were tied together behind me. I could feel something strapped around my neck, and two hard bumps pressing against the bare skin.

The voices were coming from the TV. Some women were discussing the pros and cons of having more than one relationship at a time. One voice sounded familiar. Oprah’s. I twisted my head around. There was no one on the couch. The room
was empty. The TV was on, but no one was watching.

“She’s only saying that because she’s on TV,” a voice said. But this one wasn’t from the TV. It was coming from another room.

“You don’t know that.”

“Oh, come on, it’s so obvious.”

“How would you know?”

“You can tell she’s just saying it for the shock value. Morons like her will do anything to get on the tube. She doesn’t believe a word she’s saying.”

“You don’t know that.”

I was listening to a conversation between one person. The same voice speaking both sides of the argument. It was a voice I knew well. I twisted my head around. Where was Ethan? The memory came back of that sickening crack when she hit him on the head.

A bell pinged and I heard a microwave oven open and slam shut, followed by the slither of slippers. They came through a doorway—old, yellow, and terry cloth. I twisted my head higher. Baggy orange sweatpants. A navy blue hoodie. A tray with some sort of steaming food in a black plastic bowl. Thick red hair. The slippers stopped. Ms. Skelling looked down at me. She made a face but said nothing. Instead, she placed the tray on a small folding table in front of the couch and sat down to eat.

When the show ended she clicked off the TV and said, “What do you think about having more than one relationship at a time?”

I waited for her to answer her own question.

“Cat got your tongue, Madison?”

That caught me by surprise. “Sorry.”

“Not as sorry as you’ll be soon,” she said. “How did you find Ethan Landers?”

“He found me.”

“Really?” Ms. Skelling sounded surprised. “How … resourceful.”

“I’m not sure I believe that.”

“I was sure the police had him.”

“What difference does it make now?”

Again, she seemed to be having a conversation with herself. “What did he tell you?”

A moment of silence passed. Then I said, “Are you asking me?”

“Who else would I be asking?” Ms. Skelling said with a dose of annoyance.

I felt a chill. Did she not realize she had conversations with herself? “He told me you killed his girlfriend and made it look like he did it.”

“Megan Woodworth.”

“God, wasn’t she a piece of work?”

“Thought she walked on water.”

“They all do.”

“Not anymore.”

“So you thought you’d be a hero? You thought you’d come here to rescue your friends? Some friends. I feel sorry for you, Madison. You’re so afraid that people only like you for your money. You think you have to be so nice to everyone because it’s the only fair way to be when you’ve been blessed with so much good fortune. What’s that fancy phrase for it?
Noblesse oblige?
No wonder you were so fascinated by that little bitch, Courtney. Such a bad girl. You liked that, didn’t you?”

“She’s different,” I said, knowing the best thing I could do was be agreeable and engage her. Maybe, if I could make her feel like I understood her, she would let me and my friends go. “I’d never really known anyone like her.”

“We have,” Ms. Skelling said. “Dozens of them. Snotty little bitches that think they’re the hottest things since sliced bread. Makes us sick.”

Us?
I thought.
What’s she talking about?

“Don’t you think the world would be better off without skanks like that?” she went on. “Who gives them the right to make everyone else feel so miserable?”

“Maybe no one gives it to them?”

“Maybe they just take it because no one stops them.”

“Everyone is too scared.”

It was hard to understand who she was speaking to.

“Can I ask something?” I said.

Ms. Skelling was silent for a moment, as if considering this request. “What?”

“Usually, the kids who care about that are the ones who, you know, have the problems with it. But you’re pretty and sexy. I mean, it’s hard to imagine you ever had those kinds of problems.”

“What does she know?” Ms. Skelling said. “Should we tell her?”

“What will it matter? We’ll be going in a few hours.” “You’re right.”

“The wonders of cosmetic surgery. Like the old showtune said, ‘Tits and ass can change your life.’ ”

“But that came later. Much later.”

“When we were your age we didn’t know. We were too scared to even think about it.”

“Plain looking, with a nose that was too big and eyes too close together. Flat as a board. A face only a mother could love.”

“But not our mother. The double whammy. She hated our looks more than the kids at school.”

“Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.”

“They always found us.”

“The terror we had to live with.”

“The way they stared. The hate in their eyes.”

“Even from our own mother, that stupid cruel bitch!”

“It’s only fair that they feel what it was like. Only fair that they know.”

Their eyes
, I thought.

“They should suffer like we did,” Ms. Skelling went on. “Feel like trapped animals.”

“We did, didn’t we?”

She fell silent, gazing off across the room. On the floor I slowly tried to extend my legs again, testing how strong the cords were. Could I break them? And if I did, then what?

Ms. Skelling turned back to me. “Too bad, Madison. You shouldn’t be here. These aren’t your friends. Couldn’t you see that? Do you really think any of them would have come here for you? And now, even if they do, it will be too late.”

She finished eating and went back into the kitchen. As soon as she left, I tried to straighten my legs and pulled as hard as I could with my wrists. The rope was too strong. Keeping my eye
on the kitchen doorway, I tried again but felt as if I was pulling my shoulders out of their sockets. A new conversation began in the kitchen: “You can’t take all this food.”

“You expect me to just leave it here?”

“Take the canned goods. Leave the perishables.”

“It could be a long trip.”

“You’ll manage.”

“How do you know?”

“You always do.”

“What about …?”

“Oh, right.” The slippers slapped out of the kitchen again.

“Time for you to leave.” Taking hold of the rope from my wrists to my feet, Ms. Skelling dragged me across the floor, through a doorway into the cold, damp air outside, over the cold wet ground to the rough concrete and stink of the pens. The wet quickly soaked through my jeans and hoodie and pressed against my skin. She dragged me past the pen where Ethan lay, his eyes closed, mouth agape, hair matted and dark with blood, a black collar around his neck. She opened a pen and dragged me in. So I was going in a cage like the others. Then was my fate to be like the others as well? She kneeled behind me. My nose filled with the sharp odor of filth. I shivered in the damp cold. From the tugging on the rope I had a feeling she was cutting it. I was so scared. My stomach was in my throat.