No Time to Die & the Deep End of Fear

  "I'm all finished," he announced.

  Mike's arms tightened around me.

  "All done. There's no reason to be afraid."

  Mike walked backward, away from the building, pull ing me with him.

  "I won't hurt you. It was her I had to kill," Arthur said. "She took what was mine. She killed the girl and pretended to be me. You understand, don't you?

  The watch and the bridge, they were mine. It's not right to take a man's identity. I had to kill her to get myself back."

  He rubbed his cheek as he spoke, then studied the blood that had come off on his fingers, sniffing it, rubbing one finger against another. I thought I was going to throw up.

  Gazing at us again, Arthur appeared relaxed, almost cheerful, as if a huge burden had been lifted from his shoulders. "You run along and call the police," he said. "I'll turn the electricity back on."

  Chapter 19

  The campus security office was small and smelled of Chinese carryout. I sat on a bench between Mike and Tomas, my wrist packed in ice. Walker stood by a window with a noisy air conditioner, his arms folded over his chest, his eyes puffy and bloodshot. Paul crouched in the corner of the paneled office, leaning against the wall, like a person folded up on himself.

  According to Tomas, Mike had returned to the Student Union not long after I left with the sandwich for Maggie. He asked Tomas where I was, then raced off to the theater. When time elapsed and he didn't return, Tomas told Walker he was worried. On their way to Stoddard, they met up with Paul. The three of them found us outside Maggie's window, just after Arthur told us to call the police.

  While Walker called on his cell phone, Paul climbed through the window to talk to Arthur, whom he had befriended. Paul had suspected from the beginning that Liza's murderer was someone who knew her and had sought the custodian's help in drawing out the killer by haunting the theater. He'd never guessed that as much as Arthur was helping him, he was helping Arthur find the person who had "taken"

  Arthur's identity. The haunting had succeeded in unnerving Maggie, precipitating her arguments with Brian, arguments that revealed to the eavesdropping Arthur that Maggie was the murderer.

  Paul confirmed for us that Maggie was dead. Maybe he wasn't into violence as much as he wanted everyone to think: it was he who threw up, not me.

  The police did not allow anyone else to enter the building. But they wanted to interview all of us, which was why we were gathered at the security office.

  Arthur was being held separately for the FBI. He had cut the power and chained the doors, planning to kill Maggie that night, realizing too late that I had returned to the building. He explained carefully to the police and us that while he had "killed" Maggie, he had "murdered" only four people. In his deranged mind, Maggie's death was a form of justice, a way of erasing Liza's death from his list. Since Maggie's death "didn't count," he didn't need to kill her beneath a bridge.

  The police were still seeking Brian. When security went to fetch him at the Student Union, he wasn't there. I kept tell ing myself that Brian didn't realize his mother had killed Liza til it was too late. If he had, he would never have told her who I was; he wouldn't have betrayed me like that.

  But in my heart I knew otherwise. He had probed to find out what I remembered of the fire because he knew that the fire was his mother's motive for murder; he was trying to discover if I had pieced together the puzzle.

  The door to the office opened and Brian walked in with a police officer. All of us looked up. None of us knew what to say.

  Brian glanced around. "This is a happy-looking group."

  "Where were you?" Walker asked. "I left you with our students. You were supposed to be in charge."

  "I was in charge," Brian replied lightly, "until I went home. I had a few things to take care of."

  He slipped his hands in his pockets and casually rested one shoulder against the wall, looking as relaxed as a guy waiting for his pizza order. It was as if none of this horrid situation shocked him. I wanted to tell him how sorry I was about his mother, but his coolness quelled my sympathy.

  Mike spoke up suddenly: "What did you do with the boat?"

  "What boat?" Brian replied.

  "The rowboat your mother signed out the day Liza was killed."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "I think you do," Mike countered. "When Jenny told me Liza had been murdered beneath the pavilion, I wondered how her body could have been transported to the bridge without leaving a trail of blood. Then I realized that if a boat was floated in the shallow water close to the pavilion, a body could be carried out to it, even dragged. The blood left behind would be washed out by the tide. The boat, of course, would be stained."

  A small smile curled the corners of Brian's mouth.

  "I remembered that just before Liza died your mother had asked me how to sign out a boat from the college. During the movie tonight I met my friend who runs the boathouse. We checked the records as well as every boat in the yard and on the docks. The boat your mother signed out had been signed in by someone, but it was missing, probably has been since that night, which leads me to ask—where did you sink it?"

  Brian shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

  The local police officer who had escorted Brian and had been listening attentively to our conversation cocked his head.

  "What about Liza's bracelet?" I asked. "You urged me to search Paul's room. Did you plant it there? You had time when you returned our lunch trays."

  He smiled but said nothing.

  "And the fire alarm," I added.

  "I'll take credit for that," Brian said agreeably.

  Our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a state trooper.

  "Here's your ride," the local officer said to Brian. "I don't know what kind of games you're playing, Mr. Jones, but I suggest you don't play too hard til you meet with a lawyer. You told police that your mother came to you after the murder, and you helped her transport the body by boat. As for the fire alarm, we know who set it off, a local juvenile, not you."

  "Just having a little fun with my friends," Brian replied, smiling. Then he turned to me, his eyes alight with amusement. "You look so amazed, Jenny. I told you at the beginning, I'm a better actor than Walker thinks." He flicked a glance at Walker. "Much better. Come visit me in L.A."

  A campus security guard brought me back from Easton Hospital at two a.m. with my wrist in a cast and sling. The door to Drama House was open and I let myself in. Walker emerged from the common room, greeted me, then eyed the cast.

  "Broken?"

  "Yup."

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He looked exhausted, and his eyes, which had cleared before I left campus, had become red and puffy again.

  "I'm sorry, Jenny."

  "I'm sorry, too. Maggie was a very good friend toyou."

  He nodded, pressing his lips together several times before he could speak. "Your parents are on their way home from London. They caught the early flight out and will be here around one p.m. our time. I've contacted everyone else's parents and told them I'm closing camp." He gestured toward the doorway of the common room. "Everyone is upset. I told those who didn't want to sleep in their own rooms to bring a pillow and blanket here. The kids saved a sofa for you, but sleep wherever you can get comfortable. Did the doctor give you some painkillers?"

  Yes.

  He followed me into the common room and sat in a chair with three cups of coffee next to it, where I guessed he was spending the night. Mike, Tomas, and Shawna were asleep on the floor in front of an empty sofa. Paul was sleeping in the corner of the room, curled on his side, his knees drawn up. Keri lay a few feet away from him.

  I carefully stepped around the various sleepers til I reached Mike, then knelt and touched his cheek. "Thank you," I said softly, though I knew he didn't hear me.

  Turning toward Tomas, I smiled when I saw he was sleeping with his backpack, one of his s
ketchbooks on top. I took it and returned to Walker.

  "I'm going to my room."

  "Good girl," he replied, as if I were a child. "You'll rest better there."

  "Would you let Tomas know I have one of his books?"

  Walker nodded. We said good night and I went straight to my room.

  Without turning on the lights, I closed the door behind me and carried the sketchpad over to the window seat. Making myself comfortable there, I opened the book and studied Tomas's newest drawings, dark silky pencil lines on moon-bright pages, sketches of the bridge, the gazebo, and the pavilion. I closed my eyes and let my mind wander. The scenes Tomas had drawn slowly evolved into real scenes, a stretch of tall grass, the concrete bridge, dark wood pilings, the wide creek. A blue gleam surrounded the images, but I felt no fear. The breeze was gentle and the creek lapped peacefully. "I know you are here," I whispered to my sister. "You'll always be with me in my heart.

  But sleep now, Liza. Sweet dreams now. Sweet dreams only for you and me."

  Chapter 20

  Shawna awakened me at noon the next day, telling me my parents had phoned from the airport near Baltimore and would soon be in Wisteria. Most of the other kids had already been picked up by nervous family members, but she had put off her departure so we could say goodbye.

  Tomas stopped in after her.

  "I've got your sketchpad," I told him.

  "I came for a hug," he replied. "You scared me, Jenny."

  Before I got a chance to see Mike, my parents arrived and asked me to go down to the creek with them. We spent an hour at the pavilion, standing on the deck, gazing out at the water. We talked about Liza, remembering, laughing, and crying some.

  "Well, dearest," my father said, resting his hand on mine, "we should get back to campus. Your mother and I spoke to Walker when we arrived and asked him to join us for an early tea."

  "You did?" I replied, surprised. "You met with him and it went okay?"

  "Of course," my father said, "we're grown men."

  My mother rolled her eyes. "It was as awkward as two old bachelors meeting at their former girlfriend's wedding. I'm the one who proposed tea, and neither your father nor Walker had the nerve to say no."

  I laughed and strolled down the ramp with them. When we reached the bottom, I saw Mike standing by the tall grasses that surrounded the pavilion, a dark-haired man next to him. They turned toward us at the same time, the man closing a small black book.

  "Hi, Mike. I want you to meet my parents."

  My mother quickly patted her blowing curls into place, her hands making little butterfly motions.

  The man introduced himself as the Reverend James Wilcox. He had Mike's blue eyes, broad shoulders, and deep voice.

  "We were just praying for Liza," Reverend Wilcox said.

  I was amused by the way he and my father studied each other. Both knew how to assume a commanding, theatrical presence—and they were giving it their best effort. Mike examined my cast, but we said little, letting our parents do the talking. Then my father, playing one of his favorite roles—famous actor acknowledging an apprentice—asked Mike about his interest in theater.

  "I like it okay," Mike replied, "but the real reason I came to camp was to live away from home."

  "What?" I exclaimed softly.

  The reverend's jaw dropped. "I don't think I heard you right, Michael."

  "Well, drama is fun. I'm just not as interested in it as I used to be."

  "I can't believe it." The reverend blinked a couple times and his voice resonated with incredulity. "I truly cannot believe it!"

  I stifled a smile. Mike's father was as pompous and melodramatic as mine.

  Reverend Wilcox turned to my parents. "I have been praying for the last two years that I would accept my son's calling. There is, after all, something blessed in every gift."

  "Indeed," said my father.

  "I have spent the last two weeks reading Michael's college catalog and the drama books he left behind. And now, just as I near acceptance, he tell s me he's not interested."

  "Tragic," my father replied.

  "Excuse me," I said, "I'd like to talk to Mike alone. Mom and Dad, why don't you take Reverend Wilcox to tea with you and Walker?"

  Ministers ought to be good at reconciliation, I thought.

  My father looked at me, puzzled. "Aren't you coming, dearest? I had so hoped—"

  My mother, having better instincts than he, shook her head at him, then steered him and Mike's father toward Goose Lane.

  When our parents were well out of earshot, I turned to Mike. "What was that all about?"

  He ignored my question. "How are you feeling, Jenny?"

  "Apparently, better than you," I said, and took a step closer.

  He took a step back. "I'm fine."

  "Except for your minor surgery last night—did you undergo a brain transplant?"

  He smiled a little and started walking toward the docks, striding quickly, as if he couldn't stand still and look at me. "No, but I had a lot of dreams—actually the same one over and over."

  I struggled to keep up with him.

  "I kept searching for you in a dark theater," he said. "I'd find you, but each time I reached for you, you'd slip through my fingers."

  "And after that nightmare you decided that you didn't like working in theaters anymore. I get it. Hey, slow down! And look at me, please." I grabbed the edge of his shirt. "You're making it difficult for a one-armed girl."

  He stopped. "Sorry."

  "Look me in the eye, Mike, and tell me you don't love theater."

  He gazed at my hair instead.

  "Lower," I told him.

  "Your hair is like a burning bush."

  "Lower," I repeated, then caught my breath when his eyes met mine.

  "All right," I said. "You had no trouble looking in my eyes and saying all those romantic lines during auditions. Let's see how well you can act now.

  Eyeball to eyeball, tell me you don't love theater."

  "I wasn't acting then."

  "Mike, I know what you're afraid of. You think that I'll think you're trying to score points with—What did you say?"

  "I wasn't acting, Jenny. I didn't hang around Liza hoping to meet her father, but hoping to meet her sister."

  "Me?" My heart did a somersault.

  "Liza kept talking about you, what you did, what you said, what you thought, how you could make her laugh. She showed me pictures of you. I kept waiting for you to come see her."

  "I can't believe it!"

  "I realized too late that Liza mistook my interest in you for interest in her. I felt terrible about it, but I didn't tell her the truth because I didn't want to hurt her.

  I tried to back out, but she wouldn't let go. In the end I think she began to figure it out. The morning she died, she gave me the picture of the two of you."

  I closed my eyes and swallowed hard.

  "When I learned from Ken that Liza had been lured out of the house by a note she thought I wrote, I felt responsible for her death. If I hadn't been so eager to meet you, if I hadn't hung around so much, she might not have fallen for it."

  I shook my head. "You're not responsible, Mike. If it wasn't that, it would have been something else," I said. "Maggie was in so much pain, she would have figured a way to get her no matter what."

  "Because of the note I thought that the murderer was someone who knew Liza," he continued. "But when the police decided it was a serial killer, I was so relieved I accepted the theory. I convinced myself that Keri had made up the story—or maybe wrote the note herself—to prove to Paul that Liza didn't like him.

  "I didn't want to come back this year, but Walker kept calling me. I decided that to get past what had happened, I had to return. When I arrived I went straight to the theater, because that's where Liza was happiest. I was shocked to see a girl onstage delivering lines exactly as Liza had. I suspected it was you, and when I met you beneath the bridge, I knew for sure."

  Mike and I had
reached the docks and walked out on one. I followed him down a ramp and onto a floating platform.

  "I couldn't understand why you had come, Jenny, or why, after all that had happened I still wanted so badly to know you. I felt wrong for feeling the way I did, and I tried to avoid you, but it was impossible. You weren't a dream girl but a real girl, and the more I got to know you the harder it was to stop thinking of you."

  As he spoke he kept his distance, letting only his eyes touch me. His eyes alone were enough to make me feel unsteady on my feet.

  "Mike, sometimes when I look at you it's like—" I hesitated, trying to find the words. Now I knew why people quoted plays and poems. "It feels like the ground is moving beneath me."

  He laughed. "It is, Jenny. We're standing on a floating dock."

  "That's not what I meant."

  The words "I love you" were still too new, too scary, but somehow I had to explain to him. "I think there should be no more accidents."

  He studied me a moment, his eyes turning gray. "Sure, that's okay, I understand."

  "No! Wait! You don't understand. I meant that from now on every kiss of mine is purely intentional."

  "Is it?"

  I waited for him to take me in his arms, to sweep me off my feet, as dramatic types are supposed to do. He didn't move.

  "So, uh, don't you want to kiss me?"

  "You go first," he replied. "I did last time."

  But I suddenly felt shy.

  "If you want to kiss me, Jenny, why don't you?"

  I held on to his arm with one hand, stood on my toes, and kissed him on the cheek. It was horribly awkward.

  Then Mike leaned down and gently kissed the fingers of my injured hand. He kissed each bruise on my arms, the places he had gripped to keep me from falling. He drew me close to him and cupped my head with one hand, laying his cheek against mine.

  "I'll never stop wanting to kiss you," he whispered, then sealed his words with tenderness.

  Part II: The Deep End of Fear