Now what should I do?
I was starting to sheepishly step down off the bleachers when Tristen clapped his hand on his coach’s shoulder, apparently excused himself . . . and started loping over in my direction.
Chapter 10
Tristen
I WASN’T SURE why I abandoned cross-country practice to talk with Jill Jekel on a hot September afternoon. Perhaps it was something about the uncertain way that Jill stood—or half stood—alone in a huge stretch of empty seats that reminded me of the day I’d held her at the cemetery, in the heart of an equally vast expanse of headstones. As Jill fidgeted in the bleachers, she looked to me as if she needed help again.
“What brings you here?” I asked, taking the bleachers two by two until I reached her. I jerked my thumb toward the football players, grinning. “Don’t tell me you’ve got your eye on one of them.”
Jill’s cheeks reddened. “No! I was just . . . I wanted to talk to you.”
“Really?” I smiled at the way she blushed. Maybe I was flattered, too, that Jill had come for me—although I’d suspected she was too smart to nurse a “crush” on a football player, which seemed almost mandatory for other girls at Supplee Mill. “What’s up?”
Jill tucked some wayward strands of brown hair behind her ear, a gesture I’d seen countless times in chemistry class when Messerschmidt would put her on the spot to explain concepts that I suspected baffled him. “It’s . . . it’s about the chemistry contest,” she said. “About maybe working together.”
I opened my mouth to advise Jill, flatly, that I wasn’t interested. After all, I’d had no compunction about turning Darcy down. Or, I would have had no compunction if Flick hadn’t interrupted our conversation. But Jill—she was looking up at me, the sunlight glinting off her plastic eyeglasses, and I found myself sidetracked, wondering, What did those eyes hold if one ever managed to look behind the glasses?
Intelligence, I was certain of that. And pain—I was sure of that, too.
Suddenly I found myself saying, “Sure, Jill. Let’s talk.”
We both sat down—me keeping a distance, given how the sweat was still pouring down my chest and back.
“Are you sure you’re not interested in competing?” Jill began. “Because I have an idea . . . for both of us.”
“I honestly hadn’t planned to take part,” I said. “Chemistry is easy for me, but it’s not a real interest.”
“Oh.”
Jill sounded so disappointed, so defeated already, that I couldn’t help but add, “Still, I’d be willing to listen. After all, it is a fair amount of cash.”
“Yes,” Jill agreed, nodding. “And I think we’d have a good chance of winning. You wouldn’t have to work that hard, either, Tristen.”
“I do like the sound of that,” I admitted. Both the possibility of reward with little effort and perhaps the chance for a partnership with the quiet girl who squirmed on the metal seat. Honestly, what was behind those glasses? So few students at Supplee Mill held any interest for me. They seemed mono-dimensional, disinterested in anything beyond the fight for the pointless goal of popularity.
But Jill—she didn’t seem to strive for that at all. On the contrary, she seemed shut off, inaccessible—and that intrigued me. “So, what’s the plan?” I asked.
Jill pressed her palms against her knees, taking a deep breath. “Well, you know how people used to tease us about being ‘Jekyll and Hyde’?”
“Oh yes, I remember,” I said. The jokes—most of which had been completely uninformed by the novel—had nevertheless been an unwelcome reminder of a legend I was trying to forget. For a time, until the topic had grown stale, I’d rather resented Jill just for existing. For having that name.
“Well, I was thinking we could capitalize on our names,” Jill said. “Work as a team of chemists . . . Jekel and Hyde . . . on an experiment actually based on the book, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”
I sat up straighter, on guard. “But, Jill, that work is fiction.” To everyone but myself and my grandfather . . .
“Not according to my dad,” Jill said. “I mean, he believed the book is fiction but that it was based on a true story.”
I stared at her for a long moment, not believing what I’d just heard. “Really?” I finally asked with deliberate calm. “He did?”
“Yes.” Jill nodded. “In fact, Dad said we Jekels are distantly related to the Henry Jekyll, the doctor whose true story inspired the novel. My grandfather changed the spelling of our name when he came to the United States. You know, to distance us from the bad stuff that happened in England.”
I knew too well the “bad stuff” to which she referred: brutal acts committed by Dr. Jekyll’s creation . . . Hyde.
“Go on,” I said, hoping she couldn’t discern the increasing tension in my muscles, my voice. What she was saying—it was almost too strange to grasp, if only because it was so very, very familiar. “How does this lead to chemistry?” I asked. “To research?”
“Well . . . this will sound weird, but my dad kept this old box in his office. And he swore that it holds the original documents detailing the actual experiments that inspired the novel.”
Something like an electric shock tore through me, and I did nearly lose my composure. “Jill,” I asked, forcing myself to meet her eyes, expression neutral. “Have you ever actually looked inside this box?”
Jill shook her head. “Oh no! Both my parents agreed that the experiments are too dangerous. I’ve never been allowed to touch the box.” She flushed again. “I know it sounds crazy, but Dad especially, honestly believed the Jekyll and Hyde story.”
I looked out over the football field, crowded with players who probably wished to kill me in retribution for an act I couldn’t even recall. Then I turned back to Jill, still trying to seem almost disinterested, although the wheels in my brain were spinning wildly. “And what exactly do you want us to do, Jill? For the scholarship?”
“I thought we could open the box and recreate the experiments,” she said. “Then, using current knowledge about chemical interactions and brain function, determine whether there really was a chance that one of my ancestors created an evil Mr. Hyde.”
I didn’t say anything right away, and Jill added nervously, “I mean, don’t you think it’s a great coincidence: Jekel and Hyde? Our names alone would generate interest.”
“But, Jill,” I noted, “if your parents expressly forbid you from ever touching the box, why do it now?” If the papers were, against all odds, real, Jill couldn’t imagine how dangerous they might be. I swiped my palm against my shorts, trying to wipe away the sweat, the slickness that made the knife in my dream so slippery. “If this is just about besting Darcy—”
I knew there was rivalry there, but Jill jerked upright defensively. “No! It’s not that. I mean, not really.”
The caveat was very telling. “If not just Darcy, then why, Jill?”
I was the one on the verge of losing complete control—my grandfather’s stories, confirmed?—but it was Jill who crumpled right before my eyes.
“My dad,” she said, bending and wrapping her thin arms around her knees. “He sort of . . . spent my college savings before he died. I don’t have anything left for school.”
It was obvious that “spent” was a euphemism for “stole,” and if I’d been closer, I might have reached out to give her arm a sympathetic squeeze, not just because I was shocked that her father would do something so cruel, but because it so obviously pained her to share such a private, embarrassing tragedy with me. “I’m really sorry, Jill.”
“I need this scholarship,” she added. “And I need your help. Not just your name, but your knowledge. You always finish your experiments first . . .”
Oh, god. I wanted to help her. I didn’t know much about Dr. Jekel’s murder, but I’d heard that he’d been involved in shady dealings at Carson Pharmaceuticals. Poor Jill lived under a cloud of sadness and shame, and she seemed like such a sweet girl that I honestly w
ished I could help her escape both. But I couldn’t fall more deeply into the plot of that terrible old novel, and at that moment, when I was close to shuddering—not just because cold sweat was still pouring down my spine—I didn’t think Jill should meddle in the past, either.
“Jill,” I said, rising, “I’m sorry, truly sorry, but I honestly think that your parents are right. You should leave that old box alone and find another way to pay for your education.”
Before Jill could reply, I strode down the bleachers, heading for the showers. When I reached the bottom, I wanted to look back, to offer Jill the farewell I’d forgotten to give her, but I was worried that if I saw her face again—saw that devastated, betrayed, vulnerable expression—I might wrongly change my mind. At the time I really thought I was doing right by Jill to just walk away, even ifit hurt her.
That very night, though, I was convinced—compelled—to rethink my decision.
Chapter 11
Tristen
THE NIGHT IS DARK and the river flows sluggishly, putridly at my side. Before me she waits, peering down the path. “Tristen . . . Tristen?” I step behind her, the hilt of the knife hard against my palm. “I’m here, love . . . right here . . .”
Not turning, she leans against my chest, pleased, trusting me. “Oh, Tristen . . .”
I raise the knife . . . She sees it . . . is confused . . .
“Tristen? Tristen? TRISTEN?”
“TRISTEN!”
“What?” I cried, sitting bolt upright, twisting against my damp sheets, which had wound around my legs, binding me. Someone was clutching my shoulder—hard.
“Tristen!” Dad shook me roughly. “Calm down. You’re dreaming.”
“Stop it!” I yelled, pushing against him. He was grasping me too hard. Hurting me. “Stop it!”
“Easy, son!” He stepped back from my bed, giving me space. “Just relax.”
“Oh, god . . .” My shoulders heaved as I struggled to control my breathing. I raked my fingers through soaked hair. “Oh, god . . .”
Dad rested his hand more gently on my shoulder. “It’s just a nightmare,” he reassured me again. “It’s okay, son.”
I didn’t answer. I was fighting too hard: battling not just for breath but to subdue the trace of the thrill, the desire that I still felt, lingering inside of me. The tingling arousal, the need, that continued to rise unbidden from my subconscious, not just for sex with the faceless girl in my dream but for her blood. “Oh, god . . .”
Dad kept his hand on my shoulder. “Tristen—don’t make too much of this.”
“It’s getting more vivid,” I said, head in my hands. “I can smell the river—”
“That’s impossible,” he interrupted, stepping back again. “There is no olfactory component to dreams, Tristen. You’re in your room now. Safe. Fine.”
I looked up at him, and although the room was dark, I realized that my father was still dressed in a shirt and tie. “Dad?” I checked the clock. Nearly two a.m. “What are you—?”
“I want you to sleep now, son,” he urged, moving toward the door. “Sleep and don’t make too much of this. Promise me that.”
“I won’t,” I said. But I was confused. Why wasn’t he in bed? He never worked that late. “I’ll try not to . . .”
I lay back on my sweat-soaked sheets, trying unsuccessfully to calm my unsettled mind and listening as my father went to his room. Down the hall I heard Dad opening and closing drawers, and when the sound of his running shower finally reached my ears, I got up and went to my bookshelves, fumbling behind a copy of Carl Jung’s Dreams, which Dad had loaned me when I’d first begun having nightmares.
“This will reassure you,” he’d promised. “Dreams are telling, but they are not the final word.”
As Dad had assured me, I had found Jung’s ideas comforting at times. That night, however, I shoved Dreams aside and dug deeper for a book that I kept hidden. A first edition copy of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, which my grandfather had given me on the eve—the actual eve—of his death.
My fingers met the familiar deep gash in the leather cover—as though someone had done violence to the violent work itself—and I pulled down the book. Turning on my lamp, I opened to the first yellowed page, which would have been empty had not Grandfather inscribed it. To Tristen, with gratitude for being strong when I was weak.
There was a smudge there, too. A fingerprint. Sometimes I would place my own fingertip against the dark spot, testing the fit, wondering if that finger pointed to Grandfather—or to me. And if my soul did lie at the heart of that swirling, twisted maze, what did that mean for me—and for the girl in my nightmare?
That night by the river with her. That evening with Grandfather. Flick’s broken arm. The nightmare, which was growing more complete, more tangible, more intense. The documents that Jill Jekel had spoken of . . .
I stared at the dark whorl on the page, recalling Jill’s offer—and Jill herself, sitting on the bleachers, so small and timid. And smart. And in possession of what her father swore was a very special artifact.
All at once the fog—the mist from that river—seemed to clear, and I flipped deeper into the novel, fingers mauling the pages as I searched for a passage that suddenly flashed through my mind almost verbatim. Finding it, I read aloud, too excited to keep silent.
“Hurrying back to my cabinet, I once more prepared and drank the cup . . . and came to myself once more . . .”
I shut the book, mind racing.
Jekyll’s formula didn’t just create Hyde . . .
Jill had wanted me to help her, but was there a chance that she could help me?
It seemed almost absurd. Yet I was ready to grasp at the most fragile straws. For as I stood in my bedroom listening to my father’s late-night shower, recalling the desire I’d still felt in the wake of my nightmare, and considering the increasing number of things that I couldn’t—or perhaps wouldn’t—remember, I was convinced suddenly that if salvation didn’t lie within a box I hadn’t even seen yet, I was doomed.
Chapter 12
Jill
I MOVED MY EASEL closer to the living room window, trying to catch what was left of the daylight. I was kind of stalling, too. The self-portrait that I was trying to paint was the year’s biggest assignment and would count for almost 20 percent of my grade.
Holding up my junior year school picture, which I was using as my model, I stepped back, assessing the canvas from a different angle, comparing it to the photo. What was wrong with my face as I’d painted it? Was it my smile? My eyes?
My art teacher, Miss Lampley, agreed that something wasn’t right. “As always, your work is technically accurate,” she’d mused, standing next to me in the classroom, tapping her index finger against her cheek. “And yet you’re not capturing the essence of Jill Jekel. There’s something missing.”
I looked into my eyes rendered in oil paint. I’d worked hard to recreate their tricky green-brown color, even though I didn’t like it. But getting the color right hadn’t been enough.
What was my “essence”?
With a frustrated sigh, I started to clip the photo to the canvas—but dropped it when my hand jerked at the unexpected sound of a loud knock at the front door.
I spun toward the foyer, surprised and more than a little on guard.
Don’t answer it, I told myself. It was getting dark outside, and I’d promised Mom. No unauthorized visitors while she was at work.
The knock came again, though, louder, and I crept to the foyer, thinking I should check the dead bolt just to make sure it was locked. But as I reached out to spin the latch, the person on the porch called, “Jill? Are you there?”
I hesitated another second at the sound of the familiar voice. “No visitors” definitely meant “no boys.”
“Jill, I know you’re there. I heard you,” he said. “So just open up, huh?”
What could I do at that point but listen not to Mom but to Tristen Hyde, who stood on the porch, messeng
er bag slung over his shoulder, arms crossed, waiting? I stared up at his tall, imposing silhouette. “Um, I’m not supposed to have—”
But Tristen stepped over the threshold, announcing, “I’ve reconsidered the contest, Jill. I think we should do it.” Although I still sort of blocked his way, he sidestepped me and strode into the living room. “Let’s talk.”
“Tristen, wait.” I trailed after him. “My mom’s not home and . . .”
But Tristen was oblivious to my concerns, maybe because his attention had been caught by something in the living room.
At first I thought he was looking at my painting, and my heart sank. “I’m still working on that,” I blurted, defending my art against criticism that hadn’t even been offered yet. “I know there’s something wrong with the expression!”
But when Tristen turned to face me, I realized that he wasn’t looking at my portrait. Instead he pointed past the easel toward a far corner of the room and asked, with a hint of eagerness in his voice, “Jill—is that what I think it is?”
Chapter 13
Jill
EVEN THOUGH I wanted to talk about the contest and in spite of the fact that I told Tristen our old piano was out of tune, he couldn’t seem to keep himself from moving toward it, walking right past my easel without seeming even to notice my painting. It was almost like he was drawn to the instrument, which Mom and I used as a catchall for all kinds of junk.
“This is a vintage Steinway, Jill,” he said, ditching his messenger bag on the floor and moving a stack of magazines off the bench.
“Is that good?” I asked, following him. As I passed the easel, I turned it so the portrait faced the wall, hiding my work.
“Oh yes.” Tristen lifted a lid to reveal keys that hadn’t seen light in years. “I have a Steinway at home. A baby grand. But there’s something about these antiques . . .”