I feel that way because I’ve made a choice, I thought. The girls Nobody kills don’t get that choice. Brooke never made that choice, and she never would. She’d talked about saving people, not killing them; she’d said that the world needed more people who helped each other. But how could I make that choice when helping one person required me to kill someone else?
Brooke didn’t get to choose, but what would she choose if she could? She wouldn’t choose to be a killer. Certainly she wouldn’t choose to be burned alive. I squeezed my palms against my eyes, pressing them until they hurt. I thought about Marci, dead and cold. I thought about Brooke, trapped and mute while a demon moved her body like a puppet; in a few weeks she’d be dead too. I thought about Forman and Crowley, dying on the ground; I thought about their victims, their families, about Max’s lifeless eyes reflecting the hollow motion of a TV screen. I thought about my dad, gone more than half my life, perfectly alive and perfectly gone.
Why do people leave?
I’d spent a year hunting serial killers, getting into their heads and seeing what and how they thought; I’d entertained nearly every question imaginable, no matter how grisly, no matter how horrifying, and they had passed over me like harmless air. Yet this question was almost too much to think about.
Why do people leave?
The suicides had bothered me so much because they were voluntary – or so we’d all thought. Now we knew that the victims were being taken from us, instead of leaving on their own, it was easier to accept. It made sense, even if it still bothered me, and I could at least find a place for it in my head. It heartened me, in some strange way, to know that Marci had died fighting for her life; it made that life seem stronger, more worth living. If you could throw it away so easily, what good was it?
I looked at the phone, blessedly quiet. Brooke hadn’t called in nearly an hour. I picked it up, stared at the numbers a moment, then dialled zero.
‘What party would you like to reach?’
‘Can I get a number in New York?’ The last we’d heard from Dad was nearly a year ago, when he sent presents for Christmas. There was no return address, but the postmark was New York City.
‘Please hold.’ The line went dead, then music started – something brainless and peppy. I stared at the wall, ignoring the music, until a different voice cut it off.
‘What party would you like to reach?’
‘New York, please.’
‘New York City?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Name?’
‘Sam Cleaver,’ I said, ‘or maybe Samuel.’
Pause. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have anyone by that name.’
‘No one?’
‘No, sir.’
‘No Sam Cleaver in the entire city of New York? There’s like eight million people there.’
‘None of them by that name, sir.’
Silence.
‘Would you like to try another name, sir?’
‘How about S. Cleaver?’
‘I have a Sharon, that’s it. Does your party have a middle name he might be listed under?’
‘No.’ I stared at the wall. ‘Thanks.’
‘Thank you for calling Information—’
I hung up the phone and dropped it on the bed next to me. I looked around, seeing the walls and windows and doors without comprehending any of them. My eyes fell on the phone, and I picked it up and hurled it at my closet door, bouncing it off the wood. The phone fell to the floor and I jumped up, grabbed it, and slammed it into the door again and again until the wood splintered and caved in. Shards stung my hand, and I hit the door one more time before throwing the phone against the opposite wall. My hand ached, speckled with drops of blood. I touched one of the drops with my hand, lightly, then smeared my whole hand across the wall. It left a faint bloody streak.
Fire. It was the only way.
Chapter 26
The phone rang twice before I picked it up.
‘Good morning, John.’
‘Hey, Brooke.’ I winced at the name and put down my spoon.
‘What’s up?’ She sounds so cheerful, as if nothing’s wrong at all.
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Are you feeling better?’
‘A little bit. A few more hours and we can go do something together.’
‘Yeah,’ I said, running through my plan one last time. ‘I thought it might be fun to head out to the lake and go fishing. Brooke always loved to go fishing.’
‘I know,’ she said coldly. ‘I’m Brooke.’
‘You’re Brooke. I know. So anyway, does that sound good?’
‘It sounds great!’ she said. ‘You want to go after school?’
‘Terrific.’ I paused, trying to sound as natural as possible, and pretended to remember something. ‘Oh crap, I forgot I have to pick up a bunch of stuff for Mom. She’s freaked out it’s gonna snow soon, and wants me to get some gas for the snowblower, and salt for the walks, and that kind of stuff. It shouldn’t take me long, but . . .’
‘Oh no,’ said Brooke. ‘I really wanted to do something today!’
‘Well . . .’ I let her wait a bit, building suspense. ‘I suppose I could meet you there. I’ll come straight from the gas station. That could save us a lot of time if you bike out there and pick a good spot.’
‘A good spot, huh?’
‘Yeah. Someplace secluded.’
‘John Cleaver,’ she said, feigning shock. ‘Whatever do you intend to do with me in a secluded spot by the lake?’ I struggled to read her voice, though the general feeling was clear: she was eager, and thought I was planning something romantic.
‘I’ll see you there,’ I said. And you won’t be the least bit suspicious when I show up with several cans of gas.
‘Awesome,’ she said. ‘I love you, John.’
‘See ya.’ I hung up the phone just as Mom stepped into the kitchen.
‘Who was that?’
‘Brooke.’ There was no use hiding it; she could look it up in the caller ID history if she wanted to.
‘You going somewhere with Brooke today?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Like, a date?’ She was more suspicious than normal. What is she thinking?
‘I guess so. Sort of.’ She liked Brooke; she shouldn’t have a problem with that, right?
‘Huh,’ she said, walking past me and pulling down a box of cereal. ‘I realise you’re not as emotional as most people, but still – your girlfriend died yesterday. Seems a little early, I think, don’t you?’
Crap. ‘That’s why it’s not really a date,’ I said. ‘We’re just heading out to talk about it, try to come to terms with it. You know.’
‘Yeah,’ she said, nodding, though I could tell she didn’t mean it. ‘I know exactly what you’re talking about.’
‘What about you?’ I asked, desperate to change the subject. ‘You doing anything tonight?’
‘Lauren and I are going shopping, actually.’ She poured her cereal into a bowl, then opened the fridge to get the milk. I relaxed and tuned her out. ‘We had a pretty good talk the other night, before the movie and the . . .’ she waved her hand ‘. . . the police station. Turns out she hates buying groceries because she doesn’t know where the good deals are. We’re going to go together and see what we can find.’
‘Great,’ I said, only barely listening. ‘I’ll see you later then.’
‘Not too late,’ she said.
‘Yeah.’ I stood up. ‘It won’t take long.’ I grabbed my jacket and backpack and headed for the door.
‘Goodbye, John,’ she said. ‘Have a good day.’
I waved.
‘I love you, John.’
‘Yeah,’ I said, walking out the door. People keep saying that.
School passed in a daze, an endless string of droning teachers and sad, consoling students. ‘We’re so sorry about Marci.’ ‘She was a wonderful person, and we all miss her.’ ‘You’re very brave, coming back to school so soon.’ I didn’t feel brave, I felt numb. I felt col
d. I felt tired.
I’d spent the whole night in my car with a screwdriver and a pair of bolt cutters, peeling back the panelling and cutting away the cables for each lock and window. The exterior handles worked, but if someone got stuck inside, they’d be trapped. I was lucky my car was that old; something with power locks and electric windows would have been nearly impossible to sabotage. I guess that’s a good safety feature on the new cars, I thought. If something happens to the doors, like on mine, these old cars can be a death trap.
Bells rang, crowds buzzed, halls filled and emptied; filled and emptied. The sun in the sky was cold and white, like a disk of ice. I drifted through the school like a ghost, unnoticed by most, avoided by everyone else, silent and sombre and dead. When the final bell rang I trudged out to my car, drove to the gas station and filled four five-gallon cans with gas. Twenty gallons. Enough to run our huge riding snowblower through several major storms. Enough to light a very, very big fire. I pushed all thoughts and emotions away – all my nervousness, all my fear, all my sorrow. I am a sociopath. I am a machine. I am a gust of wind: nameless, faceless – and blameless.
I put three cans of gas in the back seat, lids off, next to box after box of old magazines I’d stolen from Father Erikson’s house; the last can went in the trunk, next to a narrow funnel I’d stolen from our kitchen. I didn’t need to steal any matches; I always had a book of them in my pocket. I sat down in the driver’s seat and touched the underside of the roof with my finger, feeling the hole I’d put there with a single shot from Max’s silenced gun.
I drove towards the lake, stopped halfway and poured two cans of gas on the magazines and seat cushions in the back. The smell was terrible, but I ignored it.
I continued down the road, looking for Nobody, and found her almost at the farthest end, waving from a dirt turn-off. I slowed and pulled off, driving past her and parking behind a stand of trees. It was a good spot – the road kept going past the lake, but there was nothing out there for miles, and no one was likely to drive past or see us. I stepped out, locking the driver’s door as I closed it. It would never open again. Nobody ran toward me, smiling with Brooke’s mouth.
‘You made it!’ she said, then coughed and stepped back, waving her hand in front of her face. ‘Wow, gas for the snowblower, huh?’
‘They’re pretty old cans; a lot of fumes get out.’
‘At least it will have some time to air out while we fish,’ she said. ‘I’ve got the stuff right over here.’ She pointed into the trees, and I saw her bike leaning against a trunk, two poles and a backpack propped up beside it.
‘Wow,’ I said, trying to sound alive. ‘You carried those here on your bike?’
‘I’m amazing,’ she said. ‘This isn’t the first time I’ve biked out here to fish.’ She drew closer. ‘First time I’ve been out this far, though, with such a handsome young man.’
‘Yeah,’ I said, looking around. This is it. Don’t think, don’t wait, just do it. ‘I was actually thinking of another spot; it’s a little way back, but we can get a lot farther off the road. It’s really nice.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. Very private.’
‘Sounds great,’ she said with a smile, ‘but I’m not taking the poles this time.’ She walked towards her bike. ‘Race you there?’
‘Why don’t you just come with me? I can stick your bike in the trunk.’
‘And we won’t asphyxiate from the gas fumes first?’
‘I made it here, didn’t I? We’ll roll down the windows; it’ll be fine.’
She grinned. ‘Let’s do it.’ She walked towards the car, and I followed. Nobody talked, and acted, as if she was half-Brooke - as if Brooke’s memories were somehow mingled with her own. If that was true, she’d wait for me to open her door; Brooke was very old-fashioned that way. Sure enough, she stopped at the door, waiting, and I forced myself to smile. Perfect. I opened the door, she coughed and laughed and climbed in, and I closed it firmly behind her.
Goodbye, Brooke. I’m sorry.
Her hand went to the window roller, and I turned to walk back to the trunk. I opened it, listening to the silence as Nobody tried and failed to roll down the window. I pulled out the gas can and the funnel.
‘John, I think your window’s broken.’ Its voice was muffled through the closed door. I heard a series of clicks as it tried the handle. ‘The door’s broken too. Wow, it smells awful in here.’
I closed the trunk and saw that Nobody had scooted across to the driver’s side and was trying the handle there. It saw me, looked at me, saw the can in my hand.
‘What are you doing?’
I set the gas can on the trunk, climbed up after it and reached across to the hole in the roof. The funnel just barely fit.
‘John!’ it shouted. ‘John, let me out! What are you doing up there?’ The car shifted as she moved again, and when I reached back to lift the heavy gas can onto the roof I saw her scrambling over the seats to reach the back doors. She put a hand on the gas-soaked magazines and drew back in disgust. ‘Is this gas?’ She smelled her hand and her eyes went wide with terror. She stepped over the seats, her feet splashing down in the puddles of gas in the foot wells, and pounded on the rear window. ‘John! What are you doing? Let me out!’
I hefted the gas can up onto the roof, unscrewed the cap, and tipped it lightly into the funnel. Gas streamed down, sending up a new wave of fumes, and Nobody screamed again. There was already plenty of gas in the car, but the fumes were the important part – that’s what would ignite, mingling with the air to fill the entire car with flame. Nobody tried one door, then the other, banging on the windows.
‘John, let me out! You’re going to kill me! You’re insane!’
I kept pouring, trying to keep the stream steady as the car jostled beneath me.
‘John, this was all a joke!’ she cried. ‘I’m not a demon, I’m not Nobody, I’m just Brooke. It was a joke! You can’t kill me!’
I closed my eyes and tipped the can upside down, pouring out the last few drops. Nobody hit the funnel from underneath, knocking it up and over, and the last slosh of gas poured out onto the roof. She was plugging the hole with her finger.
‘Please, John, don’t do this. Don’t do this.’ She was sobbing. ‘You can’t kill me. I am Nobody, I admit it, I am, but this is Brooke’s body. She’s still in here – you’re killing her too! I know you want to kill demons – I want to kill them too, but you’re killing Brooke! You’re killing your friend! You love her! She loves you! Dammit, let me out!’
I threw the can aside, stood up and carefully wiped my hands as clean of gas as I could get them. I reached into my pocket for a book of matches, pulled it out, and tore the first match free.
Nobody was by the back window now, banging on the glass and snarling like an animal. Brooke’s features were twisted into a mask of fury: lips curled up, teeth bared. Her hair and face were drenched in gasoline. ‘I will kill you, John, I will eat your heart, you bastard!’ She was screaming now, her voice an unrecognisable roar. ‘You think this car can hold me in? You think this fire can hurt me?’ She slammed her fist into the window. ‘You can’t kill me!’
I folded the matchbook around the match, pressing it tightly against the striking surface, and ripped it free. The match flared to life, a tiny flame hungry for fuel. I leaned forward, keeping clear of the gas, and reached out to drop the match into the hole in the roof. The car shook violently as Nobody slammed against the side door, and the flame caught on the puddle of spilled gas. The roof burst into flame and I stumbled back, falling onto the trunk. The fall knocked the wind out of my lungs, and the matchbook flew out of my hand.
I struggled for air as the burning gas began to run down the back window towards me. Nobody slammed into the door again, and I heard the side window crack. I rolled off the car, kneeling by the back wheel, and finally managed to draw a breath. The car shook again, the window shattered loudly, and a rain of broken glass exploded out from the car. Brooke’s body c
rawled out through the window, soaked with sweat and gas; she scraped against the broken window, leaving long bloody gashes in her arms and legs. The body fell out in a heap, gasping for air and moaning with pain, and I backed away. She’s covered in gas. If I can find the matches, I can still kill her.
‘You,’ she croaked, ‘bastard.’
I turned wildly, looking for the matchbook; it was behind me, about ten feet away, and I lunged for it. Something caught my leg and I fell, landing on my wrist and bending it backwards. I screamed in pain.