Beautiful Dead 3: Summer

  Summer shrugged. ‘There was a heap of weird people,’ she recalled. ‘Most times I didn’t even read their messages through before I deleted them.’

  ‘So now he’s hassling Hannah for a backstage pass.’ I pressed on, trying to grab her attention by taking her other hand and turning her towards me. The lamp flame flickered in the draught caused by the howling wind. ‘He claims you and he are still in touch.’

  ‘I can tell you that’s a “no”,’ she said with a touch of her old, dry humour.

  ‘Exactly! And this is a death-fixated crazy guy – the skull, the comments about love being bigger than death. Give a guy like that a gun and God knows what he’s capable of!’

  ‘So don’t go near him,’ she advised, sounding like Phoenix and pulling her hands free before she stood up. ‘Leave it to the cops – they seem to be doing OK.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ I asked, following her quickly down the steps.

  ‘Into the house. Are you coming?’

  I overtook her and tried to open the big barn door, finding that I had to push hard against the wind. Summer gave a little smile and poked the door with her finger. I tutted as it swung open. ‘Sorry,’ I mumbled.

  ‘I didn’t lose all my strength – not yet.’ Her smile broadened and softened. ‘Come on, let’s go in and sit by the fire – you must be freezing.’

  So we went into the cosy kitchen where a log fire burned and a metal jug bubbled on the primitive stove. Summer poured two mugs of steaming coffee from the jug. ‘I’m writing a new song,’ she told me. ‘Would you like to hear?’

  ‘Do you need to ask?’ Excited, I sat across the hearth from her, sipped my coffee and watched as she rested her guitar across her knees. Just like the old days, I thought. And I was able to sit there and fall under her spell, shutting out the fears and doubts, the ticking clock and all the crap I had to deal with in the real world.

  Summer bent her head over the guitar, letting her hair swing forward. Her left hand slid up and down the frets while her right hand picked out the notes that flowed like water in the creek. And her voice – softer, more mellow than before, and the words sadder than anything you ever heard. ‘I loved you so / But it was time to go / You spoke my name / I never came / ’Cos it was time for me to go.’

  I was in tears before the end of the first verse. ‘It’s perfect,’ I told her when the song ended. In my mind I carried the image of me waiting that last time for Phoenix by Deer Creek, and his voice, not Summer’s, singing, ‘You spoke my name / I never came …’

  ‘I wrote it for my parents,’ she said softly.

  Delving into my jacket pocket, I pulled out a crumpled slip of paper and a pen. ‘Write it down,’ I pleaded. ‘The words and the music.’

  Summer did as I asked, her hand shaking slightly. ‘Give it to my mom,’ she said as she handed the paper back. ‘Say you didn’t know you had it – you found it tucked away in a notebook.’

  Nodding, I folded the paper and put it back in my pocket.

  ‘Phoenix is here,’ Summer said, suddenly getting up and going to the door, opening it to let me see him striding across the yard, lashed by wind and rain, looking wild and somehow angry. His white T-shirt and dark hair were soaked through as he came up into the porch.

  ‘Take care, Darina,’ Summer said as she left.

  I ran to throw my arms around Phoenix, my heart thudding as if I was the one who had run down from the ridge. ‘I heard there were intruders. Was anyone up there?’

  He shook his head, resting his head on my shoulder for a moment before pulling away. ‘No one. Dean was mistaken. Now let me get out of these wet clothes.’

  I watched him peel off his T-shirt and fling it on to the table, then I picked up a towel from the back of a chair and laid it across his broad shoulders. ‘When did it start to rain?’ I asked.

  ‘A couple of minutes back.’ He towelled his hair roughly as I took in every centimetre of his smooth torso. ‘What are you staring at?’ he asked with his little intimate grin.

  ‘You!’ I was in his arms again and we were kissing, I was experiencing the marble coldness of his skin and, at the same time, the heat of his passion. ‘What do you expect when you strip half naked in front of me?’

  He kissed me again, long and hard. ‘I got back here as fast as I could. I saw Hunter.’

  ‘He’s angry with me,’ I confessed. ‘But then, what’s new? How bad is the storm? Will the Beautiful Dead have to leave?’

  Phoenix shook his head. ‘It’s wild out there but there’s no thunder and lightning, no electrical stuff.’

  So no danger to their supernatural powers. Phoenix and the others could stay on the far side and ride out the wind and rain.

  ‘Maybe I can stay with you until the storm blows over?’ I suggested.

  ‘Don’t get up your hopes,’ he replied, running his fingers over my face and down my neck to the hollow at the base of my throat. ‘Isn’t Hunter planning to get you back home before midnight?’

  ‘How did you know … oh, OK, you read his mind. That’s why you looked mad. But I’ll tell him he can’t send me home in this.’

  ‘Actually, he can.’ Hunter himself had flung open the door and found us locked together. Our passionate embrace obviously left him unmoved. ‘You had your time with Summer, Darina. Now it’s time to leave.’

  ‘I don’t believe you!’ I groaned. I could see Hunter over Phoenix’s shoulder, a lock of long grey hair whipped across his cheek by the wind, his eyes fixed on me.

  ‘Summer doesn’t agree that Fichtner is your man.’ As Hunter came into the room, he must have given Phoenix the silent order to step back from me. I felt Phoenix’s body stiffen as he released me. ‘How about you, Darina? Do you stick with your serial-killer scenario?’

  ‘I do.’ Briefly I wished that Phoenix would stand up to the overlord, just once. Couldn’t he resist the order, even for a second?

  Phoenix caught my thought and quickly looked down at the rug in embarrassment.

  ‘I’m sorry – I know how it is,’ I whispered.

  He looked up and put on a smile for me, glanced towards Hunter and took another silent instruction to leave the room.

  I planned to protest, but Hunter zapped that thought away. Instead I sat down by the fire in a resentful slouch.

  ‘I want you to go home and get some sleep,’ he told me. ‘You need to be up early, to follow up the alternative JakB theory.’

  This focused my still-wandering mind and I waited for more.

  ‘You saw Summer’s killer?’

  ‘From under a baseball cap,’ I reminded him. ‘And he was wearing aviator shades.’

  ‘So you need to take a look at JakB. Is he too tall, too short, too heavy, too skinny?’

  This made sense. ‘You’re right. He’s been hassling Hannah, not taking no for an answer. I expect he’ll show up again soon.’

  ‘Why not throw him some bait? Reply to him on Summer’s website, tell him you can get him a concert ticket.’

  ‘Fix up a meeting?’

  ‘Take a look at him from a distance. No need to get too close.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Meanwhile, stay in touch with Jardine and let him check out the Oscar Thorne deal.’

  ‘You reckon it’s too dangerous for me?’ Foolishly I imagined that Hunter was looking out for me in warning me away from the underbelly of Ellerton society.

  He laughed. ‘I mean, let the cops do the work because they have a network of contacts, something solid to go on. Let them go ahead and interview Thorne in his prison cell.’

  ‘Doh!’ I pretended to beat my forehead with the flat of my palm. Dummy, Darina, for thinking that Hunter cared!

  ‘Now go,’ the overlord instructed, opening the door again and waiting for me to leave.

  Unbelievable! Hunter had forced me out on to the hillside in the worst storm this spring. Rain lashed down from the night sky, driving against me as I battled towards the ridge. My denim jacket was no protection and I
was soon soaked to the skin.

  Phoenix, for pity’s sake, lend me a hand! Somebody, help!

  The more I leaned into the wind and rain, the stronger it seemed to grow. Water was rushing down the slope in rivulets, dragging loose pebbles with it. A gust of wind tore up a sapling and sent it crashing against the trunk of an older, sturdier tree. I thought I would never make it to the water tower, and when I did I found that the whole ancient, rusty structure creaked and swayed so much that I dare not take shelter. Instead, I stumbled on.

  This will teach you a lesson! I told myself. In future, even if you suspect Hunter’s playing mind games, don’t ever think about defying Hunter over the Marie and Hester thing!

  It was pitch black, the heavens had opened, the wind was savage. I’d be lucky not to catch my death of cold.

  I was under the stand of aspens, about thirty metres from my car when I spotted the other vehicle parked by the trees I usually used for cover. It was a small car, a Honda like the one Logan drove. I would hardly have seen it except that it was white. The wind tore through the leaves overhead, ripping into me with the force of a tornado. A branch snapped and fell to the ground, just missing the Honda.

  Now I was divided – should I get in my car and drive the hell out, or should I check out the mystery vehicle? And how had Phoenix and Dean missed it when they were out on patrol? Did it mean that it had just arrived? If so, where was the driver?

  Check it out, I told myself, my heart in my mouth and searching for an explanation of why I was here in case it turned out that I needed one. I went unwillingly, I can tell you.

  I got close to the white car, close enough to squint through the dark and check the registration plate. Logan’s number!

  I stood trying to absorb this fact. Logan’s car was parked at the end of the Foxton track where no one except me and a few hunters ever came. It was night-time, the middle of a bad storm. Everything led to the conclusion that he’d followed me here.

  And I thought you were over me, I said out loud in a burst of anger. We agreed I could never look at you that way.

  Way back in the past, when I was looking for answers for Jonas, Logan and I had had this talk:

  Him: I love you, Darina.

  Me: But I love Phoenix.

  Him: Phoenix is dead.

  Me: I still love him. I’ll love him for ever.

  It broke Logan’s heart for a while, but eventually I thought he accepted the way it was. Lately he was even dating Jordan, wasn’t he?

  But this was definitely Logan’s car, no doubt about it. And it was empty. I opened the driver’s door to make certain, felt the wind almost rip it off its hinges before I managed to force it shut again. The rain hammered on the hood and ran in torrents from under the wheel arches.

  So he’d followed me and Hunter. Maybe he’d been driving through Centennial at the point just after Hunter showed up, seen him sitting next to me, giving me a hard time over my unwelcome curiosity. And Logan had wondered who the hell Hunter was and what he wanted. It would be typical of Logan to follow at a distance in case I needed him.

  But where was he now? I raised my voice to bring him back to his car. ‘Logan, where are you?’

  There was no answer, only the wind howling through the aspens, the rain drumming on to the roof and the hood.

  And then another thought struck me. Was Logan the intruder Dean had heard?

  No way. Phoenix said they didn’t find any far-siders.

  Maybe they did and he was lying. Anyway, maybe they set up the barrier, the force field to keep them out, just in case. Had Logan got caught up in that by mistake?

  I felt my stomach wrench into knots as I left the car and staggered past the rock towards the top of the ridge. ‘Logan, it’s me, Darina!’

  I was sure that was what had happened – the Beautiful Dead had thrown the beating wings and skulls at Logan, sent him crazy, zapped his memory clean and abandoned him to the storm. And it was my fault.

  I reached a rocky ledge in the pouring rain, clung to a tree trunk as a blast of wind wrenched me off my feet. I watched as, twenty metres behind me, the same blast rocked Logan’s car from side to side.

  I’m out of here! A new thought struck me that I should leave while I could. What reasons could I give Logan if he found me out here? Surely it was better to leave his memory of the whole incident zombie-wiped and let him find his own way home. But I couldn’t do it – he might be in danger and I couldn’t desert him. So I held on to the tree and yelled his name.

  I was closer to him than I knew. I just needed to glance down ten metres to the foot of the ledge to see a body slumped against a boulder.

  At first I thought it was garbage – a tent ripped up by the wind and tossed against the rock, a piece of tarpaulin from the back of a hunter’s truck. But no, I knew I was fooling myself. ‘Logan?’ I whispered as I clambered down the slope. I reached his side and bent over him, lifting his jacket collar clear of his face.

  His eyes were open but I knew he was seriously hurt. ‘Don’t try to move,’ I whispered.

  He closed his eyes, opened them again, as if he was checking that he wasn’t hallucinating.

  ‘It’s OK.’ I knew it wasn’t, even though there was no sign of blood. ‘I’m here.’

  ‘The wind,’ he murmured.

  ‘I know. You’re OK. Don’t move.’ I knew he couldn’t.

  He lay on his back in the rain, looking up at me. ‘The wind.’

  ‘I know – it pushed you over the edge. Don’t worry, I’ll get you out of here.’

  ‘Or maybe I was pushed.’ He said this so faintly I thought I’d imagined it. Then he sighed and closed his eyes.

  ‘Logan, stay awake! We’re going to get out, you hear!’

  His eyes flickered open. ‘The wind,’ he whispered again.

  ‘That’s right. It’s a bad storm.’ He looked so weak that I felt his neck for a pulse then leaned down to listen to his breathing.

  He whispered in my ear. ‘Darina, I never wanted anyone except you.’

  Donna and Iceman came to help me get Logan to my car. They didn’t speak as they appeared in their halos of silver light, they just made me stand to one side and lifted him as if he weighed no more than a feather. They kept him flat on his back and carried him on their shoulders, letting his arms hang down. He groaned as they set him down in the car.

  ‘Drive,’ Iceman told me before he zapped Logan’s mind clear of the last few minutes. Then he closed the door and he and Donna dematerialized into the darkness.

  Panic squeezed my heart. Logan lay slumped beside me, his head fallen back against the hooped metal rest, his eyes almost closed. I turned on the ignition and the wipers, reversed from under the trees, hearing the tyres crunch on the shale as I swung round to face the dirt road. ‘Hang on, Logan,’ I pleaded. ‘Talk to me. Stay awake.’

  ‘What did I do?’

  ‘You didn’t do anything. You got caught in a storm, you fell.’ I was on the track, trying to avoid the ruts and hollows. I had to get Logan to a doctor. He had to keep his eyes open. ‘What were you doing here?’ I asked.

  ‘I was out at Foxton with Lucas and some other guys. I saw you drive by.’

  ‘And you had to follow me!’ I cried.

  My car hit a ridge, we rattled and rolled down the next stretch, but the necklace of Foxton lights came into view, and I told Logan we were almost on the highway. ‘Hang on,’ I pleaded. I would break any limit, drive through any red light to get him to the hospital.

  Up ahead, the spray from passing trucks rose in clouds, caught in my headlights as I waited for a gap in the traffic. The yellow indicator light flashed on-off, on-off, lighting up Logan’s face and throwing it back into darkness.

  He’d lost consciousness by the time we reached the hospital. His head had tilted towards me, his eyes were closed.

  The paramedics came and took him out of the car. They stretchered him into the ER, hooked him up to machines, ran the first tests.

  ‘He’
s going to be OK,’ I told a nurse under the bright lights.

  He nodded. ‘You see the woman at the desk? Go talk to her. We’ll take good care of your buddy.’

  They needed to know Logan’s name, she told me. How old was he? Where did his parents live?

  I could see Logan through a glass partition. He lay under a green sheet, surrounded by machines and medics. Then they rolled screens around him.

  ‘Logan Lavelle,’ I told her. ‘No mother, only a father. They live on West Seventy-Ninth, it’s the street next to mine.’

  Logan’s dad came to the hospital at two a.m. He’d been drinking at Mike Hamill’s house until the small hours, had arrived home to an urgent message that he should call the hospital. By the time I saw him in the corridor outside Logan’s room, he was halfway sober.

  ‘Mr Lavelle, my name is David Hoffmann. I’m taking care of Logan.’ The doctor rested a hand on his shoulder and led him down the corridor. ‘Your boy sustained a serious head injury in a fall. The scan shows damage to the skull and some pressure on the frontal lobe of the brain …’

  I sat there feeling sick in my stomach, trying to control my breathing. The lights seemed too bright, the floor too shiny. I put my hand to my eyes and covered them, until I heard the doctor come back with Logan’s dad.

  ‘We’ll do everything we can,’ he promised.

  ‘When can I see him?’ Byron Lavelle asked.

  ‘We’re running a scan. I’ll fetch you when we’re through.’

  As the doctor disappeared down the corridor, Logan’s dad sat heavily beside me. He was dressed in his work clothes, with two days’ stubble on his chin. I noticed that the pointed Western boots he always wore were dusty and scuffed. I closed my eyes with a feeling of total hopelessness.

  We got through to four-thirty a.m. By now Laura and Jim were both at the hospital with me. Jim had taken Logan’s dad to a family room on the sixth floor while Laura sat and held my hand in the corridor. ‘This is because of me,’ I told her.

  She put her hand up to stop me. ‘Don’t talk. Save it for later.’

  The hospital had already told us that they planned surgery the next day. ‘We have a tube in there to drain fluid from inside the skull and ease the pressure. The scan shows a blood clot. He’s on anti-coagulant medication. We hope the surgery will remove the clot altogether.’