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  Patch ca­ught my eye and pas­sed me a gold-me­dal bar-fight grin. The grin alo­ne was scary eno­ugh, but un­der the ro­ugh ex­te­ri­or, it held a no­te of de­si­re. Mo­re than a no­te, ac­tu­al­ly. A who­le symphony of de­si­re.

  Patch tip­ped his he­ad at the sta­irs and held his hand out to me. "Let's get out of he­re," he sa­id.

  "Whe­re are we go­ing?" I as­ked, my sto­mach tumb­ling to my kne­es.

  "You'll see."

  As we as­cen­ded the sta­irs, Ri­xon cal­led out to me, "Go­od luck with that one, lo­ve!"

  CHAPTER 18

  ON THE DRI­VE BACK, PATCH TO­OK THE TOPS­HAM EXIT and par­ked along­si­de the his­to­ric Tops­ham pa­per mill sit­ting on the bank of the And­ros­cog­gin Ri­ver. At one po­int, the mill had be­en used to turn tree pulp in­to pa­per. Now a big sign ac­ross the si­de of the bu­il­ding re­ad SEA DOG BRE­WING CO. The ri­ver was wi­de and choppy, with ma­tu­re tre­es sho­oting up on both si­des.

  It was still ra­ining hard, and night had set­tled down aro­und us. I had to be­at my mom ho­me. I hadn't told her I was go­ing out be­ca­use… well, the ho­nest truth was, Patch wasn't the kind of guy mot­hers smi­led on. He was the kind of guy they chan­ged the ho­use locks for.

  "Can we get ta­ke­o­ut?" I as­ked.

  Patch ope­ned the dri­ver's-si­de do­or. "Any re­qu­ests?"

  "A tur­key sand­wich. But no pick­les. Oh, and no ma­yon­na­ise."

  I co­uld tell I'd ear­ned one of his smi­les that ne­ver qu­ite ma­de it to the sur­fa­ce. I se­emed to earn a lot of tho­se. This ti­me, I co­uldn't fi­gu­re out what I'd sa­id.

  "I'll see what I can do," he sa­id, sli­ding out.

  Patch left the keys in the ig­ni­ti­on and the he­ater pum­ping. For the first co­up­le of mi­nu­tes, I rep­la­yed our eve­ning so far in my mind. And then it daw­ned on me that I was alo­ne in Patch's Je­ep. His pri­va­te spa­ce.

  If I we­re Patch, and I wan­ted to hi­de so­met­hing highly sec­re­ti­ve, I wo­uldn't hi­de it in my ro­om, my scho­ol loc­ker, or even my back­pack, all of which co­uld be con­fis­ca­ted or se­arc­hed wit­ho­ut war­ning. I'd hi­de it in my shiny black Je­ep with the sop­his­ti­ca­ted alarm system.

  I un­buck­led my se­at belt and rum­ma­ged thro­ugh the stack of text­bo­oks ne­ar my fe­et, fe­eling a myste­ri­o­us smi­le cre­ep to my mo­uth at the tho­ught of un­co­ve­ring one of Patch's sec­rets. I wasn't ex­pec­ting to find anyt­hing in par­ti­cu­lar; I wo­uld ha­ve set­tled for the com­bi­na­ti­on to his loc­ker or his cell pho­ne num­ber. To­e­ing aro­und old scho­ol as­sign­ments clut­te­ring the flo­or mats, I fo­und a fa­ded pi­ne-scen­ted air fres­he­ner, an AC/DC High­way to Hell CD, pen­cil stubs, and a re­ce­ipt from the 7-Ele­ven da­ted Wed­nes­day at 10:18 p.m. Not­hing es­pe­ci­al­ly surp­ri­sing or re­ve­aling.

  I pop­ped open the glo­ve com­part­ment and sif­ted thro­ugh the ope­ra­ting ma­nu­al and ot­her of­fi­ci­al do­cu­ments. The­re was a gle­am of chro­me, and my fin­ger­tips brus­hed me­tal. I pul­led out a ste­el flash­light and tur­ned it on, but not­hing hap­pe­ned. I unsc­re­wed the bot­tom, thin­king the flash­light felt a lit­tle light, and su­re eno­ugh, the­re we­re no bat­te­ri­es. I won­de­red why Patch kept a non­wor­king flash­light sto­red in his glo­ve com­part­ment. It was the last tho­ught I had be­fo­re my eyes ho­med in on the rust) li­qu­id that had dri­ed at one end of the flash­light.

  Blo­od.

  Very ca­re­ful­ly, I re­tur­ned the flash­light to the glo­ve com­part­ment and shut it out of sight. I told myself the­re we­re lots of things that wo­uld le­ave blo­od on a flash­light. Li­ke hol­ding it with an inj­ured hand, using it to push a de­ad ani­mal to the si­de of the ro­ad… swin­ging it with for­ce aga­inst a body re­pe­atedly un­til it bro­ke skin.

  With my he­art thun­de­ring, I jum­ped on the first conc­lu­si­on that pre­sen­ted it­self. Patch had li­ed. He'd at­tac­ked Mar­cie. He'd drop­ped me off Wed­nes­day eve­ning, tra­ded his mo­torcyc­le for the Je­ep, and go­ne out lo­oking for her. Or may­be the­ir paths had in­ter­sec­ted by chan­ce and he'd ac­ted on im­pul­se. Eit­her way, Mar­cie was hurt, the po­li­ce we­re in­vol­ved, and Patch was gu­ilty.

  Ra­ti­onal­ly, I knew it was a qu­ick draw and a big le­ap, but emo­ti­onal­ly, the sta­kes we­re too high to step back and think it over. Patch had a frigh­te­ning past and many, many sec­rets. If bru­tal and sen­se­less vi­olen­ce was one of them, I wasn't sa­fe ri­ding aro­und alo­ne with him.

  A flash of dis­tant light­ning brigh­te­ned the ho­ri­zon. Patch exi­ted the res­ta­urant and jog­ged ac­ross the par­king lot hol­ding a brown bag in one hand and two so­das in the ot­her. He went aro­und to the dri­ver's si­de and duc­ked in­si­de the Je­ep. He lif­ted his ball cap and scrub­bed ra­in out of his ha­ir. Dark wa­ves flip­ped up everyw­he­re. He han­ded me the brown bag. "One tur­key sand­wich, hold the ma­yo and pick­les, and so­met­hing to wash it down."

  "Did you at­tack Mar­cie Mil­lar?" I as­ked qu­i­etly. "I want the truth-now."

  Patch lo­we­red his 7UP from his mo­uth. His eyes sli­ced in­to mi­ne. "What?"

  "The flash­light in yo­ur glo­ve com­part­ment. Exp­la­in it."

  "You went thro­ugh my glo­ve com­part­ment?" He didn't so­und an­no­yed, but he didn't so­und ple­ased, eit­her.

  "The flash­light has dri­ed blo­od on it. The po­li­ce ca­me to my ho­use ear­li­er. They think I'm in­vol­ved. Mar­cie was at­tac­ked Wed­nes­day night, right af­ter I told you how much I can't stand her."

  Patch ga­ve a curt la­ugh, mi­nus the hu­mor. "You think I used the flash­light to be­at up Mar­cie."

  He re­ac­hed be­hind his se­at and drag­ged out a lar­ge gun. I scre­amed.

  He le­aned over and se­aled my mo­uth with his hand. "Pa­int­ball gun," he sa­id. His to­ne had chil­led.

  I di­vi­ded lo­oks bet­we­en the gun and Patch, fe­eling a lot of whi­te sho­wing aro­und my eyes.

  "I pla­yed pa­int­ball ear­li­er this we­ek," he sa­id. "I tho­ught we went over this."

  "Th-that do­esn't exp­la­in the blo­od on the flash­light."

  "Not blo­od," he sa­id, "pa­int. We we­re pla­ying Cap­tu­re the Flag."

  My eyes shif­ted back to the glo­ve com­part­ment sto­ring the flash­light. The flash­light was… the flag. A mix of re­li­ef, idi­ocy, and gu­ilt at ac­cu­sing Patch swam thro­ugh me. "Oh," I sa­id la­mely. "I'm-sor­ry." But it se­emed a lit­tle too la­te for sorry.

  Patch sta­red stra­ight ahe­ad thro­ugh the winds­hi­eld, his bre­at­hing de­ep. I won­de­red if he was using the si­len­ce to let go of a lit­tle ste­am. I had just ac­cu­sed him of as­sa­ult, af­ter all. I felt ter­rib­le abo­ut it, but my mind was too rat­tled to co­me up with the right apo­logy.

  "From yo­ur desc­rip­ti­on of Mar­cie, it so­unds li­ke she's pro­bably rac­ked up a few ene­mi­es," he sa­id.

  "I'm pretty su­re Vee and I top the list," I sa­id, trying to ligh­ten the mo­od, but not en­ti­rely joking, eit­her.

  Patch pul­led up to the farm­ho­use and kil­led the en­gi­ne. His ball cap was low over his eyes, but now his mo­uth held the sug­ges­ti­on of a smi­le. His lips lo­oked soft and smo­oth, and I was ha­ving a hard ti­me aver­ting my eyes. Most of all, I was gra­te­ful he se­emed to ha­ve for­gi­ven me.

  "We're go­ing to ha­ve to work on yo­ur po­ol ga­me, An­gel," Patch sa­id.

  "Spe­aking of po­ol." I cle­ared my thro­at. "I'd li­ke to know when and how you're go­ing to col­lect on that… thing I owe you."

  "Not to­night." His eyes watc­hed mi­ne clo­sely, jud­ging my res­pon­se. I was ca­ught bet­we­en an easing of my mind and di­sap­po­int­ment. But mostly di­sap­po­int­ment.

  "I ha­ve so­met­hing for you," Patch sa­id. He re­ac­hed un­der his se­at and pul­led out a whi­te pa­per bag with red chi­li pep­pers prin­ted ac­ross it. A to-go bag from the Bor­der­li­ne. He set it bet­we­en us.

  "What's this for?" I as­ked, pe­eking in­si­de the bag, ha­ving ab­so­lu­tely no idea as to what might be in­si­de.

  'Open it."

  I pul­led a brown card­bo­ard box out of the to-go bag and lif­ted the lid. In­si­de was a snow glo­be with a mi­ni­atu­re Delp­hic Se­aport Amu­se­ment Park cap­tu­red in­si­de. Brass wi­res we­re bent ro­ughly in­to a circ­le for the Fer­ris whe­el and twis­ting lo­ops for the rol­ler co­as­ter; flat she­ets of tar­nis­hed me­tal for­med the Ma­gic Car­pet ri­de.

  "It's be­a­uti­ful," I sa­id, a lit­tle as­to­nis­hed that Patch had tho­ught of me, let alo­ne go­ne to the tro­ub­le of bu­ying me a pre­sent. "Thank you. I me­an it. I lo­ve it."

  He to­uc­hed the cur­ved glass. "The­re's the Arc­han­gel, be­fo­re it was re­mo­de­led." Be­hind the Fer­ris whe­el a thin wi­re rib­bo­ned to form the hills and val­leys of the Arc­han­gel. An an­gel with bro­ken wings sto­od at the hig­hest po­int, bo­wing his he­ad, ga­zing down wit­ho­ut eyes. "What re­al­ly hap­pe­ned the night we ro­de it to­get­her?" I as­ked.

  "You don't want to know."

  "If you tell me you'll ha­ve to kill me?" I half joked.

  "We're not alo­ne," Patch ans­we­red, lo­oking thro­ugh the winds­hi­eld.

  I glan­ced up and ca­ught my mom stan­ding in the open do­or­way. To my hor­ror, she step­ped out and wal­ked to­ward the Je­ep.

  "Let me do all the tal­king," I sa­id, stuf­fing the snow glo­be back in the box. "Don't say a
word-not one word!"

  Patch hop­ped out and ca­me aro­und for my do­or. We met my mom half­way up the dri­ve­way.

  "I didn't know you we­re go­ing out," she told me, smi­ling, but not in a re­la­xed way. It was a smi­le that sa­id, We'l1 talk la­ter.

  "It was sort of last mi­nu­te," I exp­la­ined.

  "I ca­me ho­me right af­ter yo­ga," she sa­id. The rest was imp­li­ed. Lucky for me, not so lucky for you. I'd be­en co­un­ting on her go­ing out for smo­ot­hi­es with her fri­ends af­ter class. Ni­ne ti­mes out of ten, she did. She tur­ned her at­ten­ti­on to Patch. "It's ni­ce to fi­nal­ly me­et you. Ap­pa­rently my da­ugh­ter's a big fan."

  I ope­ned my mo­uth to gi­ve an ext­re­mely con­ci­se int­ro­duc­ti­on and send Patch on his way, but Mom be­at me to it. "I'm No­ra's mom. Blythe Grey."

  "This is Patch," I sa­id, rac­king my bra­in for so­met­hing to say that wo­uld bring the ple­asant­ri­es to an ab­rupt halt. But the only things I co­uld think of we­re scre­aming Fi­re! or fa­king a se­izu­re. So­me­how, both se­emed mo­re hu­mi­li­ating than bra­ving a con­ver­sa­ti­on bet­we­en Patch and my mom.

  "No­ra tells me you're a swim­mer," Mom sa­id.

  I felt Patch sha­ke with la­ugh­ter be­si­de me. "A swim­mer?"

  "Are you on the scho­ol swim te­am, or is it a city le­ague?"

  "Mo­re… rec­re­ati­onal," sa­id Patch, pas­sing me a qu­es­ti­oning glan­ce.

  "Well rec­re­ati­onal is go­od too," Mom sa­id. "Whe­re do you swim? The rec cen­ter?"

  "I'm mo­re of an out­do­or guy. Ri­vers and la­kes."

  "Isn't that cold?" as­ked Mom.

  At my si­de, Patch jer­ked. I won­de­red what I'd mis­sed. Not­hing abo­ut the con­ver­sa­ti­on se­emed out of the or­di­nary. And I had to si­de with my mom on this one. Ma­ine was not a warm, tro­pi­cal pla­ce. Out­do­or swim­ming was cold, even in the sum­mer­ti­me. If Patch re­al­ly was swim­ming out­do­ors, he was eit­her crazy or he had a high pa­in thres­hold.

  "All right!" I sa­id, ta­king ad­van­ta­ge of the lull. "Patch ne­eds to get go­ing." Go! I mo­ut­hed at him.

  That's a very ni­ce Je­ep," Mom sa­id. "Did yo­ur pa­rents buy it for you?"

  "I got it myself."

  "You must ha­ve qu­ite a job."

  "I bus tab­les at the Bor­der­li­ne."

  Patch was sa­ying as lit­tle as pos­sib­le, ke­eping him­self ca­re­ful­ly sha­do­wed in mystery. I won­de­red what his li­fe was li­ke when he wasn't aro­und me. At the way back of my mind, I co­uldn't stop thin­king abo­ut his frigh­te­ning past. Up un­til now I'd fan­ta­si­zed abo­ut dis­co­ve­ring his de­ep, dark sec­rets be­ca­use I wan­ted to pro­ve to myself and to Patch that I was ca­pab­le of fi­gu­ring him out. But now I wan­ted to know his sec­rets be­ca­use they we­re a part of him.

  And des­pi­te the fact that I ro­uti­nely tri­ed to deny it, I felt so­met­hing for him. The mo­re ti­me I spent with him, the mo­re I knew the fe­elings we­ren't go­ing away.

  Mom frow­ned. "I ho­pe work do­esn't get in the way of stud­ying. Per­so­nal­ly, I don't be­li­eve high scho­ol stu­dents sho­uld work du­ring the scho­ol ye­ar. You ha­ve eno­ugh on yo­ur pla­tes al­re­ady."

  Patch smi­led. "It hasn't be­en a prob­lem."

  "Mind if I ask yo­ur GPA?" Mom sa­id. "Is that too ru­de?"

  "Gee, it's get­ting la­te-," I be­gan lo­udly, con­sul­ting the watch I didn't we­ar. I co­uldn't be­li­eve my mom was be­ing so un­co­ol abo­ut this. It was a bad sign. It co­uld only me­an her first imp­res­si­on of Patch was wor­se than I'd fe­ared. This wasn't an int­ro­duc­ti­on. It was an in­ter­vi­ew.

  "Two-po­int-two," Patch sa­id.

  My mom sta­red at him.

  "He's joking," I sa­id qu­ickly. I ga­ve Patch a disc­re­et push in the di­rec­ti­on of the Je­ep. "Patch has things to do. Pla­ces to go. Po­ol to play-" I clam­ped a hand over my mo­uth.

  "Play?" my mom sa­id, so­un­ding con­fu­sed.

  "No­ra's re­fer­ring to Bo's Ar­ca­de," Patch exp­la­ined. "But that's not whe­re I'm he­aded. I've got a few er­rands to run."

  "I've ne­ver be­en to Bo's," she sa­id.

  "It's not all that ex­ci­ting," I sa­id. "You're not mis­sing anyt­hing."

  "Wa­it," sa­id Mom, so­un­ding a lot li­ke a red flag had just sprung up in her me­mory. "Is it out on the co­ast? Clo­se to Delp­hic Se­aport? Wasn't the­re a sho­oto­ut at Bo's se­ve­ral ye­ars ago?"

  "It's ta­mer than it used to be," Patch sa­id. I nar­ro­wed my eyes at him. He'd be­aten me to the punch. I'd plan­ned on out­right lying abo­ut Bo's ha­ving any his­tory of vi­olen­ce.

  "Wo­uld you li­ke to co­me in for ice cre­am?" Mom as­ked, so­un­ding flus­te­red, ca­ught bet­we­en do­ing the po­li­te thing and ac­ting on the im­pul­se to drag me in­si­de and bolt the do­or. "We only ha­ve va­nil­la," she ad­ded to so­ur the de­al. "It's a few we­eks old."

  Patch sho­ok his he­ad. "I've got to get go­ing. May­be next ti­me. It was ni­ce me­eting you, Blythe."

  I to­ok the bre­ak in con­ver­sa­ti­on as my cue and pul­led my mom to­ward the front do­or, re­li­eved that the con­ver­sa­ti­on hadn't be­en as bad as it co­uld ha­ve be­en. Sud­denly Mom tur­ned back.

  "What did you and No­ra do to­night?" she as­ked Patch.

  Patch lo­oked at me and ra­ised his eyeb­rows ever so slightly.

  "We grab­bed din­ner in Tops­ham," I ans­we­red qu­ickly. "Sand­wic­hes and so­das. Pu­rely harm­less night."

  The tro­ub­le was, my fe­elings for Patch we­ren't 't harm­less.

  CHAPTER 19

  I LEFT THE SNOW GLO­BE IN ITS BOX AND TUC­KED it in­si­de my clo­set be­hind a stack of argy­le swe­aters I'd po­ac­hed from my dad. When I'd ope­ned the pre­sent in front of Patch, Delp­hic had lo­oked shim­mer) and be­a­uti­ful, light swir­ling ra­in­bows from the wi­res. But alo­ne in my bed­ro­om, the amu­se­ment park lo­oked ha­un­ted. A camp ide­al for di­sem­bo­di­ed spi­rits. And I wasn't en­ti­rely su­re the­re wasn't a hid­den ca­me­ra in­si­de.

  After chan­ging in­to a stretchy ca­mi­so­le and flo­ral pj pants, I cal­led Vee.

  "Well?" she sa­id. "How'd it go? Ob­vi­o­usly he didn't kill you, so that's a go­od start."

  "We pla­yed po­ol."

  "You ha­te po­ol."

  "He ga­ve me a few po­in­ters. Now that I know what I'm do­ing, it's not so bad."

  "I bet he co­uld gi­ve you po­in­ters in a few ot­her are­as of yo­ur li­fe."

  "Hmm." Nor­mal­ly, her com­ment might ha­ve in­ci­ted at le­ast a flush from me, but my mo­od was too se­ri­o­us. I was hard at work, thin­king.

  "I know I've sa­id this be­fo­re, but Patch do­esn't ins­till a de­ep sen­se of com­fort in me," Vee sa­id. "I still ha­ve night­ma­res abo­ut the guy in the ski mask. In one of my night­ma­res, he rip­ped off his mask, and gu­ess who was hi­ding un­der it? Patch. Per­so­nal­ly, I think you sho­uld tre­at him li­ke a lo­aded gun. So­met­hing abo­ut him isn't nor­mal."

  This was exactly what I wan­ted to talk abo­ut.

  "What wo­uld ca­use so­me­one to ha­ve a V-sha­ped scar on the­ir back?" I as­ked her.

  The­re was a mo­ment of si­len­ce.

  "Fre­ak," Vee cho­ked. "You saw him na­ked? Whe­re did it hap­pen? His Je­ep? His ho­use? Yo­ur bed­ro­om?"

  "I did not see him na­ked! It was sort of an ac­ci­dent."

  "Uh-huh, I've he­ard that ex­cu­se be­fo­re," sa­id Vee.

  "He had a hu­ge, up­si­de down V-sha­ped scar on his back. Isn't that a lit­tle we­ird?"

  "Of co­ur­se it's we­ird. But this is Patch we're tal­king abo­ut. He has a few screws lo­ose. I'm go­ing to ta­ke a wild gu­ess and say… gang fight? Pri­son scars? Skid marks from a hit-and-run?"