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Page 29


  It all clic­ked in­to pla­ce. Jules hadn't be­en sick the night he di­sap­pe­ared in­to the men's ro­om at Delp­hic. And he hadn't be­en sick the night we went to the Bor­der­li­ne. All along it was the simp­le fact that he had to re­ma­in in­vi­sib­le to Patch. The mo­ment Patch saw him, it wo­uld all be over. Patch wo­uld know Jules- Cha­un­cey-was up to so­met­hing. El­li­ot was Jules's eyes and ears, fe­eding in­for­ma­ti­on back to him.

  "The plan was to kill you on the cam­ping trip, but El­li­ot fa­iled to con­vin­ce you to co­me," Jules sa­id. "Ear­li­er to­day, I fol­lo­wed you out of Blind Joe's and shot you. Ima­gi­ne my surp­ri­se when I fo­und Pd kil­led a bag lady dres­sed in yo­ur co­at. But it all wor­ked out." His to­ne re­la­xed. "He­re we are."

  I shif­ted in my se­at, and the scal­pel slid de­eper in­to my je­ans. If I wasn't ca­re­ful, it wo­uld slip out of re­ach. If Jules for­ced me to stand, it might sli­de all the way down my pant leg. And that wo­uld be the end of that.

  "Let me gu­ess what you're thin­king," sa­id Jules, ri­sing to his fe­et and sa­un­te­ring to the front of the ro­om. "You're star­ting to wish you'd ne­ver met Patch. You wish he'd ne­ver fal­len in lo­ve with you. Go on. La­ugh at the po­si­ti­on he's put you in. La­ugh at yo­ur own bad cho­ice."

  He­aring Jules talk abo­ut Patch's lo­ve fil­led me with ir­ra­ti­onal ho­pe.

  I fumb­led the scal­pel out of my je­ans and jum­ped from my se­at. "Don't co­me ne­ar me! I'll stab you. I swe­ar I will!"

  Jules ma­de a gut­tu­ral so­und and flung his arm ac­ross the co­un­ter at the front of the ro­om. Glass be­akers shat­te­red aga­inst the chalk­bo­ard, pa­pers flut­te­ring down. He stro­de to­ward me. In a pa­nic, I bro­ught the scal­pel up as hard as I co­uld. It met his palm, sli­cing thro­ugh skin.

  Jules his­sed and drew back.

  Not wa­iting, I plun­ged the scal­pel down in­to his thigh.

  Jules ga­ped at the me­tal prot­ru­ding from his leg. He jer­ked it out using both hands, his fa­ce con­tor­ting in pa­in. He ope­ned his hands, and the scal­pel fell with a clat­ter.

  He to­ok a fal­te­ring step to­ward me.

  I shri­eked and dod­ged away, but my hip clip­ped the ed­ge of a tab­le; I lost my fo­oting and tumb­led down. The scal­pel lay se­ve­ral fe­et away.

  Jules flip­ped me on my sto­mach and strad­dled me from be­hind. He pres­sed my fa­ce in­to the flo­or, crus­hing my no­se and muf­fling my scre­ams.

  "Va­li­ant at­tempt," he grun­ted. "But that won't kill me. I'm Nep­hi­lim. I'm im­mor­tal."

  I grab­bed for the scal­pel, dig­ging my to­es in­to the flo­or to stretch tho­se last, vi­tal inc­hes. My fin­gers fumb­led over it. I was so clo­se, and then Jules was drag­ging me back.

  I bro­ught my he­el up hard bet­we­en his legs; he gro­aned and went limp off to one si­de. I scramb­led to my fe­et, but Jules rol­led to the do­or, kne­eling bet­we­en me and it.

  His ha­ir hung in his eyes. Be­ads of swe­at trick­led down his fa­ce. His mo­uth was lop­si­ded, one half cur­led up in pa­in.

  Every musc­le in my body was co­iled, re­ady to spring in­to ac­ti­on.

  "Go­od luck trying to es­ca­pe," he sa­id with a cyni­cal smi­le that se­emed to re­qu­ire a lot of ef­fort. "You'll see what I me­an." Then he sank to the gro­und.

  CHAPTER 29

  I HAD NO IDEA WHE­RE VEE WAS. THE OB­VI­O­US THO­UGHT ca­me to me to think li­ke Jules-whe­re wo­uld I hold Vee hos­ta­ge if I we­re him?

  He wants to ma­ke it hard to es­ca­pe and hard to be fo­und, I re­aso­ned.

  I bro­ught up a men­tal blu­ep­rint of the bu­il­ding, nar­ro­wing my at­ten­ti­on to the up­per le­vels. Chan­ces we­re, Vee was on the third flo­or, the hig­hest in the scho­ol-except for a small fo­urth flo­or, which was mo­re of an at­tic than anyt­hing el­se. A nar­row sta­ir­ca­se ac­ces­sib­le only from the third flo­or led up to it. The­re we­re two bun­ga­low-style clas­sro­oms at the top: AP Spa­nish and the eZi­ne lab.

  Vee was in the eZi­ne lab. Just li­ke that, I knew it.

  Mo­ving as qu­ickly as I co­uld thro­ugh the dark­ness, I felt my way up two flights of sta­irs. Af­ter so­me tri­al and er­ror, I fo­und the nar­row sta­ir­ca­se le­ading to the eZi­ne lab. At the top, I pus­hed on the do­or.

  "Vee?" I cal­led softly.

  She let out a small mo­an.

  "It's me," I sa­id, ta­king each step with ca­re as I ma­ne­uve­red up an ais­le of desks, not wan­ting to knock over a cha­ir and alert Jules to my lo­ca­ti­on. "Are you hurt? We ne­ed to get out of he­re." I fo­und her hud­dled at the front of the ro­om, hug­ging her kne­es to her chest.

  "Jules hit me over the he­ad," she sa­id, her vo­ice ri­sing. "I think I pas­sed out. Now I can't see. I can't see anyt­hing!"

  "Lis­ten to me. Jules cut the elect­ri­city and the sha­des are drawn. It's just the dark­ness. Hold my hand. We ha­ve to get downs­ta­irs right now."

  "I think he da­ma­ged so­met­hing. My he­ad is throb­bing. I re­al­ly think I'm blind!"

  "You're not blind," I whis­pe­red, gi­ving her a small sha­ke. "I can't see eit­her. We ha­ve to fe­el our way downs­ta­irs. We're go­ing to le­ave thro­ugh the exit by the ath­le­tics of­fi­ce."

  "He's got cha­ins on all the do­ors."

  A mo­ment of ri­gid si­len­ce drop­ped bet­we­en us. I re­mem­be­red Jules wis­hing me luck es­ca­ping, and now I knew why. A per­cep­tib­le chill rip­pled from my he­art thro­ugh the rest of my body. "Not the do­or I ca­me in," I sa­id at last. "The far east do­or is un­loc­ked."

  "It must be the only one. I was with him when he cha­ined the ot­hers. He sa­id that way no­body wo­uld be temp­ted to go out­si­de whi­le we pla­yed hi­de-and-se­ek. He sa­id out­si­de was out-of-bo­unds."

  "If the east do­or is the only one left un­loc­ked, he'll try to block it. He'll wa­it for us to co­me to him. But we're not go­ing to. We're go­ing out a win­dow," I sa­id, de­vi­sing a plan off the top of my he­ad. "On the op­po­si­te end of the bu­il­ding-this end. Do you ha­ve yo­ur cell?"

  "Jules to­ok it."

  "When we get out­si­de, we ha­ve to split up. If Jules cha­ses us, he'll ha­ve to cho­ose one of us to fol­low. The ot­her will get help." I al­re­ady knew who he'd cho­ose. Jules had no use for Vee, ex­cept to lu­re me he­re to­night. "Run as hard as you can and get to a pho­ne. Call the po­li­ce. Tell them El­li­ot is in the lib­rary."

  "Ali­ve?" Vee as­ked, her vo­ice tremb­ling.

  "I don't know."

  We sto­od hud­dled to­get­her, and I felt her pull her shirt up and wi­pe her eyes. "This is all my fa­ult."

  "This is Jules's fa­ult."

  "I'm sca­red."

  "We're go­ing to be fi­ne," I sa­id, at­temp­ting to so­und op­ti­mis­tic. "I stab­bed Jules in the leg with a scal­pel. He's ble­eding he­avily. May­be he'll gi­ve up cha­sing us and go get me­di­cal at­ten­ti­on."

  A sob es­ca­ped Vee. We both knew I was lying. Jules's de­si­re for re­ven­ge out­we­ig­hed his wo­und. It out­we­ig­hed everyt­hing.

  Vee and I crept down the sta­irs, ke­eping tight to the walls, un­til we we­re back on the ma­in flo­or.

  "This way," I whis­pe­red in her ear, hol­ding her hand as we spe­ed-wal­ked down the hall, he­ading fart­her west.

  We hadn't wal­ked very far when a gut­tu­ral so­und, not qu­ite la­ugh­ter, rol­led out of the tun­nel of dark­ness ahe­ad.

  "Well, well, what do we ha­ve he­re?" Jules sa­id. The­re was no fa­ce at­tac­hed to his vo­ice.

  "Run," I told Vee, squ­e­ezing her hand. "He wants me. Call the po­li­ce. Run!"

  Vee drop­ped my hand and ran. Her fo­ots­teps fa­ded dep­res­singly fast. I won­de­red bri­efly if Patch was s
till in the bu­il­ding, but it was mo­re of a si­de tho­ught. Most of my con­cent­ra­ti­on went in­to not pas­sing out. Be­ca­use on­ce aga­in, I fo­und myself all alo­ne with Jules.

  "It will ta­ke the po­li­ce at le­ast twenty mi­nu­tes to res­pond," Jules told me, the tap of his sho­es dra­wing clo­ser. "I don't ne­ed twenty mi­nu­tes."

  I tur­ned and ran. Jules bro­ke in­to a run be­hind me.

  Fumb­ling my hands over the walls, I tur­ned right at the first in­ter­sec­ti­on and ra­ced down a per­pen­di­cu­lar hall. For­ced to rely on the walls to gu­ide me, my hands slap­ped over the sharp ed­ges of loc­kers and do­orj­ambs, nic­king my skin. I ma­de anot­her right, run­ning as fast as I co­uld for the do­ub­le do­ors of the gymna­si­um.

  The only tho­ught po­un­ding thro­ugh my he­ad was that if I co­uld get to my gym loc­ker in ti­me, I co­uld lock myself in­si­de it. The girls' loc­ker ro­om was wall-to-wall and flo­or-to-ce­iling with over­si­ze loc­kers. It wo­uld ta­ke Jules ti­me to bre­ak in­to each one in­di­vi­du­al­ly. If I was luck), the po­li­ce wo­uld ar­ri­ve be­fo­re he fo­und me.

  I flung myself in­to the gym and ran for the at­tac­hed girls' loc­ker ro­om. As so­on as I pus­hed on the do­or hand­le, I felt a spi­ke of cold ter­ror. The do­or was loc­ked. I rat­tled the hand­le aga­in, but it didn't gi­ve. Spin­ning aro­und, I se­arc­hed fran­ti­cal­ly for anot­her exit, but I was trap­ped in the gym. I fell back aga­inst the do­or, squ­e­ezed my eyes shut to sta­ve off fa­in­ting, and lis­te­ned to my bre­ath hitch up.

  When I re­ope­ned my eyes, Jules was wal­king in­to the ha­ze of mo­on­light trick­ling thro­ugh the skylights. He'd knot­ted his shirt aro­und his thigh; a sta­in of blo­od se­eped thro­ugh the fab­ric. He was left in a whi­te un­ders­hirt and chi­nos. A gun was tuc­ked in­to the wa­ist­band of his pants.

  "Ple­ase let me go," I whis­pe­red.

  "Vee told me so­met­hing in­te­res­ting abo­ut you. You're af­ra­id of he­ights." He lif­ted his ga­ze to the raf­ters high abo­ve the gym. A smi­le split his fa­ce.

  The stag­nant air was sod­den with the smells of swe­at and wo­od var­nish. The he­at had be­en tur­ned off for spring bre­ak and the tem­pe­ra­tu­re was icy. Sha­dows stretc­hed back and forth ac­ross the po­lis­hed flo­or as the mo­on­light bro­ke thro­ugh the clo­uds. Jules sto­od with his back to the ble­ac­hers, and I saw Patch mo­ve be­hind him.

  "Did you at­tack Mar­cie Mil­lar?" I as­ked Jules, or­de­ring myself not to re­act and gi­ve Patch away.

  "Elli­ot told me the­re's bad blo­od bet­we­en the two of you. I didn't li­ke the idea of so­me­one el­se ha­ving the ple­asu­re of tor­men­ting my girl."

  "And my bed­ro­om win­dow? Did you spy on me whi­le I was sle­eping?"

  "Not­hing per­so­nal."

  Jules stif­fe­ned. He step­ped for­ward sud­denly and jer­ked on my wrist, spin­ning me aro­und in front of him. I felt what I fe­ared was the gun press in­to the na­pe of my neck. "Ta­ke off yo­ur hat," Jules or­de­red Patch. "I want to see the exp­res­si­on on yo­ur fa­ce when I kill her. You're help­less to sa­ve her. As help­less as I was to do anyt­hing abo­ut the oath I swo­re to you."

  Patch to­ok a co­up­le of steps clo­ser. He mo­ved easily, but I sen­sed his tightly re­ined ca­uti­on. The gun pro­bed de­eper, and I win­ced.

  "Ta­ke anot­her step and this will be her last bre­ath," Jules war­ned.

  Patch glan­ced at the dis­tan­ce bet­we­en us, cal­cu­la­ting how qu­ickly he co­uld co­ver it. Jules saw it too.

  "Don't try it," he sa­id.

  "You're not go­ing to sho­ot her, Cha­un­cey."

  "No?" Jules squ­e­ezed the trig­ger. The gun clic­ked, and I ope­ned my mo­uth to scre­am, but all that ca­me out was a tre­mu­lo­us sob.

  "Re­vol­ver," Jules exp­la­ined. "The ot­her fi­ve cham­bers are lo­aded."

  Re­ady to use tho­se bo­xing mo­ves you're al­ways brag­ging abo­ut? Patch sa­id to my mind.

  My pul­se was all over the pla­ce, my legs ba­rely hol­ding me up. "W-what?" I stam­me­red.

  Wit­ho­ut war­ning, a rush of po­wer co­ur­sed in­to me. The fo­re­ign for­ce ex­pan­ded to fill me. My body was comp­le­tely vul­ne­rab­le to Patch, all my strength and fre­edom for­fe­ited as he to­ok pos­ses­si­on of me.

  Be­fo­re I had ti­me to re­ali­ze just how much this loss of cont­rol ter­ri­fi­ed me, a crus­hing pa­in spi­ked thro­ugh my hand, and I re­ali­zed Patch was using my fist to punch Jules. The gun was knoc­ked lo­ose; it skid­ded ac­ross the gym flo­or out of re­ach.

  Patch com­man­ded my hands to slam Jules back­ward aga­inst the ble­ac­hers. Jules trip­ped, fal­ling in­to them.

  The next thing I knew, my hands we­re clo­sing on Jules's thro­at, flin­ging his he­ad back aga­inst the ble­ac­hers with a lo­ud crack! I held him the­re, pres­sing my fin­gers in­to his neck. His eyes wi­de­ned, then bul­ged. He was trying to spe­ak, mo­ving his lips unin­tel­li­gibly, but Patch didn't let up.

  I won't be ab­le to stay in­si­de you much lon­ger, Patch spo­ke to my tho­ughts. It's not Chesh­van and I'm not al­lo­wed. As so­on as I'm cast out, run. Do you un­ders­tand? Run as fast as you can. Cha­un­cey will be too we­ak and stun­ned to get in­si­de yo­ur he­ad. Run and don't stop.

  A high hum­ming so­und whi­ned thro­ugh me, and I felt my body pe­eling away from Patch's.

  The ves­sels in Jules's neck jum­ped out and his he­ad dro­oped to one si­de. Co­me on, I he­ard Patch ur­ge him. Pass out… pass out…

  But it was too la­te. Patch va­nis­hed from in­si­de me. He was go­ne so sud­denly, I was left dizzy.

  My hands we­re in my cont­rol aga­in, and they sprang away from Jules's neck on im­pul­se. He gas­ped for air and blin­ked up at me. Patch was on the flo­or a few fe­et away, un­mo­ving.

  I re­mem­be­red what Patch had sa­id and sprin­ted ac­ross the gym. I flung myself aga­inst the do­or, ex­pec­ting to sa­il in­to the hall. Ins­te­ad it was li­ke hit­ting a wall. I sho­ved the push bar, kno­wing the do­or was un­loc­ked. Fi­ve mi­nu­tes ago I'd co­me thro­ugh it. I hur­led all my we­ight aga­inst the do­or. It didn't open.

  I tur­ned aro­und, the ad­re­na­li­ne let­down ca­using my kne­es to sha­ke. "Get out of my mind!" I scre­amed at Jules.

  Pul­ling him­self up to sit on the lo­west ri­se of the ble­ac­hers, Jules mas­sa­ged his thro­at. "No," he sa­id.

  I tri­ed the do­or aga­in. I got my fo­ot up and kic­ked the push bar. I smac­ked my palms aga­inst the do­or's slit of a win­dow. "Help! Can an­yo­ne he­ar me? Help!"

  Lo­oking over my sho­ul­der, I fo­und Jules lim­ping to­ward me, his inj­ured leg buck­ling un­der each step. I squ­e­ezed my eyes shut, trying to fo­cus my mind. The do­or wo­uld open as so­on as I fo­und his vo­ice and swept it out. I se­arc­hed ever) cor­ner of my mind but co­uldn't find him. He was so­mew­he­re de­ep, hi­ding from me. I ope­ned my eyes. Jules was much clo­ser. I was go­ing to ha­ve to find anot­her way out.

  Dril­led in­to the wall abo­ve the ble­ac­hers was an iron lad­der. It re­ac­hed to the grid of raf­ters at the top of the gym. At the far end of the raf­ters, on the op­po­si­te wall, al­most di­rectly abo­ve whe­re I sto­od, was an air shaft. If I co­uld get to it, I co­uld climb in and find anot­her way down.

  I bro­ke in­to a de­ad sprint past Jules and up the ble­ac­hers. My sho­es slap­ped the wo­od, ec­ho­ing thro­ugh the empty spa­ce, ma­king it im­pos­sib­le to he­ar whet­her Jules was fol­lo­wing me. I got my fo­oting on the first lad­der rung and ho­is­ted myself up. I clim­bed one rung, then anot­her. Out of the cor­ner of my eye, I saw the drin­king fo­un­ta­in far be­low. It was small, which me­ant I was high. Very high.

  Don't lo­ok dow
n, I or­de­red myself. Con­cent­ra­te on what's abo­ve. I ten­ta­ti­vely clim­bed one mo­re rung. The lad­der rat­tled, not pro­perly wel­ded to the wall.

  Jules's la­ugh­ter car­ri­ed up to me, and my con­cent­ra­ti­on slip­ped. Ima­ges of fal­ling flas­hed in my mind. Lo­gi­cal­ly, I knew he was plan­ting them. Then my bra­in til­ted, and I co­uldn't re­mem­ber which way was up or down. I co­uldn't de­cip­her which tho­ughts we­re mi­ne and which be­lon­ged to Jules.

  My fe­ar was so thick it blur­red my vi­si­on. I didn't know whe­re on the lad­der I sto­od. We­re my fe­et cen­te­red? Was I clo­se to slip­ping? Clenc­hing the rung with both hands, I pres­sed my fo­re­he­ad aga­inst my knuck­les. Bre­at­he, I told myself. Bre­at­he!

  And then I he­ard it.

  The slow, ago­ni­zing so­und of me­tal cre­aking. I clo­sed my eyes to sup­press a dizzy spell.

  The me­tal brac­kets se­cu­ring the top of the lad­der to the wall pop­ped free. The me­tal­lic gro­an chan­ged to a high-pitc­hed whi­ne as the next set of brac­kets down to­re from the wall. I watc­hed with a scre­am trap­ped in my thro­at as the en­ti­re top half of the lad­der bro­ke free. Loc­king my arms and legs aro­und the lad­der, I bra­ced myself for the back­ward fall. The lad­der wa­ve­red a mo­ment in air, pa­ti­ently suc­cum­bing to gra­vity.

  And then it all hap­pe­ned qu­ickly. The raf­ters and skylights fa­ded away in­to a diz­zying blur. I flew down un­til, sud­denly, the lad­der slam­med to a stop. It bo­un­ced up and down, per­pen­di­cu­lar to the wall, thirty fe­et abo­ve gro­und. The im­pact jer­ked my legs lo­ose, my hands my only at­tach­ment to the lad­der.

  "Help!" I scre­amed, my legs bicyc­ling thro­ugh air.

  The lad­der lurc­hed, drop­ping se­ve­ral mo­re fe­et. One of my sho­es slid down my fo­ot, ca­ught on my toe, then drop­ped. Far too long la­ter, it hit the gym flo­or.

  I bit down on my ton­gue as the pa­in in my arms de­epe­ned. They we­re te­aring out of the­ir soc­kets.