Nevermore

33 Just a Bird

Blood. Where was the blood? Why wasn’t she bleeding? Isobel searched her arms for signs of scarlet, expecting the pain to hit her at any moment. Those claws, they’d raked right through her. She should be shredded. Still halfway curled into herself, she stood trembling, as though waiting for the moment when she would start to fall apart at the seams. That moment never came, though. There was nothing. Maybe she was in shock.

“Miss Lanley, are you ill?”

It was Mr. Nott who asked this. The quiet tone of his voice made her feel suddenly grounded. It only took her a moment to realize that the cafeteria had grown quiet and looking up, she found the whole world staring at her.

Heat flooded her face.

She drew herself sharply upright, gazing into the faces of those who had been eating at the table behind her, the table she’d knocked into. Spilled cups, ruined lunches, and sopping napkins now littered the surface. All eyed her with expressions wavering between indignation and uncertainty. There was a last beat of silence, one final moment of suspended peace.

Then Alyssa’s voice, clear and curt, sliced through the stillness.

“Oh my God, Isobel, you’re such a spaz!”

Laughter. A loud burst of it shattered the eerie silence. Horrible, torturous, unforgiving laughter. How could she be living this nightmare again?

Isobel ran for the doors. Grinning faces blurred in her peripheral vision. She thought she could hear Brad shouting after her, but she ignored him. She hurried past her own table without even a sideways glance at Gwen, pushed through the double doors, and ran the length of the hall.

She pushed into the girls’ restroom, letting the door bang shut behind her. She drew herself up to the middle sink, placing her hands on either side of the basin. She stood there, trying to regulate her breathing, and fought against the urge to puke.

She was cracking up. She was losing her mind right in front of everyone. There was no other excuse for it. What was wrong with her?

She couldn’t be dreaming right now, could she?

Isobel brought her reluctant gaze up to the mirror. Staring into the deep ocean blue of her own eyes, she had never felt so alone.

“I need help,” she whispered. Pallid and haggard, she watched her nostrils flare as she took in a longer breath. She let it out through her mouth and shut her eyes. “I know you’re there, listening somewhere.” She wondered who she was even talking to. Reynolds? Herself? Varen?

“Look,” she said, “I’m sorry I wasn’t listening before, but I’m listening now. Please. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I don’t know what’s real anymore.”

The words were out, and Isobel found her eyes opening, shifting to watch, through the mirror, the space over her shoulder. She waited for something to happen, for him to appear in front of one of the stall doors, cloaked and shrouded as he had done before.

“Reynolds!” she whispered, evoking his name.

She heard a creak from behind and drew herself straight.

The bathroom door cracked open, and Gwen stuck her head in.

“Isobel, we’re going to have to talk about what you’re eating for breakfast, because whatever it is, it’s doing nothing for your social life, I can tell you that. Now I’m only going to ask you this once. Are you all right?”

Isobel stared at her friend’s reflection in the mirror.

“I got your book bag,” Gwen said. “Despite your standing ovation in there, I didn’t think you were gonna come back to get it. What kinda books you got in this thing, any-way? Feels like you’re schlepping around a hard copy of the Internet.”

“Books?” Isobel swung around. All at once, the sight of Gwen dragging her backpack through the door brought on a new thought, something that had not occurred to her until that moment. In the hall, the bell sounded, ending lunch in a shrill, nerve-frying clatter. “Gwen! You drive to school.”

Gwen stopped her struggle with Isobel’s bag. “And monkeys throw their poop. Isobel, you’re really startin’ to scare me.”

“Gwen. I need to borrow your car.”

“Are you nuts? What for? It’s the middle of the day!”

“Please,” she said, holding out her hand for the keys.

They snuck into the boiler room, which Mr. Talbot, the janitor, had left open while he cleaned up in the cafeteria. With Gwen in tow, Isobel hurried past the noise and heat of the boiler and through the back door. She shut it behind them and was certain by the click that it made that it had locked automatically. They’d have to find another way back in.

“This is insane,” Gwen whispered. “You’re gonna get us both suspended.”

“You didn’t have to come.”

“Oh, right, and let you drive off in my dad’s Cadillac with nothing but a permit?”

They stooped, sneaking around the side of the building and through the rows of faculty cars toward the student lot. This would be the toughest part, getting in the car and out of the lot without being noticed. The rear of Trenton was covered in windows. Still, her mind was set. If she got caught, then she got caught. She was fairly sure she could talk Gwen out of any major trouble if she had to, since Gwen was one of the school’s four National Merit finalists. Right now, though, she had to find Varen, and after her encounter with Pinfeathers, she couldn’t exactly say that Gwen’s company wasn’t welcome.

There was only one other place she could look for Varen, and right now, she didn’t care that it was against the rules to leave school grounds. She didn’t even care that she was supposed to be ready to perform with the squad in front of the whole school in little more than an hour.

At least she had a plan. She was pretty sure that if they could get away from the school undetected, and if they waited until the end of fifth period to return, when everyone in the school would be banging on lockers and heading to the gym for the pep rally, they might just be able to pull this off.

Ducking low, they wove their way between the rows of vehicles.

“Could have worn something a little less conspicuous,” Gwen grumbled behind her.

“It’s a pep rally day. I have to wear this!”

They continued on, making their way across the pavement sideways and crouching, like a pair of crabs moving through a desert ghost town.

“That one,” Gwen said, and pointed at an old 1990s navy blue Cadillac hunkered in a middle slot. Compared to the two sporty, brightly colored fiberglass cars flanking it, the thing looked more like a tank. Talk about a getaway car.

“Jeez,” said Isobel. “What, is your dad in the Mafia?”

“Actually, he’s an orthodontist.”

They split apart, crossing the last clear drive-through space, Gwen sidling up next to the driver’s door and Isobel to the passenger’s. They stayed low as Gwen stuck the key in and unlocked the car. She slid inside and, hunching down in the driver’s seat, reached across to raise the lock on the passenger side. Isobel grasped the handle and pressed the silver button until she felt the latch give. She shuffled back to open the door but stopped, catching sight of something in the rearview mirror. There was someone else in the parking lot. She turned her head to see.

He sat no more than ten feet away, perched on the hood of a black BMW, another blood-haired boy, dressed in black like Pinfeathers, only it wasn’t him. It couldn’t have been, because unlike Pinfeathers, this boy wasn’t missing his cheek. He was missing an entire eye. Even from a distance, Isobel could see the gaping space where one eye and half his nose should have been.

The boy hadn’t seemed to notice either herself or Gwen. He was occupied with eating something, his mouth scarlet with blood. He held the thing, whatever it was, a bloody gray lump, between both hands, his sharp red teeth biting into it, ripping flesh, tearing feathers.

A bird, Isobel realized with dull horror, almost retching. He was eating a bird—one of the fat pigeons that liked to waddle around in the courtyard looking for morsels, never suspecting that it would one day become a morsel itself.

Isobel swung the door open and climbed in. Shutting it fast, she pressed down the lock.

“Go,” Isobel said, “drive.”

Gwen stuck the key in the ignition and turned. The car complained with a high, grating whine but then rumbled to life. Isobel checked the side-view mirror again, panic stopping her heart when she saw the creature lower the torn, bloody bird and look up.

“Gwen, we need to go. That would be a now.”

Gwen fumbled to shift the car into reverse. “Why? Is it a teacher?”

Isobel shifted her gaze to the side-view mirror, watching the thing as he sneered and lowered himself onto the pavement, slowly, one boot at a time. She twisted in her seat to look out the back window, but froze when she saw only the rows of parked cars. He was gone.

To Isobel’s relief, Gwen pulled fast out of the parking space and, gripping the wheel with both hands, spun them in the direction of the exit.

The bird hit the windshield with a dull splat.

Gwen screamed. Her foot slammed the brakes. They sat for a moment in shock. Then something moved to block out the sunlight on Isobel’s side. There came a quiet tap, tap, tap on her window.

“What was that?” Gwen whispered.

Isobel turned her head to look.

There were two of them now. The first one—the one missing an eye—leaned down to bring his existing eye, black and soulless, close to the glass. It blinked at her, watching her like a shark through a tank. The other one stood close behind, grinning, his face whole but split by a diagonal hairline crack. He had only one arm.

Isobel felt every muscle in her body tense as she stared into that eye, a predator’s eye, she thought. Slowly he raised one fist and stuck his thumb out. He aimed it, like a hitchhiker, in the direction they were pointed.

Isobel pawed at Gwen, who watched the mutilated pigeon slide down the windshield, leaving behind a gooey streak.

“Gwen,” she said. It was a plea.

The creature without the eye grabbed at the door now, looping his fingers through the handle. Had she locked it? Yes, she thought, as he pulled and the latch stuck. Thank God, she had.

Without warning, Gwen’s foot hit the gas pedal and they accelerated. Thrown backward in her seat, Isobel heard the creature hiss as it wrenched its hand away in a movement too quick for her eyes to follow. Gwen’s tires squealed as they sped out of the parking lot and onto the main road, being caught by school authorities having been bumped down to the bottom of their list of concerns.

Out of habit, Isobel reached behind her and yanked down on her seat belt. She clicked it into place, turning again to look over her shoulder through the rear window. Dead leaves swirled in the wind tunnel they made with their escape, the trees lining the streets receding into the distance. As far as she could see, they weren’t being followed. She turned to face forward and caught a glimpse of Gwen’s face, pale and frightened.

“I still get the impression there’s something you’re not telling me,” Gwen said, her eyes pinched as she strained to see past the dead pigeon and its belly, open against the glass to display the stark white of its rib cage. Isobel looked away, suddenly glad she hadn’t had time to eat anything at lunch. She leaned forward in her seat to try and find the switch for the windshield wipers. The bird looked heavy, but hopefully that would work.

“Turn right at the next light,” Isobel said, by accident flipping the windshield wiper fluid release. Sudsy blue liquid squirted across the glass, soaking the pigeon.

“Oh, gross,” Gwen muttered, and batted Isobel’s hand away. She slowed the car and switched on the wipers, her fingers easily finding the right knob. It took four swipes to get the bird to one side, and then a fifth and final one to scoot it off the windshield completely. It hit the roadside with a wet smack. “Should have stayed home today,” said Gwen, taking the turn Isobel had indicated. “Rented a movie. One of those bad romances that make you want to puke. ’Course I already want to puke.”

She glanced from the road to Isobel, then back again, her brow furrowing. The silence that followed gave Isobel time to think. At this point she couldn’t keep Gwen out, but at the same time, she couldn’t justify involving her any further. She thought about Pinfeathers sitting next to Brad in the lunchroom, then pictured him sitting here in her place, next to Gwen, who would just keep driving, never knowing any better. She thought about Gwen driving home. She thought about the Cadillac on the highway, about how it wouldn’t take much more than a gentle tug on the steering wheel to send the car careening into oncoming traffic.

“Left here.” Isobel pointed.

Gwen put on her signal. She pulled into the left turning lane. The arrow flicked green.

“Isobel, did you really see something in the lunchroom today,” she asked, “or were you just playing around?”

Isobel swallowed, not sure if she should answer. How could she answer? As far as she knew, the line “I see dead people” had already been taken.

“Did that bird hit my window on purpose? ’Cause you know, I don’t think I can take much of that. Not without the promise of sending you my therapy bills later. Are you listening to me, Isobel?”

“Just a bird,” Isobel murmured. She turned away from the lie to look out her window.

They passed a group of college students on the right, huddled on the sidewalk, waiting for the crosswalk light to change. Isobel envied them. They all looked so normal in their jackets and blue jeans, scarves lacing their necks, hands stuffed in their pockets, probably talking about their next class or Halloween plans, totally unaware.

“Turn here,” said Isobel automatically when they reached the intersection to Bardstown Road. Gwen swerved to make the turn. Either she still had the jitters or she was mad.

“There,” she said, pointing for Gwen to pull over. Gwen followed the order. She put the Cadillac in park, turned off the engine, and pulled the keys into her lap.

Isobel grabbed the door handle, and Gwen, apparently not willing to wait in the car, got out too. Together they stepped up to the front of the tiny used bookstore.

Varen had to be here, Isobel thought. There was nowhere else for him to go. If he left school, this was where he would come. He would be here, and she could tell him everything. With that thought stoking her courage, Isobel opened the door and stepped inside. Gwen followed.

She caught that familiar, heavy scent of stale air, and the rusty belt of bells clanked as the door shut behind them.

“What is this place?” Gwen whispered. “What are we doing here? Whoa, is that a first edition?”

Isobel raised a finger to her lips. She led the way, and they wove through the shelves toward the vacant counter, stepping over stacks of books, finding neither Bruce nor Varen.

Then she heard that familiar rattling cough. It came from somewhere at the rear of the shop. Isobel followed the sound across the rickety floor and into the back room, stacked with all the newer-looking nonfiction. Bruce was there between the rows, taking books one at a time out of a cardboard box marked NON-FIC WILDLIFE in Varen’s careful, antique scrawl. He brought each book he drew out of the box up close to his face and examined it with a sweep of his good eye before finding a place for it on the shelf.

Isobel stood in the doorway, waiting to be noticed, not wanting to startle him. A distracted Gwen bumped into her from behind, unleashing a muffled “Oof” that made Isobel sure then that they were being ignored.

“Excuse me, Mr. Bruce? I’m looking for Var—”

“Not here,” he grunted, continuing to shelve. Isobel was taken aback. This was not the kind-if-loopy man she remembered from her last visit.

“Do you know where he is?” she tried, moving closer to him. Gwen remained in place, watching, her car keys clinking between nervous fingers.

“If I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

Isobel frowned, unsure where his sudden dislike had come from. Didn’t he remember her? “I—I think he could be trouble.”

“Could be!” he scoffed. He lowered the book in his hand, finally looking at her. He scrutinized her with his good eye, frowning at her cheer uniform. Then the coughing ensued once more, harsher, mucus rattling in his chest. “I think a bloody nose . . . and a busted lip says . . . that the trouble’s already found him. Guess the thing you’ll tell me next is that you hadn’t anything to do with that.”

Brad. He’d been telling the truth. But how could that be when she’d seen Varen only an hour ago? His face— he had been fine.

Bruce scowled at her, apparently taking her silence for confirmation of whatever suspicions he’d been harboring. His mouth tightened into a line, quivering with anger. “I told you now, I don’t know where he’s got to. Hasn’t said a word to me since he came in like that this morning. Went upstairs and slept till noon. Missed school. Left a half hour ago. Go upstairs and look for yourself.”

Isobel, her mind dulling as it tried to compute the barrage of conflicting information, actually turned to the attic door. She was stopped from making any progress toward it, though, by a soft hand on her arm. “Isobel,” said Gwen. “C’mon. He’s not here. We would have seen his car outside. We gotta go.”

Isobel turned to stare at Bruce again, trying to gauge if he was telling the truth. If Varen had left only a half hour ago, how could he have been at school to do the project? How could anyone be in two places at once? Maybe Bruce had it wrong, she thought. He was old. Old people got mixed up, right?

“Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” He waved them toward the door as though shooing flies. “I’ll call the police, if that’s what you want.”

“Isobel . . .” Gwen’s hand on her arm tightened, and Isobel took an involuntary step in the direction her friend pulled. “C’mon,” she said, “we’ll see him tonight, remember?”

For a moment Bruce’s good eye seemed to lighten in surprise. It flashed a glimmer of hope, but like a dying ember, the spark faded, dissolving into bitterness and then defeat. He shook his head. “I’m too old to worry about him like this. You tell him I said that. You tell him . . .”

The coughing again. He was sick. Really sick.

Isobel stood in place and watched him, unable to do much else. The coughing continued, unrelenting in its attack, and without saying a word, he brushed past them into the main room.

He hobbled toward the counter and reached for a box of tissues. Isobel trailed after him, torn. She wanted to reach out, to help him to his chair behind the counter, just as she could envision Varen doing. She wanted to tell him that she was sorry and that it wasn’t her fault and that she’d find Varen. She bit her tongue, though, knowing that it was her fault. She’d seen all of this coming, or at least part of it. Pinfeathers had said as much before he tried to slice her to ribbons. And, in truth, deep down, how could she be certain she would find him?

Isobel pushed that thought quickly aside. She would find him. She would see him tonight.

She felt it.

Bruce found his chair on his own. He rocked backward into it, as if the joints of his knees no longer worked. Clouds of dust plumed around him, worsening his cough. He glowered at Isobel, as if the sudden fit were somehow her fault. “You . . . don’t deserve him.”

Isobel’s breath lodged in her throat, the truth she feared most let out of its cage in an instant.

“Isobel,” Gwen said, pulling at her arm again. “C’mon, we’ve got to get back.”

Isobel shoved away from the counter. She yanked her arm out of Gwen’s grasp and hurried through the front door. A burst of cold air hit her in the face, like a splash of fresh water.

She took in a huge gulp, sucking as much oxygen into her belly as she brought into her lungs.

Behind her, Gwen emerged from the shop. “Don’t listen to him, Isobel,” she said, “he’s just worried, is all.”

“Gwen, I have to find him. I have to be there tonight.”

Her face solemn, Gwen nodded, as if she’d come to understand this on her own. “Don’t worry,” she said, “we’ll find him.”