Don't Scream Part 25

Almost safe.

She stealthily kneels, reaching up, feeling around blindly.

There.

Thank G.o.d.

Thank G.o.d.

Her hand closes around the k.n.o.b and turns Just as she hears a rustling whisper of sound behind her and feels the air stir with movement.

No.

Please, no Shattering pain explodes in the back of her head.

No!

She topples forward, her face landing on the nubby rug in front of the door.

Rough hands grab her and roll her over. Her eyes are open, but she cant see.

Oh, G.o.d.

Oh, no.

Her eyes Shes been blinded.

What am I going to do? How am I going to live my life if I cant see?

A bizarre image strikes her: she sees herself, Matilda Harrington, tapping along Commonwealth Avenue with a white cane and dark gla.s.ses, like Mrs. Stallsman next door.

I cant do that. I cant live that way.

Did you actually think you were going to walk right out the front door? The voice is eerily close to her, and she still cant see the face. She cant see anything.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, shes aware that her vision was snuffed out in that horrible blow to her head. Shes going to come out of this sightless.

Come out of this?

Im not going to come out of this at all if I dont do something.

Oh, please. Somebody help me. Help!

No. Nothelp She opens her mouth, lips twitching, throat rasping.

What? Speak up, Matilda. I cant hear you.

Fire,she whimpers faintly.

An explosion of maniacal laughter, not her own, echoes through her brain just before the next blow smashes her skull into it, obliterating her remaining four senses, and Matilda Harrington ceases to exist.

CHAPTER 10.

Ca.s.sie awakens abruptly at the sound of a ringing telephone, takes one look at the unfamiliar surroundings, and manages to remember instantly where she is: at a Marriott Residence Inn somewhere in the Boston suburbs.

And her skull is throbbing.

And the phone is ringing.

Oh, G.o.d, theyve found me.

Or, maybe not. Maybe its just her cell phone. It rang a lot last evening, before she turned it off somewhere north of Providence And she never turned it back on, so it cant be ringing now.

She turns her head, painfully, to look at the room phone on the bedside table just as it rings again.

Oh, G.o.d, they really have found me.

Then she realizes that n.o.body on earth can possibly know where she is, unless someone was following her every move from the time she blew past her exit.

When she stopped for gas at the Rhode Island state line, she checked the glove compartment and immediately found what she was looking for. The surprise party invitation was still there, right where she stashed it after it turned up on her windshield.

But the details were sketchy. There was just a dateOctober 4and a place: Tildys house, which is on Commonwealth Avenue in Boston. Oddly, there was no time, and no phone number for an RSVP.

Figuring it must be an oversight, Ca.s.sie decided to just show up and hope for the best. With luck, she would arrive well before, or well after, the guest of honor.

But when she reached Tildys address, she found only Lena Schicke, the housekeeper. She answered the door wearing her coat, a scarf tied over her whitish-gray bun, obviously on her way out.

Im here for the surprise party, Ca.s.sie whispered to her, wondering if everyone was hiding inside, waiting for Tildy.

Confusion settled in Lenas slate-gray eyes. Surprise party?

For Matilda.

Oh, thats not a surprise. Shes the one whos throwing it. The housekeepers firmly set mouth told Ca.s.sie precisely what she thought of women who threw parties for themselves.

Not to mention what she thought of women who impulsively turned up on Back Bay doorsteps looking for surprise parties where there were none.

Now it was Ca.s.sies turn to be confused. But I mean Is the party tonight?

Lena nodded.

Is it here?

No, at some big fancy hotel. I cant remember which one, she added, as if sensing Ca.s.sies next question.

Maybe she was telling the truth about that, maybe she wasnt. But her all-business demeanor made it obvious that she wasnt interested in elaborating.

There was nothing for Ca.s.sie to do but leave.

So she did, promptly.

She never gave the housekeeper her name, and, anyway, her name alone couldnt give away her current location.

Meaning, its safe to a.s.sume that whoever might be calling this hotel room, it isnt Alec, or, G.o.d forbid, her mother.

Still, she holds her breath as she lifts the receiver with a hoa.r.s.e, h.e.l.lo?

This is your sevenAM wakeup call, a computerized voice announces.

Relieved, Ca.s.sie vaguely remembers that she called for one just before falling asleep.

Have a pleasant day, the recorded operator advises her from the telephone pressed hard against her ear.

A pleasant day. Yeah, right.

She opens her eyes abruptly and plunks the receiver back into its cradle.

Okay. Shed better get up, get on the road Wait a minute.

Why?

So she can return to her life, and the utter shambles shes made of it?

How could you have done this to yourself? What were you thinking?

Shewasnt thinking. If she had been, she wouldnt have done it.

Any of it.

Oh, G.o.d.

Oh, G.o.d.

She should have just gone to her bridal shower and smiled and thanked everyone and told them sh.e.l.l see them all at the wedding.

Instead, for the first time in her life, she acted on sheer impulse.

And now look at you. Pounding headache, upset stomach, waking up in a strange hotel room, in Boston, of all places.

But she supposes Boston is as good a place as any, if youre going to run away from home.

Wow.

She finally, actually did it.

After a good twenty years of daydreaming about it, she finally ran away.

Actually, in her fantasies, she always galloped away, on Marshmallow.

Still, driving away felt pretty good, too.

While it lasted.

Now its time to drive back and face the consequences.

Isnt it?

Ca.s.sies gaze falls on the television remote lying on the table beside the phone.

She can either get up, get dressed, drive back to Connecticut, and pick up the pieces of her life Or she can stall it by lying here watching morning television, pleasantly anonymous for a little longer.

What to do, what to do As if theres any choice.

She s.n.a.t.c.hes up the remote and aims it at the open armoire across from the bed. The television clicks on.

The sound is onMUTE , she realizes, as the picture fades in: Matt Lauer silently laughing with a woman who isnt Katie Couric. Oh, thats right, she leftThe Today Show awhile back, Ca.s.sie recallsnot that she ever watched it anyway, other than catching the occasional fleeting snippet of morning news in the hospital lounge.

Unaccustomed to lying around in bed, staring at the tube, she tells herself to relax, reminding herself that this is what regular people do.

Really? Do regular people also run out on their wedding showers?

Not to mention abandoning a fiance, parents, a.s.sorted family members and friends And my job,she remembers guiltily, glancing at the digital clock next to the bed.

She was supposed to be at the hospital two hours ago.

Well, its too late for that, isnt it? Its too late to salvage anything.

Youre here, in Boston, with no one to answer to but yourself, for once in your life.

So relax and watch TV, dammit!

She idly stares at the screen for a moment, where a weather map shows a tropical depression forming in the Caribbean. As she idly presses random b.u.t.tons on the remote, trying to find the volume, she accidentally hits thePOWER b.u.t.ton.

The screen sparks and goes dark.

Ca.s.sie sighs.

I cant do this, anyway. I cant just lie here and ignore my life.

She gets up, winces at the ache in her skull and the rising tide of nausea, and looks around for her purse.

Its tossed on a nearby chair, unzipped, the contents spilling over the cushion and the floor.