Shuffle: A Novel Part 9

Just like that, the world winked out. The dancing gra.s.s was gone, leaving nothing but oppressive blackness.

"Not again."

I felt myself talk, but the words sounded distant. As though I was hearing myself through a wall. Or from under water. I reached down with my feet, trying to feel the ground below. But there was nothing there. I stretched my leg down as far as I could, clinging tightly to the rusty chains of the swing. No dirt. No comforting, springy wood chips. I was swinging over a bottomless pit.

Then another voice.

It was closer, right by my ear. But the words were garbled. They were angry, shouting. I couldn't understand.

"Please, go away," I pleaded. "Go away."

But the voice kept on, and I couldn't pa.r.s.e it. A crazy tumult of sound. I could hear the emotion in it, but the syllables were all mixed up. It was nonsense. It didn't even seem like a language.

"I can't understand you!" I cried.

The voice groaned. It screamed and faded. The wind whipped around me, blowing hair into my face. My blind eyes searched for any form, any hint of color as my chest ached with the wild pounding of my heart. My fingers were numb from the chains. I squeezed so hard I thought they would bleed.

Then, as quick as it started, it was over. My vision was restored.

The world winked in, ground moved up under my feet again and the brilliant colors of September washed over me. I was dizzy with sensation and relief.

"Jesus," I breathed.

I peeled my hands away from the swing and stood up, wobbly on my legs. My palms were white, except where the chain links left imprints like red gouges on my skin. I breathed slowly, letting my heart rate come down. My armpits were pools of sweat. I brushed the remaining hair out of my eyes and looked down at the blessed ground.

That's when I saw the message.

It was written in smooth, wet rocks. They looked like they'd just been pulled out of the stream. I glanced around the park. No one was there. The sun came out from behind the clouds, making the stones glimmer.

ALL FIVE EVI.

What is going on?

All five. What could it mean? All five of what? Who was doing this to me? Or was I... was I hallucinating? I knelt, grabbing at the dirt, touching the stones one by one. I felt the fresh water coating them, picked one of them up and smelled the fishy odor of the stream.

The stones were really here. They were real.

I just didn't know what to do about it.

So I gathered them up, collecting them in my jacket. The fall air froze my skin. It was getting colder. G.o.d, even the sun was cold. I took them over to the edge of the stream and one by one, I tossed them back in.

They plopped into the water and sank to the bottom.

I walked home, lost in my thoughts. As I trudged up the driveway to my house, I heard the bells of Frame Memorial chime four.

Four o'clock.

I'd left the house at two-thirty. The park was a five minute walk.

My stomach felt hollow. My legs were still not to be trusted; I almost sank to the floor as I keyed open the front door and hung my jacket up on the coat rack. But I pulled strength from somewhere and managed to stay on my feet.

"Evi!" Callie didn't disappoint. She waltzed into the front hall in full uniform, Buster strapped threateningly to her hip. "Cutting it a little close, aren't we?"

"Sorry," I murmured. "Time just... got away from me." I followed her into the kitchen, hyperaware of the damp spots under my arms. I really wanted to change my shirt before Arbor arrived. But, true to his word a Ding-dong.

"Right on time."

Callie went to open the door. A couple seconds later I heard her voice in the hall, slightly louder and brighter than usual. She'd gone into "host mode." She led Arbor into the kitchen, where I was setting out our Cicero books on the table.

He looked as good as ever in a rumpled black t-shirt and jeans. Callie followed him in and gave me a Holy c.r.a.p, this guy is attractive and I feel guilty for thinking that because I'm in my twenties now and I'm supposed to be the responsible adult look. I'm only paraphrasing, but I can read her pretty well. When he came closer, though, I could see that there were purple bags under his eyes, and his hair was mussed. He was tired. Unfortunately it made him look kind of like a starving, soulful artist... Confusingly, depressingly hot.

"Late night?" I asked.

He nodded. "Yes. I'm exhausted, to be honest."

"Still up for kicking this report's b.u.t.t?"

He smiled and shook his head ruefully. "You Americans and your violent expressions. Sure. Let's kick its a.r.s.e."

Callie set out some chips and salsa for us. "Have fun. I'll be in the family room. Dinner's at six. It's vegetarian lasagna, Arbor, with eggplant."

"Lovely."

We got right to work. Less awkward that way. It took a shorter time than I thought it would to lay out the report and write an outline that we could turn into a PowerPoint. We did a little dress rehearsal run-through. Arbor was flawless. His accent really made everything he said sound insightful.

I stumbled when it was my turn, misp.r.o.nouncing a couple of names and mixing up the sequence of Cicero's famous court cases. I was still rattled by what had happened in the park. The details seemed so unreal to me now that I was back in a familiar setting, doing mundane things. Like a dream. And the only thing that seemed to remind me that yes, those stones were real, the blackout was real a the only element that seemed to echo the nightmare dreaminess of the park a was Arbor himself. His pale skin, almost luminescent in the waning light of the afternoon. His perfect cheekbones, the aquiline contours of his nose... And those odd, dark eyes that seemed to see so much.

Each time I messed something up, struggling through my outline, Arbor gently corrected me. His voice was deep, rough from lack of sleep. When I finally finished, fl.u.s.tered and cross with myself for looking so stupid in front of him, he reached across the table and put his hand on my arm. Electricity shot up my spine; the place where he touched me was suddenly warm and tingly, full of life. It was though I'd been slightly out of focus since the park. Now everything shifted back into place, and I could see clearly.

"Are you well?" he asked. So old-fashioned. I wondered whether the concern in his voice was real. And I found I could not lie.

"No," I said.

"Something happened to you."

His face was the dispa.s.sionate cipher it nearly always was, whenever he wasn't playacting emotion. That's what it was, I realized. Those odd smiles, the disingenuous way he'd told me that my name was "s.e.xy" the first time we'd met, and the teenage slang that seemed to drop away whenever he was one-on-one with me. Playacting. Pantomime. In fact, the only time I'd ever seen a true emotion in his face was when he'd mentioned Cicero's daughter, Tullia, back in the library.

"Yes," I breathed. "Something did."

He stared at me expectantly, without judgment. I felt myself falling into his hypnotic eyes. Like a mouse before a snake, steeling itself for the strike but unable to move. I was terrified of what I was about to do. But the black depths were comforting. Dangerously so.

"I was at the park," I said, "and it happened again. I lost my vision."

"Could you perceive anything with your other senses?"

I told him about the screaming, wretched voice. The babbled torrent of nonsense full of pain and anger. The ground falling away.

As I was about to tell him about the message written in stones from the stream, I finally realized what it was about his eyes that both frightened and fascinated me.

They were the pit.

Opaque nothingness. The anti-thing I'd anti-seen both times, on the street and in the park. The void where the world isn't.

Creeping horror stilled my tongue.

"Then?" he asked.

"Everything just came back. It rushed in around me, all of a sudden. The trees and the sky, the gra.s.s and the ground."

He nodded thoughtfully. Anyone else would have told me I was crazy, or tried to convince me that I'd fallen asleep on the swing and had a confusing dream. But he simply sat there across the table, his face a perfectly composed blank.

I glanced over to the family room. The door was open so that Callie could casually spy on us. She was sitting in the big green armchair in the corner, reading a book. She looked up at the same time I did, a question in her eyes. I shook my head.

I didn't want her interrogating Arbor. He wouldn't crack. It was Callie who would break down, and her ego was so bound up in being a great cop and providing for our family... I turned back to him and faced the endless night of his gaze.

"Arbor, why did you take the shoes back?"

He didn't pretend not to know what I was talking about. He just stared at me steadily, and didn't answer. I felt sick to my stomach. This was too soon; this wasn't part of the plan!

Finally, he said, "I wish I could tell you."

"Were you involved in that man's death?" I leaned across the table, my voice barely above a whisper. My palms were sweaty. I fingered the small cracks in the table's varnish, trying to stay calm as I waited for the answer.

"Yes."

He didn't provide any additional information.

"How?"

"I can't tell you that either."

Arbor stood up and gathered his things. I stood with him, and dashed around the table to block his path to the door. "So you murdered him. You really are a murderer."

He didn't so much as blink. He simply said, "It's getting late. I regret having to leave before dinner, but I just remembered I have a prior engagement."

"You're lying."

I took another step. There was practically no s.p.a.ce between us, now. We were standing almost as close as when we'd danced at his party. I could feel the warmth and spice of his body, could feel myself wanting to open to him.

"Yes," he replied. "I am lying."

Then he stepped around me and strode calmly into the living room. I could hear him making his apologies to Callie, who walked him to the door with a bewildered expression on her face. I shook my head at her again, letting her know that the plan was off.

As soon as he was gone, she came into the kitchen, unstrapping Buster and unb.u.t.toning the blue collar of her uniform. "What was that all about?" she asked.

"Nothing," I said. "We just kind of... had a disagreement. I didn't think the time was right."

She threw up her hands. "The time would have been perfect! He was already a little off balance!"

I wrinkled my nose. "Callie, when were you supposed to take the lasagna out?"

"Oh. s.h.i.t." She ran to the oven and pulled out the rack as a cloud of foul-smelling smoke poured into the kitchen. The fire alarm went off. I stuffed my fingers in my ears.

"I guess he left just in time after all."

"What?" called Callie over the din.

I shook my head. "Nothing."

So we sat down to a dinner of burned eggplant lasagna. Callie left it in the pan. We put it on a trivet in the center of the table, leaning over to pick it apart with our forks, delving for unburned layers. It was a glum, hazy meal.

I don't know why I didn't tell Callie about Arbor's confession. I should have. I was in danger every second I didn't.

And that felt...

G.o.d, it felt good.

I could only imagine I was more screwed up over Mom's suicide than my Freud-happy counselors had thought. Isn't seeking out trouble and flirting with the bad boys something that troubled teens from unstable homes do? Was that me, now? I suppose another part of it was that I just didn't want to believe Arbor. It was too nuts. He was playing with me, riling me up with vague insinuations. He wouldn't murder someone.

Why, Evi? Because he's too hot?

There have been plenty of hot serial killers. And not only in the movies. I mean, admit it. Ted Bundy was pretty handsome.

The sick feeling came back, washing over me in a wave of sudden nausea. Arbor. The boy I danced with. The most desired, popular boy in school. A serial killer. The kind all the neighbors say was so nice and polite.

He'd been in my room last night. And I wasn't going to tell anyone about it. Not until I'd seen my private plan through.

I ran up the stairs right away after dinner to set it up. First, my digital camera. I dug equipment out of my closet, some cables and a couple of plastic milk crates. All I needed to do was download free software from the internet and I was good to go. I hooked up my camera and set it to take a flash picture whenever the lens detected movement over a threshold. I placed it carefully on the milk crates, facing my window. The contraption sat there expectantly when I was through. I wondered if it would work.

Later on, when Callie was in bed and I'd brushed my teeth and changed into my pajamas, I decided to check my email one last time. The website was slow to load. While I waited, I stared at the window, swiveling back and forth in my desk chair. The overhead light cast a glare on the pane of gla.s.s so that I couldn't see out. Instead it became mirrorlike, and I watched myself from across the room as if I were outside, looking in. It was a creepy feeling.

The page finally loaded. I had one new message, from

I'm always lying.

Chapter Seven.