Forever. Part 26

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT.

* COLE *

Another day, another night. We - Sam and I - were in the QuikMart a few miles away from the house, the sky black as h.e.l.l above us. Mercy Falls proper was still another mile away; this convenience store was mostly for the oh-s.h.i.+t-I-forgot-to-get-milk moments. Which was exactly why we were at the QuikMart. Well, it's why Sam was there. Partially because we had no milk and partially because I was beginning to learn that Sam didn't sleep without someone there to tell him to, and I wasn't about to tell him. Normally this would fall to Grace, but Isabel had just called with the exact model of the helicopter that would be carrying the sharpshooters and we were all a little on edge. Grace and Sam had engaged in a wordless argument that somehow managed to involve only their eyes and then she had won, because she started making scones, and Sam had sulked on the couch with his guitar. If she and Sam ever had kids, they'd be gluten-intolerant out of self-defense.

Scones required milk.

So Sam was here for milk because the grocery store closed at nine. I, on the other hand, was at the QuikMart because if I spent another second in Beck's house, I was going to break something. I was figuring out more about the wolf science every day, but the hunt was almost here. In a few days, my experiments would be about as useful as medical research on the dodo bird.

Which brought us to QuikMart at eleven P.M. Inside the store, I pointed to a rack of condoms and Sam gave me a look completely devoid of humor. He'd worn too few or too many to see the amus.e.m.e.nt in it.

I broke off to navigate the aisles of the store, full of nervous energy. This c.r.a.ppy little service station felt like the real world. The real world, months after I'd murdered NARKOTIKA by disappearing with Victor. The real world where I smiled at security cameras and somewhere, they might smile back at me. Country music wailed low through speakers hung next to the sign for the bathrooms (FOR PAYING CUSTOMERS ONLY). The plate gla.s.s windows were painted with the green-black night that only lived outside of service stations. No one was awake but us, and I'd never been more awake. I browsed candy bars that sounded better than they tasted, checked tabloids for mention of me out of habit, looked at the racks of overpriced cold medications that no longer had the ability to impair either my ability to sleep or drive, and realized there was nothing here in this store that I wanted.

In my pocket, I felt the weight of the little black Mustang Isabel had given me. I couldn't stop thinking about it. I slid the car out and drove it over racks to where Sam stood in front of the milk case, his hands in the pockets of his jacket. Though he faced the milk, his face wore an undirected frown, his thoughts consumed by a problem somewhere else.

"Two percent is a nice compromise between skim and whole, if you're having problems deciding," I said. I kind of wanted Sam to ask me about the Mustang, to ask what the h.e.l.l I was doing with it. I was thinking about Isabel, about s.h.i.+fting into a wolf for the first time, about the black sky pressing against the windows outside.

Sam said, "We're running out of time, Cole."

The electronic bell of the QuikMart door opening kept him from saying more, or me from answering him. I didn't turn to look, but some sort of instinct made the skin crawl at the back of my neck. Sam had not turned his head, either, but I saw that his expression had changed. Sharpened. That was what I was subconsciously reacting to.

In my head, memories flashed. Wolves in the woods, ears p.r.i.c.ked and swiveling, suddenly at attention. Air sharp in our nostrils, scent of deer on the breeze, time to hunt. The wordless agreement that it was time to act.

By the counter, I heard the murmur of voices as the newcomer and the clerk exchanged greetings. Sam put his hand on the handle of the cooler but didn't open it. He said, "Maybe we don't actually need milk."

* SAM *

It was John Marx, Olivia's older brother.

Speaking with John had never been easy for me - we barely knew each other, and every encounter we'd ever had had been on tense terms. And now his sister was dead and Grace was missing. I wished we hadn't come. There was nothing to do but to carry on as usual. John wasn't quite in line; he was staring at the gum. I slouched up to the counter beside him. I could smell alcohol, which was depressing, because John had seemed so young before.

"Hi," I said, barely audible, just so I got credit for saying it.

John did the man-nod, a curt jerk of the head. "How are you doing." It was not a question.

"Three twenty-one," the clerk told me. He was a slight man with permanently lowered eyes. I counted out bills. I didn't look at John. I prayed that he didn't recognize Cole. I eyed the security camera, watching all of us.

"Did you know that this is Sam Roth?" John asked. There was silence until the clerk realized that John was talking to him.

The clerk darted a glance up at my d.a.m.ning yellow eyes and then back down to the bills I'd placed on the counter, before replying politely, "No, I didn't."

He knew who I was. Everyone knew. I felt a surge of friendliness toward the clerk.

"Thanks," I told him as I took my change, grateful for more than the coins. Cole pushed off the counter next to me. Time to go.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" John asked me. I heard misery in his voice.

My heart jerked inside me as I turned toward him. "I'm sorry about Olivia."

"Tell me why she died," John said. He took a step toward me, unsteady. A breath laced with some kind of alcohol - hard, neat, and recent, by the odor - gusted toward me. "Tell me why she was there."

I held a hand out, palm toward the ground. A sort of That close is good. No closer. "John, I don't kn -"

John swatted my hand away, and at that gesture, I saw Cole move restlessly. "Don't lie to me. I know it's you. I know it is."

This was a little easier. I couldn't lie, but this didn't require one. "It wasn't me. I didn't have anything to do with her being there."

The clerk said, "Good conversation to take outside!"

Cole opened the door. Night air rushed in.

John seized a mighty handful of my T-s.h.i.+rt at the shoulder. "Where's Grace? Why out of everyone in the world, why my sister, why Grace? Why them, you sick -"

And I saw in his face or heard in his voice or felt in that grip on my s.h.i.+rt what he was going to do next, so when he swung at me, I lifted an arm and deflected his blow. I couldn't do any more than that. I wasn't going to fight him, not over this. Not when he'd swallowed so much sadness that his words slurred.

"Okay, outside," the clerk said. "Conversation outside. Bye! Have a nice night!"

"John," I said, my arm throbbing where his fist had landed. Adrenaline pumped through me: John's anxiety, Cole's tension, my own readiness feeding it. "I'm sorry. But this isn't going to help."

"d.a.m.n straight," John said, and lunged for me.

Cole was suddenly between us.

"We're all done here," he said. He was no taller than either me or John, but he towered. He was looking at my face, judging my reaction. "Let's not make things ugly in this man's store."

John, an arm's length away, on the other side of Cole, stared at me, eyes hollowed out like a statue's. "I liked you, when I first met you," he said. "Can you imagine that?"

I felt sick.

"Let's go," I told Cole. I said to the clerk, "Thanks again."

Cole turned away from John, his movements wound tight.

Just as the door swung shut, John's voice slid after us. "Everybody knows what you did, Sam Roth."

The night air smelled like gasoline and wood smoke. Somewhere, there was a fire. I felt like I could feel the wolf inside me burning in my gut.

"People just love to hit you," Cole said, still all energy. My mood fed off Cole's and vice versa, and we were wolves, both of us. I was buzzing and weightless. The Volkswagen wasn't parked far away, just at the end of the parking s.p.a.ces. There was a long, pale key scratch on the driver's side. At least I knew running into John was no coincidence. A fluorescent reflection of the convenience store glowed in its paint. Neither of us got in.

"It has to be you," Cole said. He'd opened the pa.s.senger door and stood on the running board, leaning over the roof at me. "The one who leads the wolves out. I've tried; I can't hold a thought while I'm a wolf."

I looked at him. My fingers tingled. I'd forgotten the milk inside the store. I kept thinking of John swinging at me, Cole charging between us, the night living inside me. Feeling like I did, right now, I couldn't say, No, I can't do it, because anything felt possible.

I said, "I don't want to go back. I can't do that."

Cole laughed, just a single ha. "You're gonna s.h.i.+ft eventually, Ringo. You're not totally cured yet. Might as well save the world while you're at it."

I wanted to say, Please don't make me do this, but what meaning would that have to Cole, who had done that and worse to himself?

"You're a.s.suming they would listen to me," I said.

Cole lifted his hands off the roof of the Volkswagen; cloudy fingerprints evaporated seconds after he did. "We all listen to you, Sam." He jumped to the pavement. "You just don't always talk to us."

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE.

* GRACE *

Sat.u.r.day, Officer Koenig came to the house to take us to the peninsula.

We all watched him pull into the driveway, peering out the living room windows. It was thrilling and ironic to be inviting a policeman over after trying for so long to avoid them. Like Mowgli asking Shere Khan in for some tea and crumpets. Koenig arrived at Beck's house at noon, dressed in a crisp maroon polo s.h.i.+rt and jeans that I thought he'd probably ironed. He drove a pristine gray Chevy truck that he may have ironed as well. He knocked on the door - an efficient Knock. Knock. Knock that somehow reminded me of Isabel's laugh - and when Sam opened it, Koenig stood there with his hands folded neatly in front of him as if he were waiting for his date.

"Come on in," Sam said.

Koenig stepped into the house, still with one hand professionally holding the other. It seemed like another lifetime that I'd seen him last, standing just like that in the front of our cla.s.sroom as a bunch of high schoolers a.s.saulted him with questions about the wolves. Olivia had leaned over to me and whispered that he was cute. Now here he was in the front entry, and Olivia was dead.

Olivia was dead.

I was beginning to understand that blank look Sam got when someone said something about his parents. I didn't feel anything at all when I thought Olivia is dead. I felt numb as Sam's scars.

I realized that Koenig had spotted me.

"Hi," I said.

He took a deep breath, as if he were preparing to dive. I would've given almost anything to know what he was thinking. "Well, okay, then," he said. "There you are."

"Yes," I replied. "Here I am." Cole stepped out of the kitchen behind me and Koenig's eyebrows drew down over his eyes. Cole smiled back, a hard, certain smile. I watched recognition slowly dawn on Koenig's face.

"Of course," Koenig said. He crossed his arms and turned to Sam. No matter how he moved his arms or stood, something about Koenig gave the impression that he would be difficult to knock over. "Are there any other missing persons living under your roof? Elvis? Jimmy Hoffa? Amelia Earhart? I'd just like to have full disclosure now, before we go any further."

"This is it," Sam said. "To the best of my knowledge. Grace would like to come with, if that's okay."

Koenig considered.

"Are you coming with us, too?" he asked Cole. "Because if so, I'll have to make room in my cab. Also, it's a long drive. If you have a small bladder, I'd use the facilities now." And that was that. Having established the ground rules for the day - I was a part-time wolf, Cole was a missing rock star - it was down to business.

"I'm not coming," Cole replied. "I have man's work."

Sam shot Cole a warning look. It was a look I thought probably had something to do with the kitchen finally looking like a kitchen again and Sam wanting it to stay that way.

Cole's reply was enigmatic. Well, sort of. Whenever Cole wasn't being completely flamboyant, he always seemed mysterious by comparison. "Bring your phone with you. In case I need to get ahold of you."

Sam rubbed his fingers over his mouth as if he were checking his shaving job. "Don't burn down the house."

"Okay, Mother," Cole replied.

"Oh, let's go," I said.

It was a strange trip. We didn't know Koenig at all, and he knew nothing about us except for what n.o.body else knew. It was made more difficult because he was being kind in a very amorphous way that we weren't certain we were glad for yet. It was hard to be both grateful and talkative.

So we sat three across on the bench seat: Koenig, Sam, me. The truck smelled vaguely like Dr Pepper. Koenig drove eight miles above the speed limit. The road took us northeast, and it wasn't long before civilization began to fall away. The sky overhead was a friendly, cloudless blue, and all the colors seemed supersaturated. If winter had ever been here, this place didn't remember it.

Koenig didn't say anything, just rubbed his hand over his close-cropped hair. He didn't look quite like the Koenig I remembered, this young guy driving us into the middle of nowhere in a civilian truck, wearing a s.h.i.+rt in department-store maroon. This was not who I'd expected to be putting my trust in at this stage. Beside me, Sam practiced a guitar chord on my thigh.

Appearances weren't everything, I supposed.

The truck was silent. After a bit, Sam brought up the weather. He thought it was pretty smooth sailing from here on out. Koenig said he thought that was probably true, but you never knew what Minnesota had in store for you. She could surprise you, he said. I found myself pleased by him referring to Minnesota as a "she." It seemed to render Koenig more benevolent, somehow. Koenig asked Sam what he was thinking of doing for college, and Sam mentioned that Karyn had offered him a full-time position at the bookstore, and he was considering it. No shame in that, commented Koenig. I thought about two-hundred-level cla.s.ses and majors and minors and success quantified by a piece of paper and kind of wished they would change the subject.

Koenig did. "What about St. Clair?"

"Cole? Beck found him," Sam said. "It was a charity case."

Koenig glanced over. "For St. Clair or for Beck?"

"That's something I ask myself a lot these days," Sam replied. He and Koenig exchanged a look at this, and I was surprised to see that Koenig was regarding Sam as an equal, or, if not an equal, at least as an adult. I spent so much time alone with Sam that other people's reactions to him and us together always seemed to come as a shock. It was hard to imagine how one guy could elicit so many different responses from other people. It was like there were forty different versions of Sam. I'd always a.s.sumed that everyone took me at face value, but now I wondered - were there forty different versions of Grace out there, too?

We all jumped when Sam's phone rang from my bag - a bag packed with a change of clothing in case I s.h.i.+fted and a novel in case I needed to look busy - and Sam said, "Would you get that, Grace?"

I paused when I saw that the number on the phone wasn't one that I recognized. I showed the screen to Sam as the phone rang again. He shook his head, puzzled.

"Should I?" I asked, tipping it in my hand as if to open it.