Sleep No More
Page 42
I’m about to find out whose life I’m going to risk to catch a monster.
TWENTY-ONE
“You’re sure?” Smith asks when I call him from my bedroom with my music on to cover up the sound of my frantic whispers. “How can it be tonight? He just killed yesterday!”
“I don’t know, okay?” I hiss. “But it’s going to happen tonight and we have to do something.”
“What do you suggest? I have a feeling your mom isn’t going to suddenly let you out.”
“I don’t know,” I say, almost too loud. “I was kinda hoping you had a plan. It was your idea.”
There’s a long pause and I can hear him muttering under his breath, but I can’t make out the words. “Listen,” Smith says—audible finally. “You have the stone. Do you think you can get into the vision on your own?”
“You said it was going to be really hard.”
“It will. Are you going to let that scare you off?”
“No,” I protest, feeling weirdly guilty that he would even ask. “I just want this to work.”
“Then focus. Harder than you’ve ever focused in a vision before.”
“I can do that,” I say shakily.
“When you get in there, take her back as far as you can and try to figure out why the hell she’s walking alone by a train tunnel, okay?”
“Got it.”
“And you didn’t see any signs of a weapon around her?”
“Clara,” I emphasize, needing to give her a name—to keep all of this real and personal—“had no knife marks or gunshot wounds. But that doesn’t necessarily mean he won’t have something. Maybe, like, a baseball bat? You know, something that damages but doesn’t cut.”
“Okay. I guess you’re going to have to make her fight him off, or run. Get her to take her phone out right before he comes. Maybe she can get a call off to the cops. Or someone else and have them hear her get attacked so they can call the cops.”
I breathe a small sigh. “That’s a great idea. And the cops will be out in force after this morning anyway, I’m sure.”
“Pray hard that they are,” Smith says. “Call me if you need anything else, okay? Do you want me to go to the tunnel in real life? Just to watch over her? Clara,” he adds.
“Maybe, but . . . won’t that change things?”
“It might. What if I got there early?”
“I don’t know, Smith. I don’t want to screw this up.”
“All right. I’ll stay home. Text me when it’s done.”
I’ve got three hours before it actually happens. We got lucky with the location. The train station has clocks posted all over the place along with routes and updates and such—that’s how I knew it would be tonight.
I think Smith’s got a good idea about the phone thing. But if the killer hears her talking on the phone, will he still attack? I feel like everything’s balanced on a knife’s edge. One imperfect move and it’ll all go wrong; she’ll die, or we’ll miss the opportunity entirely. I’m not sure which would be worse. Who knows how many more people will die if I don’t do this?
When I come out of my bedroom, Mom’s banging pans around the kitchen in her classic tell that she’s angry. Hopefully not at me.
“You okay, Mom?” I ask from the doorway of the kitchen. I draw in a quick breath as I see her standing; standing on her own two feet and bending over to pick up a canister she would have had to reach up for in her wheelchair. My mouth is dry and I can hardly believe my eyes.
I blink.
And she’s back in her chair. Too fast to have moved there. What just happened?
Mom looks over at me and then sets down the frying pan she was banging around. “I guess.” She gestures vaguely down the hall. “Sierra went out.”
“Tonight?” I ask.
“What is she thinking?” my mom mutters, and I’m dismayed to see angry tears running down her cheeks. I want to tell her that no one’s after Sierra—that it’s going to be another teenager—but I can’t.
“It’ll be okay, Mom,” I instantly assure her, though there’s no way for me to tell her why. “She’s smart,” I add, like that means anything. “And . . . the wrong age,” I tack on.
“So far,” my mom mutters. “But who knows what this psycho will do next?”
I step tentatively to where she’s gathering ingredients for something I don’t yet recognize; she’s an angry cooker. “Can I help with anything?” I offer, my mind screaming at her to say no.
She pauses midreach and really looks at me for the first time since I walked in. For a moment, I’m afraid she’s going to say yes—that this is about to turn into a mother-daughter night. And that Clara’s going to die because of it.
But she turns away and grabs the canister she was reaching for. The same one she was bending down to get a few minutes ago. No, no that can’t be right. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t have been.
“I’m okay,” Mom says. “I just need to beat some dough for a while. If it’s still fit to eat when I’m done, we’ll have pizza tonight.”
“Sounds great,” I say, then I back out of the room and try not to make a sound as I head down the hall.
To Sierra’s door.
I look both ways before holding my breath and turning the knob.
TWENTY-ONE
“You’re sure?” Smith asks when I call him from my bedroom with my music on to cover up the sound of my frantic whispers. “How can it be tonight? He just killed yesterday!”
“I don’t know, okay?” I hiss. “But it’s going to happen tonight and we have to do something.”
“What do you suggest? I have a feeling your mom isn’t going to suddenly let you out.”
“I don’t know,” I say, almost too loud. “I was kinda hoping you had a plan. It was your idea.”
There’s a long pause and I can hear him muttering under his breath, but I can’t make out the words. “Listen,” Smith says—audible finally. “You have the stone. Do you think you can get into the vision on your own?”
“You said it was going to be really hard.”
“It will. Are you going to let that scare you off?”
“No,” I protest, feeling weirdly guilty that he would even ask. “I just want this to work.”
“Then focus. Harder than you’ve ever focused in a vision before.”
“I can do that,” I say shakily.
“When you get in there, take her back as far as you can and try to figure out why the hell she’s walking alone by a train tunnel, okay?”
“Got it.”
“And you didn’t see any signs of a weapon around her?”
“Clara,” I emphasize, needing to give her a name—to keep all of this real and personal—“had no knife marks or gunshot wounds. But that doesn’t necessarily mean he won’t have something. Maybe, like, a baseball bat? You know, something that damages but doesn’t cut.”
“Okay. I guess you’re going to have to make her fight him off, or run. Get her to take her phone out right before he comes. Maybe she can get a call off to the cops. Or someone else and have them hear her get attacked so they can call the cops.”
I breathe a small sigh. “That’s a great idea. And the cops will be out in force after this morning anyway, I’m sure.”
“Pray hard that they are,” Smith says. “Call me if you need anything else, okay? Do you want me to go to the tunnel in real life? Just to watch over her? Clara,” he adds.
“Maybe, but . . . won’t that change things?”
“It might. What if I got there early?”
“I don’t know, Smith. I don’t want to screw this up.”
“All right. I’ll stay home. Text me when it’s done.”
I’ve got three hours before it actually happens. We got lucky with the location. The train station has clocks posted all over the place along with routes and updates and such—that’s how I knew it would be tonight.
I think Smith’s got a good idea about the phone thing. But if the killer hears her talking on the phone, will he still attack? I feel like everything’s balanced on a knife’s edge. One imperfect move and it’ll all go wrong; she’ll die, or we’ll miss the opportunity entirely. I’m not sure which would be worse. Who knows how many more people will die if I don’t do this?
When I come out of my bedroom, Mom’s banging pans around the kitchen in her classic tell that she’s angry. Hopefully not at me.
“You okay, Mom?” I ask from the doorway of the kitchen. I draw in a quick breath as I see her standing; standing on her own two feet and bending over to pick up a canister she would have had to reach up for in her wheelchair. My mouth is dry and I can hardly believe my eyes.
I blink.
And she’s back in her chair. Too fast to have moved there. What just happened?
Mom looks over at me and then sets down the frying pan she was banging around. “I guess.” She gestures vaguely down the hall. “Sierra went out.”
“Tonight?” I ask.
“What is she thinking?” my mom mutters, and I’m dismayed to see angry tears running down her cheeks. I want to tell her that no one’s after Sierra—that it’s going to be another teenager—but I can’t.
“It’ll be okay, Mom,” I instantly assure her, though there’s no way for me to tell her why. “She’s smart,” I add, like that means anything. “And . . . the wrong age,” I tack on.
“So far,” my mom mutters. “But who knows what this psycho will do next?”
I step tentatively to where she’s gathering ingredients for something I don’t yet recognize; she’s an angry cooker. “Can I help with anything?” I offer, my mind screaming at her to say no.
She pauses midreach and really looks at me for the first time since I walked in. For a moment, I’m afraid she’s going to say yes—that this is about to turn into a mother-daughter night. And that Clara’s going to die because of it.
But she turns away and grabs the canister she was reaching for. The same one she was bending down to get a few minutes ago. No, no that can’t be right. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t have been.
“I’m okay,” Mom says. “I just need to beat some dough for a while. If it’s still fit to eat when I’m done, we’ll have pizza tonight.”
“Sounds great,” I say, then I back out of the room and try not to make a sound as I head down the hall.
To Sierra’s door.
I look both ways before holding my breath and turning the knob.
