Wicked Charm(33)

     



 

Today, Willow and I have boated to the platform.

"Beau, I need to talk to you about something," Willow says, tying up the  boat and splaying herself out on the wood. Not a care in the world  about the mud and dirt and bugs below. I smile.

"Oh yeah? And what's that?"

I lie next to her, peering at the hanging lantern.

"There was a girl once," she says. "You knew her. I want to know what happened."

"Happened to who?" I ask.

I hardly see how telling Willow about a girl I once knew could be  interesting to her, especially since all the girls I know, aside from  Charlotte, are linked to me romantically.

"Her name was Ericka."

I stiffen.

"She disappeared one day and never came back. People are speculating  that she's connected to the murders. What do you know about this?"

"You sure you don't want to talk about anything else?"

"Tell me, Beau."

I sigh, resigned.

"Okay, I dated her. It lasted"-I think back, trying to remember-"maybe a  month? I called it off. I don't know anything about this connecting to  the murders. The murders just started, and she left a while back."

Willow winds a lock of dark hair around her finger and then lets it go.

"What do you remember about her?"

Shit, that is not the right question to ask me. I remember the way she  kissed me like she was dying to get more. But even these remembrances  are distant, like a far-off sound, hard to make out.

"Willow, I really don't think-"

"Answer me."

I don't want her knowing this.

"I remember some times with her," I say tentatively.

"Doing what?"

"Willow." I groan.

She must know what she's asking of me.

"Say it," she demands.

"Fine. I remember private moments with her at her house when her parents were working. That's it. I hardly knew her."

She cringes.

"I'm sorry! I didn't want to tell you, but you insisted."

"Do you know why she left?"

"No idea."

"Do you happen to know that she missed weeks of school after you broke things off with her?"

"Did she?"

"And then her family sold their house, packed up, and they were gone."

"What does this have to do with me?"

She rolls to her side to look me in the eyes.

"I heard she couldn't get over you, and that's why they left."

"Who told you that?"

Willow waves a hand around. "Oh, you know. People at school. Pretty much  everyone knows your history with girls, and so they assume you were the  reason."

I've honestly not thought of Ericka since she moved a year ago. Of  course, I first heard the rumors that she left because of me, but I  figured they were just that: rumors. Now, I wonder if they were true. My  heart kicks up a notch as I think about what that means for me, that  maybe my actions are to blame.

"You seemed to have broken her heart, and I wonder, Beau, if you know just how many girls you've hurt. And if you even care."

A wave of guilt makes me feel uneasy. "I hope I didn't have anything to  do with it, and you know why I've been closed off. I'm working on that. I  definitely don't want anyone to be hurt. I feel awful about these  victims. I can't stand the thought of anyone else coming to harm. You  believe me, right?"

"Yes, I believe you," she replies. "And plus, you just admitted that you  care. Not in the exact words, but you've let down more defenses."

"Maybe you're right."

"You mean I am." She folds her arms and narrows her eyes at me.

"I mean maybe."

"Or I suppose I could be reading this all wrong."

Her eyes search me so thoroughly that I have the urge to look away.

"You're not."

"You and your damn riddles, Beau."

She leans into me like she's planning on kissing me. So I close the gap between us and kiss her.

"It's getting late," she says, pulling away. "We need to be on our way back."

I help her up and take the oars to row home.

We're a little ways down the swamp when I notice a hush fall over the trees, followed by a scraping through the brush.

"Someone's here," I whisper.

"How do you know?" Willow glances at the tall grass, which bends ever so  slightly away from us, like it doesn't want to be bothered.

"The markings," I say. "They're everywhere."

A just-made scratch on a tree, sap oozing. An overturned leaf. Branches slightly askew.         

     



 

I quickly dock the boat again, and we carefully get out and push through  the grass. Thickets of trees begin to thin as we approach the edge of  the swamp forest.

Is it my imagination, or did the trees move?

I hold a finger to my lips to signal Willow to be silent. Her eyes  widen, and she stands dead still. My heart thrashes with anticipation,  and I can hear Willow breathing wildly. Her eyes dart around, looking  for something to settle on, trying to track the person we both know is  near.

I take closer stock of the trees. A flicker of black. A small moan. A vestigial shadow.

I burst through the trees.

And nearly fall to my knees.

My legs wobble and threaten to give out.

There's a person hunched over, interested in something at the edge of a  channel of water that separates the land. A cluster of mangroves nearly  hides the stranger, who's wearing a black cloak, hood up.

"Hello?" I say.

I barely feel Willow as she lays a hand on my forearm.

The stranger spins around, holding the hood down so that all I catch is  an angular chin draped in shadow. I've startled him. I now see why. Tall  grass obscures part of what I'm witnessing, half hidden. The other half  is unmistakably a pair of legs.

"God," Willow says, taking a step back.

"No," I say, taking a step forward.

The swamp separates me from the stranger.

The killer.

I take off running into the water. It drops off suddenly, and I am  swimming, swimming, swimming as fast as I can. There's a gator near me. I  can only hope that it won't mistake my sudden splashing movements for  prey. I can't stop to think about anything.

I've nearly reached the mangroves when the killer runs.

I pull myself out of the water and glance at the legs, which lead to a body.

Her name is Michelle-a girl I once dated. Her neck is bruised, and her  eyes are wide. And then she does something I don't expect her to do. She  moves her fingers.

I need to find the killer.

And I need to help Michelle.

She looks as though she wants to say something. As I approach, I have to  hold onto my wits because what I see is horrific. Her throat is  crushed. She's attempting to breathe in short raspy inhalations that get  more desperate by the second.

I can already hear Willow in the background on her phone, trying through patchy reception to tell the police we need help.

I don't want to let the killer go, but I can no longer see him, and  Michelle doesn't look as though she has long. I bend over her and set my  hands on her chest, ready to begin CPR.

Michelle is dying. Right in front of me.

"I will find him," I whisper to her. "And he will pay for doing this to you and the others."

Her chest suddenly rises so roughly that her back arches off the ground in desperate attempts for air.

I begin chest compressions like they taught us in school. I can't  remember if I'm doing it right, but I don't want to stop. I can't stop.

Suddenly, Michelle stills.

"Help her!" Willow screams as she draws near in the boat.

"I'm trying!"

I continue the compressions-one, two, three, four-until Willow erupts  into a burst of sobs. Water drips from my wet hair onto Michelle's face,  making it look as though she's crying.

I keep at it until the police show up and emergency workers take over.  It seems like forever, too long, before they shock her with electric  pads and push down on her chest, breathe into her mouth, and wait and  wait and wait for Michelle to breathe on her own. She never does.

I reach for Willow and try to offer her comfort, knowing all the while  that my mind is elsewhere. We were so close to having a witness, someone  to identify the killer. I could have caught the Mangroves Murderer. If  I'd left Michelle, maybe he would have been stopped.

These girls are gone because of me. It's too hard to deny the  connection. No matter what I do, I can't get them out of my head.  Especially now that I just watched one die.

And her killer is still on the loose.





33


Willow

"Please state your name."

"Willow Mae Bell," I say.

"Do you have any idea where the killer went?" the police officer asks me.

I can't think. I can't remember. I keep seeing legs. Legs attached to a dead body.

"He ran off into the trees," I say, gesturing in the general direction.

"And you?" the cop asks Beau. "Do you remember which way he went, aside from ‘into the trees'?"

"He seemed to be heading north," Beau replies.

The cop nods, more satisfied with Beau's answer than with mine.

"Can you describe him to me, miss?"

I remember in flashes, bursts of images like a digital camera in playback.