no,” she cries softly, over and over.
She scrapes the dirt away. Brushes it from his black, bloated face, his white-blond hair confirming her worst fear.
“No!” Her cry rasps from deep inside her chest. She falls away onto her back, sobbing, until she has nothing else left. She rolls as far away as she can before she’s too exhausted to move.
She lies there, quiet, no longer feeling cold or pain. No longer caring.
Nico is dead.
As the rain slows and the hours tick forward into evening, there is a noise.
“Kendall!” she hears. It seems so far away.
She is delusional. Too weak to shout. “Nico?” She rasps. Rain puddles around her. Everything is dark.
Someone picks her up, wraps a coat around her, carries her like a baby. She hears more voices far away, exclaiming in horror.
They move quickly. A branch slaps her face, and she startles.
“Shit, sorry,” he says.
“Jacian,” she whispers. Her chest sears in pain with every breath. She struggles in his arms.
“Sit tight. We’ve got a ways to go.”
“They’re dead.”
“Yes.” He jiggles her as he breaks into a jog, leaving the thickest woods behind. And eventually, back on the path at Cryer’s Pass, he hoists her up onto his four-runner and glides in next to her, holding her around the shoulders, helping her sit up. Takes off toward the ranch. “I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s going to be bumpy here for a bit.”
“How did you find me?” She leans into him, too cold to shiver. Too tired to open her eyes. Her throat feels like she swallowed broken glass.
He pulls the coat tightly around her and holds her as he drives. His mouth is close, warm near her ear.
“They called the search first thing this morning when your parents noticed you were gone, around five.
Soon after, everybody rolled into town. We’re getting too good at this.” He adjusts his grip on Kendall’s shoulder and steps on the gas as they approach a clearing.
“I remembered what you said about the desk,” he continues. “Yeah, it was weird, but I would have tried anything at that point. I’m so pissed at myself for not. . Oh hell, never mind.” He scowls, but she doesn’t see it. “So, anyway, I went to school to look for clues. Old Mr. Greenwood let me in. I sat at the desk, read all the graffiti. In the middle it said ‘Deep in the woods beyond Cryer’s Pass.’ I almost didn’t think it would mean anything because the carvings looked so old, but I mentioned it to my grandfather, and he almost fainted. He called the sheriff and old Mr. Greenwood. They took the truck out here, but it got caught in the vines trying to drive over. So we’re going this way.”
His voice sounds far away, and the voice of the desk doesn’t leave her. Everything in her brain is mud.
“Don’t let them bury me,” she says.
“Oh, Kendall.” His voice breaks. “Did somebody do this to you? Did anyone touch you?”
She shakes her head. “No. It’s just the voices. They made me. . do things. . ” She lets a sob escape, and then explodes into a racking cough.
“Voices? You mean. .,” he says slowly, “you heard something, when you touched the desk?”
“Yes, the voices.” Kendall grips her throat as it burns.
“Shh. . You can explain once we get you to the hospital.”
They reach Hector’s ranch, and Jacian pulls the quad up next to the barn. He carries Kendall to his truck, starts it up to get the heat flowing, and then picks up the barn phone to make a quick call to
Kendall’s parents.
“I’ve got her. She’s alive. I’m taking her to Bozeman Hospital. It’s faster than waiting on an ambulance.
Is that okay?. . Good. She’s talking, but she’s been out in the rain all night and day.”
He listens for a moment and then says, “See you there.”
He rushes into the truck and takes off down the road, the heater on full blast. He slides Kendall over to him and cradles his arm around her. Halfway to Bozeman she’s shivering. Jacian says that’s a good sign.
He pulls up to the emergency room and carries her inside, grabbing an empty wheelchair and the first person in scrubs that he sees. “Hey, man, she’s freezing. Soaking wet,” he says, setting Kendall down in the wheelchair. The orderly hesitates, glances at the waiting room and then at Kendall’s blue lips, and takes her away. Someone at the desk hands Jacian a clipboard with forms on it. He stares at it blankly.
Carries it to the entrance to meet Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher. Tells them everything he knows as they fill out the paperwork.
For a moment Jacian just stands there looking down the long, bustling hallway, thinking, catching his breath before it all catches up to him. And then he turns and goes out to park the truck.
And to get a grip on things before he loses it.
It’s pneumonia, probably some dirt inhaled into her lungs, and the cold rain didn’t help. Kendall spends the first day with a high fever, in and out of consciousness. Not caring what is happening, only mourning around the edges of reality. Her best friend in all the world, the boy who knew her best, the guy who wanted to be a nurse so he could help people feel better, is dead. And he died in a horrible way.
Part of her knew he had to be dead. When Eli said it at the Obregons’ party, she believed he was probably right. But the desk. . his voice. It’s still killing her.
When she wakes up, her mother is there, reading by the bed, her half-glasses near the tip of her nose.
There’s another bed in the room, but it’s empty.
“Hey, Mom,” Kendall says in a gravelly voice, and cringes. There are oxygen tubes in her nostrils, and her throat is raw, burning. An IV is attached to one arm, and stitches poke from the other where the clippers stabbed her. Her legs and arms, even her stomach is covered with scratches and bruises.
Mrs. Fletcher sits up quickly, puts her book on the table, and a smile spreads across her face.
“Kendall,” she says. “How’s my girl?”
Kendall points to her throat and makes a sad face.
Mrs. Fletcher reaches for a glass of water and feeds the straw into Kendall’s mouth.
Kendall sucks on the straw, feeling the cool water soothe her throat.
“Do you want a pen and some paper?” Mrs. Fletcher rummages through her purse.
Kendall doesn’t have any energy to write, but then she nods anyway. Why not? Turns out she has a few burning questions, once she’s fully awake.
“Nico died,” she writes.
Mrs. Fletcher presses her fingers to her lips as she thinks about how to say things. “They’re both. . dead. Did you know that?”
Kendall nods. Tears well up in her eyes. She knew it, but hearing her mother say it out loud makes it feel true.
“They’re exhuming the bodies for autopsy. The Quinns and the Cruzes are going to have proper burials and a memorial service in the cemetery behind the church in a few days. And now everybody’s trying to find out who murdered them, who buried them there. And why. Honey,” Mrs. Fletcher says in earnest, her voice filled with worry and dread, “do you remember who did this to you? How did you. . he. .” She can’t say it. “The police are going to talk to you again.” Her voice breaks, and she grabs a tissue.
Kendall isn’t sure what to say. She writes on her notepad, “I don’t really remember anything.” She doesn’t like lying, but if she tells the truth, she knows they’ll put her away.
Mrs. Fletcher reaches down and hugs Kendall tightly. “It’s okay, baby. Just tell the police what you remember and that’s all you have to do.”
Kendall nods.
When Sheriff Greenwood comes, he brings a small entourage with him — old Mr. Greenwood and
Hector Morales, who stand outside the door to her room, not looking in.
“I brought you some visitors if you’re up for it,” the sheriff says to Kendall.
