Edgewood Series: Books 1 - 3 Page 3

  I stayed by her side until I heard the ambulance pull up in the driveway, and then I set the phone on the floor and went out the door to meet them. Something about the way the two men exited the vehicle, one carrying what looked like a large toolbox, spooked me. Going through my head were the words, You’re not supposed to be here.

  My flight instinct kicked in then, and without thinking, I took off, running past them into the darkness. One of them yelled, “Hey!” as I went by. I never looked back.

  I only slowed when my own house was in sight. Quietly, I eased my way through the back door and up the stairs, careful to skip the creaky step. My house was a bungalow, one bedroom down, two up. My parents’ room was on the first level, which gave me the upstairs, complete with bathroom, all to myself. My friends thought it was cool that I had my own space. I didn’t think too much about it, except when I was coming and going and wondered if they could hear me on the stairs.

  In a way, getting up that morning was easy. I was already awake when my alarm went off. I felt like I’d been hit by a bus, but otherwise I was okay. I stumbled into the shower and felt a little better. Standing under a spray of warm water is a quick but short-term fix to most of life’s problems.

  I decided that if I got through school without walking into any walls or dozing off, the day would be a success. Besides Justin’s inference that I resembled something you’d normally find in a septic tank, no one else noticed I was a wreck.

  I was at my locker after lunch when Mallory came up next to me. “Russ Becker?” she said, sternly.

  I closed my locker and slung my backpack over one shoulder. “Mallory, are you okay?”

  “Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You clunked your head pretty hard when you had that seizure in Specter’s class.”

  She waved away my concerns. “Oh that. Just a diversion. I was faking it.”

  “Really? Why would you do that?”

  “Why I did it isn’t important right now.” She leaned close to me in a seductive way, but her words were more accusatory than sexy. “Here’s the thing. I saw you last night.”

  “Last night?”

  “In the middle of the night. I live right next door to that old lady’s house and I saw you running away when the ambulance got there. What happened?”

  My stomach lurched. What kind of eyesight did she have? It was dark and I was running very, very fast. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

  “I know what I saw. I saw you.” She tilted her head to one side, waiting.

  “You must have me confused with someone else.”

  “So you’re saying it wasn’t you?”

  “Nope, not me,” I said, trying to be nonchalant.

  “I was eight feet away. I know it was you.”

  “I have to get going or I’ll be late for class. See you later.” I stepped around her and staggered a little, the lack of sleep kicking my butt at last.

  “We’re not done, Russell Becker,” Mallory called after me. “Don’t think I’m going to just let this go.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I completely crashed when I got home from school. I left a note for my mom to find when she got home from work. Mom, Taking a nap. Wake me in time for dinner. Russ.

  If life were fair, I’d have been able to stay awake until ten o’clock and get a good night’s sleep like a normal person. But I was too tired. Life was so not fair.

  Mom woke me by calling my cell. She never walked up the stairs if she could help it. Five minutes later, I sat at the table with my mom and dad, chewing on garlic toast and listening to them discuss their respective days. Nothing good ever seemed to happen at their jobs, at least nothing they ever mentioned.

  At six o’clock, my mom turned on the small TV she kept on the kitchen counter. We always watched the news during dinner, a tradition that would have horrified my health teacher had she known. Apparently watching TV during meals is the primary cause of the breakdown of the American family. Not to mention that a person statistically consumes more calories watching a screen than conversing. All of America was going to become obese and disconnected from its loved ones, and it would be the fault of technology. According to Ms. Hadley, anyway.

  We sat quietly through the newscast teasers: the promise of unseasonably warm weather, upcoming predictions for the local ball team, a man gets a life-saving kidney donation from a brother he’d never met, a local woman gets a most unusual visit. Blah, blah, blah. It’s always something.

  I was only half-listening, my mouth full of spaghetti, when they got to the local woman story at the end of the forecast. The female half of the anchor team, Madeline Park, covered the story. “Yesterday, Nelly Smith of Poplar Drive in Old Edgewood had an unusual late-night experience.”

  I sat up straight. The food in my mouth suddenly congealed and felt like wet cement.

  Madeline Park kept talking even as I was having trouble breathing. “Mrs. Smith, who is eighty-six years old and lives alone, experienced a heart attack at approximately one a.m. this morning. Paramedics were dispatched to the home after receiving a 911 call from the residence. The call was placed by an unidentified man, who was not on the scene when they arrived. At the hospital, Mrs. Smith told our reporter that despite her door being locked, an unknown man entered her home and brought her back from the dead. Police say there was no sign of a break-in.”

  Mom sprinkled Parmesan cheese on her noodles. Thankfully, neither she nor Dad were looking in my direction. I was sure my face would have given me away.

  The news broke away to a shot of the Smith home. Across the bottom of the screen it said: Local woman believes she died and was revived by a stranger in her home. Then the shot switched to a reporter, Patrick Doolan, who stood in front of the house and repeated most of what Madeline Park had already said.

  “Why do they always recap like that?” Mom asked.

  Dad shrugged. “Filler. It’s damn annoying.”

  On the screen Patrick Doolan said, “In a fascinating account, Mrs. Smith told me she remembers being in pain and then leaving her body and floating upwards toward a beautiful light where she was met by deceased family members. The next thing she recalled was being pulled back to earth by the touch of the unknown man who called 911. Mrs. Smith is resting comfortably at the hospital and declined being on camera. With us is her neighbor, Mallory Nassif, who saw the ambulance arrive from her home next door. She has some insights of her own on the situation.” He held the microphone out and the camera zoomed in on Mallory’s face. “Mallory, can you tell us what you observed last night?” I felt like I was going to throw up.

  She smiled, straight at me, it seemed. “I got up in the middle of the night to get a drink of water and happened to look out the window as the ambulance was leaving, around two fifteen. My mom and I check on Mrs. Smith sometimes, so we know her really well. I heard she’s in stable condition now, and I’m going to visit her tomorrow.”

  Patrick Doolan’s voice in the background: “What do you think of Mrs. Smith’s assertion that the person who called 911 was a complete stranger who somehow got into her locked home and revived her from death?”

  “I think it’s possible,” she said. “Why not?”

  “Some would find the idea unbelievable,” Patrick Doolan said. “What would you say to those skeptics?”

  Mallory smiled again. “I think Mrs. Smith knows if her door was locked. And the house was open when the paramedics got there, so no one broke in. And if she said she died and came back, I’m willing to believe it. Miracles happen sometimes.”

  “There you have it, folks.” Patrick Doolan’s face filled the screen. “A miracle on Poplar Drive.”

  Back in the studio, Madeline Park said, “We love a happy ending here at News Center Five. And I love that young woman’s attitude. I’m willing to believe in miracles, too.”

  As Madeline exchanged small talk with her co-anchor, Dad got up and turned the TV off. Somewhere along the line I�
�d started breathing again. I hoped my face had recovered from the shock.

  “What do you make of that?” my dad asked.

  “Weird.” Mom took a sip of water.

  “Okay, forget about the back from the dead thing. Focusing just on the unknown stranger—they must have the guy’s voice recorded on the 911 call,” Dad said.

  “Yes, but he didn’t identify himself,” Mom said.

  “Hmmm.” Dad shifted into problem-solving mode. “Sounds like a case for CSI. Here’s what they should do—dust for fingerprints, look for strands of hair, check for footprints inside and out, and test for DNA. A person can’t even walk through a room without leaving something behind.”

  “I’m sure Edgewood doesn’t have much of a forensics department,” Mom said. “Besides, no crime was committed, right?”

  “True, but an investigation would rule out paranormal entities. And clearly it was someone who wasn’t supposed to be there—a would-be burglar or something.”

  I hoped no one in the room could hear the pounding of my heart. I said, “Why does it have to be a criminal? Couldn’t it just be a passing Good Samaritan? Someone going for a walk who noticed something wrong?”

  “At one in the morning?” my mother questioned. “What kind of person is out for a walk at that time?”

  I shrugged. “People who work the late shift?”

  “But wouldn’t someone like that stick around? Why run off when the ambulance arrived?”

  I had nothing to say to that.

  Dad said, “I like that your tendency is to think the best about people, Russ, I really do, but in this case, I think there’s more going on. It’ll come out eventually, you wait and see.”

  When he said that, a chill went up my spine, the kind you read about in horror stories. I’m not sure why I felt so guilty. I hadn’t done anything wrong, and in fact, if you really thought about it, I’d done a good thing. I saved Grandma Nelly’s life, right? What would it hurt to tell my parents it was me? Sure they’d be upset that I’d gone out at night, and Mom would be hurt I hadn’t told her I’d had more problems sleeping. I’d probably have to go back to Dr. Anton and he’d try to dig deeper into my psyche, or whatever you call it, trying to find out the root of my problem. And I sure didn’t want that. But maybe I could downplay the whole thing, say that last night was the only time I had trouble sleeping, the first time I’d gone for a walk at night. Of course, once Mom and Dad knew, they’d be watching me all the time and that would be the end of my late-night walks. And then how would I ever fall asleep?

  “I forgot to tell you, Russ,” Mom said. “You got a phone call while you were napping. Some girl.”

  My hand, holding a forkful of spaghetti, froze. “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know. She said it was important. I gave her your cell number.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  After dinner I went upstairs to do my homework. That was the official version, anyway—doing homework. I spent most school nights up in my room. I had my own TV, game system, laptop, and phone, so there was no reason to be anywhere else in the house. Mom and Dad never questioned how I spent my time, probably because I had a 3.6 GPA and, unlike Carly, I’d never had any visits from the police. Having her come first made everything easier.

  I sat on my bed and checked my cell. No message from the mystery girl, the one I feared would be Mallory Nassif, but there was one from a friend. I had a circle of guys I hung out with, but Justin and Mick were my main friends. This was Mick’s voice mail message: “You loser. Answer me, dammit.” Typical. He’d left me seven text messages, most of them complete gibberish.

  I called him back.

  Me: “Sup?”

  Mick: “What are you doing right now?”

  Me: “Homework.”

  Mick: “Ha! Good one. Seriously, you have to go online now and watch this thing. Funny, so damn funny. You’re gonna die. I’m sending you the link.”

  Me: “Okay.”

  Mick: “What’s wrong with you?”

  Me: “Nothing.”

  Mick: “Your nothing sounds depressed. Don’t kill yourself, okay? Whatever it is can’t be that bad.”

  Me: “Do you know Mallory Nassif?”

  Mick: “Not as much as I’d like to.”

  Here I have to stop and explain that Mick is sort of a wannabe womanizer. He never got any action in that department, but he made comments about every girl who walked by. And he was always convinced he was on the verge of getting some. He was delusional that way.

  Mick: “Why? Is she asking about me?”

  Me: “You wish. I just asked because she was on the news.”

  Mick: “Mallory Nassif was on the news saying she wanted me?” (He choked out a kind of heh, heh, heh laugh.)

  Me (ignoring him): “No, her neighbor had a heart attack.”

  Mick: “Someone our age?”

  Me: “No, a really old lady.”

  Mick (sounding bored): “Oh. Well, that stuff happens when you’re old, right?”

  This is the part where I got really annoyed. Yes, that kind of stuff happens when you’re old, but it’s different when you see the person lying on the floor. Then it’s a really horrible thing. Being there, I was involved. But I didn’t want to tell Mick that. At least not yet. Something inside of me said I should keep it to myself. “I gotta go,” I said. “I have a math test tomorrow.”

  “Give me a break,” he said, and started going on about something he saw on Comedy Central. I hung up while he was still talking, the way I always did. Most people would think it was rude, but it was just the way we did things.

  I’d been having some trouble with math, so I knew I had to study if there was any chance of getting an A that semester. My friends thought getting good grades came easy for me. I never let on how many hours I spent poring over textbooks and making notes at home. Sometimes, during study hall, I even went to the math lab, the refuge of the truly desperate. Unlike some of the kids I knew, I was on my own. Once I reached sixth grade, my parents refused to help me with my homework, saying too much had changed since they went to school. My mom, in fact, claimed not to know anything besides basic addition, subtraction, division, and multiplication. Hard to believe she had a master’s degree.

  I was knee-deep in logarithms when my cell phone went off. My eyes still on my notebook, I answered. “Yeah?”

  “Russ?”

  I had a sinking feeling. I sat up straight. “Yes?’

  “It’s me. I told you I wasn’t going to let this go.” There was a long pause where neither of us spoke, and then Mallory said, “Are you there, Russ?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “Well, don’t you have anything to say?”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  She sighed heavily, for my benefit, I thought. “I think this would work better if we both cut the crap. I know about the lights in the field, and I know you were at Mrs. Smith’s last night and so do you. Pretending differently doesn’t change things.”

  I picked up a pen and started drawing spirals in the margins in my notebook, a nervous habit I’d had since grade school. “Just say I was in your neighborhood last night,” I finally said. “And I’m not saying I was, but if I was—so what? It’s not like it’s a crime or anything. And no one can prove it either way.”

  “I’m not interested in proving it,” she said. “I know what I know. I saw you there as sure as I know anything in this world.”

  “Is there a reason for this phone call?” I said. “Because I’m in the middle of something right now and don’t have time to play games.”

  “I’m not playing games.” Now she sounded indignant. “I’m calling to invite you to join my group. This is completely secret. I wouldn’t ask just anyone, but if you aren’t interested—”

  “What kind of group?” I asked. I had to admit, she got my attention.

  “I’m not telling you about it unless you’re in for sure,” she said. “It’s strictly confidential.”

&n
bsp; This girl was insane. “I’m not joining some group I don’t know anything about,” I said. “If that’s a condition, forget it.”

  “This is an opportunity to be part of something important,” she said, emphasizing each word. “You are part of this whether you know it or not. We need each other—you’re going to find that out sooner or later.”

  There was a long pause, for dramatic effect on her part, I guessed, and on my end, because what the hell do you say to that? “This is a church youth group, isn’t it?”

  “No.”

  I guessed again. “A service organization?”

  “No.”

  “An exclusive academic club?”

  “No, no, and double no,” she said and laughed. “Do you really think I’m that type of person?”

  “Frankly, I don’t know what type of person you are, Mallory Nassif. I know you believe in miracles on Poplar Drive, and you play field hockey. That’s all I know.” I looked down at the notebook page, which was now covered in doodles. I wrote, CRAZY in large letters and circled it three times.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Mallory said. “Just meet with us and then make your decision. I think you’d be a good fit.”

  I cleared my throat. Her proposition sounded interesting, but I doubted it was as great as she was making it out to be.

  She continued without waiting for an answer. “Tomorrow night at midnight. I’ll text directions for where to meet beforehand.”

  “Midnight?”

  “That’s when we meet,” she said. “Are you interested or not?”

  “Tomorrow night is a school night.”

  “Yeah, so what? So was last night.”

  She had a point. Chances were pretty good I’d be up and wandering around anyway. “What kind of group meets in the middle of the night?” I asked.

  “Come and find out, if you’re interested. And if you have the nerve.”

  “Okay,” I said finally.

  “Okay what?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “You do that.” Then Mallory laughed again, a really great laugh, like she’d won an argument. She was certain I’d show up, that much was sure. As for me, I still hadn’t decided.