Darper Danver: The Complete First Series Page 12

  "Cassie -"

  "I'm not leaving. Not ever. But that money, from the publisher, is yours. Not mine. I'll do the book, but you get the money. It's non-negotiable, so you really just need to accept what I'm offering here."

  She stares at me for a moment. "Thank you," she says eventually, squeezing my hands. After a few seconds, however, she frowns. "Are you okay, honey? You feel really hot." She reaches up and presses the back of her hand against my forehead. "My God, you're burning up."

  "It's just stress," I say, pulling away.

  "You need to get some rest," she continues. "I'll call the publisher, and you go and lie down for an hour or two. When you get up, we'll make dinner." She checks her watch. "It's getting late. Your father's working until eleven, so we'll eat around eight, okay?"

  "Sure," I reply, "but I'm fine, really." Feeling my forehead, however, I realize that she's right: I am pretty hot, and I'm starting to sweat like a pig. I guess it must just be all the madness that's been going on lately. I don't think I've relaxed, not even for a second, since I got home. "I'm gonna find the boxes with your stories. You printed them out, didn't you?"

  "Most of them," she says, "but you need to rest -"

  "I'll get the boxes, and then I'll sit on my bed and read. That's resting, isn't it? Where are the boxes, anyway? In the basement?"

  "I think so."

  "Call the publisher," I say, feeling kinda weak as I head to the door. "Set up whatever kind of meetings you want with the ghost writer. Just make sure they understand that there are still some questions I might not answer." With that, I head through to the laundry room, and then down the steps into the basement. I feel kind of hazy and sweaty, but I figure I'll be okay when I've had a chance to rest. I just need to push through the craziness and make sure I don't lose my mind in the process.

  Becky Madison

  "You came," I say, leaning against the side of my car as I watch Nate Briggs hurrying along the dark path that leads up from the center of town. Checking my watch, I see that it's a few minutes after eight. "I was about to give up on you."

  "It took me a while to get out of the house," he says as he reaches me, his eyes filled with the excitement of a no-hoper who thinks he's about to get lucky. "My Mom and my sister were around, and I didn't wanna have to talk to them. You know how it is, right?"

  "The joys of living at home in your early twenties," I say with a forced smile. "So did you get what I asked for?"

  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small paper package, which he passes to me. "That's good stuff," he explains as he watches me unwrap the paper. "The guy I buy it from, he's got different grades for different prices. I usually smoke the medium quality stuff. It's good, but it's not too much of a rip-off. That's the really top quality stuff, though. He says it gives a really mellow high and it's the kind that loosens you up without making you get too fucked. I figured you'd want the best."

  "You're really spoiling me," I reply with a smile.

  He shrugs. "I just figured you wouldn't want the cheap stuff."

  Holding the packet up to my face, I sniff the weed. "Smells great," I say. "How much do I owe you?"

  "I dunno," he says, unable to keep a faint smirk from his lips, "I mean, it kinda cost a lot. I'm out pretty heavily, but I feel like maybe that's okay, you know, if you can't pay me right now -"

  "I can pay you," I say, interrupting him. "Believe me, I can afford to buy weed from some hick in a crappy little town like Fort Powell." Seeing the crestfallen look on his face, I realize that maybe I've been a bit too harsh. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out some cash and hand it to him. "There's a hundred there," I say. "Does that cover it?"

  "A hundred?" He stares wide-eyed at the money, and it's clear that I've given him way too much. A sap like Nate Briggs probably doesn't make a hundred in six months, let alone cash-in-hand for a small bag of weed that likely cost him twenty, maybe thirty dollars. "Yeah," he mutters, folding it up and putting it in his pocket. "That's, like, that's good. If you need any more sometime, just let me know, 'cause I can get more."

  "Cool," I reply, fixing him with a determined stare.

  "Cool," he says awkwardly.

  "Of course that's just for the weed itself," I continue, enjoying that fact that he's so fucking desperate. "There's also the small matter of your finder's fee."

  "My finder's fee?"

  "I couldn't have got this weed without your contacts," I point out, "so I owe you something for helping me out. It's always so hard to score proper weed when you don't know anyone, and it's been years since I hung around Fort Powell. You really saved my skin with this delivery, Nate. I guess it's difficult to put a monetary value on that kind of service, so maybe I should offer you something similar in return. Is there any particular kind of service that you might want from me?"

  He smiles, and it's pathetically clear what he's after. God damn it, the moment I ran into him earlier today, I could tell he was the kind of guy who could be led around by the dick.

  "So do you wanna do it with me?" I ask after a moment.

  He opens his mouth to reply, but it's almost as if he's too stunned to formulate a proper sentence.

  "The weed," I continue. "Do you wanna do it with me?"

  "Sure," he mutters.

  "I was thinking," I say, figuring that he's taken the bait and I just need to reel him in, "why don't we go somewhere a little more secluded, have a smoke, and see if I can find a way to pay you back for your help? We can't go to my mother's house, and I'm thinking we probably can't go to your place, and I don't really like the idea of smoking in my car, so I guess we don't really have many options. Then again..." Turning, I glance up at the dark forest that runs past the edge of town. "What about the cabin?" I ask after a moment.

  "The cabin?"

  I turn back to him. "The cabin."

  He pauses. "The cabin?"

  I nod.

  "Well..." He pauses again. "Sure, I mean, yeah, but... Isn't that, like, where your brother died?"

  "So?"

  "Well..." He stares at me. "Are you okay with going up there? I mean, there's like, bad memories and shit up there, right?"

  "I'm very okay with going up there," I tell him. "I can deal with the bad memories and shit, as you so eloquently put it. The question is, are you okay with going up there?"

  "I guess."

  "I've been asking around," I say, "and I hear the local cops are keen on making sure that people don't go up there. I guess I can't blame them. A place like that could become a real hotspot for tourists. I already found a bunch of websites that have photos of the 'murder cabin'. Some of them even had photos. Seems pretty gruesome. You ever been up there since my brother was killed?"

  "No," he replies, before pausing. "Well, yeah, maybe a couple of times.

  "Actually," I continue, "it kind of gives me goosebumps. Makes me all tingly, you know? There's something kinda daring about heading out into the sticks, away from everyone else. Just the two of us. Believe me, it's been a long time since I really let my hair down. I'd like to relax, smoke and see what happens. At first I was worried it might be a little cold, but on a warm night like this, I think we're more likely to be too hot than too cold. Still, we can always take off a few layers if it's a problem. That's one of the great things about weed. It just gets rid of all those inhibitions and makes it much easier to relax and chill, you know? Kick back, forget about all of life's cares and enjoy the person you're with. Life should be like that all the time, don't you think?"

  He stares at me, and it's clear that I've got his full attention. God damn it, this loser is so easy to manipulate, I almost feel sorry for using him. After all, it's not his fault that he was born into a family of deadbeats. Then again, it is his fault that in his early twenties he's still living at home, totally dependent upon a bunch of idiots he should have kicked to the curb a long time ago. Why should I pretend that his life is important when he clearly doesn't mind rotting in this pathetic little town?

  "Y
ou're not scared, are you?" I ask.

  "Scared?" he replies. "Hell, no. You don't scare me."

  "I didn't mean that," I say with a smile. "I meant, you're not scared of the cabin, right? Please don't tell me that you believe in ghosts or any of that shit." I wait for him to reply, but there's a hint of doubt in his eyes. "You know," I continue, "since my brother was murdered up there. I hear there's still some of his blood, soaked into the wood. Kids used to get up to some pretty fucked-up shit in that cabin, didn't they? I even read online that there used to be Ouija ceremonies and occult stuff happening there."

  "I'm cool," he replies with a kind of fake confidence that makes me think he's putting on a front.

  "Let's go smoke some weed, then," I say, pulling a torch from my pocket and switching it on before shining the beam over at the start of the path that leads through the trees. As we start walking, it's clear that he's not exactly going to be a great conversationalist, but I figure I can deal with that. It's not as if I'm taking him to the cabin for his amazing conversation skills anyway. I've got other plans for Nate Briggs, and I'm afraid his expectations are going to be sorely dashed. He thinks he's going to smoke some weed and then get some action, and he probably feels like Christmas has come early. By the time he realizes what I really want, it's going to be too late for him to get away. I just hope he understands that this isn't my fault. It's his sister's. Cassie Briggs is responsible for everything that happens tonight.

  Cassie Briggs

  "God damn that infernal phone!" my mother shouts as she stomps down the stairs. "I don't know what the hell's wrong with it!"

  "Problem?" I ask, sitting on the floor of the basement with various old print-outs and folders spread all around me. I take a deep breath, trying to ease the nausea I've been feeling since my fever really took ahold.

  "It's doing that thing again," she says, stopping in the doorway. "I can't work it out. It sounds like there's someone on the other end trying to say something, but it's all weird and mixed up. If I didn't know better, I'd say it was someone trying to place a direct call from Hell." She pauses, watching me for a moment. "What are you doing down here, honey? It's almost nine. I thought you were going to rest before dinner?"

  "Nine?" I check my phone and see that she's right. "I lost track of time."

  "You don't sound too good," she continues, hurrying over and placing the back of her hand against my forehead. "Christ, Cassie, you're burning up. I think you're coming down with something."

  "I'm fine," I mutter, opening another of the old folders containing my mother's printed-out stories. "I had no idea you wrote so much," I continue, hoping to distract her from the fact that I'm sweating so much. I know full well that I'm not doing too good, and I accept that I need to rest, but first I just need to get to the bottom of this missing folder. I've already found hundreds of stories that my mother wrote when we were younger, but that final folder has to be somewhere. "You can't have read all of this to us," I continue, hoping to strike up a conversation that'll distract her from my fever. "I thought everything you wrote was just for Nate and me? There's enough here for ten books!"

  "I was bored," she says, feeling under my chin. "I wrote all the time. Your glands aren't swollen, but you're sweating so much. How's your throat?"

  "My throat's fine," I say, closing the folder and lining it up with the rest. During my search down here, I've found that my mother was very methodical with her work back in the day. She used to have a clearly-marked folder for each month, covering almost a decade. "Why did you ever stop?" I ask. "You must have enjoyed writing. Hell, you must have been almost obsessed with it, so why did you give it up?"

  "I don't know," she says, sounding distracted as she places a hand on the nape of my neck. "I guess I just got busy. Do you feel nauseous?"

  I shake my head.

  "I'm going to look up these symptoms online. There wasn't anything going around at the prison before you were released, was there? No kind of virus or bug?"

  "I don't think so," I say, placing the last folder in the right place. Something seems wrong, however, and after a moment I realize that there's a folder missing. "What happened to June 1997?" I ask.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You've got a folder for every month from January 1991 to February 1999, but June 1997 isn't here."

  "I don't know," she replies, sounding as if she doesn't really care, "it must be around here somewhere. It can't have grown legs and wandered off by itself."

  "It's not here," I say, standing up and walking over to the shelves. Before I get there, however, I'm suddenly overcome by a feeling of dizziness, and I have to stop for a moment in order to regain my balance. For a few seconds, it's as if the whole world is swirling around me, and I have to wait until things settle down.

  "Cassie?" my mother says, hurrying over and grabbing my arm. "You need to rest, and that's an order. In fact, it's non-negotiable, as you're so fond of saying about things these days." She waits for me to answer. "Cassie, I'm not kidding. I'm your mother, and I'm not going to let you wear yourself down until you collapse. You're going to end up in hospital at this rate, and believe me, medical bills are the last thing we need on top of everything else. Were you given a physical exam before they let you out?"

  "Where's June 1997?" I ask, pulling away from her and starting to re-check every shelf.

  "Oh, who gives a damn?" she asks. "It's one folder of stupid stories from when you were a child, Cassie. I don't remember what I wrote back then, but I'm certain it wasn't worth fussing about." She turns and looks at the folders on the floor. "None of this stuff is worth a damn. I appreciate that you want to save it for posterity, honey, but I think you're being a little too nostalgic. It's junk. No-one's going to want to read it, let alone buy it."

  "It has to be somewhere," I say, pushing some old boxes aside in the hope that maybe the June 1997 folder might have fallen down the back. "Don't you remember what you were writing about back then?"

  "I don't remember a damn thing," she replies, taking my arm and trying to ease me away from the shelves. "Honey, you're starting to worry me. All these folders will still be here when you're feeling better, but it's vitally important that you come with me and get some rest. I won't touch a thing, I promise, and if you want to publish the stories, and if you're willing to do all the legwork, then you have my blessing. But only after you've made sure that you're better."

  "I just want to know about June 1997," I say, with sweat pouring down my face. I'm feeling so hot, I figure I might start burning up soon, but for some reason my mind of fixated on that goddamn folder. "Mom, you have to help me look for it. It's here somewhere. Why would anyone get rid of it?"

  "That's the first time you've called me Mom since you got back from prison," she says. "Please, honey -"

  "Don't stop me!" I say, pushing past her. Before I can get to the next shelf, however, I catch my foot against a box on the floor, and I quickly tumble to the floor, landing hard against my shoulder and letting out a gasp of pain.

  "Cassie!" my mother shouts, kneeling next to me. "Are you okay?"

  "I'm fine," I reply, even though I'm feeling worse by the second. I know she's right and I should get some rest, but that missing folder is really starting to bug me. It just doesn't make any sense: why would one folder be missing, when all the others are organized so neatly? As I try to get up, I realize that I'm feeling weaker than ever, and finally I lie back down on the cold concrete floor. I guess I just need to calm down and get my breath back. There's nothing wrong with me, not really. It's just a matter of getting through the chaos of the past few days. Unfortunately, my mother's bound to turn it into a big thing.

  "It's just over-work and stress," she says, wiping some of the sweat from my face. "I knew something like this would happen, honey. After everything you've been through, and all the trauma and how strong you've had to be, it's inevitable that it's going to have a physical impact. I know you want to find that missing folder, and I swear to God, I'll help you
once you're better. But please, Cassie, let me take you up to your room. You need to get some sleep."

  I want to argue with her, but I know it's no use. Slowly, with her help, I get to my feet and allow her to lead me over to the stairs. I feel like hell, as if I've got no energy at all, but I'll get back down here tomorrow to find that folder, even if it's the last thing I ever do. Maybe I'm being a little O.C.D., but I hate the thought of there being a gap in the series, and I can't shake the feeling that someone must have removed that particular folder on purpose.

  "At least the phone's stopped ringing," she says as she carefully guides me up to the main part of the house. "I swear, that thing's been driving me crazy. I even remember it happening once or twice before, years ago. We really need to get the damn thing fixed."

  I smile uneasily. Right now, I feel as if I'm going to spontaneously burst into flames. My temperature must be through the roof, and all I can think about is that I have to rest so I can come back later and find that missing folder.

  Becky Madison

  "There it is," I say, stopping in my tracks as I shine the torch at the dark cabin. "Fuck, it kinda looks creepy, huh?" I turn and shine the torch straight into Nate's face, causing him to raise an arm over his eyes. "I guess I underestimated how weird it'd be to come to this place, out here in the middle of nowhere."

  "It's cool," he says, still covering his eyes. "Could you... Could you shine that thing away from me?"

  "Sorry," I say, turning and directly the beam back toward the cabin. "I guess..." I pause for a moment as I stare at the cabin. This is the first time I've been up here for years; a few days after Bobby was murdered, I set out to come and visit the place, but I turned back before I got halfway. I guess I couldn't face the trauma of coming to the place where he lost his life, and although I assumed that the passing years would make the journey easier, I'm suddenly struck by the realization that maybe this isn't going to be as easy as I'd anticipated. I'm in no way a superstitious person, but I can't help thinking about the possibility that somehow Bobby is watched us right now.