A few tense minutes later, the river evens out. I exhale slowly and Michael looks back, smiling. “No sweat, right?”
Justin claps me on the back. “You did it.”
I did it. Yes!
Michael relaxes and says, “So, as I was saying, this job is crazy. That was the first of many, shall we say, interesting excursions on the Dead.”
Now I’m all ears. Almost relaxed, even. “Like what?”
“Well, there were the dudes who insisted on rafting completely naked, except for their helmets and paddling jackets. And the ladies who were part of a reality TV show. They thought it was a sightseeing tour of the river. One of them chipped a nail and all hell broke loose.”
I laugh.
“Yeah. Robert was all like, ‘Put a sock in it and get your arses on the raft.’ And he took out a knife and started waving it at them.”
“Robert?” I ask. “You mean Robert Skiffington? Pat’s uncle?”
“Yeah. He’s crazy. He used to jump into the river in the winter without a wet suit. And after the ride, he’d run around base camp screaming and laughing and peeking in the tents of the female campers.” He laughs. “The Australian outback must have fried his brains, man.”
I stare at him for a second. Something clicks in my mind. “Robert Skiffington was Australian?”
“Well, no. He was born here. But he lived there awhile or something.” He laughs. “Man, I miss him. We keep wondering when he’s coming back.”
Somehow, even though a thin drizzle is still falling, I see the early light of dawn poking through the trees behind the Outfitters office building. I see a wiry man, setting off with hiking boots and a backpack that is half his size slung behind him. I see him stop to gaze out on the river as the shadows of the trees stretch in the new pink-orange light. His eyes mist over. Well, I’m not going to be seeing you, my dear, for a while.
And then, not a moment later,
What the devil is that?
And suddenly I know something, almost as sure as I know my own name. I know that two years ago, Robert Skiffington left with his pack, hiking up toward the Appalachian Trail. I know that he saw a cold white hand protruding from the water in the shadows of the dawn. I know that he said What the devil is that? before sliding down the embankment, his head thudding against a log with a sickly crack as his hand reached for that white limb, only to find the solid, completely inhuman material of a mannequin form, before he faded out of consciousness.
And I know he’s not coming back. Because the truth is, he never left.
Chapter Seven
Okay, I tell myself. Breathe.
This has got to be my imagination. Robert Skiffington is very much alive, hiking the Appalachian Trail somewhere miles away from here.
Isn’t he?
I exhale as the vision subsides, but my eyes immediately dart to the side, to something I know does not belong. There, sitting where Angela should be, and wearing a prim white gown, is Lannie. She smiles through her tears. “Remember me, Tootsie?”
At first I’m surprised I know her name, know anything at all about her, but then it all comes flooding back to me. She was one of my friends, one of my constant visions when I lived on the Delaware. She was always there with me, telling me stories about the summers she and her sister spent on the water. They’d go tubing and have picnics by the river, and it all seemed like so much fun. Lannie was the daring one, jumping into the river without a second thought, laughing endlessly at me whenever I tried to take things slow. I always wished she was my sister, because there were no other children where I lived and I desperately wanted other kids to play with. She was my one and only friend. My imaginary friend.
“You’re not—Why are you—” I sputter, and then all at once she disappears and is replaced by that girl in the pink party dress, her eyes dark and hopeless.
I’m snapped back to reality before she can open her mouth and spew mud. The waves churn around the raft, matching the tumult going on inside me. “What are you doing here?” I ask her, but by that time, she’s gone.
Crack. I hear it again and again, that sickening sound of Robert’s skull smashing against a rock or a log or whatever. Always What the devil is that? followed a minute later by that horrifying sound that can only mean the end of Robert Skiffington’s life. He’s dead. Gone.
And somehow, I’m the only one in the world who knows it.
The whispers start. At first I think it’s nothing, the new spring leaves rustling gently around us. But eventually I can make out actual words. So many different voices, speaking at once. Asked … devil … you … A whirl of words, nonsensical ramblings, growing louder and louder, until they drown out all other sounds. Pain blooms in my forehead and doesn’t subside when I press my hand against my temple. Instead, the voices only grow stronger. Now I can almost make them out. I know that if they get any louder, my head is bound to explode.
I turn around, still clutching the paddle. “Justin,” I whisper, trying to catch my breath. Somehow, though we’re in the outdoors, it feels like there are walls closing in on me. Walls of water, bearing down on me, waiting to sweep me downriver. Justin is only an arm’s length behind me, and yet it seems like he’s a mile away. “I need to get out.”
I can tell from the look in his eyes that he’s hoping I’m kidding, because I know there’s no way I can simply get out. Instinctively he moves forward and puts a hand on my shoulder. “What? What’s wrong?”
By now the voices are screaming in my head.
I did everything you asked of me.
“I can’t—” I swallow. “I can’t breathe.”
He’s the one. Get him.
Justin scuttles to my side, grabbing the paddle from me. “Calm down,” he says. “You’re okay.” But I’m not. My heartbeat is thudding in my head. My mind, my ears, my entire body is pulsating, filled with echoes. Echoes of the dead.
The girl in the pink party dress, filth spurting from the open crevasse of her mouth, reaches for me first. I squeeze my eyes shut, but I see them all perfectly in the darkness. When I force my eyes open, everything is swirling. Masses of pine needles look like matted human hair, and branches like brittle brown bones, churning in white foam. And then suddenly, from the foam, I see the hands. Ghostly fingers reaching up, sliding along the edge of the raft. Reaching for me.
“Oh my God,” I manage. Is this what my mother saw before she … Suddenly I’m screaming. Angela’s now looking at me, launching into Florence Nightingale mode. I hear her voice among the others, distorted like a record being played at too slow a speed, What’s wrong? Ki, what’s wrong? But the only thing I can get out is “Justin” as I claw at him, grasping for him desperately.
He’s like an image in a dream I keep running to, though every step closer brings me one step away. Though his arms are around me, they’re not keeping me safe. It’s almost like they’re pushing me toward the waves, too. I try to wrench myself free and move to the center of the raft, but everything is forcing me toward the water. Or maybe it’s just that the river is pulling me to it, wanting to hold me closer. Another wave kicks up and splashes us, jerking the raft to the side. We’re in another rapids, and suddenly I’m over the edge and Justin is holding me by the arms. My body is in the water, and, strangely, it’s not bitingly cold. It feels warm, almost inviting, but I still clutch for something to get me out. Michael reaches over the side, trying to pull me back, shouting, “Hold on! Hold on!” Someone calls, “What the hell is going on?” I can tell that nobody knows what’s happening. I feel the pressure on my legs, under the water. As strong as Justin and Michael are, they’re no match for the hands that are under the water, clutching me. Pulling me down.