The Calling

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY KILOMETERS IS INDEED “too far” when you’re ready to drop already. “I should have listened to Corey,” Daniel said. “I was so sure I could convince that guy. It’s worked until now.”

“Not on Moreno,” I said.

“Sure it did.”

“At the store, yes, but we couldn’t get him talking earlier. Obviously it’s not going to be a foolproof power or you’d have the ability to make anyone do anything. My guess is that they have to want to already. The woman at the tattoo studio wanted to get rid of us. Moreno wanted to skip searching a filthy crawlspace. That old guy really didn’t want to help us.”

“In other words, don’t rely on special powers.”

“Same way I’m not going to let you run in front of a moving van even if I have healing abilities.”

“Okay, so—”

Corey—who’d been walking ahead with Sam—let out a whistle. He gestured to a tractor trailer, pulling out of what looked like a parking lot.

We jogged up to Corey and Sam.

“Please don’t be closed for the season,” Corey murmured as we picked up speed. “Please don’t be staffed by witches and demons, lying in wait for us. Please, please, please, just give us a break.”

As we approached, we saw the sign. REDWOOD MOTEL AND RESTAURANT. There were three vehicles in the lot—two cars off to the far side and a pickup with a topper in front of the restaurant doors.

“This is good,” Corey said. “Tell me this is good.”

“People. Phones. Food.” I grinned over at him. “Yep, this is good.”

Daniel caught Corey’s arm. “We should let the girls handle this.”

“Huh?” Corey said. “We just need to make a phone call, right? Hell, I’ll give them my other twenty to cover it.”

“I just… I think we should hang back. We’re in rough shape. That guy with the van was worried about me, not Maya.”

Corey sighed. “Fine. For once, you’ve earned the right to paranoia. Go get ’em, girls.” He passed me the twenty. “Just in case.”

I told Sam we should go through the side door and slip into the bathroom to clean up before we talked to anyone. The side door actually led into the motel office, but no one was at the desk. A sign referred customers to the restaurant for service. A glass door separated the two. Through it, I could see the bathrooms at the rear. I was waiting for the server—a blond woman about my mom’s age—to turn her back when I caught sight of a newspaper on the motel office counter. One look at the lower headline and I realized I could use it, which meant cleaning up wasn’t the right move.

I picked up the newspaper and walked into the restaurant. The server looked up, as did the sole patron—a guy about thirty-five.

“Can I … help you?” the server said, gaze traveling over our dirty clothes.

“I hope so.” I set the paper on the table she was resetting and pointed to the headline: MISSING ISLAND TEENS DEAD. “That’s us.”

The woman glanced at the paper, then at us. Her lips tightened. “That isn’t funny, girls.”

“I’m not joking.”

“Those poor kids are dead and—”

“No, they’re not. Someone made a mistake. I’m Maya Delaney. This is Samantha Russo. Our helicopter went down off the northeastern coast. We’ve been walking through the woods for three days.” I gestured at my clothes. “As you can see.”

“You can’t be—”

“That’s our names right there,” I said, pointing at the list in the paper.

“Prove it.”

“Our helicopter crashed in the ocean, lady,” Sam said. She pulled sodden rectangles from her pocket and dropped them on the table. “That’s my ID.”

I opened the paper to an inner page where the piece continued. There were photos of two missing kids. Rafe and Nicole.

“How the hell did they get Rafe’s picture?” Sam muttered.

“Those aren’t us,” I said.

“Convenient,” the server muttered.

It wasn’t convenient. It was intentional. Submit photos of the kids they knew weren’t wandering around the forest.

There was a class picture at the bottom of the article. It was tiny and blurred, although my copy at home was perfect.

“We’re in this one.” I pointed to the class shot. “That’s me, and that’s Sam over there.”

“I think that’s Bryan,” Sam said.

“Is it?” I squinted. “Maybe…”

It was impossible to tell, really. I wouldn’t even be sure which one was me if I didn’t recognize my tie-dyed shirt.

“Okay,” I said. “Our pictures might not be recognizable, but come on. Why would we lie about it?”

“Same reason my own kids lie,” the server said. “To get attention.”

“Seriously?” Sam said. “We’re going to hatch this elaborate scheme, and launch it in your crappy little—?”

I stepped on Sam’s foot.

“We’re dirty,” I said. “We’re exhausted. Look outside. We didn’t come in a car. So how did we get here? Where did we come from?”

“Nanaimo, I’ll bet.” She said it the same way people in Nanaimo would say Vancouver, with a sneer that said nothing good came from the big city. “Maybe Victoria.” She peered at us. “Probably Victoria. Only rich kids can afford to mess up nice clothes like that. Private school, I’ll bet. You talk like you come from a private school.”

“We do.” I jabbed my finger at the paper. “Salmon Creek School. Privately owned by the St. Cloud Corporation. Our teacher’s name is Mrs. Morris. She’s the mother of Hayley, one of the girls they said died. There are thirteen kids in our class, which covers grades eleven and twelve. We’re in eleven. Look, do you have a computer? I can show you Maya Delaney’s Facebook page. Which has my photo on it. I’ll have to use my password to access it because all my details are set to private. That should prove it’s mine.”

“You kids these days are too smart for your own good,” the server said. “I’m sure you’ve got Facebook pages set up for this scheme.”

“What scheme?” Sam said, her voice rising. “What possible motivation could we have to do this?”

“Attention.” The server crossed her arms. “I bet you’ve got friends out there taping us. Make fun of the locals. Post the videos on YouTunes.”

“YouTube,” Sam muttered.

“See?” She shook her head. “Spoiled brats. You aren’t even thinking about these poor kids and how their parents must be feeling.”

“Yes.” I met her gaze. “I am thinking about how my parents are feeling. They think they just lost their only child. I need them to know that I’m alive.”

I glanced at the lone customer. He looked away quickly and focused on his lunch.

I turned back to the server. “If I can just use your phone—”

“Why? To call your friends to come and get you? Better get walking, girl. It’s a long way to town.”

She kicked us out after that. There was nothing we could do, nothing we could say. She knew the story—those kids had died in a crash on the other end of the island. DNA said it was the missing kids and everyone who watched CSI knew DNA never lied.

“It’s official,” Sam said as we walked out. “We’re screwed. The universe is conspiring to destroy us.”

“If it was, I think it could have managed that a few times by now.”

“Ah, but that’s the trick. You cheat death, it keeps trying. Didn’t you see that movie?”

“All of them, actually. Serena loved—” A brief pause. “She loved horror movies.”

“Did she? I’d have thought her more the romance type.”

“Girls?”

I glanced back to see the man from the restaurant. I slowed to let him catch up.

He was a little older than I’d first thought. Maybe forty. Sandy brown hair. Short beard. Golf shirt. Trousers. Loafers. He looked like a schoolteacher.

“I’m sorry about what happened in there,” he said. “I don’t know anything about that helicopter crash—I’m on vacation with my family, and haven’t been reading the papers. But I’ve got a girl about your age, and I can’t imagine her going to all this trouble to pull a prank. Even if she did…” He shrugged. “Kids do silly things sometimes. No excuse to strand them in the middle of a forest.”

I noticed Daniel and Corey circling around by the trees and subtly motioned for them to wait.

“Thanks,” I said. “We really just need to call our parents. If I could borrow your cell phone, that would be great.” I pulled out the twenty. “I know it might be an expensive call, but this should cover it.”

“No, no.” He waved the money away. “You make that call and you take as long as you like.” He reached into his pocket and came out empty. “Huh. My phone must have fallen out in the truck. Just a sec.”

He walked to the pickup. We waited. A couple of minutes later, he came back shaking his head.

“Phone not there?” I called.

“No. It’s the damnedest thing because my wife made sure I brought it. I hope it didn’t fall out when I was getting gas.”

“Can you do us a favor then?” I said. “Talk to the server and get her to let us use hers? I can pay, like I said.”

He shook his head. “I already tried putting in a good word for you. She’s having none of it. I’ll have to give you girls a lift into town.”

On Vancouver Island, hitchhiking is considered a perfectly feasible way to travel, prohibited only on the highway, where you could get hit. In Salmon Creek, though, we got stranger-danger classes from kindergarten. Ours were probably a little different from most—we were taught that anyone in Salmon Creek could be trusted; it was the rest of the world we needed to watch out for.

Some kids did start hitching rides into town when they hit that awkward “old enough to hang out in Nanaimo but not old enough to drive there” stage. If I’d tried it, I’m not sure who would have killed me first—my parents or Daniel.

I didn’t trust this guy. I didn’t like his story about the cell phone. I didn’t like his excuse for not helping us with the server. Even if I totally believed him, I wouldn’t have gotten in the truck. So why was I considering it?

Because he had a truck. And we needed it, and if he did turn out to be a creep, even Daniel wouldn’t argue about abandoning him by the roadside.

“I’m … not sure. Can we…?” I glanced at Sam. “Can I talk to you?”

I pulled Sam aside and told her what I had in mind. As I did, I motioned for Daniel and Corey to move through the woods, closer to us. Then we went back to the man.

“Okay,” I said. “We’d really appreciate a lift. My friend here has to, uh, go to the bathroom before we leave. She’s been holding it a long time. I know they won’t let her use the one inside, so she’s going to use the woods.”

Sam had already taken off, loping toward where Daniel and Corey were hiding with Kenjii. There, she’d tell them the plan—we’d get into the truck, and make sure the guy paused at the exit, so they could jump into the back.

While Sam was gone, I asked the man about his vacation, to keep him occupied. Sam talked to the guys, then gave them time to make their way over near the exit.

When she came back, we climbed into the truck. I sat between the guy and Sam. As I settled in, I reached for the radio, then said, “Is this okay?”

He smiled. “Sure. You might not like my station, but you can change it.”

I left it on his—country music—and cranked it up loud enough to hide any noise the guys and Kenjii were about to make.

The pickup pulled to the roadway. There was a stop sign, but around here, most people just roll up, glance around, and pull out, and that’s exactly what he was going to do until I said, “Sam! Your ID. Do you have it?”

He stopped. She checked her pockets and I checked mine, bouncing in our seats, hoping to cover any other movement as the guys got in the truck bed.

“I think you left it inside,” the man said. “It wouldn’t be any good anyway.”

“I guess you’re right.” Sam sighed, as if resigned to the loss.

He pulled out onto the road and turned north.

“Um, isn’t the town south?” I said.

“Southwest, actually. This is quicker.”

He pulled onto the first side road—little more than a rutted trail.

“Are you sure you should take this?” I said. “Your truck looks really new.”

He laughed. “That’s what trucks are for, hon. No sense buying a four-by-four if you don’t plan to go off-road. Just hold tight. We’ll be there before you know it.”

He had no idea where this road led. That was obvious as he drove along, leaning forward, straining to see. Was he looking for a place to pull over?

I swallowed a bubble of panic. I knew this might be what he had in mind. The guys were in the back. Everything was okay.

He turned off onto another path.

“Um, I don’t think this is a road,” I said.

“Sure it is. It comes out at—”

The truck lurched a couple of times … as he surreptitiously tapped the brakes.

“Uh-oh,” he said. “Come on. Please don’t—”

A sudden stop had us all hitting our seat belts.

“What happened?” I said.

He shook his head and cranked the engine, making it whine. He pretended to hit the gas, muttering, “Come on, come on.” Then he swore when nothing happened.

“Can you fix it?” Sam asked.

“I can try. Got my tools in the back.”

“Great!” we said in unison.

He got out. We did the same. I stood beside Sam and she grinned at me. The man reached for the back door on the truck topper. As I braced for the cry of surprise, I couldn’t help grinning myself. We were about to have transportation. And this time, I wouldn’t feel bad about taking it.

Only there was no cry of surprise. No scrabbling of claws. No shout from Daniel or Corey. The back was empty. The guys hadn’t made it in.

“Run!” I whispered.

I dove into the forest. That was instinct for me—avoid open areas, take refuge in dense woods. I heard Sam’s running feet. But there was no crashing of undergrowth behind me. I looked over my shoulder to see her racing along the open trail.

A shot fired. A rifle shot. Grow up in the forest, and you recognize that sound the way an inner-city kid recognizes pistol fire.

“Stop or I shoot again,” the man said. His voice had changed. Not calm and jocular now.

I looked around frantically.

“I said stop!”

A second shot. A yelp.

Sam dropped out of sight.

Oh God, he’d shot Sam.