Chapter 16
This time, when Rick dreamed, he was sitting on a dock that jutted out into a lake. The dock was old, the staining on the wood almost faded away. It was the kind of dock where you had to watch out for splinters.
The water was flat and still, almost like glass.
Or maybe a mirror, because Rick couldn’t see through it.
He could see the clouds from the sky reflecting back, the sunlight glinting off the water.
Off to the side there was a clump of cattails, a dragonfly flitting between the brown hot-dog shapes at the ends of the stalks.
A frog leapt from somewhere, splashing into the water, causing ripples to move outward. It was an ideal day for a swim.
“I wouldn’t get in,” Bryce said, sitting down next to him. “I don’t like the look of that water, bro.”
Rick didn’t want to turn his head, didn’t want to see Bryce, but couldn’t seem to stop himself. He felt relieved when Bryce seemed…normal. Alive and breathing, wearing a Wildcats jersey instead of the mascot costume.
“The water seems fine to me,” Rick said.
Bryce shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’m not going in. That’s where the fishes are. That’s where they sleep.”
That comment bothered Rick—it bothered him a lot, but he couldn’t remember why. “Fish aren’t dangerous. Not around here.”
Bryce turned to him then, and suddenly it was dead Bryce—his lips blue, eyes milky-white, his mottled neck jutting out of the mascot costume. “That’s what I thought, bro.”
Rick recoiled, only just catching himself before he could fall into the water.
Bryce laughed. He started moving his shoulders, dancing where he sat. “Baby shark, do do do do do do. Baby shark.” He sang the silly song as he sat there, moving his arms in a grotesque parody of the dance. “Baby shark!” He jerked suddenly at Rick, snapping his teeth.
Rick scuttled back, stopping only when one of his hands met air—he’d hit the end of the dock. He rolled, trying to right himself, and found his head dangling over the water.
Only now he could see.
No fluffy clouds. No frogs or dragonflies.
Just Mr. Stephens’s bloated face, smiling back at him.
Something moved in the depths and then there were more faces—Martina, Alexis, Nika, Landon—one by one they surfaced, the distended flesh misshapen, their eyes filmy white.
They didn’t make a sound, but he could see their lips forming the words baby shark over and over as their bodies floated to the surface.
Then Mr. Stephens’s hands reached up, grabbed Rick’s shoulders, and yanked him into the frigid water.
—
Rick bolted upright on the couch, disoriented for a second. This wasn’t his uncle’s…Nika’s. He was at Nika’s and—
Something moved in the corner of his vision. Rick’s head snapped around, trying to catch it, but all he saw was Nika’s sliding doors. Outside was still a fathomless black. He squinted but couldn’t make anything out. He’d probably seen his own reflection in the glass or something. Maybe.
He swallowed hard, adrenaline still pumping from the dream, as he got up and padded silently toward the door. As soon as he was close enough, he flicked on the outside light.
Nothing. Just a small patio table and a few chairs. Grass. A wooden fence with trees behind it. Nothing moved in the yard.
Rick checked the lock, then made sure the bar remained in place at the bottom of the door. Then he closed the drapes so no one could peer in, even though he hadn’t seen anyone in the yard. Despite all of that, he continued to feel exposed, and he didn’t like that. Not one bit.
Rick then checked the windows and the front door, all safely locked. It had probably been his imagination. Probably.
Still, Rick didn’t bother going back to sleep.
He wrapped himself in a blanket and turned on Nika’s TV, keeping the sound low.
The news channel popped up first, the reporters talking about Bryce.
The reporter was on the scene at the stadium, standing right outside the girls’ locker room.
A picture of Michael Bailey appeared on the screen as the reporter explained that he normally wore the mascot costume but had gone home sick with food poisoning during the game.
It cut to a short clip of Mike standing awkwardly in front of the stadium. “I got the Seafood Slam-wich from Spudknucklers. Real mistake. I was puking up my guts by halftime. We couldn’t find a last-minute fill-in for the rest of the game. No one was even supposed to be in the costume. No one.”
They segued back to the reporter giving details on a memorial.
Rick quickly changed the channel, his stomach queasy over even that short amount of footage.
He found a nature documentary about otters and settled in to watch that.
Nika found him that way when she came downstairs thirty minutes before her father was due home to make sure Rick was awake.
She wore pajama pants and an oversized hoodie, her hair pulled up into one of those plastic claw clips.
She rubbed at one of her eyes, which Rick thought was cute, but held a baseball bat in her other hand, which Rick thought was funny.
“Maybe instead of Moose, I should have called you Slugger,” Rick said.
Nika seemed confused for a moment, and then her face cleared. “Oh. This is for you.” She handed him the bat. “Since you have to drive home alone. I thought—you know.” Her brows knitted together. “Safety first?”
He took the bat. “Safety first.”
Nika stared at the bat for a long moment. “I’ve never had a nickname before.”
“You haven’t?” For some reason, this delighted Rick. “I’ll have to pick a better one for you, then.”
“No,” she said with a yawn. “I like Moose.” Her mouth quirked as she looked up from the bat. “Though I’ll admit, Slugger is growing on me.”
He left then, making sure she locked the door behind him.
Rick walked quickly to where the Beast was parked, a little ways down from Nika’s house.
His eyes darted back and forth, looking for anything out of place.
The neighborhood was quiet, most people still asleep, though Rick saw a few house lights on.
Paranoid. He was probably being paranoid.
But he still checked his van carefully before he climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the key, making sure no one had hidden in the back.
He may have been paranoid, but that seemed to be the only way he might stay alive.
—
Rick slammed his locker shut, revealing Paxton’s face. He lurched back. “The fuck!”
Martina slapped Paxton’s shoulder. “What the hell, Paxton? Are you trying to kill us?”
Rick laid a hand on his chest, breathing hard. “Scared the shit out of me.”
Paxton laughed. “Jumpy, jumpy.”
“What do you want?” Martina asked. “Because the answer is no.”
Paxton ignored her early refusal. “I want to talk.”
“No,” Rick and Martina said, settling their bags and moving down the hall.
“Come on,” Paxton cajoled, jogging after them. “You don’t even know what I want to talk about.”
They continued to ignore him. Paxton was hard to take when Rick was in a good mood, and he definitely wasn’t in a good mood. “We don’t care.”
Paxton huffed out an annoyed breath. “Look, I just want to interview you both. Thought I’d do a little profile on the people in the yearbook. An insider’s point of view.”
“Interview yourself,” Martina said as they dodged around a group of people.
“I will.” Paxton dodged along with them, refusing to give up. “But I can get more if I can talk to everyone.”
“No,” Martina said.
“I could give you a small cut of the money.” Paxton watched Rick, smiling when he saw his hit land.
For a moment—just a moment—Rick considered it. Except Mrs. Lopez had told them not to speak to anyone about the murders. He also didn’t trust Paxton to actually fork over the money.
“No,” Rick said, and then he pulled Martina forward, leaving Paxton behind.
—
By the time shop class rolled around, Rick had turned off his phone. Both he and Martina had new numbers, to avoid randos and reporters. What it didn’t stop was Paxton DM’ing them in the Signal app.
“He is not giving up.” Martina scowled at the block of wood she’d been sanding for the last ten minutes, because she didn’t want to actually work but did want to look busy.
Not only had Mr. Lazarus stopped by their table several times, but they also kept catching him watching them from the corners of the room.
He looked away every time they caught him, but it was creepy.
Her phone buzzed again, and she dug it out of her pocket.
“What’s he saying now?” Rick stayed bent over his project. He was applying a clear coat to protect the paint and wanted to get it done.
“He wants to meet us after school. I guess he has to stay and take pictures of the memorial. Do you need to pick up Dani?”
Rick’s lip curled. “You’re not actually considering talking to that goon, are you?”
She sighed. “Not really, but maybe we need to meet him in person and tell him no again.”
“Do you think that will work?” He leaned back to assess his paint job so far.
“No,” Martina said. A muted scream came from the back of her throat as her phone buzzed again. “He’s not going to quit. You know that.”
“He will not,” Rick agreed, turning his project with careful fingers. “So what’s the plan?”
“I know what my mom said, but maybe we need to throw him a bone. Give him a sound bite. Like, ‘yes, we’re terrified’ and ‘no, we don’t know what’s happening.’ Give him statements that don’t actually tell people anything.”
“Meaningless words,” Rick said. “Our version of ‘thoughts and prayers,’ then?”
“Something like that.” She was gripping her phone like it was all she could do not to throw it. “And I want to go to the memorial anyway, so why not?”
“Okay.” Rick brushed clear coat onto a spot he’d missed. “I think that’s our best plan. And no, I don’t need to get Dani today. Mom’s picking her up from school. She’s got a dentist appointment.”
“So I’ll tell him we’ll meet him at the gym after school?”
“Sounds good.” Rick glanced up. “You should get back to sanding your wood. Mr. Lazarus is coming to this side of the room, and even he’s not stoned enough to think you’re actually getting work done sitting like that.”