Desires of the Dead
Page 67

But they were definitely Claire’s, and she was already choosing teams for the big snowball fight she had planned.
Mike’s dad, Ed Russo, had stopped by while Violet was at school on Friday to introduce himself and give all the necessary information to her mom, including the phone number to the convenience store that was just a few miles away, since there was no phone service—or cell coverage—where they would be staying.
And even though the number was actually to a pay phone, he’d explained that there was a corkboard where the owners would pin messages; he assured her mother that he would make regular stops at the store, just in case.
Her parents were fine with the arrangement, it was only one night, after all—something Violet continued to remind herself of over and over again.
She could handle anything for one night.
“So what do you guys want to do first?” Claire asked excitedly from the backseat.
“Oh my God, Claire. I don’t know, but maybe you should ask us again in five minutes. We haven’t had enough time to think about it since the last time you asked.” Chelsea’s mood had gone downhill quickly during the car ride into the mountains, and she had lost her patience for everyone—including Claire—who was usually safe from her temper.
“Effin’-A, Chels, I was just asking.” Claire’s lips drew together tightly as she crossed her arms in front of her. It was as close to swearing as Claire ever got. Claire must have really been tired of Chelsea’s snippy tone.
Chelsea didn’t apologize; instead she closed her eyes and took another deep breath, leaning her head back against her seat.
“Do you want me to pull over again?” Jay asked, glancing anxiously at Chelsea in his rearview mirror. He shot a nervous look at Violet, and Violet knew exactly what he was thinking.
He didn’t want Chelsea to puke . . . in his car.
Chelsea sighed with annoyance. “Why, Jay? So I can walk around in the cold again, talking about how f**king—yeah, that’s right, Claire, I said f**king—sick I feel? No, thank you. Just keep driving. The sooner we get there, the sooner I get out of this hellhole.”
“No offense taken. Right, Jay?” Mike laughed, hitting Jay’s headrest playfully. Apparently he thought he was safe from Chelsea’s caustic remarks.
He wasn’t.
“That’s too bad,” Chelsea shot back without opening her eyes. “Maybe someone should take offense. Maybe it’s not the car making me sick, maybe it’s the driving.”
Violet started to laugh but caught herself, just barely, in time to stop the sound from actually escaping her lips. She covered her mouth with her hand so that only those with their eyes open could see her.
Ha-ha, Jay mouthed, when she glanced sideways in his direction, making it even harder to contain herself.
Sorry, she mouthed back to him, when she finally felt like she had enough control not to laugh.
Violet thought Chelsea might feel better if she were to sit up front, but she didn’t offer to trade places with her friend again. She’d tried that already, when they’d stopped to let Chelsea get some air, and Chelsea had snapped at her that she was fine, that she didn’t need to change seats.
Violet was convinced that Chelsea had only refused because she didn’t want to lose her seat beside Mike, but after having her head chewed off once, Violet wasn’t about to make that proposal again. So instead she sat quietly, pretending that it wasn’t at all uncomfortable, as they tried to comply with Chelsea’s imaginary wall of silence.
At first, Violet tried to ignore the faint sensation that crept over her, the strange quivering that began at her core and gently rippled outward in short, shuddering bursts. But the car was moving at a steady pace, despite the increasing snow on the ground as they moved higher and higher in elevation, and it wasn’t long before the quivering became vibrating, and then turned to something more tangible.
A warm wave of fragrant air washed over Violet, bringing with it the sweet summer scent of Popsicles and sticky sunscreen and chlorine that filled the interior of the car. The temperature unexpectedly skyrocketed around her.
“Can you turn down the heat?” Violet whispered to Jay as she tore the hat from her head and tugged at her scarf.
And just as she said it, she heard Claire’s horrified gasp.
Violet turned to look out the window.
On the side of the road was a deer, lying unnaturally prone, broken and abandoned against a dirty drift of plowed snow on the shoulder of the highway. Blood seeped into the slushy pile where its face was awkwardly pinned. Its mouth was open, its tongue frozen against its mangled jaw.
Jay reached over and squeezed Violet’s knee as they passed, and suddenly the inhospitable temperature and the summer smells made perfect sense to Violet. It was the deer’s echo.
Violet and Jay used to play that game when they were little. While other kids played car games involving state license plates or finding the letters of the alphabet in road signs, Violet would point out dead animals on the sides of the highway. Sometimes visible and sometimes not. Some discernible only by the echoes they’d left behind.
She would sense them, sometimes as far back as several hundred yards, and she would describe their unique echo to Jay in as much detail as she could while he would try to spot the corpse that had been left behind.
Road Kill, they called it.
It was sick, sure, but they were just kids . . . with a morbid fascination for all things dead. And she was a girl who could seek them out.