She lay on J.D.'s bed, watching him pour disinfectant over the bloody fingernail scratches on his back. He hadn't seemed to mind when Veronica inflicted them. She'd asked, demanded him to keep up with her; drive the world away. J.D. winced slightly as he poured the stuff on. Veronica briefly wondered if she should help him. No, he didn't need help. He needed to be locked up somewhere he couldn't murder any more of her classmates.
She scratched around the scab on her own arm. I tried to cook macaroni cheese, she told J.D. when he asked, and he nodded and didn't ask her any further inconvenient questions. It occurred to her that she hadn't asked about most of J.D.'s damage, either, about various old scars and discolourations on his arms and torso. That was a fair truce. Ask me no questions, and I promise I'll tell you no lies. Ich lüge.
The old hotel had gone down, and soon after it the poltergeist. Veronica's relationship with J.D. had always had an expiry date attached, and it sounded like the removalists would need to leave town soon for their next job. He's a hunter; his dad needs him. Hunters were rarer and more valuable than seers, because they were harder to identify when they didn't come from removalist families. He'll be gone soon.
"So, I take it the dynamite didn't work the way your pop wanted it to?" she asked casually.
"Of course not. He had Harry bleed over the trigger before he pressed it, but that didn't destroy the ghost with the explosion." Harry was apparently another hunter; Veronica hadn't ever seen him.
"You keep getting bloody for work. Ick," Veronica added, though she had no right to be squeamish, not any more. When hunters bled, it made them more powerful against ghosts. "Couldn't you fill a baggie in advance and keep it in the fridge or something?"
"Doesn't work that way. The power comes from inside - you can't take and store it." J.D. looked at her, unblinking. She could tell he wasn't particularly thinking of his work; he'd answer questions but otherwise set it aside as a topic to be avoided. She wondered whether he too was thinking of leaving town. He watched her with longing eyes as if she was the last girl on earth, as if this was his final chance. Alone in front of his mirror with his first aid kit, white plasters dotting his back, he looked somehow faded and diminished.
"You said you never wanted candy and flowers," J.D. said. "But we ..."
"Stop talking," Veronica said.
"Okay."
He walked back to the bed and knelt in front of her. Her fingers tangled through his hair.
—
Veronica was back at her house by eight in the morning, slipping in through the back door. But it looked like she wasn't having any luck today.
"It's about time, Veronica," her dad called.
"Don't even think of sneaking back into your room, young lady," her mother scolded. "Come and sit down. I made blueberry pancakes. Your favourite."
Like blueberry pancakes are going to fix anything, Mom. It was the first time in a while she'd sat at the same table with both her parents. Her father was dressed for work, her mother in a nice dress.
"Honey, we're very concerned about you," her mom said.
"Skipping classes," her dad interjected. "All those sleepovers with Heathers. The teenage suicides sweeping your school. We're worried about you."
Veronica helped herself to a pancake with cream cheese. "Okay, you got me dead to rights, sheriff, I'm guilty," she said. "I've got to confess my crimes. Some of those sleepovers were with a boy. But you have absolutely nothing to worry about, I'm on the Pill."
Her father gave an uncomfortable snort. Her mother tut-tutted. Veronica calmly carved a forkful of the pancake with cream cheese. Like Charlotte went on cutting bread and butter, Werther's body borne out on a shutter. (Don't think about the ghosts in the basement.)
"In that case, I'll put some informational pamphlets in your room," her mom said. "I had higher expectations of abstinence-only education, somehow. In retrospect, I'm not really sure why."
"And do we get to meet this boy at any point?" her father said. "I don't have a shotgun, but I do have my trusty slide rule."
"That's really not a good idea," Veronica said. "He's leaving town soon. His dad's the head removalist and they're just about finished. I'm sure time and maybe a new car will heal my broken heart." Not heartbroken at all, she hoped they heard coming through her voice. She drank some of her tea.
"Oh," her mother said. There was something dangerously sentimental in the way her voice changed. "Of course. He's that nice removalist young man who saved you and brought you home the night of the party. Why didn't you tell us, dear? That's very romantic."
"Trust me, J.D. is the opposite of romantic." Veronica stood up and pushed her chair back. "I've got to motor or I'll be late for school. You don't want me skipping any more classes, do you?"
—
Ms. Phlegm had another love-in at the cafeteria. High-quality glamor shots of Heather and Kurt and Ram lined the walls, mixed in with cardboard butterflies and pulsingly pink hearts. The hearts were almost the colour of earthworms, burrowing into gravedirt. There were more TV cameras. Endless opportunities to use teenage suicide as pure entertainment.
Heather Duke had preened well to look good on camera. Overstated makeup and well-sprayed hair, worn with a red embroidered jacket that wouldn't have looked out of place on a lead baton-twirler in a parade. She walked arm in arm with Heather McNamara, dressed in primrose yellow and grey.
"Hi, Veronica. Haven't seen you around much lately," Duke said, loud enough to be overheard. "You must've been really desperate to blow a pair of fags. Did you let them do you in the ass too?"
I don't have time for this crap, Veronica thought, and bared her teeth in a terrible imitation of a smile.
Heather McNamara looked a little uncomfortable, but laughed weakly anyway.
"Anyway, croquet at your place this afternoon?" Duke said. "Ms. Phlegm is getting started. Let's show some school spirit."
The wave of healing synchronicity burst over the students with joined hands. Or so Ms. Fleming put it in her delusional way.
What the fuck is healing synchronicity? Veronica wondered. Cameras, lights, pretty girls looking artistically sad on camera, Phlegm reliving her hippie days of crusading in the sixties, standing in the center and soaking up all the attention as if this were all about her. They were feeding on the deaths just like ghosts fed on people - the only difference was that they lied about it. Blind mouths, swollen with wind that rotted them from the inside, hollow men stuffed with paint and straw. They were worthless and never gave a damn about any of it.
And she couldn't stand to see Heather Chandler's ghost in the midst of it all, glorious and shining, soaking up all the attention and worship and fresh human lives.
Veronica stumbled into the locker room, early for phys ed. She turned on the water and stepped under the shower fully dressed. The water soaked her hair, ruined her hairstyle, drowned her clothes. Something like cleansing, something cold and pure and incorruptible. The water cascaded around her and blocked out other sounds and voices.
Then the voices became louder, and couldn't be ignored. The other girls rushed in, talking about Heather. They followed Veronica, and then there was a wave of chaos, girl after girl in the shower fully dressed, lemmings rushing mindlessly over a cliff. Veronica ran out.
"Why are you soaking wet, Veronica?"
She turned with a snarl, ready to give a blistering verbal counterattack. But the tone had actually been kind.
"Are you okay?" Martha Dunnstock asked. It had been a long time since they'd spoken. Martha sounded worried.
"I'm having a shit day. Have three guesses why and the first two don't count," Veronica said. Martha looked hurt; she'd taken it the wrong way. "Jeez, Martha, not everything is about you, I didn't mean it like that."
"I really need to talk to you. Can we go somewhere private?" Martha said. Veronica let Martha take her into the supply storeroom, switch on the light, and close the door. If she needs to yell at me for bullying her with the Heathers, I'm leaving.
Veronica saw a familiar shimmer passing through the walls and in the air, and tried to ignore it. Heather had no power any more to tell her or Martha with whom to spend their time.
Martha took a deep breath, looked down at the dusty floor, and finally met Veronica's eyes. "I don't think Kurt and Ram died because they were gay. I think they were murdered, and I think I know who did it."
"My gosh. This just got interesting!" Heather Chandler pulled herself together. Her ghost stood some way behind Martha's left shoulder, floating like the midnight vision of Banquo at the feast.
"Martha, why would you even - why would you say such a crazy thing like that?" Veronica demanded.
"I have proof." Martha reached in her back jeans pocket. "Kurt wrote me this sweet note, not long before he died. He remembered me from the old days, when we were kindergarten boyfriend and girlfriend. He remembered the time we got a slushie together. This proves he wasn't gay!"
It was the note Veronica wrote in the cafeteria, sent to Martha by Heather. She recognized her own fake handwriting when she was being Kurt. She stared at her own handiwork and could hardly think of anything to say.
"Martha, they wrote a suicide note. They were probably just in the closet, trying to hide - " Veronica stammered.
"Lots of people forge notes. You forged that note for Mrs. Hickman to get me out of dissecting baby rabbits in seventh grade, remember?"
She did remember, that was the trouble.
"I think Jason Dean did it," Martha said. "He brought a real gun to school and fired on Ram and Kurt in the cafeteria. He has access to firearms and he's spooky."
Heather burst into outright laughter. She acrobatically twirled and spun in the air. "I love this fat girl!" she cheered Martha on. "She's brilliant! Why did I never talk to her when I was alive?"
"You're really reaching, Martha, just because J.D.'s an outsider you can't blame - " Veronica stumbled.
"And what's your psychotic boyfriend going to do to this girl, when he knows that she knows?" Heather Chandler mused. "Sorry, Veronica, it looks like you're going to lose another classmate to a tragic teen suicide!"
"I came to you on purpose because I had to," Martha said. "I need you to pick the lock and check his locker for clues."
"No," Veronica said. "This is a dumb theory and I'm not listening to you."
"For old times' sake. Please, Veronica. We pulled some pranks together ourselves, back in the old days," Martha said. "You were the Raffles of sixth grade. They called you 'Fingers' Sawyer. Can you pick this one locker for me now?"
"My lawbreaking days are over, Martha," Veronica said. This line seemed to amuse Heather greatly, and she cackled madly.
"Do it, Veronica! I bet you'd find all sorts of interesting things in that locker. Actually, I know you'd find all sorts of interesting things in that locker. One good thing about being a ghost? The whole walking through walls deal." Heather smirked.
Martha watched her, with pleading, determined eyes. She probably wouldn't give up on this. Veronica took a deep breath, and let something cold inside her think it through and make a decision.
"Playing Nancy Drew doesn't suit you, Martha," she said. "You know, I was the one who wrote you that note. Kurt and Ram were in on it too, and all the Heathers. It was only a joke."
She took a pen out of her pocket, and scribbled a few more lines on the note in Kurt's writing. Dear Martha, I love you more than Huckleberry Finn loved Jim and I am definitely not gay and I think you are beautiful and thin. Love from Kurt. She thrust the note back in Martha's face.
Martha cowered back from her. Her face grew red and blotchy. "But - but why - "
Veronica walked closer to Martha, heels tapping on the ground, her voice as cold and cutting as a knife. "Grow up and face the facts, Martha. Kurt and Ram were assholes who thought you were a fat stupid pig. At least try not to act like it."
The tears came out. Martha put an elbow over her face to hide the blubbering and choked. She forced the door open and ran down the halls.
Heather Chandler laughed even louder, her red and gold shape alight with pure mirth. "Color me impressed," she said. "I had so much fun watching that I'm not even mad at you, Veronica. You're almost as good at emotionally terrorizing that girl as I used to be. See you around."
—
"Let's play. I'm red," Heather Duke said. She and Heather McNamara strolled over to the croquet set. Veronica slowly put her book down. They hadn't turned up when she expected, and she'd hoped they weren't coming at all. She would have liked to lose herself in a good book.
Duke held up a small bag. "Sorry we're late. We did the Chinese food fair with Carl Kellerman and Rod Swirsky." The two boys were hockey players; if Westerburg had a slightly better hockey season and worse football season, they might've been on the top of the hierarchy instead of Kurt and Ram. Now, of course, they had no competition. "I'm such a wonton slut," Heather announced with pleasure, and licked soy sauce from her fingertips.
She'd actually been digesting calories since Heather Chandler died. It was a good look for her. She had roses in her cheeks rather than waxy, flaking skin, and a little more cleavage. It was like she was a ghoul from a story, going to a grave and fattening up from eating corpses.
"I saved the last one for you." Heather offered the bag.
"No thanks."
"While we were there, there was this hilarious announcement over the radio," Heather Duke said. She bent down to pick up the red mallet. "Martha Dumptruck took a walk through traffic with a suicide note pinned to her chest. Just another geek trying to imitate the popular people, and failing miserably."
Blood pounded in Veronica's ears, and she couldn't hear herself think. "Is she ... is she dead?"
"No. Only a few broken bones." Heather Duke rolled out the red ball. "That's what makes it so funny."
Veronica hit her. Her hand seemed to move of its own accord and strike Heather Duke, hard, on the cheek.
"Ow! What's your damage, Veronica?" Heather squawked. Veronica grabbed her coat and ran, leaving them behind her.
She found her way to the town hospital. The bouquet of chrysanthemums she'd bought on the way hid her face. She walked around the waiting rooms, searching, and rushed toward Mr. and Mrs. Dunnstock when she saw them. She recognized them - Mr. Dunnstock tall and hearty but grey-faced, as if the life had been sucked out of him, Martha's mother tiny and nervous and in the process of ripping a cloth handkerchief to threads. They blankly stared at Veronica as she ran up to them, and she felt another stab of guilt that they plainly didn't know her from Adam. It had been so long since she'd last gone to Martha's house; so much had changed.
"I need to see Martha - I'm from her school - "
"Who are you?"
"Veronica, Veronica Sawyer. I was the one who fell out of your treehouse when we were playing musketeers ..."
"Yes, I think I remember that. Martha can't see anyone right now," Mrs. Dunnstock said. She sounded like she was on the verge of weeping, breaking off her words quickly.
"Then, please, just give her these when you can." Veronica thrust the flowers into Martha's mother's hands. She left the hospital, out into the fresh air, knowing where her next stop was. Where it had to be.
It's over, J.D. We're officially breaking up.
She rounded the corner of J.D.'s house and knocked on the door. His father let her in. She sank into a chair, her legs feeling suddenly empty. She heard the clink of glass in the kitchen and a tap turning on. Bud Dean came out with two clear glasses and placed one in front of her, filled with water or something that looked like it.
"Have a drink," he said. She wasn't thirsty. "Jason isn't here."
She started to get up to leave.
"You'll want to hear me out," Bud Dean said. He was between her and the door. The way he stood and the cold look in his eyes were casually intimidating, like a tiger in human shape, but with a sharp intelligence. "Regarding your extracurricular activities with my kid."
"Look, I really think you should have this deeply embarrassing conversation with my parents, and anyway we are both overage in Ohio," Veronica said.
She could see the chilly amusement in his face, as if he'd deliberately led her onto that fish hook just to watch her squirm.
"I wasn't talking about your games of grabass. In my line of work, I hear a lot of whispers," Bud Dean said. "Most of them don't mean anything. But sometimes, I get to talk to a ghost who's just that little bit more articulate and aware than the rest. They're freaks, usually tougher than average. You gave me a fine one. I like a challenge, and the worse it gets the bigger the check at the end of the day. Sometimes, they give you a bonus line or two to reel in. I'm talking about the Westerburg murders. You damn kids got sloppy."
"She told you," Veronica whispered.
A brief flicker of something like surprise crossed his eyes, then Bud Dean returned to his reptilian composure. "I never said she was a she. So you're another seer. Why didn't you bother to register, kid? Makes a great part-time job even if you're not planning to enter the profession. Still, it doesn't matter to me."
"Then call the cops. Do what you have to do," Veronica said. She stood up. She wanted to back away from him, but there was nowhere to run to. She'd seen how he moved before, when he battled his own son in the yard, how he fought and pressed a brutal attack.
"I'm still mulling that over," Bud Dean said. "It's bad for my bottom line if I lose a hunter, but I can always train a new one. As for you, I'm guessing you'd prefer college over twenty to life."
"I really don't understand," Veronica said. What would her parents do when they found out about this - this absolute madness? I really thought they were tranquilizer bullets, judge! Heather had won; this was a nightmare.
"Take your time to think it over, sweetheart. You can start by doing me a few favors, then I'll think about where this goes," Bud said. He didn't really smile; it was more like he bared his teeth, all capped in a perfect white.
"Like, you want me to sell my car and leave the money in an unmarked bag at a secret location?" Veronica asked.
He understood she was playing dumb. "I don't want your pocket change, kid. You need more discipline. Like you said, you're overage in Ohio. Let's move this conversation upstairs."
Veronica reached behind her, on the table covered with papers. The gun was still there. She held it up.
Bud Dean tsked. He was still moving purposefully toward her. He'd hit her, knock it out of her hands easily. "Sweetie, the way you're holding that thing, you're more in danger than I - "
The bullet noise was deafening in the small room.
Veronica dropped the gun and bent over - over the corpse. One bullet in the upper torso. He wasn't breathing any more. She took her handkerchief out of her pocket and picked up the gun with it, gently wiping it clean.
"This is your fault, Heather," she said aloud, though she didn't quite believe it.
The removalists used short-range radios to keep in touch with each other. Bud Dean had his clipped to his waist. She got a pickup.
"Hi, son! I just tried to blackmail your girlfriend," she started with. "You have any samples of my handwriting available?"
"What the fuck? Ver - "
"Keep your voice down! I'm your dad, I'm talking weird, can you come home soon?" Veronica hissed.
The answer came slowly, flat and stunned. "Don't tell me. Fuck. What have you done."
"Question of the day: would you like me as your stepmother?" Veronica sing-songed.
There was a long pause. "Second drawer in the study. I'm there in ten."
The footsteps took the stairs two at a time, pounding heavily. Veronica jumped up from what she was doing.
He'd lost control in a way he'd never done for Heather's murder, not for Kurt nor Ram. J.D.'s jaw was clenched tightly as a wound spring, his eyes could have spat fire, and his fists were balled, knuckles white. For the first time, Veronica wondered if he'd hit her, throw a punch.
"He knew," Veronica said.
"Shit." J.D. looked down once, then put a hand over his eyes. He paced the room like a trapped animal. He looked frightened for the first time, below his anger.
Good. You should be frightened, Veronica thought.
"He accidentally blew up Mom five years ago, I suppose that counts as a motive," J.D. spat out. "Always thought he'd go down fighting. He was careful, he was good at it, but that's the nature of the work."
"Check the scene. I thought you were the suicide-faking expert here," Veronica snapped.
"Okay - not much time before I discover the body ..." J.D. brought himself to look down again. "Fine. My dad was an asshole. A right handed asshole." He moved the gun from left to right. "At least you managed to shoot on the left side."
Veronica pointed to the note. He picked it up to glance at it. "Fuck you. Short and elegant. Now get out of here."
—
The third henchman had joined Heather's entourage. Tall and pale-featured, in white jeans and jacket, color coordinated with Kurt and Ram. For someone so effortlessly threatening when he was alive, in death Bud Dean was just another lost soul. Sometimes he called out for someone named Deanna, looking around with bleak and empty eyes.
Veronica bled into the dog bowl and kicked it away from her. Heather's minions feasted, growing in power and control.
—