Change Of Season (54 page)

"I think it’s a false alarm," Andrew answered.

"Have to see Grant!"

Her legs buckled and she slumped towards the floor, Andrew reaching out to break her fall.  Vertigo struck as she struggled to breathe, her head lolling against his shoulder. 

"What about Grant?" Andrew asked.  "Veronica, let’s get her outside."

"He was chasing us down there.  Before the alarms," her friend explained.

Too exhausted to fight, Autumn allowed Andrew to pick her up in a cradle, carrying her around the bend and up the short steps to the exit.  Veronica held the door open as they passed through, shutting it carefully behind them.  The sharp blast of cool air revived her, the dank, stale air of the tunnels flushed clean.  Gently, Andrew sat her down on a large boulder nearby with a vantage point of the Media Studies building. 

"How did you find us?" Veronica asked.

"I was editing when the alarm went off.  I remembered your plans for tonight and I couldn’t leave without checking..."  Andrew’s voice trailed away as he stared out across the quad.  "I had to be sure you were safe.  And when I saw someone else slip into the tunnels-"

"Who?" Autumn asked.

"Not sure.  Just a shadow." 

The sound of fire engine sirens drew near and the three of them studied the scene.  Several students were hovering near the Media Studies building – Autumn assumed that they, like Andrew, had been working inside before the alarm.  Others, drawn by the commotion, were emerging from the nearby dorms to gawk and hypothesize.  Feeling steadier, Autumn rose, walking further into the quad for a better look at the crowds.  Perhaps their pursuer was there now, pretending to be concerned.

"Grant was following you?  Did you see him?" Andrew asked.

Veronica shook her head.  "No, but it was someone coming from Faculty Housing.  Who else could it be?"

Autumn’s eyes narrowed as a familiar figure rounded the corner from the service entrance to the tunnels.  "There... Wait, no, that’s not Grant.  That’s Jesus Calculus."

Professor Ross was nudging his glasses into place, chatting with the Fire Chief now on site to the side of the main entrance.  A team of three firefighters listened briefly before heading inside nonchalantly.

"You know, in the dark, it would be hard to tell him and Grant apart," Autumn observed.  "Same height, same stature."

"What are you saying?" Veronica asked.

"That we have to expand our list of theories."

Veronica stood beside her, studying their Math instructor intently.  "In all of my years at Casteel, I’ve never noticed staff skulking around like this.  This is just so messed up."

Amar, the Trudeau Hall don, rounded the corner suddenly, glaring at Andrew.  Autumn had heard plenty about him from both Evan and Andrew, enough to know that everyone in the dorm despised the man.  Lorraine, he was not, and his fiery gaze was fixed upon them.

"It’s two minutes to curfew.  Shouldn’t you three be in your rooms?"

"We evacuated from Media Studies," Andrew countered angrily.  "Kinda waiting to see if my Film is going to burn."

"False alarm, already confirmed," Amar replied.  "Ladies, on your way."

"I’ll just walk them back, then-"

"I’ll do that, Mr. Daniels.  To your room,
now
."

Autumn grimaced at Andrew’s pained look.  There was so much that needed to be said between them, so much anger and fear to defuse.  He was furious about their tunnel exploration, that she knew.  He was also hurt at her refusal to return his texts, and it was with his head hung low that he retreated to the front entrance of Trudeau, FOB clutched loosely in hand. 

"We don’t need an escort," Autumn snapped.  "Come on, Veronica."

It was the only gesture she could offer:  an act of defiance against a mutual enemy.  Andrew glanced up with his crooked smile and she nodded slightly before following Veronica to their dorm.  He had risked punishment, risked his safety to ensure theirs.  He had vehemently opposed their investigation, yet aided them without hesitation.  No "I told you so" chiding – just support and care.

We’re not over
, she thought to herself as she climbed the stairs of Ashbury. 
But we’re not okay
. 

She missed him fiercely, the feel of his arms around her minutes prior a cruel tease.  She wanted to call him, confess her love aloud, but that was a vulnerability neither of them could afford.  Chris had phoned twice more the night before, leaving no messages, only questions.  Balancing the dual threats in her life had overwhelmed her completely.  Her only recourse was to focus, divide.  Separate the targets from the would-be shooters. 

Brick by brick, walls encircled her heart, burying it alive. 
I have to protect him, at any cost – including myself
.

TWENTY-NINE

Oakville; January 8th, 2012

The weekend passed in a haze, Autumn recoiling into the anesthetized comfort of dissociation.  On a steady diet of benzodiazepines, she made the journey home Saturday morning in her mother’s car, passing out on the backseat until awakened in Toronto.  From there, she grabbed Pandora and retreated to her room for a nap, awakening for dinner and forced conversation with her bewildered parents.  Between the droning in her skull and the ether of chemicals, she caught on to Chris still being in the province, but couldn’t make herself care.  A part of her welcomed him now, if only to put an end to the anticipation and dread.

This morning saw her stumbling from bed for a late breakfast and taking the streetcar downtown to a store dealing in gemstones and incense, gathering materials for the cleansing ritual Veronica had emailed her.  Whether she lived to tell the tale of 308 or not, Autumn refused to allow another student to suffer in sleepless purgatory as she had, and thus she saddled herself with sage, quartz crystals, hematite and candles from the bookstore around the corner.

It was there she saw him.  Her beautiful ex-boyfriend with the blackened heart, glaring from behind the Science-Fiction shelves.  Time stood still as she stared at his retreating form, blinking hard to dispel the cosmic trails from what was probably an Ativan overdose.  Medication be damned, she knew it was him.  She felt her skin crawl, the way it had at the end of their relationship.  Serpentine, it wound around her frame, compressing her chest until she deflated. 

She gave chase, running into the arms of the beast, but he evaporated into the crowd.  No, the hunter would not be the hunted.  Her end would be on his terms, teeth to the jugular and a carcass discarded beneath a tree.

She’d intended on performing the ritual upon arriving back at Casteel Prep, but seated now upon her rumpled blankets, it was all she could do to remain awake.  Maybe tomorrow then.  Maybe.  Her heart ebbed and flowed like the sea, and at this, she thought of blue-grey eyes that washed over her every day of her Christmas break.  The pills kept the pain away, if only for a few hours.  They dulled the wounds she salted with glances at old texts.

Do not cry
.

She had to keep herself busy.  He was so close to her now, yet a world away.  He would come if she called, without hesitation.  She could fall to the floor, a broken puppet, and let him pull the strings until she was a real woman again.  But that would be selfish, and she was done being a burden.

Email, then.  There was important business to attend to.

Ben had given her a great deal of research on the missing students, but his theories of asylum ghosts driving redheads to their doom didn’t account for the earthly alternative of a serial killer on campus.  He did, however, have a great deal of connections within his alma mater and it was these she sought now.  No instructor aside from Professor Paul Grant disclosed the information she needed on a faculty profile, but perhaps Ben had means of accessing pertinent dates.

Hi Ben,

Thank you for all of the information you provided before.  It’s been a great help in guiding my understanding of what’s going on here at Casteel and in my room, particularly.  I do have a favour to ask, if you’re able to oblige me.

I was wondering if you would be able to dig into Faculty at the school, and determine when each began teaching at Casteel and whether any were students in the past.  I know Professor Grant was a student, so perhaps others have returned to teach?  I’m not sure how relevant it will be, but I’ll let you know if anything turns up.

Let me know what you can do.

Clicking send, she scrolled through her inbox.  Spam, junk and newsletters she couldn’t focus on if she tried.  What was the point?  Her thoughts remained tethered to seven young girls in an envelope beneath her bed and a grungy tunnel lined with syringes and tangled hair.

Flipping to iTunes, she absently scrolled and searched, finally settling on Christina Perri’s
Lovestrong.
as suitably depressing yet low-key enough to think to.  Reaching for her journal, she began to sketch the tunnel system to the best of her ability, treading through the foggy memories to retrace her steps.  Pencil flew across paper, several false starts erased frantically before a lattice formed, stars denoting key locations like Pearson Hall and stairwells to the surface.  Pulling up a campus map online, she was able to refine directions, marking likely trajectories for tunnels not yet traversed.  She doubted Veronica would be up for a second visit anytime soon, but perhaps she would venture solo, if necessary.

Seven fifty-eight.  Too early to drug herself to sleep.

The envelope was tugged from the drawer below, Ben’s stapled notes tugged loose for examination.  She could recite these words by rote, and yet she felt compelled to check again, to seek a hidden answer between the Arial-font lines.  What wasn’t she seeing?  What had everyone missed? 

"Red!"

Pages scattered to the floor as Autumn leapt to her feet.  Glancing down at the quad, she found herself meeting the world-weary face of Miraj.  Bundled up in a black jacket, her hair was streaked crimson at the front, falling in a sweeping angle from nape to shoulders. 

"You’re home!  Can I come up?"

Autumn studied the familiar friend below her. 
She’s not real.  Emma said she’s not real
.  A group of students passed, taking no note of the stranger below her window.  With a slight nod, she edged backwards and shook herself. 
She’s coming upstairs.  If she were in my head, wouldn’t she just appear?
 

Eyes closed, opened.  Miraj stood before her, her smile jubilant. 
Wait.  She was-  how?
 

"Long time, no see!  How’s things?"

"Crappy.  Confusing.  Life-threatening."  Autumn lowered herself to her bed, disoriented.  "You?"

"Usual bullshit, of course.  Parents bitching because I won’t come back.  Diner sucks, but the tips pay the rent, I suppose.  Never enough booze."  Settling on the opposing bed, Miraj stared at her.  "You look like hell.  Do I need to kick someone’s ass?"

Miraj is real.  She has to be.  She’s right here, talking to me!
  And yet, a nagging sense of something not adding up refused to be squelched. 

"There’s always Chris, if you can find him.  The cops can’t seem to."

"What cops?  You finally filed charges?"  At Autumn’s weary nod, Miraj pumped her fist.  "Hell yeah!  Let the bastard rot in jail.  I’ll play bounty hunter just to have the joy of watching a gavel sentence him to a tiny cell with vicious lifers to kick his ass."

She came up... It’s too early for mandatory FOB swipes.  People are still coming back from weekends home.  But something...
 

"I’m happy for you, Red.  This is the first step to shutting the door on this whole miserable time in your life."

The door.

"It’s locked," Autumn murmured, glancing up and confirming it.

"What’s locked?"

"The door, Miraj.  My room is locked.  I didn’t let you in.  And yet, here you are..."

Miraj cocked her head, eyebrow raised in question.  "Um, yes you did."

"No," Autumn said emphatically.  "I may be crazy, and I may be delirious and exhausted, but I know without any doubt that I did not get up, walk over and unlock that door." 

The sledgehammer truth shattered the facade of so many months, Emma’s words ringing true: 
Miraj doesn’t exist
.

"Okay, Red, you obviously need to lie down and get some rest.  You’re confused, losing time again.  It happens when you’re anxious, and the whole Chris in the mall thing?  Anxiety Town."  Her friend rose to her feet, arms stretching overhead.  "Should I let you rest?"

"I don’t need rest!  Sleep won’t erase the truth, Miraj.  You’re in my mind, a part of me.  Someone to talk to in my darkest hours.  Emma’s right, as much as it pains me to believe it."

Miraj edged forward, seething.  "In your mind?  What the hell are you trying to say?"