Tess Gerritsen - Bloodstream

Fern Cornwallis looked up at the banner hanging from the gym rafters and she sighed.

KNOX HIGH SCHOOL-YOUR THE BEST!!!

How ironic that the students had gone to such effort to prepare the banner, had crawled up dizzyingly tall ladders to hang it on those rafters, but had neglected to double-check the grammar. It reflected badly on the school, on the teachers, and on Fern herself, but it was too much trouble to pull it down now and correct it. No one would notice it once the lights were turned down, the music was thudding, and the air turned to a steamy vapor of teen hormones.

“There’s snow predicted tonight,” Lincoln said. “Are you sure you don’t want to cancel this event?”

Speaking of hormones. Fern turned and her stomach fluttered as it always did when she looked at him. It was a wonder he couldn’t see the longing in her eyes.

Men are so blind.

“We’ve postponed this dance twice already,” she said. “The kids need some sort of reward, just for getting through this awful month.”

“They’re saying four to six inches, the worst of it coming around midnight.”

“The dance will be over by then. They’ll all be home.”

Lincoln nodded, but he was obviously uneasy as he looked around at the gym, decorated with blue and white crepe streamers and silver balloons. The chilly colors of winter. A half dozen girls-why was it always the girls who did the work?-were setting up the refreshment table, lugging out the punch bowl, the trays of cookies, the paper plates and napkins. In the far corner, a shaggy student was adjusting the sound equipment, setting off ear-splitting squeals from the amplifier.

“Please keep it down!” yelled Fern, pressing her hand to her head. “These kids are going to make me deaf.”

“It may be a blessing, considering the music they play”

“Yeah, urban rap in the woods. Maybe they can mosh into a pile of leaves.”

“Do you know how many will show up tonight?”

“The first dance of the year? I expect a full house. Four grades, minus the thirty-eight troublemakers who’ve been suspended.”

“It’s that many already?”

“I’m taking a proactive stance here, Lincoln. One false move and they’re out of here for a week. Not even allowed on the school grounds.”

“That will make my job easier. I’m bringing in both Dolan and Pete Sparks for patrol shift tonight, so you’ll have at least two of us here to keep an eye on things.”

The loud crash of a tray made them both turn, and they saw broken cookies scatter across the floor. A blond girl stared down in disbelief at the mess. She spun around and focused on a black-haired girl standing nearby. “You tripped me.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You’ve been bumping into me all afternoon!”

“Look, Donna, don’t blame me if you can’t walk without falling over your own feet!”

“That’s it!” said Fern. “Clean up that mess or you’re both suspended!” Two angry faces stared at her. Almost simultaneously, they said, “But Miss Cornwallis, she-”

“You heard me.”

The girls exchanged poisonous glances, and Donna stormed out of the gym.

“This is what it’s come to,” Fern sighed. “This is what I’m dealing with.” She looked up, at the high gym windows. At the fading daylight.

The first flakes of snow had begun to fall.

Nightfall was the time of day she dreaded most, for it was with the coming of darkness that all Doreen Kelly’s fears seemed to rush forth like demons from their tightly lidded prisons. In the light of day, she could still feel flutterings of hope, and though it was thin as gossamer, she could plot out fantasy scenarios in which she was young again, charming again, and so irresistible she would surely lure Lincoln back home to her, as she had a dozen times before. Staying sober was the key. Oh, she had tried to hold the course!

Again and again, she’d managed to convince Lincoln that this time she was dry for good. But then she’d get that familiar thirst, like an itch in her throat that needed scratching, and finally there’d be one little slip of the old willpower, the sweet taste of coffee brandy on the tongue and she’d be spiraling downward, helpless to pull out of the descent. In the end, what hurt most wasn’t the sense of failure or the loss of dignity. It was seeing the look of resignation in Lincoln’s eyes.

Come back to me. I’m still your wife and you promised to love and cherish me.

Come back just one more time.

Outside, the gray light of afternoon faded, and with it faded the hopes she’d nursed all day. The hopes that, in her more lucid moments, she knew were false.

With nightfall came lucidity And despair.

She sat down at her kitchen table and poured the first drink. As soon as the coffee brandy hit her stomach, she could feel its heat racing through her veins, bringing with it the welcome flood of numbness. She poured another, felt the numbness spread to her lips, her face. Her fears.

By the fourth drink, she was no longer in pain, no longer in despair. Rather, she was feeling more sure of herself with every sip. Liquid confidence. She’d made him fall in love with her once before; she could do it again. She still had her figure-a good one. He was a man, wasn’t he? He could be coaxed. All it took was to catch him at a moment of weakness.

She stumbled to her feet and pulled on her coat.

Outside, it was starting to snow, soft and lacy flakes drifting down from a black sky. Snow was her friend; what better decoration for her hair than a few glittery snowflakes? She would step into his house with her hair long and loose, her cheeks prettily flushed from the cold. He would invite her in-he’d have to invite her in-and perhaps a spark of lust would leap between them. Yes, yes, that’s how she saw it happening, with snowflakes in her hair.

But his house was too far to walk to. It was time to pick up a car.

She headed up the street to Cobb and Morong’s. It was an hour before closing, and the evening rush was on to pick up that extra carton of milk, that emergency bag of sugar, on the way home. As Doreen had expected, there were several cars parked along the sidewalk in front of the general store, some of them with their engines running, the heaters blowing. There is nothing so disheartening on a cold night than to walk out and climb into your car, only to find your engine doesn’t start.

Doreen walked along the street, eyeing the cars, deciding which one to choose.

Not the pickup-it wasn’t a lady’s vehicle, nor the VW, because she had more important things on her mind than wrestling with a stick shift.

The green sedan. That was just the car for her.

She glanced at the general store, saw that no one was coming out the door, and quickly slid into the sedan. The seat was nice and warm, the heater’s breath toasty against her knees. She put it in gear, hit the gas, and jolted up and off the curb. Something in the trunk gave a loud thump.

She drove off just as a voice on the street yelled: “Hey! Hey, come back with my car!”

It took her a few blocks of weaving back and forth to figure out how to turn on the headlights, another block to get the windshield wipers going. At last her view cleared, and she could actually see the road ahead. She accelerated, the sedan fishtailing on the newly fallen snow. She could hear things rolling around in the trunk, the sound of glass clinking together as she swerved around corners. She drove to Lincoln’s house and skidded to a stop in his driveway.

The house was dark.

She climbed out of the car, stumbled onto the porch, and banged on the front door. “Lincoln! Lincoln, I gotta talk to you! You’re still my husband!” She banged again and again, but no lights came on, and the door was locked. He’d taken away her key, the bastard, and she couldn’t get in.