Элизабет Чандлер - Soulmates

Philip's face brightened when he saw Lacey's purple mist.

"What kind of mess have you two gotten yourself into?" she asked.

Tristan ignored the question. "I've got to leave. You'll be all right now, Philip," he said, slipping outside of him.

"Not so fast," Lacey spoke silently to Tristan so Philip couldn't hear.

"What's going on?"

"I'm not sure. I think it's a trap. I have to find Will," he replied quickly, moving toward the shack walls. "Ivy needs help."

"So when hasn't she?" Lacey called to him, but Tristan was already on his way.

Ivy drove toward the double bridges, gripping the steering wheel, leaning forward, straining to see. She flicked on her lights, but the mist absorbed them like pale ghosts. The rain and early fallen leaves made the pavement slick, and at a curve in the road the tires suddenly lost their grip on the road. Skidding sideways, her car slid all the way over to the oncoming lane. Without blinking an eye, she pulled it back in line.

The river, woods, and road went for miles and miles. If Philip and Gregory weren't at the bridges, it would be difficult to search for them alone. Ivy wanted to call Tristan back, but he wouldn't come, he just didn't understand. The weather was getting worse, and there was no time to get the police.

Tristan was right, of course. She didn't have weapon, unless she could count the rusty nail that rattled around in her cup holder. But she did have threat: she had left the information with the police. And if Gregory hurt Philip, he'd have a lot more explaining to do.

Ivy suddenly jammed on the brakes and wrenched the steering wheel around, almost missing the turn into the clearing. Her headlights made an arc of light against the trees. Her heart started thumping in her chest.

Straight ahead was Gregory's car. They couldn't have gotten far on foot, she told herself.

Ivy parked her car facing the road and left the front door gaping open, but this time for a reason. If she and Philip were chased back, she'd push him in the open door, get in behind him, and lock Gregory out.

Now she hurriedly searched the ground for a rock. Finding one, she bent down by the rear tire of Gregory's car and used the rock to drive her rusty nail into the rubber.

Ivy ran through the trees, scrambling up on the railroad track. Oh either side of her the tunnel of trees closed in, heavy and dripping. She raced along the rails, and suddenly the green tunnel opened out and the parallel bridges hung before her as if suspended in midair.

The fog rising from the river hid their long-legged supports, and only the sound of rushing water proved the river ran fast beneath them.Sections of the bridges continually disappeared and reappeared as wisps of clouds caught on their skeletons like filmy scarves, then floated past. In the rain and mist, it was impossible to see where the old bridge abruptly broke off.

The weather was making it easy for Gregory, Ivy thought. All he'd have to do is lure Philip onto the track with him, then give him an unexpected push. In Gregory's twisted mind, what was one more "accident"?

Ivy focused on the old track, where Gregory was supposed to have collected spikes for Philip. She squinted until her eyes stung, then glanced over at the new bridge. The shifting fog swirled up, and she saw a flash of red. Just as quickly, the clouds covered it again. Then the red waved at her once more from the new bridge-the bright red of Philip's jacket.

"Philip!" she screamed. "Philip!"

She started running down the track of the new bridge. "Stay where you are," she called to him, afraid that if he ran to her he'd trip and fall.

But as she got closer she realized it was just his jacket lying on the track. Ivy's heart sank, but she kept going, fearing the worst yet needing to find any clue she could about her brother.

The jacket was soaked by the rain, but there were no rips and only a splatter of mud on the cuffs-no sign of a struggle. For a moment she was hopeful. Of I course, there didn't have to be a struggle, Ivy thought.

Philip could have been conned into taking off his jacket as part of a game, then quickly pushed. She picked up the jacket and held it in her arms close to her, as she had held Ella.

"Find something?"

She whirled around, nearly losing her balance.

"Hello, Ivy," Gregory said. In the mist he looked like a gray shadow, a dark angel perched on the bridge ten feet away from her. "Hunting for spikes?"

"I'm hunting for my brother."

"Not here," he said.

"What have you done with him?" Ivy demanded.

He grinned and took several steps toward her. Ivy took several steps back, still clutching the jacket.

"Chick, chick, chick," Gregory chanted softly. "Who wants to play chick, chick, chick?"

Ivy glanced toward the far bank, expecting to see a train loom up, as in Philip's nightmare, eager to swallow her.

She turned back to Gregory. "What have you done with him?" she asked again, keeping her voice low, struggling to keep down the hysterical fear that was rising within her.

Gregory laughed softly. "Chick, chick, chick," he said, then took a few steps backward.

Ivy moved with him, her anger overcoming her fear. "You killed Eric, didn't you?" she said. "You were afraid of what he'd tell me. It wasn't an accidental overdose."

Gregory stepped back again. She matched him step for step.

"You killed your best friend," she said. "And the girl in Ridgefield-after you attacked me at home, you killed her as a cover-up. And Caroline. That's how it all started. You murdered your own mother."

Step for step she moved with him, wondering what kind of game he was playing. Was a train coming?

Was that what she heard in the distance?

Gregory suddenly reversed his direction, moving toward her. Ivy backed up. They were two dancers on a tightrope.

"Tristan too," Ivy shouted at him. "You killed Tristan!"

"And all because of you," he said. His voice was as soft and eerie as the twisting shapes of fog. "You were supposed to die, not Tristan. You were supposed to die, not the girl in Ridgefield-" A train whistle sounded, and Ivy spun around.

Gregory exploded with laughter. "Better say your prayers, Ivy. I've heard tales about Tristan becoming an angel, but no one has seen a shimmering Eric. I hope you've been a good girl."

The train whistle sounded again, higher in pitch, closer. Ivy wondered if she could make it to the other bank in time. She could hear the train itself, rumbling through the trees now, close, already too close to the river.

Gregory was walking steadily backward, and Ivy guessed his plan. He'd keep her on the bridge between him and the train. The girl thought to be crazy enough to throw herself in front of a train once would seem to have tried it again.

As Gregory moved backward Ivy stayed with him. "You've got things wrong," she said. "It was all because of you, Gregory. You were terrified of being found out. You were terrified of being left out. Your true father could never give you the kind of money Andrew has."

Gregory's mouth opened a little, and he stared at her. She'd taken him by surprise. They weren't far from the bank now, and he stepped back uncertainly. Ivy inched toward him. If he stumbled, she'd have a chance.

"You didn't think I knew the whole story, did you, Gregory? The funny thing is, the day you killed your mother I never saw you. I never saw past the reflections on the glass. If you'd left me alone, I would never have guessed it was you."

She saw his face darken. He clenched his fists.

"Go ahead," Ivy challenged him. "Come get me. Push me off the tracks, but it's one more murder on your head."

She glanced down. Ten feet more-ten feet more and she'd have a chance, even if she fell.

"Caroline gave Eric a key," Ivy continued, "and Eric left it to me. I found some papers in Andrew's clock."