Feral (5 page)

Becca raised her hands and made a pushing motion, as though she felt the heaviness, too, and wanted to knock it aside. “Look,” she said, “I can see him inside. And we're already here. Come on. Let's—” But she swallowed the last of her sentence as her sneaker slid across a particularly thick patch of ice and she started to fall.

Owen lunged forward to catch her, his fingers gripping her ribs like the laces on a football.

Becca righted herself and pried his hands free, wearing a look on her face that Claire interpreted as surprise—surprise at being caught, maybe even surprise that Owen was actually there to catch her.

“He's inside,” Becca repeated. “I see him. I'm
asking
him where Serena is. He'll know. Trust me. Breakups lead to makeups.”

Owen sighed, shook his head, and followed her up the front steps of 'Bout Out.

Claire blinked into the bitter wind, watching the screen door swallow the two of them.

Behind Claire, wind attacked a metal trash can. The sound of it crashing against the ground made her jump, swivel with her arms up, ready to defend herself.

Empty, the can rolled in the wind.

“Stupid,” she muttered to herself. “Get a grip, Cain.”

She shoved her hands deep into her pockets, as her dirty-blond, wavy hair clung to the large lapels. She tucked her chin down, trying to use the coat to hide her cheeks from the vicious slap of wind. She closed her eyes, listening to the gusts torture loose pieces in the corrugated tin roof above the gas pumps and hiss through the nearby naked trees. In between the hisses, she heard a soft, pleading meow.

Claire opened her eyes. The meow hit her ears again, begging for attention. She turned as a sweet yellow tabby emerged from behind the pump, curling his tail into a question mark.

Her heart ached at the sight of the lonely cat out in the cold. “Hey, sweets,” Claire cooed, squatting so that her coat made a deep blue puddle on the gravel around her.

“Ain't no house cat,” the man at the side of the truck called out to her.

Claire bristled. “If you know he's a stray,” she mumbled, “then maybe you should take him home.”

She extended her fingers toward the tabby, cooing for him to come closer, the stretch pulling against her scarred skin and making her back ache.

“That ain't no kitty that curls up with you at night and starts kneadin' your stomach like dough,” he went on, his voice saturated with a Midwest twang. In between the twang, Claire detected the singsong notes of warning:
You'll be sorry . . .

“Come here,” Claire called sweetly as the wind picked up, sending a cold mist flying across her lips. She wiggled her fingers as she tried desperately to ignore the man. “Come here, babe.”

“That ain't no cute little thing that licks dribbled drops a' cream off the kitchen floor,” the man shouted, loud enough this time for his voice to bounce against the tin roof.

Claire glanced at the front of the general store, wishing her father would hurry up.

“Ain't no different than a sewer rat,” the man cautioned her, nodding once at the cat.

When Claire didn't respond, he continued, “That's a barn cat. Which is just a nice way a' sayin' feral.” He pointed at the yellow tabby, then dragged his finger toward the cats perched beneath an awning at the far end of the lot, rubbing at their whiskers and ears with their front paws—then toward the cats crouched under the front porch of the old general store, lying close together for warmth, front legs curled contentedly under their bodies—and finally toward the cats taking shelter under a half-rotten canoe that leaned up against the side of the building, one of them with his back leg pointed skyward as he cleaned himself.

“Same as any old squirrel or chipmunk or possum,” he said. “Wild creatures, all of 'em,” he added, smiling sickly. “Live under the store, most of 'em.

“Maxine feeds 'em all the food that's hit their expiration date,” the man babbled, not caring how his unwanted conversation was making Claire begin to sweat, even in the frigid temperatures. “Got a soft spot for anything ain't got a home a' its own. How her place got its name, you know. 'Cause when she first inherited the place from her folks, she was givin' so much a' her good stuff away to folks needin' a hand—‘on credit,' she said, but ain't no credit with Maxine, it's give. So by the time a payin' customer came in lookin' for milk or crackers or Band-Aids, she'd have to tell 'em, ‘Honey, you better buy it quick, 'cause we're
'bout out
.'”

He opened his mouth, showing off black spots of missing teeth as he wheezed into a laugh. And started to walk toward her.

Claire stood, turning her hands into fists. Her heart beat so hard, her jaw ached. She ran her eyes across the parking lot as she searched for a rock or a piece of glass she could use, if the man were to grab her.

“Dad?” she called.

“'Course,” the old man continued, “Maxine had to quit the credit business with any human—if she wanted to stay in business. But the cats? She never did quit givin' to the cats. Now, though—” He paused to point again, this time at the cats hissing from a nearby bush—then at the cats huddled together on a stone wall behind the church across the street, tails flicking behind them. He shook his head. “Whole thing's gotten a little outta hand.”

“Dad!” Claire screamed, loud enough to make the back of her throat burn.

The fear in her voice made the man's head jut back with shock, his mouth droop sadly. “I didn't mean—”

Claire swiveled, racing straight for the store entrance.

“Hey! You left—” the man shouted, pointing toward the nozzle still in her gas tank.

But Claire couldn't stop. Her legs pumped, racing all the way up the soft wooden steps that bowed beneath the weight of her body. On the front porch of 'Bout Out, beneath the corrugated tin ceiling, she pressed against the Nehi sign on the screen door and glanced over her shoulder just in time to see the old man squat down to pick a quarter up off the pavement.

He flicked it into the air, caught it, smacked it against the back of his left hand. He lifted his right hand, and brought his face down to get a closer look at the coin. “Whaddaya know?” he called out to Claire. “It's
tails
!” He pointed once more at the strays huddling for warmth, let out another wheezy cackle, and turned toward his truck.

He was just coming after the quarter, Claire
, she told herself.
He wasn't coming after you.

She stepped inside the old general store, wiping her sweaty forehead and trying not to pant so hard.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

“W
hy would Serena be walking anywhere in this mess?” Becca asked.

Still breathing deeply, silently asking her heart to slow down, Claire glanced up to find the two she'd encountered in the parking lot now standing at the checkout counter, along with another boy and a wide-eyed, petite cashier whose sweet, small-featured face looked barely old enough to belong to someone in high school. The voluptuous curves on her small frame, though, told a different story—and could have belonged to someone old enough to actually own the general store. “I don't know—she doesn't have a car,” the second boy said, leaning against a counter made of gray barn wood. “What else would she do but walk? I don't really care what she does. It's not my business anymore.”

“Not your—
damn
it, Chas,” Becca shouted, “this is a
person.
I don't care if she is your ex. She's also a
person
in a
storm.
”

Chas took a step to the side, craning his neck to look over the cashier's shoulder, through the front window. As he straightened up, Claire could see he was far beefier than lanky Owen. And far sloppier, with unruly dark hair and baggy black pants that fell behind the tongues of high-top sneakers and a letterman's jacket with thick black leather sleeves. Claire couldn't quite understand how he could stand to wear that coat. The general store was apparently heated by a wood stove that almost made the small room feel
too
hot—like a dry sauna.

“Is it really getting that bad out there?” Chas asked.

“
Yes
,” Becca asserted.

“Why does something bad have to have happened to her?” Owen asked. “Why are you so freaked out?”

Still rooted into her spot by the entrance, Claire slipped a hand inside her coat to clutch her suddenly queasy stomach. She didn't completely understand the conversation, but she didn't like it, either.

“Because she didn't come home after school, because I can't get her on her cell, because this is totally unlike her,” Becca claimed. “You
sure
you haven't talked to her?” she asked Chas.

“Been here all afternoon with Ruthie,” he said, nodding once at the cashier, then pointing at the string of Dr Pepper cans lined up on the counter in front of her, as though it were evidence of how long he'd been in the general store.

When Becca turned an accusatory glare her way, Ruthie swiveled her eyes down, bit her thumbnail hard enough to chip the bright purple polish. She hugged her chest, forcing her cleavage to bulge out of the top of her tight sweater.

“All afternoon,” Becca repeated. “Figures,” she snarled.

Ruthie squirmed, shooting a pleading, doe-eyed look at Chas. When Chas caught her eye, he only shrugged, shook his head. Rolled his eyes.

So that's what this is about
, Claire thought. Her father had homeschooled her throughout the rest of her sophomore year and the first semester of her junior year. It had apparently been just enough time to forget about this—the high school drama, the petty jealousies, the boyfriend-stealing, the gossip. Claire felt her wave of nausea subside.

“She's not at her house—even though she said she had to get to work on a story for the paper,” Becca told Chas.

“The paper,” Chas grumbled, rolling his eyes at Owen in a way that made him chuckle.

“So
what
?” Becca snapped. “She likes to write for the paper.” When the two boys continued to snicker nastily, Becca thundered, “Might be good if you two goons cared about something other than football and getting laid.”

Ruthie squirmed, shooting her pleading eyes at Chas again.
Tell her
, she mouthed. Chas pretended not to understand.

“Look, he doesn't know, okay, Beck?” Owen groaned.

“Serena has to be
somewhere
,” Becca barked.

Owen sighed so loudly, the sigh was itself almost a word—a
Jeez.
“Let's go home,” he said. “Please. This is crazy.”

“And do what?” Becca screamed. “I can't just—”

“She'll turn up.”

“She'll turn
up
? Owen, she's not some old set of keys, for God's sake.”

“Do you see how bad it's getting out here?”

“If you had
answered
your
phone
, we could have started looking two hours ago. You owe me—”

“Becca, I already told you I was helping my mom carry groceries out of the car. It's not like I sit around doing nothing but staring at my phone. Besides, neither one of us can help anyone if we're in a ditch,” Owen told her.

“Put your tire chains on,” Becca said.

“That's sheer ice,” Owen argued, pointing through the front window. “You want to die out there?”

“I should call my dad,” Becca blurted.

“Whoa, Beck,” Owen said, reaching out to snatch her phone. “The sheriff? Are you serious?”

“Yes. I'm
serious.
This is so not like her.”

“Fine,” Owen grumbled. “Look. I'll take you by Serena's house again. See if her mom's heard anything. She's probably there right now. Probably just had to stop by the library before she went home or something.”

“Principal Sanders told everyone to go
straight home
,” Becca argued.

“Yeah, and if Serena needed background info to work on a story, do you think a warning from Sanders could keep her from it?”

Becca slumped, her posture saying Owen was right.

“We're stopping by Serena's house
first
,” Becca said, just as a door banged open in the back of the store.

“Ruthie!” a woman's voice thundered. “We got honest-to-goodness paying customers in here. Gossiping with your friends is fine when we don't have any shoppers, but I told you to knock it off now that the storm's closing in. We got to help people get ready.”

A heavyset woman appeared with a metal cart loaded with boxes and shovels and bags of ice melt and kitty litter. “Come on, now,” she urged, grunting as she reached forward to start unloading the supplies, “you got to help me get some of this out on display.”

“Yes, Mom,” Ruthie said quietly.

“Here, let me,” Owen said, trying to relieve Ruthie's mother of a large cardboard box of canned goods. But the box teetered in his arms.

“Watch out there, pretty boy,” Chas said. “Oughtta leave that to the athlete.”

“Whatever,” Owen grunted, refusing to give up the box, even as he struggled for balance. “I'm on the football team, too.”

But Chas reached out and plucked the box right out of Owen's arms. In Chas's hands, it seemed more like a box of matches than a box of heavy canned food. “What's with you?” he teased. “You act like you just ran about a hundred wind sprints. Your mom's groceries must've worn you
out.
You're even wussier than usual.”

“Are you two done with your pissing contest now?” Becca interrupted, tugging on Owen's sleeve. “Can we go look?”

“I'm staying to help,” Chas announced, wrapping his large hand around a couple of shovels and carrying them toward a display space by the door.