White Space

THE CAMRY WAS gone. Tony was dead, and maybe Casey, too. Rima had scrubbed as much of a pocket out of the snow as she could manage, but she was jammed in tight, headfirst and up to her thighs. Her air was going fast, the snow melting from the warmth of her breath and body heat—and now, just when she thought things couldn’t get any worse, she heard something.

Coming right for me. A deep trembling seized her. She could feel Taylor’s death-whisper, still clinging to her parka, cringe. It’s going to get me … She felt something move and then close around her right ankle. No! Her heart bolted up her throat to lodge behind her teeth. No, no!

“Rima?” Casey, snow-muffled and distant. “Rima, are you okay?”

Oh, thank you, God. Nearly limp with relief, she wiggled her foot. Get me out of here.

“Good.” He sounded relieved. “Okay, hang on. It’ll only take a couple minutes to get you out.”

Actually, it took more like ten, and she felt every single second crawl by as her air pocket got stuffier and her chest started to hurt. Hurry, Casey, hurry. Her head ached, the pain like nails behind her eyeballs. Then, all of a sudden, cold licked her hips and waist, and she could move her legs. Pawing through snow, Casey grabbed fistfuls of her parka and yanked. Popping free like a cork from the tight neck of a narrow bottle, she tumbled out, and they collapsed together into the snow.

“Oh!” she gasped. They’d gotten turned around somehow so she was on top. They were nose to nose, her palms flat on his chest, his hands clamped around her biceps. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he said. Deep, bloody scratches scored his forehead and cheeks. The fist-sized bruises on his jaw were purple and puffy. His parka was ripped, the arms nearly in shreds. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Her voice suddenly broke, and she knew she would start to cry if she wasn’t careful. She drew in a shuddery breath. “Thanks for getting me out, for not leaving me, Casey.”

“I wouldn’t do something like that.” Casey gave her arms a squeeze. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

She nodded. “What about you? What happened to your face?”

“Landed in a tree across the road. Got blown right out of my fath—” He stopped, licked his lips. “Out of some of my clothes. I guess the wind or something got under and tore my shirt off. My parka was all tangled up, like a noose. Took forever to work the zipper from the inside and then climb down. That’s why it took me so long to find you. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine.” Her eyes traced the course of a red welt beneath his battered jaw and over the hump of his throat. She thought it was pretty lucky he hadn’t strangled. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Me too.” In the dwindling orange glow of the fire, his expression was unreadable. “I mean, I’m glad you’re okay.”

She was suddenly conscious of the feel of his body beneath hers, how close they were. How she could tolerate his touch. Taylor’s whisper didn’t seem to mind either. This was a very different Casey, not the mean kid from before. Even his voice was different: not rough or sneering, but normal and kind of nice.

Of course. She pulled in a small, quick breath. His father’s shirt was gone, and with it, all that poison. There was no whisper of Big Earl now, anywhere on—or in—Casey. Did he know? Somehow she didn’t think Casey had a clue—and what was it, exactly, that he could do, anyway?

Maybe he’s like me, able to sense death-whispers, but my opposite. I take away the whispers; I free them. But maybe he draws them in, gives them a place to live. Or they take him. Can whispers even do that? She didn’t know. In her experience, death-whispers like Taylor’s were helpless; they needed her to soothe and then free them. But Big Earl was gone, so whatever was going on with Casey was either reversible, or a whisper needed more time to weave itself into Casey’s skin. How long would Casey have to be exposed before that became permanent? All interesting thoughts, and something she’d never considered before. Too much to think about right now, though. Later, if there was time, they really ought to talk.

“We need to get out of here,” she said. “There might be more of those things.”

“Or something worse.” He slid her to one side and pushed up on his elbows. “We sh—”

When he didn’t go on, she looked over. “Casey?” She searched his face, saw something like amazement quickly shading to alarm—and then she realized: Wait a second, I can really see him. There was orange light from the dying car fire, but Casey’s face was bathed in a silver-blue glow, the kind of light thrown by a full moon. “What is it?”

“Rima, turn around,” he said, thickly, and lifted his chin. “Look at the sky.”