The Drifter(40)
His words were slurred, but the message was clear. Betsy was stunned. She’d never even thought to ask if he was with anybody. It didn’t occur to her. What right did she have to be mad about it, really? If there was something she needed to know, he’d tell her, right? They’d been together for a couple of days, and what did he owe her? She wondered why Channing had played along with Bobby’s lovebird bit at J.D.’s. The wheels had already started to spin, and once that started, with Weird Bobby’s drugs added to the mix, there was no stopping. It was a lie, she thought, all of it. Gavin was messing with her. It would be over before classes started again. Betsy’s mind raced, and she started to see the darkness in Gavin. He was just like the rest of them, like Mack, like Channing and Anna, like Caroline . . . even Ginny. Where is she now, when I really need her? Hiding in the sorority house behind those letters, behind a crowd of hollow girls. Betsy had been afraid of this ominous killer, of the unknown, but what if the real threat was right in front of her? Could Mack actually hurt me? Betsy wondered. She remembered what he’d said that morning.
It would be a shame if you were next.
“You’re a joke and a fucking slut, Betsy,” he said, lunging for her. She turned to run, but she tripped on a tree root and fell to the damp, spongy ground. She looked up through the trees toward the door. Where was Teddy? Was he in on it, too? Was she completely alone? Going back inside was not an option. Betsy wanted out, to get away from there, to go anywhere else. So she struggled to her feet, turned, and ran up the driveway, down the long empty residential street into the dark, muggy night.
Mack’s voice trailed after her.
“The way I see it, both of you are getting sloppy seconds.”
WHEN SHE FINALLY made it to University Boulevard, the headlights of the cars came as a shock. It had to have been after 1:00 a.m., but there were still people on the road. And as she walked along the sidewalk toward campus, occasionally someone would roll down the window to heckle her. Two guys in a pickup truck slowed down to her pace and drove beside her for a minute or two. When Betsy declined their offer of a ride, she just shook her head. If she opened her mouth, she was afraid of what would come out.
“Nice night for a walk, you moron,” shouted the drunk from the passenger seat. Once she made it to the stadium, she decided to take a shortcut and make her way through the all but abandoned campus, down Stadium Way, past Weil Hall through the North Lawn, past McCarty Hall to 8th Street. The news crews that had been swarming the campus had retreated to the Residence Inn or the University Hilton for nachos and hot wings at the hotel bar and an early bedtime, counting the minutes before they caught the killer, if only so they could return to civilization. Without the beaming sunlight, students milling about, gaudily decked in orange and blue, there was no story. It was just another small town in Florida with derelicts hiding in the crawl space. Serial killers were good for ratings. Mix in college-age female victims in an “idyllic campus setting” no less, and you’ve got a solid national headline. Betsy thought of her friends hunkered down on Sorority Row nearby. “You think you’re safe there?” she muttered to herself, happy to be alone at last. “What would Ted Bundy have to say about that?”
The recent killing spree was like gory icing on the sketchy cake for Gainesville, a place that wasn’t as safe as the university claimed. She’d read an article in The Sun not long before that dubbed the town the shadiest in Florida, referring to the number of mature trees per square mile within city limits.
“You better believe it’s the shadiest,” said Melissa, scanning the paper someone had left on a table at Bagelville. “And it doesn’t have a thing to do with leafy glens.”
It’s like the Millhopper, Betsy thought, as she plodded along silently, eyes scanning the shadows for lurking things of any kind. Just below the surface, there’s the stuff that doesn’t belong, the bits of bones and teeth, the unusual things, completely out of place, that thrive under the cover of darkness and neglect. At first, she found that image comforting, that something could thrive below the surface, unnoticed, but now it felt threatening.
Even under normal circumstances a late-night, solo campus stroll was a terrible idea, and she blamed her rash decision on the drugs. What was I thinking, she wondered, picturing Anna and Channing back at the party, laughing at her. How could I have let my guard down so completely? She made it to Beatty Towers, a high-rise dorm made famous by Tom Petty when rumors about his song “American Girl” claimed that he was singing about a girl who threw herself off of her eighth-floor balcony, even though it wasn’t true. She spotted the crammed bike rack in front of the building and said a tiny prayer, out loud.
“If there’s just one unlocked bike somewhere in this rack, God, I swear to You that I will never steal another object, wheeled or otherwise, for the rest of my life.” She paused. “And I will resume believing in You.”
Betsy worked fast, trying to wrestle each front tire out of its place, sandwiched between the metal bars. A beat-up ten-speed with a wobbly front tire sprang free, she swung her leg around the back of it, and, just like that, she was out of sight.
At the intersection, she paused again. If she took a left, she was back to her dusty, empty apartment with a mattress on the floor. If she went straight, that road led her to the sorority house, where Ginny and Caroline were staying the night. To the right was their apartment, with its feather beds and freshly laundered sheets. The key to their front door was still in her front pocket. Betsy followed her gut and took a right, partly because it was a downhill ride, and partly because she needed to be alone, but not alone enough to face her own grim life and apartment, both of which felt empty, both of which were a mess. She coasted down 13th Street on her last stolen bike, vowing to remind herself about the God stuff tomorrow.