My Best Friend's Exorcism(76)

Backing up into darkness, Abby bumped into the ottoman where the Langs kept all their magazines and fell backward. Tightening her legs, she managed to fall in slow motion, catching herself and a copy of European Travel & Life before it hit the floor. Frozen, bent over backward, she listened.

In the kitchen, Gretchen opened the fridge door, then a cabinet. The ice maker growled and Abby used its noise for cover, sinking slowly onto the leather ottoman as Gretchen finished plinking ice into her glass. Abby crept to the door.

Gretchen was standing at the counter, her back to Abby, wearing shorts and a tank top. She had a glass out, full of ice, and the bottle of Diet Coke stood next to it. She pulled out a wrinkled dried lemon from a line of rotting fruit on the window ledge, then rattled open a drawer and slid out a broad, gleaming butcher’s knife. Holding the dried lemon steady on the counter, Gretchen started to saw through it, but then her head snapped up and she sniffed the air. Turning, she looked directly at Abby, then she turned the other way and looked into the dark living room.

“Who’s here?” she asked. “I can smell you.”

She padded toward the dark living room, butcher knife gripped in one hand, and disappeared. Quickly, Abby tiptoed to the sink, pulling the baggie of powder out of her waistband. She dumped the entire packet into the glass. It was supposed to have been enough for two liters of Coke, but Abby didn’t care, she just wanted to get it in. She stirred the clumped powder with one finger, and ice tinkled gently against the glass.

“Abby?”

The footsteps were coming back, padding quickly, and Abby started for the TV room.

“Are you here, Abby?” Gretchen called from the TV room.

Abby backtracked so fast her shoes almost slipped out from underneath her. Six quick steps and she was in the dark living room as she heard Gretchen coming through the kitchen, right on her heels. Abby kept going, moving as fast and quiet as she could, slipping into the front hall just as Gretchen snapped on the lights in the living room behind her.

It was close. She might not make it out the front door before Gretchen, but she had to get outside, get out of this freezing house, get away from Gretchen. She turned the handle. The door was locked. The deadbolt needed a key. Abby spun around to search the hall table.

Gretchen was standing in the doorway to the living room, butcher knife in one hand, glass of Diet Coke in the other.

“You really are gay for me, aren’t you?” Gretchen said, taking a sip.

Abby thought about smashing through the glass door and running, but she couldn’t move her legs.

“I can’t believe you were dumb enough to come here. Especially after you were arrested,” Gretchen said, sighing. “Come on. If you’re here, you might as well see something cool.”

Gretchen trudged up the stairs to the second floor. Abby hesitated, then followed. She found Gretchen in her bedroom standing in front of her closet, pulling on a baby blue raincoat.

“What are you doing?” Abby asked.

Gretchen took a deep pull of her Diet Coke and set it down on her desk.

“You’ll see,” she said.

Gretchen lifted the enormous butcher’s knife from her desk. Its blade caught the light in the room and sent silver shards dancing across the walls.

“Come on,” she said, then she beckoned to Abby with the knife. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Gretchen walked into her bathroom. Abby knew it was stupid to go into a small room with a crazy girl holding a knife, but Gretchen didn’t feel dangerous right now. She felt like Abby had interrupted her in the middle of an extra-credit project and Gretchen wanted to finish it up before starting anything new.

Abby entered the bathroom. Gretchen was waiting for her, leaning against the sinks, the knife lying on the counter. In her hand was the black pistol from her parents’ bedside table. In the shower was Good Dog Max. His leash was looped over the faucet and he was dancing from one foot to the other, his claws clicking on the fiberglass tub. When he saw Abby, his tail began to wag.

“See,” Gretchen said, “he likes you.”

Max let his tongue fall out, then the wastebasket next to the tub caught his interest and he stuck his head inside and started rooting around.

“It’s because he likes you so much that I got this idea,” Gretchen said. “So in a way, what’s happening to him is all your fault.”

Gretchen pulled up the hood of her raincoat and stood at the edge of the tub.

“Good dog, Max,” she said. “Who’s a good dog?”

Gretchen took Max’s collar and pulled his head out of the garbage. Good Dog Max tried to lick Gretchen’s hand that was holding the gun; then she had his chin in her hand, lifting his head, and she pressed the gun to the base of his neck.

“You don’t have to hurt him,” Abby said. “You don’t have to do any of this.”

“You don’t know who you’re talking to anymore,” Gretchen said.

Max whined, his claws tapping at the fiberglass, trying to twist his head to get back in the garbage.

“I know who you are,” Abby said.

Without hesitation, Gretchen released Max, stepped away from the tub, and backhanded Abby. Caught off guard, Abby spun to her side, hit the wall, and fell to the floor. Gretchen was straddling her, yanking her head back by the hair, the cold metal gun pressed to the underside of Abby’s chin. Abby had never been on the wrong end of a gun before, and ice blossomed inside her guts.