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"We've got to get out of here," Gregory said to him.
They struggled to climb onto the motorcycle. His leg felt unbearably heavy as he lifted it over the seat.
Gregory shoved him toward the back of the machine, then climbed on the front.
"Hang on." He did. When Gregory hit the accelerator, Tristan felt his head snap back. His upper jaw crunched down on his lower, and his eyes felt as small and hard as marbles rolling inside his head. In mat brief moment he saw a blur behind him. He turned just as the clothes tumbled off the bike, but he didn't say anything.
They rode toward town, men up the long hill to Gregory's house. Gregory got off and rushed inside. Now me motorcycle was in Eric's hands-Tristan's hands, though he had no control. He raced down the hill again, driving crazily. Suddenly the road snaked out from under the wheels, and Eric was on another path.
Were they in another memory? Had they somehow linked up with another part of the past? The road, with its sharp twists and turns, seemed familiar to Tristan. The Harley skidded to a stop, and Tristan felt ill all over again: they were at the spot where he had died.
Eric parked and got off the motorcycle, surveying the road for several minutes. He stooped down to examine some sparkling blue stones-bits of shattered glass among the gravel in the road. Suddenly he reached over and picked up a bouquet of roses. They looked fresh, as if someone had just left them there, and were tied with a purple ribbon, the kind Ivy wore in her hair. Eric touched one rose that hadn't opened. A tremor ran through him.
One rose, unopened, stood in a vase on Caroline's table. Eric's mind had jumped again, and Tristan knew he had been in this memory before. The picture window, the brewing storm outside, Eric's intense fear and growing frustration were all familiar to Tristan. Just as before, the memory ran like a piece of damaged film, frames spliced out, sound washed over by waves of emotion. Caroline was looking at him and laughing, laughing as if nothing in the world could be funnier. Suddenly he reached for her arms, grabbing her, shaking her, rocking her till her head flopped like a rag doll's.
"Listen to me," he said. "I mean it! It's not a joke! Nobody's laughing but you. It's not a joke!"
Then Eric groaned. It wasn't fear that rippled through him now. It wasn't frustration and anger burning out of his skin, but something deep and awful, despairing. He groaned again and opened his eyes. Tristan saw the book of trains in front of him.
The book looked blurry, and Eric passed his hand over his eyes. He was awake and crying. "Not again," he whispered. "Not again."
What did he mean? Tristan wondered. What didn't Eric want to happen again? What didn't he want to do again? Let Gregory kill? Let himself get out of control and do Gregory's killing for him? Maybe they had each done some of it and were tied together in a guilty knot.
Tristan struggled hard to remain conscious and stay with Eric through the rest of Monday morning. He had slipped out of Eric's mind the moment he was fully awake but accompanied him to school, guessing that the memories that haunted Eric would lead him toward some kind of confrontation with Gregory. He was caught off guard at lunchtime when Eric moved quickly through a crowded cafeteria toward the table where Ivy sat alone.
"I have to talk to you."
Ivy blinked up at him, surprised. His pale hair was matted. Over the summer, he had grown so thin that his white skin barely seemed to cover the bones of his face. The circles under his eyes looked like bruises.
When Ivy spoke, Tristan heard an unexpected gentleness in her voice.
"Okay. Talk to me."
"Not here. Not with all these people."
Ivy glanced around the cafeteria. Tristan guessed that she was trying to decide how to handle this. He wanted to slip inside her and shout, "Don't do it! Don't go anywhere with him!" But he knew what would happen: She'd throw him out just as she had the last time.
"Can you tell me what this is about?" Ivy asked, her voice still soft.
"Not here," he said. His fingers played nervously on the tabletop.
"At my house, then," she suggested.
Eric shook his head. He kept glancing left and right Tristan saw with relief that Beth and Will were carrying their lunch trays toward Ivy's table. Eric saw them, too.
"There's an old car," he said quickly, "dumped about a half mile below the train bridges, just back from the river. I'll meet you there today, five o'clock. Come alone. I want to talk, but only if you're alone."
"But I-" "Come alone. Don't tell anyone." He was already moving away from the table.
"Eric," she called after him. "Eric!" He didn't turn back.
"What was that about?" Will asked as he set his tray on the table. He didn't seem aware of Tristan's presence. Neither did Beth or Ivy. Maybe none of them saw his light because of the sun flooding through the cafeteria's big windows, Tristan thought.
"Eric looks kind of crazed," Beth said, taking the seat next to Will and across from Ivy. Tristan was glad to see a pencil and notebook among Beth's clutter of dishes. Through her writing, he could communicate with all three of them at the same time. "What did he say?" she asked. "Is something wrong?"
Ivy shrugged. "He wants to talk to me later today."
"Why doesn't he talk to you now?" Will asked.
Good question, thought Tristan.
"He said he wants to see me alone." Ivy lowered her voice. "I'm not supposed to tell anyone."
Beth was watching Eric as he made his way toward the cafeteria doors. Her eyes narrowed.
I don't trust him, Tristan thought as clearly as possible. He had guessed right: Beth and he matched thoughts, and a moment later he was inside her mind. Then he felt her pull back.
"Don't be afraid, Beth," he said to her. "Don't throw me out. I need your help. Ivy needs your help."
Sighing, Beth picked up the pencil next to her notebook, and stirred her applesauce with it.
Will smiled and nudged her. "It'd be easier to eat with a spoon," he said.
Then Ivy's eyes widened a little. "Beth's glowing."
"Is it Tristan?" Will asked.
Beth dried her pencil and flipped open the notebook.
"Yes," she wrote.
Ivy frowned. "He can talk to me directly now. Why is he still communicating through you?"
Beth's fingers twitched, then she wrote quickly. "Because Beth still listens to me."
Will laughed out loud.
Beth's hand moved toward the page again. "I'm counting on Beth and Will to convince you-don't take chances with Eric!"
"Counting on me?" mumbled Will.
"It's too dangerous, Ivy," Beth scribbled. "It's a trap. Tell her, Will."
"I need to know the facts first," Will insisted.
"Eric asked me to meet him at five o'clock, by the river about a half mile below the double bridges," Ivy said.