Page 10 of Love Immortal
Nine
A fter the night of heavy rain, the small river that runs through Camden has overflowed. During her morning run, one of the track and field athletes discovers a naked body that has washed ashore. The incident shocks the community, sparking a chain of wild rumors. All classes are canceled, and within hours, the dean calls another mandatory assembly.
“I heard she was tortured!” I overhear a student murmur to her friend on the way to the theater.
The rain has stopped, but the day is dreary and cold, and there are a lot of fallen leaves sticking to the pathways. I adjust the hood of my sweatshirt, trying to shield my neck from the chill.
“Tortured? How?” the friend asks, terrified but also eager to hear the gruesome details.
Her face turns two shades paler when the first girl replies, “Get this—she was drained of all her blood. Carey, who knows a guy who knows the girl who found her, says that the woman’s body was covered in all these weird puncture wounds. And she was totally blue and swollen.”
“Oh my god,” the friend gasps, now looking like she might puke into the hedge along the pathway.
I scowl and speed past them, trying not to slip on the wet leaves; I don’t need to hear this nonsense. What is wrong with people? This isn’t some medieval torture story. Even if there’s some psycho on the loose, I’ve never heard of anything like that happening in a peaceful town like Camden.
But when I finally catch up with Fiona in the crowd filing into the theater, she echoes the same story, and unlike those girls who heard it through the grapevine, Fiona got it from her psychology professor.
“I missed the announcement about classes being canceled, so I showed up to psych at eight a.m.,” she says in a low voice as we enter the theater lobby. “I’m pretty sure my professor wasn’t supposed to mention anything, but he couldn’t help himself. The circumstances of that woman’s death are way too creepy. She had actual bite marks, Jonathan. Like someone gnawed on her. And guess what?”
“What?” I ask automatically, even though I’m not so sure I want to hear. My brain is already conjuring up a set of disturbing images that belong in a horror novel.
“They’re trying to keep it under wraps, but the victim worked in the dining hall. She didn’t come to her shift on Monday, and her neighbor hasn’t seen her since last Friday.”
A shiver of dread grazes my skin. My work-study job last semester was in the dining hall. I wonder if I knew her.
Fiona and I take our seats as Dean Wilkins walks onstage. She seems rattled, but she does her best to reassure everyone that the suspected homicide of Ms. Anita Hernandez has nothing to do with the university and that no students are in danger. But the crowd isn’t so sure.
“Is it true she was a dishwasher in the dining hall?” someone shouts before the dean can finish.
A wave of whispers sweeps across the theater. Of course, that information has already been leaked; the dean never had a shot at keeping it contained. My mind reels, because I do recognize the name Anita Hernandez. We didn’t speak much, as I worked the front counter scanning meal cards while she washed dishes in the back, but I do remember her. She was a quiet, older woman who mostly kept to herself.
It doesn’t take much time for people to start jumping to outrageous conclusions. My blood boils when I hear some guy in our row loudly declare, “What were they even doing hiring an illegal? Next, we’ll have them living here with free room and board!”
Another student, sitting four seats to my right, decides to inject her own unsolicited opinion. “I bet the Mexican cartel got her. A drug deal gone bad!”
Like wildfire, an uproar spreads through the auditorium. Fiona and I exchange disgusted glances. For starters, Anita was from Guatemala, not Mexico, and she definitely wasn’t smuggling drugs into the country. How crazy do you have to be to churn out that kind of crap? She was a nice and hardworking lady. She didn’t deserve to be killed, and she definitely doesn’t deserve to be talked about like this.
“Everyone, please calm down.” The dean raises her voice over the din of the crowd. “We’re cooperating fully with the authorities to locate and apprehend the suspect as soon as possible. I encourage anyone with helpful information to come forward. In the meantime, local police will be patrolling the area around campus to ensure the safety of students and faculty. In addition, the board has decided to institute a nine p.m. curfew, including on weekends ,” she adds with emphasis.
There’s a cacophony of groans. I want to smack my forehead in frustration. Just moments ago, these people were outraged about the dangers of nonexistent, bloodthirsty Mexican cartels, and now they’re complaining that their parties are being canceled.
“Classes will resume on Monday, and we will have counseling services available all through the weekend for those who need it. Please remember, your safety and well-being are always our top priority at Camden,” Dean Wilkins concludes before dismissing us.
“That poor woman,” Fiona says as we exit the theater. “Not only was she a victim of a ghastly murder, but now her name is being dragged through the dirt.”
“Those idiots watch too much TV,” I grouse.
Fiona exhales angrily. “Yeah, this is freakin’ Vermont. There are no cartels here. Just a whole lot of race-baiting white folks.”
“What do you think happened to her, though?” I ask.
Fiona’s anger deflates a little, and now she just looks sad. “Honestly? It was probably just bad luck. Some psycho saw her as an easy kill. It sucks, but chances are she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“But how did she end up here, washed up on campus?”
“I’m no forensic expert,” Fiona says cautiously, “but whoever did this likely dumped her body upstream or left it close to the bank, so when the river overflowed, it took her down with it. Our murderer is either bad at hiding their crimes or just didn’t care.”
I shiver in the damp autumn air. It always freaks me out a little when Fiona goes into detective mode, which happens whenever we watch thrillers together or discuss some disturbing piece of news she caught on TV. She gets coldly rational and detached while theorizing about killing sprees and serial killer motives. Although I think that’s probably a skill one needs to have while working in criminal law, the same as the way surgeons need to be desensitized to blood gushing out of wounds.
“You think there could be more victims?” I ask anxiously.
Fiona stares absently at the line of trees on the path ahead. “It could be a one-off, or it could be the start of something bigger. Only time will tell.”
“That’s awful,” I say.
“I know,” Fiona agrees, snapping out of her daze. “But I’m sure the police will have some leads soon. Someone must have seen something. Meanwhile, what should we do for the rest of the day since classes are canceled? Go for pancakes?”
Unlike Detective Fiona, I’m not particularly hungry; my brain isn’t as capable of brushing aside the spine-chilling image of a bloodless body with chunks of flesh bitten off. But my work shift is canceled as the library is also closed for the day, and I could use a change of scenery, so I tag along.
To everyone’s shock, campus security actually enforce the curfew that weekend. Even the party at my dorm gets broken up by the RA. A grim sense of dread settles over Camden. I see police cars circling our streets, their red-and-blue lights reflecting off my windows in the dead of night. But honestly, their presence comes off as nothing more than window dressing, a way for Camden to feel good about itself as the authorities fail to make any real progress in their investigation.
I still dream of Clay, but in these new dreams, his eyes are red instead of blue. It’s both Clay and not Clay at all. I can’t help but stare into them as they glow like two pools of liquid scarlet until it seems like there is nothing in the world but those eyes and an infinite, dark void. Called by their hypnotic pull, I tumble into them and keep sinking—endlessly and willingly—until the morning breaks my fall.