If Only She'd Loved Him

Chapter 6

Friday 12:15 am        

Later that night, Jean curled up under her covers, trying to lose herself in her book, but it was no use.  As the clock crept round midnight, she was wide awake.  Two hours later, when sleep still wouldn't come, she made up her mind.  If she hadn't heard from Megan by morning, she'd take action.

Morning came and went, as Jean, completely exhausted, slept past noon.  Images of red had seeped into her dreams all night.  Disconcerting and vague, they left her covered in sweat and wrung out like a rag.  Pulling herself from her covers, she stared at her face in the mirror.  Her hair was pasted to her scalp.  It stuck to her skin, making her wince as she plucked at it before heading to the shower.  Her thoughts had left a dark film across her eyes.  She felt afraid, kept spinning around in her own apartment as if someone was behind her.  Phantom eyes drilled into her skull as she came dripping out of the shower.  Toweling her hair dry, she checked Megan's room.  It was still empty.  The paranoid feelings in Jean consolidated, solidified to one thought: It wasn't herself she was worried about; it was Megan. 

The night Megan had gone missing kept replaying in her head.  Over and over, just as Jean was about to turn on the switch, a hand snapped down, stopping her from turning on the lights.  Jean sat down on her couch, tucking her legs underneath her, as she tried to take stock of what had happened that night.  It had been dramatic, and that reminded her of the assassination game she and Megan played with water pistols once a week, but there had been more to it than that. Drama was part of the Game, but violence wasn't, not real violence.  That was rule number one. 

Rule number two was just as simple: If your team lost, you paid for your failure with beer.   That thought reminded Jean that she still had to get the keg for this Saturday. Great, and my credit card is close to maxed out.  Megan, she grumbled, it was your idea to have this party in the first place, so where are you?  Getting off the sofa, she began to pace up and down her living room.  Where the heck are you, roomie?  And the big money question, who was here the other night?  Was it someone with the Game?

Wrist throbbing, feet moving, back and across, back and across her room, Jean kept thinking about that night.  The pain in her wrist wasn't real, but the feeling, the memory of being hit, was.   None of what had happened made any sense.  If someone from the opposing team had taken Megan, they should have held Jean at bay, or snatched her up too.  But everyone knew that Jean's team had lost, so why would they keep playing?

Jean gnawed on her lip, trying to concentrate.  Could somebody have beaten them home and gotten into their apartment, all without a key?  She and Megan were very careful not to leave their door unlocked.  Only Paul had a spare key, and he swore he wasn't there that night.  Of course he had lied before, and that giggle she had heard in the background when she had talked to Paul could have been Megan.  Her roommate was a definite gameplayer, prided herself on her ability to outwit people.  But it still didn't make sense.  Jean was Megan's best friend.  She wouldn't play games with me, would she?  Jean considered the possibility, but only for a moment.  No, she wouldn't.  I've known her for three years now, three college years, which are like dog years, they count seven times as much.  I trust my roomie.  Her mind made up, Jean reached for her cell phone. 

There was only one likely suspect from the Game last night: Curtis Whitfield.  His team had won, but you wouldn't have known it from the way he kept complaining.  So Megan had back-kicked him in the knee, big deal, thought Jean, we all get a little excited when we play.  Besides, they set us up.  If they hadn't taken our captain, we wouldn't have tried to rescue him, and then they wouldn't have been able to ambush us.  She bit her lip.  Thanks to Curtis's mastermind stroke, her team had been annihilated and the Game was over for the term.  At least the Game was supposed to be over.  She punched in his number and waited.

"Yeah?"

Is that really the way he answered a phone?  Miss Manners could teach him a thing or two, Jean thought to herself.  Out loud she said, "Hey Curtis, this is Jean."

"Yeah," he repeated sullenly, "what's up?"  Then he paused, suspicion surfacing in his voice.  Why would anyone from the losing team call him two days later.  He and Jean weren't friends.  In war you have no friends.  "What do you want?  I'm busy."

Jean cut straight to the chase,  "Look, I'm not going to screw around with you.  Megan's missing.  Have you seen her since the Game?"

"You mean since we crushed your team like dirt?  When your cheating roommate tried to put me in the hospital?  You should see what she did to my knee.  That kick was illegal.  Tell your friend to read the Game bylaws some time."

The way he was complaining, you would have thought Megan had broken his leg, not just tapped it with her foot.  Jean began to wonder more about Curtis.  He took the Game way too seriously.  She didn't think he owned any clothes that weren't made out of camo.

"Yeah," she responded dryly, "since then."

"No, I haven't seen Miss Kick-Boxer of the Year.  Why are you asking anyway?" he paused.  "Wait a minute, you're not trying to weasel out of the victory party, are you?"

"I'm not trying to weasel out of anything!" she snapped back.  "All I want to know is the truth."  There was a pause on the other end of the line.  Her hand tightened on the phone.  If he says you can't handle the truth, I swear I'm gonna ammo his camo.

Curtis refrained from the cliche.  "The truth?  What do you mean by that?  What's with you, Jean?" he demanded.  "What's got you so twisted up?"

She was tired of playing games.  "Megan hasn't been home for two nights now, and she hasn't called."

Whoa.  Jean might be the enemy, but she sounded really worried.  Roommate gone AWOL, losing the Game in a crushing defeat two nights ago, war really is hell, Curtis thought.  "Hey, I didn't know," he said.  "Look, if I see her, I'll tell her to to call you.  But I wouldn't get too upset about it.  She's probably just out getting supplies or something, and you should be too. Beerworld's got a special on Heineken this week."

"Heineken, hah, you'll get Iron City and like it," Jean replied, ending the call.  Mentally, she crossed Curtis off her list, not because of her conversation with him but because she'd just remembered his height.  He was taller than Jean, like the rest of the world, but only an inch or so taller than Megan.  Whoever Megan had gone with that night had towered over her. 

Jean sighed.  Maybe Curtis was right.  Maybe she should just go pick up some beer and try to relax.  She looked at her watch, 3:00 pm.  Megan had better get home soon, or else Jean was going to have to put together the party by herself.  She didn't want to have a party, but more than that she didn't want to be alone.  Picking up her coat and wallet, Jean left for the store.  However, as she approached her car, her eye was caught by something glittering on the sidewalk.  No, not glittering, it was darker than the cement.  That was what had caught her attention.  Kneeling down, she studied the marks on the ground.  Small flecks of charcoal red smeared the cement.  The marks brought back memories.  Images from her dreams the night before slipped into her head and wouldn't leave.  With just the tips of her fingers, Jean touched the red stains. They were dry to the touch, but as she stared at the drops of blood she felt far more worried about Megan then before.