"Uh, no thanks."

"No, Chris. If you're smart, you will walk down the hill with me and get in the car."

"So, what? School is open?"

Gus nods. "They don't have many snow days, and they've already used a couple. Half the school won't show up."

"Good to see how dedicated you are."

"I was in Florida all last week. That's my dedication."

"Where's your tan?"

"What are you talking about?" Gus says. "I'm a vampire. We don't like the sun." He laughs and then tells me to get my stuff together. Fast.

In a weird way, I get the feeling that he knows I'm by myself.

I recall the voice laughing underneath me in the middle of the night.

Maybe it was him.

22. Ichor Staunch??

I brace myself for this meeting with a man I know I've seen before. Yet when I look inside the Hummer, I wonder if my eyes are playing tricks the way everything else seems to be.

"Hello, Chris."

I know that voice I've heard that voice in the darkness.

Bold, bright eyes look at me in a way that Gus can't and will never be able to. He kind of looks like Gus, though.

"Why don't you have a seat?" the driver says as he pats the empty seat next to him. The SUV smells new.

This is Ichor Staunch?

The guy is wearing a blue dress shirt and a black sports coat. He doesn't have fangs and a Count Dracula cape.

"Come on, I'm freezing," he says.

I do what I'm told. I shut the door and figure that I couldn't run away from him if I tried. I buckle my seat belt in case we tragically veer off the side of the road after I grab the wheel in a brave act of stupidity.

Stop it, Chris.

The guy behind the wheel is not Gus's father. No way possible. Even though he sorta looks like him, there's no way. I saw Ichor Staunch that day I walked downstream, the day I spied on the lawn of their house.

You weren't sure that was his father. That could've been anybody.

"Late night last night?" the man says.

He's got graying brown hair that's still thick and combed to one side. He doesn't look like some evil businessman or dark Sith Lord or the Boogeyman. He looks like just another grown-up on his way to work.

"Gus, does this boy talk?"

The Southern accent is strong but seems to be held at bay, as if it could go off when necessary.

"Oh, he talks all right. Talks way too much if you ask me."

"It's impolite to not reply to people, Chris."

That voice belongs to the one I heard in the hole when I was abducted and shoved in the middle of the cabin. And it belongs to the voice that warned me about Jocelyn, the one that threatened me and my family after they took her.

"Sorry," I say.

"Ah, you can speak. That's good. I'd like to hear what you have to say."

I nod.

"So I've heard from Gus that you've had a difficult time adjusting to Harrington High."

"No."

"No, sir," he says.

"Excuse me?"

"No, sir."

I repeat his words. His order.

"I wanted to make sure that you realize that Gus is harmless. And Gus, you are harmless, right?"

"Right."

Gus sounds timid, like a little puppy. I glance back and see him sitting there in complete and utter obedience.

"Here's the thing about being me," Mr. Staunch says. "I've earned the right to bully people. Bullying doesn't have to stop when you become an adult. You know? But as for my son, he doesn't quite understand the logic and etiquette of bullying. You are the new student, so he sees you as fresh meat and thus decides to terrorize you. Most students would have backed off, but I get this feeling that you're not a 'back off' sort of guy."

"No. Sir." I emphasize sir in a way that I might spit out tobacco. My fear is settling in and turning over into something else.

It's the same man I heard that night of Jocelyn's death. I'm certain.

"Gus doesn't realize that you don't mess around with desperation. You can't. Eyes are watching him, and so far, he's been quite stupid, haven't you, boy?"

"Yes, sir," Gus says.

There.

The way he said boy.

That's it.

My skin itches with bumps, and I feel the back of my neck. It's wet with sweat.

"I still have a reputation to keep up. If Gus is out of line then that means I'm out of line, and I can't have that. But you, Chris, Christopher, whatever and whoever you claim to be-you need to understand that you can't wave a red flag at a bull. Do you understand?"

I glance at him and shake my head.

"My son-my wonderful if sometimes extremely arrogant and ignorant only son-is a bull. God bless him. I love that about him. He is so much his mother, though he will never know because she's no longer alive. But she was a bull, and he takes after her. And what do you not do with bulls?"

"Wave red flags at them?" I say.

"You don't taunt them in any way. You stay away from them."

"That's always been my plan."

"Keep it your plan, Chris. And you'll just make it to the end of the school year."

We're not far away from school. The roads are a little better closer to downtown Solitary, but not much.

Nothing else is said for the rest of the drive. The SUV pulls up to the stairs leading into the school, and Gus gets out without saying good-bye to his father. If it really is his father. I'm about ready to get out when I feel a strong grip on my wrist.

"Chris, hold on for a moment."

I wince even though I really try not to. I don't want to show fear or hurt or pain in front of this guy.

"Remember this, Chris. Remember my words. And remember that when I tell somebody something, I mean it. You do not want to mess with me."

I nod.

"I meant every word I said to you. You're on very shaky ground right now."

He lets go, and I take a breath as the world darkens a bit. It's hazy, and my head is dizzy.

"Have a wonderful day at school," he tells me with a salesman's smile. The phony smile of someone who wants to eat your soul.

23. Some Kind of Misery.

"Come on, Chicago! My grandmother can run faster than you, and she's dead!"

Good to know that the track coach is keeping with the Solitary theme of Abuse Chris at Whatever Cost.

I'm finishing up a two-mile jog on a track that is still icy and that rests on the other side of the hill that Harrington High sleeps on. This is the first football field I've ever seen with a line of bleachers dug into the incline. Right now it's loaded with crystal land mines, the kind that'll make you slip and break your neck-not that Coach Brinks seems to care anything about that.

That's one reason I'm at the back of the pack today. The other is that sleep deprivation does not help when you're running a timed two-mile for the first time in a long time. I never was good at long distances, and I told Ray that. Of course, he's leading this group of ten students, most who I've never met during my brief time in Solitary.

When I finally cross the finish line, the man standing there with a timer glares at me. He resembles a ruler, tall and thin and ready to whack you on the back of your butt.

"Chicago, get over here," he yells.

It's still cold, and I'm wondering why we're running outside.

"What do you run again?"

"The hurdles."

"That was not the most impressive two-mile I've ever seen."

"Sorry-I haven't been running much."

If you don't include running away from ghosts and evil people.

"Your time makes me wonder if you've ever run at all."

"I was avoiding the ice on the track."

Coach Brinks scoffs at my comment and looks me over. He's got the kind of expression that doesn't back down. It's not wild, but rather icy calm. Just like the ice on this track that will let you fall and crack your skull and lie bleeding.

"We've run in worse. Sure you're from Chicago? Maybe I oughta start calling you Miami."

I smile. If this is what track is going to be, then thanks but no thanks.

He gets the team to line up in the middle of the field for a pep talk.

"Look, people. We stunk it up here last year, and all I ask of each and every one of you is that you don't stink it up this year. Got it? Just give this your all. I'm not expecting any championships or any boom boom pow, but make things interesting at least. That's why we're here, Chicago. That's why we're practicing in this God-awful weather. Because we need as much help as we can get."

I scan the people around me. There's a really tall, skinny kid who looks like a freshman. A muscular girl. A boy and a girl hanging on to each other in a way that suggests they're a couple.

Now I can understand why Ray wanted me out here. There's nobody out here to begin with. When the coach divides us into short and long, Ray pulls me aside.

"Don't mind him. He's a great guy."

"I'm sure."

"He's a bit-crazy. You never know what he's thinking. And I'd like to say he'll warm up, but he won't. But that doesn't mean he's not a good coach."

"I don't know about this."