The Final Girl Support Group by Grady Hendrix

THE FINAL GIRL SUPPORT GROUP XIV:

The New Blood

I decide to keep it simple. I’ll just kidnap Stephanie Fugate.

The media spent a few days swarming all over the family, so it isn’t hard to find her address: a nice neighborhood in Santa Monica. I drive as slow as I can make myself go and park across the street. Her house has two stories, three bedrooms, a two-car garage, and lots of landscaping. She’s the older of two so she probably has the bigger bedroom over the garage. I’ll go through the bushes, get on the garage roof, and convince her to come outside. I’m not sure how I’ll do that exactly, but all I have to do is keep her safe for a few days. Our monsters get too worked up to drag things out for very long.

No muss, no fuss, my plan is foolproof because it’s simple. I’m an arrow firing straight into the future. All my decisions feel right.

I shove open the driver’s-side door, stand on the asphalt that’s still radiating the day’s heat, and before I can let the door swing shut a man says, “Tell me why you’re watching my house or I’m calling the police.”

He’s standing in the shadow of a palm tree across the street, wearing shorts and a worn oxford shirt, and he’s probably been watching me as long as I’ve been watching the house. He holds his phone in one hand and a leash in the other. At the end of the leash, a bow-legged Chihuahua glares at me.

I focused so hard on the house I forgot to check my immediate environment.

“The press has been ringing your doorbell all week,” I say, improvising, eyes on his hand, making sure his thumb’s not pressing connect. “Neighbors coming by, phone ringing nonstop. I bet you’ve already had a few people who lied to you about who they were. Those are her future stalkers and fanboys. I get why you’re upset.”

His fingers stab the phone three times, and then his thumb hovers over the screen again.

“I’m calling in three, two—”

I step forward, hand outstretched.

“Dr. Laura Newbury.” I smile. “I’m a therapist who works with young people like Stephanie. You may know my partner in our practice, Dr. Carol Elliott.”

His mouth drops open like a cartoon and he turns into another man, reaching for my hand with his phone hand, doing a doofy dad double take, sliding it into his pocket, grabbing my hand in his sweaty palm, and pumping my elbow up and down.

“You got our voicemails,” he says, face full of relief.

“Dr. Elliott couldn’t make it,” I improvise. “So she sent me.”

This will be harder, but better. I’ll convince the Fugates to let me take Stephanie somewhere safe, and they won’t send anyone looking for us because I’m Dr. Carol Elliott’s partner. It’ll let me drive a little slower, think a little clearer. I’ve just bought myself hours.

“You can’t imagine what they’ve been doing to her,” he says.

“Actually, I can.”

“Ken Fugate,” he says, still grinning at the surprise of it all. “My wife is going to be so relieved. I hope you don’t mind, but can I see some ID? To be safe.”

“Of course,” I say, and step back to slam the Caddy door closed, which gives me the privacy to reach into my fanny pack without him seeing the gun. I’ve got five different identities in here; it takes me a second to find the right one.

Alternate IDs got intensely illegal after 9/11, so I paid extra to get these shipped all the way from China inside a book. Offset printed, die cut, a magnetic strip on the back, and a bar code make them identical to state-issued ID. The only difference is my picture laser engraved on the front next to Dr. Newbury’s name.

“This license is expired,” Ken says.

“I keep meaning to get it renewed.”

“Two years ago.”

“I’ve been busy.”

The Chihuahua stares up at me, unblinking.

“You can call Dr. Elliott if you want,” I say. “I’ll give you her cell number. Tonight’s parent/teacher night at Pax’s school, though. That’s her son. But I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

The Chihuahua just stares. What is wrong with this thing?

“Come on inside,” Ken says, his celebrity crush overcoming his caution, turning toward his house. “I think all the media cleared out, but who knows. I’m sure the last thing you want is for anyone to know you’re here.”

“Absolutely,” I say, following him across the dark street.

I control my breathing, I stay calm, I walk the way a famous trauma therapist’s partner walks, confident and cool, like I have all the answers. I repeat my mantra over and over inside my head.

I am Dr. Newbury. I am Dr. Newbury. I am Dr. Newbury.

“Stephanie seems like herself,” he says over his shoulder. “But this must be crushing. To have it happen twice before she’s even sixteen? After the tennis thing she couldn’t sleep; she stopped playing and that was her life; she lost weight. Then she starts going to Red Lake and bang! Total one-eighty. Now this? We don’t know what to do for her.”

Instead of going in the front door, he pushes open a white gate and we go around the side of the house. It’s all windows. They don’t know what to do for Stephanie? Start by boarding up all these entry points, that’s what they should do. Harden their location. Act like there’s an actual emergency happening here.

He unlocks the kitchen door while the Chihuahua keeps staring at me, and I’m glad they’re at least locking doors. There’s weather stripping around the edges and it makes a sucking sound when he pushes hard and I follow him into the cool, expensive kitchen that smells like fresh lemons.

A woman with gray roots in her blond hair leans against the sink, watching us. She probably saw us coming through all these windows. She looks like the kind of woman who demands a lot of explanations.

“Cheryl,” Ken Fugate says. “You’ll never believe it.”

Cheryl scans my face as Ken unclips the leash from the Chihuahua’s harness. The stove is huge, and its burners look like they could scorch a human face; the knife block next to Cheryl is full of German steel, and there’s a meat tenderizer that could crack a skull on the butcher-block kitchen island. So many ways she could hurt me, all within her reach.

“Who’s this?” she asks.

“It’s Dr. Elliott’s partner,” Ken says as the Chihuahua clicks away into the house.

We all stare at each other for a moment, and then I put my hand out.

“Dr. Newbury,” I say. “Carol and I are going to make sure Stephanie gets through this.”

Cheryl launches herself at me, chin twisting to one side, forehead going up, eyes turning red, and she presses her body to mine, hands on my shoulder blades, hair blocking my sightlines. I try to hug her back, the way an award-winning therapist’s partner would, as she presses herself to me, rendering my arms useless, holding me in place.

I am Dr. Newbury. I am Dr. Newbury. I am Dr. Newbury.

“Thank you,” she whispers. “Thank you so much.”

“Should we talk in the living room?” Ken suggests.

As we walk through the big white house with too many windows, I check out the locks on their front door (one deadbolt, one chain), see a recently installed alarm panel, and notice every single light is on, keeping out the dusk.

“I’ve got all Dr. Elliot’s books,” Cheryl says, going to a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, and I see her hand floating over the shelves, and there they are. She even has the first one, before Dr. Carol learned about the marketability of a punchy title, A Therapist’s Guide to Trauma. Cheryl’s fingers stiffen, and she homes in on it.

“Time is of the essence for Stephanie,” I say like I’m worth listening to, sitting on their white sofa with all the purpose of a doctor who cares about saving lives.

I have to put my back to the empty living room because they’re standing by the other sofa. All that open space behind me makes my skin crawl.

Ken and Cheryl sit next to each other, Cheryl poker-up-the-ass straight, Ken resting his elbows on his knees. The low Scandinavian coffee table between us holds a silver crane with a beak sharp enough to stab out an eye and a series of glass orbs heavy enough to smash someone’s teeth.

“I can’t believe you came,” Cheryl says. “I mean, you’re not Dr. Elliott, but still, she wouldn’t work with you if you weren’t someone. Have you published any books? I assume when you’re here it’s like she’s here, isn’t it? Is she coming later? Not that I’m not sure you’re a wonderful therapist in your own right.”

“Honey,” Ken says, putting a hand on her knee. “Let Dr. Newbury talk.”

“Sorry,” she says, flashing me a skull’s hard smile. “It’s been a difficult week.”

We wait while she finds a Kleenex and touches it to the corners of her eyes, then blows her nose.

“We get hundreds of calls each week,” I say, which sounds like something Dr. Carol, who treats so many patients with so much care, would say. “But Stephanie falls into a very special category of trauma victim, which is why I’m here.”

“She’ll be okay?” Cheryl asks in a very small voice.

“No,” I tell her. I refuse to lie about this, even while pretending to be someone else. “That’s not possible.”

“What?” Cheryl’s face collapses.

“Keeping her safe is the best we can do,” I say, not sounding like Dr. Carol at all.

“Exactly,” Ken says, rubbing Cheryl’s hand. “Once she’s safe, the hard work can begin.”

“I need you to understand that Stephanie is what the media refer to as a final girl,” I say.

Cheryl’s eyebrows meet in the middle.

“No, she’s not.”

“Denial won’t help Stephanie,” I say.

“No,” Cheryl says, standing up. “I’d like to hear Dr. Elliott’s opinion. Can we speak to her? I want to know what she thinks. I’m sure you’re a fine therapist, but she is who we called.”

These two are really starting to frustrate me.

“Cheryl,” I say, speaking loudly and assertively. “There are things happening you don’t know, and they relate directly to Stephanie’s safety.”

“What?” Ken asks, reaching for Cheryl’s hand without looking. She sits back down and unconsciously they lean into each other.

“A week ago, someone began targeting final girls in the Los Angeles area,” I say.

“Some of them live here?” Cheryl interrupts.

“All of them,” I say. “Obviously you’re familiar with Adrienne Butler, but the day after she was killed, someone attacked Julia Campbell and Lynnette Tarkington.”

“Who’s Lynnette Tarkington?” Cheryl asks.

Is she kidding?

“A final girl.”

“Do you remember that one?” Cheryl asks Ken.

“It’s not important,” I say, annoyed at their lack of focus. “What is important is that Stephanie is in danger.”

“An officer drives by the house every three hours,” Ken says. “We thought about hiring a private security outfit but our neighbors already hate us without strangers tromping through their yards. Do you think we should go ahead and pull the trigger?”

“The police, private security, they’re useless,” I say. “When one of these monsters comes after a final girl, nothing can stop him.”

“But Christophe Volker is dead,” Cheryl says.

“Volker is irrelevant,” I say. “This goes beyond Volker. The danger is very real, and it’s very immediate.”

Something click-click-clicks on the hardwood floor and the Chihuahua prances into the room on its tiptoes.

“Come here, Gordon,” Cheryl says, scooping him up. He sits on her lap and starts staring at me, again. Jesus Christ.

I really want to look over my shoulder. I don’t like having this big empty room at my back, I don’t like having this tiny dog’s eyes boring into me, but a famous therapist’s partner wouldn’t look over her shoulder. Famous therapists and their partners aren’t scared of tiny dogs.

“When’s the last time you saw Steph?” Ken asks his wife, and before she can answer he’s standing in the hall, calling up the stairs. “Stephanie, can you come down here a minute? Stephie?”

He turns to us, shrugging.

“I just feel more comfortable when I can see her,” he says.

Cheryl and the Chihuahua stare at me while a door opens upstairs and Stephanie comes slouching down, holding onto the banister, then pads into the room.

She doesn’t check her sightlines, she doesn’t look behind the door, she’s got no shoes on if she needs to run. Her face is soft with baby fat, her skin is so pale it hurts my eyes, and she’s gotten her braces removed and dyed her hair as black as her lipstick. Black T-shirt, black jeans, she’s a tiny dark star in the middle of this clean, white, contemporary living room.

“Hey,” Stephanie says, and then her mouth opens in the same O of surprise her father’s face made outside. “Oh my God, you’re—”

I see her tongue hit the back of her top teeth to make an L and I stand up and launch myself at her, reaching around her back, slamming into her chest, dragging her against my body, pressing her to me, just like her mom.

“You’re safe now, Stephanie,” I say. “I’m Dr. Newbury. I work with Dr. Carol Elliott. I’ve come to talk to your parents about your safety.”

She pulls back.

“Why?” she asks. “What happened?”

“Nothing, sweetie,” Ken says, putting one big, calming dad hand on her shoulder. “You’re absolutely one hundred percent safe here.”

“Your father is trying to reassure you,” I say, making eye contact, my hand on her other shoulder. “In reality, you could be murdered at any moment by a deranged lunatic who’s killing final girls.”

“I’m a final girl?” she says in a high voice.

“You’re not a final girl,” her mother says.

“Yes,” I say. “You are a final girl.”

Stephanie walks slowly to the sofa where I sat and sinks down.

“Someone else wants to kill me?” she asks, shrinking into herself. “Why? What did I do?”

Her mother and father start talking immediately, filling the room with reassuring noises, comforting sounds, saying things that aren’t true to make her lower her guard. I sit next to her. I meet her eyes. I speak only to her.

“That’s how your life is now,” I say. “That’s who you are. It didn’t happen for a reason, you haven’t earned it, you don’t deserve it, but you need to handle it or you’re going to die.”

“Look,” Ken says, cutting through Cheryl’s noise. “I don’t care for you traumatizing our daughter like this. It’s not productive.”

“You know what’s not productive, Ken?” I ask, not taking my eyes off Stephanie. “Getting your daughter murdered because you didn’t take this threat seriously enough even though one of the number one trauma therapists in the world is sitting right here warning you.”

“What’s Dr. Elliott’s cell number?” Ken asks.

“We need to focus on Stephanie,” I say. “I can keep her safe if you will let her go with me for the next three days. I can guarantee she will survive.”

Cheryl hugs her Chihuahua to her with both hands.

“Where will you take her?” Ken asks.

“I can’t tell you,” I say confidently. “But—”

The doorbell rings.

“To be continued,” Ken says, walking past me into the hall.

The front door opens and a voice says:

“I’m sorry to bother you so late, but I’m Dr. Carol Elliott, and I’m concerned your daughter might be in danger from one of my patients.”

“Honey?” Ken calls from the hall, and she practically bolts past me, leaving the Chihuahua behind.

“Stephanie—” I start, looking into her eyes.

“You’re Lynnette Tarkington,” Stephanie says, and she almost cracks up.

“You need to trust me,” I say, fast and urgent. “That woman out there wants you dead. I want to keep you safe.”

“What?” she asks.

I hear urgent discussion in the hall. I can’t make out the words, but any second they’re going to come back into the living room.

“We’re final girls,” I say. “We understand each other. If you want to survive the next three days, come with me right now.”

I get up and walk into the hall leading to the back of the house. My heart opens like a flower when I feel Stephanie fall into step behind me.

“Lynnette?!” I hear Dr. Carol shout behind us.

I think about reversing course, running at her fast, unzipping my fanny pack, pressing my gun to her forehead and squeezing the trigger three times, but then I’ll go to prison and she can’t be working alone and there will be no way to protect Stephanie from her partners.

“Hey!” Ken shouts.

“Stop!” Dr. Carol cries.

“Stephanie!” Cheryl yells, voice cracked with hysteria.

I reach back, grab Stephanie’s wrist, and yank her after me. We crash through the kitchen, out the sucking side door, around the side of the house. Stupidly they follow us rather than cutting us off in the front yard. I hear Stephanie’s bare feet meat-slapping the walkway behind me, quieter as we cross the grass, then louder again as we pound across the asphalt to Garrett’s Caddy.

I open the driver’s-side door, shove Stephanie across the bench seat, and then I’m sliding in, stabbing the key into the ignition, twisting. The big tank rumbles to life just as Dr. Carol runs across their front yard. She’s wearing a white blouse. She stopped and did her hair and makeup. That’s how confident she is. She didn’t count on me getting to Stephanie first.

“Is that—?” Stephanie begins as I hit the gas and the big car surges forward.

I twist the wheel to swerve around Dr. Carol.

“It’s the woman who’s trying to kill us,” I say. “One of them. There are more. A lot more. Sit on the floor and stay out of sight. I’ve got to do some tactical thinking. Once we’re out of L.A., I’ll tell you what’s happening.”

She slides to the floor without protest and shuts down. Good girl. Smart girl. Final girl.