Cal grabbed his bag and started around the house. Already, he could feel the panic gripping him. He fought it off, repeating to himself, over and over again, She"s already dead. I She"s already dead. I can"t hurt her. I can"t hurt her. I can"t do anything to her. She"s already can"t do anything to her. She"s already dead dead. As As he drove the words into his consciousness, the panic began to subside. he drove the words into his consciousness, the panic began to subside.
The path, very much like the one on his own property, was steep and rough, making several switchbacks as it wound down to the beach. Half running, half sliding, Cal made his way down the trail, his mind involuntarily summoning up another afternoon, only five weeks ago, when he had also run down a path to the beach.
Today he wouldn"t make the same mistakes he had made then.
Today, he would do what had to be done, and do it right.
Except that today, there was nothing to be done.
He reached the beach, and finally was able to increase his pace to a run. When he"d covered fifty yards, he saw her, ahead of him, lying still.
Knowing there was no use in hurrying, he slowed to a trot, then walked the last few steps.
Susan Peterson, her neck broken, her head twisted around in a violently unnatural angle, stared blindly up at the sky, her eyes open, an expression of terror still contorting her features. Her arms and legs, spread limply around her, looked grotesque in their uselessness. The incoming tide was lapping hungrily at her, as if the sea were eager to devour the strange piece of wreckage that had only a little while ago been a twelve-year-old child.
Cal knelt beside her, and picked up her wrist, pressed his stethoscope to her chest. It was a useless exercise, merely verifying what he already knew.
He was about to pick her up when something stopped him. His muscles froze, refusing to obey the commands his brain was sending them. He stood up slowly, his eyes fixed on Susan"s face, but his mind seeing Mich.e.l.le"s.
I can"t move her, he thought. If I move her, I could hurt her If I move her, I could hurt her.
The thought was irrational, and Cal knew it was irrational. And yet, as he stood on the beach, alone with the remains of Susan Peterson, he couldn"t bring himself to pick her up, to carry her up the trail as he had carried his own daughter so short a time ago. His mind numb with shame, Cal started back up the beach, leaving Susan alone with the flowing tide.
"She"s dead."
Cal uttered the words in a matter-of-fact tone, the sort of voice he might have used to announce the death of a cat to an owner who had brought the animal to him for destruction.
"Dear G.o.d," Constance Benson muttered, sinking into a chair in her living room. "Who"s going to tell Estelle?"
"I will," was Josiah Carson"s automatic response, though his eyes were fixed on Cal. "You didn"t bring her up?"
"I thought we"d better wait for the ambulance," he lied, knowing he wasn"t fooling the old doctor. "Her neck"s broken and it looks like a few other things are, too." His attention shifted to Constance Benson. "What happened? Josiah said she ran off the bluff." He stumbled a little on the word ran, as if he still found it difficult to believe such a thing could have happened.
Constance did not answer. Instead, she looked to Josiah Carson, who nodded his head slightly. "I think you"d better tell him," he said. Cal felt a twinge of fear go through him, and knew before Mrs. Benson began that there was going to be something more to the story, something terrible. Even so, he wasn"t prepared for what he heard.
"I was at the sink, paring some apples," Constance Benson said. She kept her eyes fixed on a spot on the floor, as if to look at either of the doctors would make it impossible for her to repeat the story. "I was sort of looking out the window, the way you do, and I saw Susan Peterson in the graveyard. I don"t know what she was doing-I"ve told Estelle she should keep Susan away from there, just like I told your wife she should keep Mich.e.l.le away, but I guess they just don"t listen to me. Well, maybe now they will.
"Anyway, I was sort of half watching my apples, and half watching Susan, not really paying much attention. Then all of a sudden Mich.e.l.le came down the road. Susan must have said something to her, because she stopped, and sort of stared at Susan."
"What did she say?" Cal asked. For the first time since she had begun her recitation, Constance glanced up from the floor.
"I couldn"t hear. The window was closed, and it"s quite a distance to the cemetery. But they were talking, all right, and Susan must have wanted to show Mich.e.l.le something, because Mich.e.l.le started to go into the graveyard. Climbed right over the fence, the weeds almost tripping her-how she did it with that limp of hers is beyond me, but she did. Susan waited for her, at least that"s what it looked like. Except for what happened next. That"s the part I can"t understand at all."
She paused, shaking her head, as if she were trying to fit the pieces of a puzzle together, and they just wouldn"t go.
"Well, what happened?" Cal urged her.
"It was the darnedest thing," Constance mused. Then she fixed a cold eye on Cal. "Mich.e.l.le must have said something to Susan. I couldn"t hear it, of course, but whatever it was, it must have been something pretty awful. Because all of a sudden Susan got a look on her face such as I hope I never see again. Fear, that"s what it was. Plain old outright fear."
A picture of Susan flashed across Cal"s memory. The look Constance Benson had described tallied exactly with the expression Cal had seen on the dead child"s face.
"And then she took off running," he heard Mrs. Benson saying. "Just took off, like she was being chased by the devil himself. She ran right over the edge of the bluff."
The last words were whispered, barely audible, but they hung in the living room, chilling the atmosphere.
"She ran off the edge of the bluff?" Cal repeated dully, as if he couldn"t believe his ears. "Was she watching where she was going? She couldn"t have been."
"She was. She was looking straight ahead, but she didn"t even pause."
"My G.o.d," Cal said, his eyes closing in a futile effort to blot out the image he was seeing. Then he remembered that his own daughter had also seen what had happened. He opened his eyes again. Almost apprehensively, he faced Constance Benson.
"And what about Mich.e.l.le? What did she do?"
Constance Benson"s face hardened, and she glared at him coldly. "Nothing," she said, spitting the word at him.
"What do you mean, nothing?" Cal asked, ignoring her tone. "She must have done something." something."
"She just stood there. She just stood there, like she didn"t even see what happened. And then, when Susan screamed, she waited a minute, then started walking home."
Cal stood rooted to the floor, unable to move, unable to absorb what the woman was saying. "I don"t believe it," he said finally.
"You can believe it or not, as you see fit," Constance Benson said. "But it"s G.o.d"s own truth, and that"s that. She acted like nothing had happened at all."
Cal turned to Josiah Carson, as if to appeal to him, but Josiah was lost in thought As Cal spoke his name, he came back to reality. He reached out and squeezed Cal"s arm, but when he spoke, his voice was strange, as if he was thinking about something else. "Maybe you"d better go on home," he said. "I can take care of things here. You"d better go see if Mich.e.l.le is all right. She could be in shock, you know."
Cal nodded mutely and started out of the room. He paused a moment, turned back as if to say something. At the chilly expression on Constance Benson"s face, he seemed to change his mind. Then he was gone.
Josiah Carson and Constance Benson waited in silence until the ambulance had arrived. Then, as Carson was about to take his leave, Constance suddenly spoke.
"I don"t like that man," she said.
"Now, Constance, you don"t even know him."
"And I don"t want to. I think he made a mistake, bringing his family out here." She fixed Carson with a look that was very nearly belligerent "And I don"t think you did him any favor either, selling him that house. You should have torn that place down years ago."
Now Carson"s own expression hardened. "You"re being silly, Constance, and you know it. That house didn"t have anything to do with what"s happened out here."
"Didn"t it?" Constance turned away from Josiah and went to the window, where she stood staring out across the cemetery. In the distance, etched against the sky, were the ornate, Victorian lines of the Pendleton house.
"Don"t see how they can live there," Constance muttered. "Even you couldn"t live there, after Alan Hanley. It doesn"t make sense. If I were June Pendleton, I"d pack up my clothes, take my baby, and get out while I still could."
"Well, I"m sorry you feel that way," Josiah said stiffly. "I happen to think you"re wrong, and I"m glad the Pendletons are here. And I hope they"ll stay, in spite of what"s happened. Now I"d better go see Estelle and Henry Peterson." As he left her house, without saying good-bye, she was still standing at her window, staring into the distance, keeping her own counsel.
Cal ran up the steps onto the front porch, opened the door, then slammed it behind him.
"Cal? Is that you?" June"s voice from the living room sounded startled, but not as startled as Cal felt when he found her calmly sitting in a chair, working on a piece of needlepoint.
"My G.o.d," he swore. "What are you doing? How can you just sit there? Where"s Mich.e.l.le?"
June gaped at him, surprised by his strangled tone.
"I"m doing needlework," she said uncertainly. "And why shouldn"t I be sitting here? Mich.e.l.le"s upstairs in her room."
"I don"t believe it," Cal said.
"What don"t you believe? Cal, what"s going on?"
Cal sank into a chair, trying to put his thoughts in order. Suddenly nothing made any sense.
"When did Mich.e.l.le come home?" he asked at last. "About forty-five minutes ago, maybe an hour." June set her needlepoint aside. "Cal, has something happened?"
"I can"t believe it," Cal muttered. "I just can"t believe it"
"Can"t believe what?" what?" June demanded. "Will you please tell me?" June demanded. "Will you please tell me?"
"Didn"t Mich.e.l.le tell you what happened today?"
"She didn"t say much of anything," June replied. "She came in, had a gla.s.s of milk, said school went "okay"-which I"m not sure I believe-then went upstairs."
"Jesus!" It was crazy, like a nightmare. "Mich.e.l.le must have said something. She must must have!" have!"
"Cal, if you don"t tell me what"s going on, I"m going to start screaming!"
"Susan Peterson is dead!"
For a moment, June simply stared at him, as if the words had no meaning. When she finally spoke, her voice was a whisper.
"What do you mean?"
"Just what I said. Susan Peterson is dead, and Mich.e.l.le saw it happen. She really really didn"t tell you?" As best he could, Cal recounted exactly what had happened at the Bensons," and what Constance Benson had told him. didn"t tell you?" As best he could, Cal recounted exactly what had happened at the Bensons," and what Constance Benson had told him.
As June listened, she felt an edge of fear begin to grow in her, sharpening with each word. By the time Cal was finished, it was all June could do to keep from shaking. Susan Peterson couldn"t be dead, and Mich.e.l.le couldn"t have seen anything. If she had, she would have said something. Of course she would have.
"And Mich.e.l.le really didn"t say anything when she came home this afternoon?"
"Nothing," June said. "Not a word. It"s-it"s unbelievable."
"That"s what I keep telling myself." Cal got to his feet. "I"d better go up and have a talk with her. She can"t just pretend nothing happened."
He started out of the room. June rose to follow him.
"I"d better go with you. She must be horribly upset."
They found Mich.e.l.le lying on her bed, a book propped on her chest, her doll tucked in the crook of her left arm. As her parents appeared at the door, she looked up at them curiously.
Cal came directly to the point. "Mich.e.l.le, I think you"d better tell us what happened this afternoon."
Mich.e.l.le frowned slightly, then shrugged. "This afternoon? Nothing happened. I just came home."
"Didn"t you stop at the graveyard? Didn"t you talk to Susan Peterson?"
"Only for a minute," Mich.e.l.le said. Her expression told June that she clearly didn"t think it was worth talking about. When Cal began to demand the details of their conversation, June interrupted him.
"You didn"t tell me you"d seen Susan," she said carefully, trying not to betray anything. For some reason, it seemed important to hear Mich.e.l.le"s version of the story from Mich.e.l.le"s point of view, rather than in response to Cal"s impatient questioning.
"I only saw her for a minute or two," Mich.e.l.le said. "She was messing around in the cemetery, and when I asked her what she was doing, she started teasing me. She-she called me a cripple, and said I "gimped.""
"And what did you do?" June asked gently. She settled herself on the bed and took Mich.e.l.le"s hand in her own, squeezing it rea.s.suringly.
"Nothing. I started to go into the graveyard, but then Susan ran away."
"She ran away? Where to?"
"I don"t know. She just disappeared into the fog."
June"s eyes flicked to the window. The sun, as it had all day, was glistening on the sea. "Fog? But there hasn"t been any fog today."
Mich.e.l.le looked at her mother in puzzlement, then shifted her gaze to her father. He seemed to be angry with her. But what had she done? She couldn"t understand what they wanted of her. She shrugged helplessly. "All I know is that when I was in the cemetery, the fog suddenly came in. It was really thick, and I couldn"t see much of anything. And when Susan ran away, she just disappeared into the fog."
"Did you hear anything?" June asked.
Mich.e.l.le thought a moment, then nodded. "There was something-sort of a scream. I guess Susan must have tripped or something."
My G.o.d, June thought. She doesn"t know She doesn"t know. She doesn"t even know what happened She doesn"t even know what happened.
"I see," she said slowly. "And after you heard Susan scream, what did you do?"
"Do? I-I came home."
"But, darling," June said. "If the fog was so thick, how could you find your way home?"
Mich.e.l.le smiled at her. "It was easy," she said. "Mandy led me. The fog doesn"t bother Mandy at all."
It was only by the sheer force of her will that June kept from screaming.
CHAPTER 18.
Supper that evening was nearly intolerable for June. Mich.e.l.le sat placidly, apparently unbothered by what had happened that afternoon. Cal"s silence, a silence that had begun as Mich.e.l.le told them what had happened that afternoon, hung over the table like a shroud. Throughout the meal, June"s eyes flicked from her husband to her elder daughter, constantly wary, constantly vigilant, on the watch for something-anything-that would lend the atmosphere a hint of normality.
And that, she realized as she cleared the table when the meal was finally over, was the problem-the situation appeared too too normal, and it seemed as though she was the only person aware that it was not. As she stacked the dishes in the sink, she found herself beginning to question her own sanity. Twice, she started to leave the kitchen, and stopped herself. Finally, the tension was too much to bear. normal, and it seemed as though she was the only person aware that it was not. As she stacked the dishes in the sink, she found herself beginning to question her own sanity. Twice, she started to leave the kitchen, and stopped herself. Finally, the tension was too much to bear.
"I think we have to talk," she said to Cal, coming into the living room. Mich.e.l.le was nowhere to be seen: June a.s.sumed she was in her room. Cal was holding Jennifer in his lap, bouncing her gently and talking to her. As June spoke, he looked up from the baby and regarded his wife cautiously.