Second Child Part 25

Cora pursed her lips. "Pick her up?" she repeated. "Well, you're a little late, aren't you?"

Jeff felt a flush of heat in his face and hoped it didn't show in the light on the porch. "I-It took me longer to get ready than I thought," he said. "Then I had to get the car from Brett."

Cora's eyes moved to the Porsche. "Since when are you old enough to drive?" she asked.

"I have a learner's permit," Jeff told her. "Besides, all the kids drive around here. The cops don't care."

Cora's brows rose. "Maybe they don't, if they don't catch you," she retorted. "Anyway, I guess it don't matter, since Melissa's gone."

"Gone? What do you mean?"

"She left maybe five or ten minutes ago. All dressed up in her costume." She eyed Jeff suspiciously. "She didn't act like she was expecting to be picked up."

Jeff swallowed nervously, wondering if he should try to catch up with her. If she got to the club and he wasn't with her...

But it was all right. When he'd left his house, his mother's party had still been going, and people had just started leaving for the club. He still had time to get the car back and then go find Melissa.

"Which way did she go?" he asked.

Cora shrugged. "How should I know? I s'pose she was taking the trail. I don't think she'd want to go on the beach and risk getting her dress all dirty."

"Okay," Jeff said, starting back down the steps. "I'll find her."

Leaving the door open, Cora stepped out on the porch. "Well, you get rid of the car first. I don't want my girl running around in a car with anybody that doesn't know how to drive."

"I know how," Jeff called back, sliding once more behind the wheel of the Porsche. He put the little car in gear, let the clutch out, and slowly went on around the circular drive until he was back to the driveway itself. Then, just to show off, he hit the gas pedal hard, and a satisfying rain of gravel shot up from the car's rear. Laughing as Cora shook her fist at him, he raced up the driveway toward the main road.

Melissa, eyes wide and unblinking, moved along the trail, her skirt raised so she wouldn't get the hem of her dress dirty. The strange feelings that had begun to come over her when she'd first put on the dress-then grown stronger as Teri began to change her face with the makeup-held her firmly in their grasp now.

She wasn't Melissa at all anymore. She'd sent Melissa to sleep somewhere deep inside her, and it was D'Arcy who was now on her way to the dance.

Everything looked strange to her. She'd barely recognized Cora, and when she'd gone through the kitchen, it appeared different, too. It had looked older than she'd remembered it, and the icebox had disappeared. There was something new in its place-a big white box, made out of metal. And the lights in the kitchen had been brighter, too.

She'd been glad to get out of the house and into the more familiar darkness outside, and she'd started for the trail through the woods immediately. In the woods everything was the same as she remembered it. The path felt soft and spongy beneath her feet, and the twists and turns were the same as they'd always been.

But then, through the trees, she got a glimpse of the Cove Club. Like the kitchen in the house a few minutes ago, its lights were brighter than she remembered-almost as bright as day.

She moved on, and a few minutes later came to a bend in the trail she didn't recognize. The trail had a new fork, and above her was the road. She gazed uncertainly at the other fork for a moment, but had no idea where it might lead. But if she went up to the road, the club was no more than a three-minute walk away.

Jeff slowed the car down, steering into the last curve before the short straightaway leading to the coast road. Suddenly, in the glow of the headlights, a figure clad in white appeared along the side of the road. For a split second the memory of the story of D'Arcy leaped into his mind, but then he realized it had to be Melissa, on her way to the club.

He slowed the car, expecting her to turn around any second, but when she didn't, an idea came into his head. If he killed the lights and crept up on her, then blasted the horn...

He reached down and turned off the headlights, then slowed the car even further, until the idling engine was almost silent. Finally, when he was no more than ten feet behind the pale figure by the side of the road, he blasted the horn, and as the figure jumped and spun around to face him, switched the lights back on.

And gaped.

It wasn't Melissa at all.

Instead, he saw a ghostly face staring at him, a face framed with straight blond hair hanging almost to her waist.

The memory of the ghost story flooded back to him once again, and without thinking, Jeff jammed his foot to the floorboard and the powerful engine roared back to life. The car leaped forward, its wheels screaming against the pavement. Jeff's eyes left the road ahead to stare into the rearview mirror.

The grotesque figure in white still stood by the side of the road, staring at him.

His eyes flicked away from the image in the mirror and then widened in horror as he saw the safety rail of the coast road looming ahead of him, no more than twenty yards away.

A scream of terror building in his throat, his foot left the accelerator and smashed down on the brake pedal. The tires screamed once more as the wheels locked under the force of the brakes, and the car sloughed around, all its traction gone.

A moment later the Porsche slammed into the metal guardrail.

The force of the blow ripped the rail loose from the concrete pilings to which it was attached.

The car shot out over the edge of the cliff, seemed to Jeff to hover there for a single agonizing second, then dropped downward.

It turned as it fell, and for a moment Jeff stared straight down at the rocks that seemed to be rus.h.i.+ng up at him. And then the car struck the rocks, and Jeff felt the winds.h.i.+eld explode into his face....

Melissa, snapped awake by the blare of the Porsche's horn, stared at the car as it shot through the barrier and disappeared over the cliff. For a moment she was stunned, uncertain of where she was or how she had gotten there.

The last thing she really remembered was being in her room, putting on the wig and staring at herself in the mirror.

Staring at the image that hadn't quite been her own.

But now, as she began to come fully awake once more, she knew whose image it was she'd seen.

It had been D'Arcy's image.

Tonight, as she put on the dress, the makeup, and the wig, D'Arcy had come to her, unbidden.

D'Arcy had come to her, and sent her to sleep.

She gazed numbly at the twisted wreckage of the barrier and tried to remember what had happened.

But there was nothing there. Only the memory of the noise that had awakened her, and the image of the car racing away from her.

A black car.

A black car like Brett Van Arsdale's.

Gasping, she pulled up her skirt and ran the forty or so yards to the coast road. She darted across, and stared down into the darkness below. On the rocks, just out of reach of the pounding surf, she could barely make out the wreckage of the car.

A scream welled up in her throat and she turned away, rus.h.i.+ng toward the bright lights of the Cove Club.

CHAPTER 20.

Phyllis paused by the swimming pool, gazing up at the brilliantly lit clubhouse on the promontory above. She'd hated leaving the Barnstables' party early, but in the end hadn't been able to resist her urge to get to the dance itself and make certain all her careful plans had worked out. Now, with the strains of music drifting out the open windows to fill the warm summer evening with a gentle melody, she began to relax. At least the orchestra had arrived, and she could see a few costumed figures already moving around the dance floor. "Look," she said to Charles, slipping her hand through his arm. "See the j.a.panese lanterns? I had them put on every single bulb on the chandeliers. And look at the light."

Charles's gaze followed his wife's and he smiled, partly at the rainbow of color that danced on the dining room's white ceiling, and partly at his wife's pleasure at the effect she had created. So far, at least, it appeared the party was going to be a success. "There's no point in just standing here," he said, taking a step forward. "Let's go inside." He led Phyllis up the steps from the terrace, but suddenly felt her fingers tighten on his arm. He glanced at her questioningly.

"I keep having a funny feeling," she said, hesitating once more on the front steps of the clubhouse itself. "I have this awful feeling that something is going to go wrong."

Charles chuckled. "Of course you do," he said. "But it's just nerves. And besides, even if something isn't perfect, there's not much you can do about it now. And whatever happens, it can't be as bad as the year Eleanor Stevens was chairman."

Phyllis groaned. "Don't remind me."

"Of course I'm going to remind you," Charles replied, his chuckle growing into a booming laugh. "What could be worse than having the whole refreshment table collapse? Especially when the whole staff had warned you it was going to happen? Eleanor didn't have anyone to blame but herself, and I have to say the look on her face was worth the mess it made."

Almost in spite of herself, Phyllis found herself laughing, too. She could still see Eleanor staring at the wreckage, then looking around for someone else to blame. But everywhere she looked, people seemed only to be gaping at each other's ruined costumes, and then, out of the silence that had fallen over the room, Eleanor's husband had finally spoken: "Is this your idea of cras.h.i.+ng a party, dear?"

Eleanor, speechless for probably the first time in her life, had fled the room and not been seen for a week.

"You're right," Phyllis conceded. "Nothing could be worse than that." With Charles beside her, she walked up the steps and into the clubhouse, handing her wrap to the coat-check girl. At last, feeling a final thrill of antic.i.p.ation, she stepped through the doors into the ballroom.

Her eyes swept the room quickly, checking the decorations. Around the perimeter a series of tables had been set up, each of which held a perfect centerpiece of roses nested in Queen Anne's lace surrounding three tall candles. Along the wall to her right were the tables of hors d'oeuvres, and even as she watched, a waiter expertly combined two half-filled plates of shrimp and replaced the empty one with a full one from the kitchen. Farther along was the bar, with another one serving only soft drinks opposite it. Outside on the terrace overlooking the sea there was another bar.

The room was already half filled, and Phyllis smiled as she watched the collection of costumed figures drift across the floor. There were angels and devils, three rabbits, several hoboes, and even a scarecrow, who, as Phyllis watched, lost a sheaf of straw from his left pant leg. In the center of the room, dancing with Brett Van Arsdale, she saw Teri, and once more her fingers tightened on Charles's arm. "There she is," she whispered. "I told you she'd be the most beautiful girl in the room."

And indeed, as Charles watched his eldest daughter move gracefully to the rhythm of the slow waltz the band was playing, Phyllis was right. The pink dress that only a few hours ago had looked tired and worn-out now glittered brilliantly, the rhinestones covering the tulle catching every ray of light the chandeliers emitted, refracting them into a rainbow that seemed to s.h.i.+mmer around Teri, dancing attendance on her as she spun across the room.

Suddenly spying her father and stepmother, Teri stopped dancing and hurried across the floor, her eyes sparkling almost as brightly as her dress. "Isn't it all beautiful, Daddy?" she asked. "Aren't you proud of Phyllis?"

Charles's smile broadened. "But none of it is as beautiful as you," he replied, his eyes scanning the room once more. "Where's your sister? I don't know how much longer I can wait for the big surprise."

Teri's eyes lost some of their sparkle. "Sh-She isn't here yet," she stammered.

Phyllis's smile faded away. "But didn't Jeff come to pick her up with Brett?"

Teri's mind raced. If Phyllis didn't know that Jeff had tried to stand Melissa up..."He did," she said, nothing in her voice betraying the lie. "But Melissa wasn't ready. So we came ahead, and Jeff took Brett's car back to get her."

"Jeff?" Charles said, frowning. "But he's not old enough to drive."

Teri composed her features into a mask of concern. "He isn't? I just-if I'd known-"

"But you didn't," Phyllis a.s.sured her. "And I'm sure it'll be all right. It's not even a mile to the house, and Jeff will be careful." She turned to her husband. "And if he's already gone, there isn't much we can do about it now, is there? By now they're probably on their way back."

Charles's frown deepened. "I think I'd better call-" he began.

But Phyllis took his hand and pulled him toward the dance floor. "I think you'd better dance with your wife," she told him. "If they aren't here within the next five or ten minutes, then we can start worrying." She slipped herself into his arms, and after only a moment's hesitation, Charles whirled her away into the crowd.

Five minutes later, as the last chords of the music died away and the babble of voices rose once more around her, Phyllis smiled at her husband. "I've done it," she whispered softly enough so that only he could hear her words. "Did you hear? Even Eleanor Stevens said it's the most beautiful midsummer ball we've ever had. And the August Moon Ball will be even better. I've been thinking about it, and I think this year we'll forget all the fall colors. They're such a cliche, and..." Her voice trailed off as she realized that around her the murmuring voices had died away. She glanced around, searching for whatever might have distracted the partygoers from their conversations, and for a moment saw nothing.

But then, realizing that everyone was facing the large double doors to the foyer, she turned around.

And gasped.

Standing in the doorway was a strange figure clad in white. Phyllis gazed blankly, her first impression being that it almost appeared to be a ghost out of the past. It was a girl wearing an old-fas.h.i.+oned white dress, with long blond hair dropping well below her shoulders, partially covering her face. But what little of the face showed was deathly pale and streaked with tears. And then, her breath catching in her throat, Phyllis recognized the dress.

She had seen it only a week ago, hanging on a mannequin in her own attic.

And now it was on her daughter, who stood absolutely still in the doorway, tears streaming down her face, staring at her.

Phyllis's heart sank. She'd been right-everything had been too perfect, everything had been going too well. And she should have known from the moment it began what the source of her misgivings was.

Melissa.

Once more her daughter was going to humiliate her, and this time on the one night she'd hoped would be her moment of glory. Her hand tightened on her husband's arm, and when she spoke, her voice was a barely audible hiss emerging from her clenched jaw. "Do something," she demanded. "Can't you-"

But it was too late. Melissa suddenly came alive, rus.h.i.+ng through the mob of people who had been staring at her and who now drew back as she pa.s.sed by as if they were afraid even of her touch. Ignoring her mother, Melissa threw herself into her father's arms.

"Missy?" Charles asked. "Honey, what is it? What's wrong?"

"A-A car," Melissa stammered. She looked beseechingly up into her father's face. "It went off the road, Papa," she went on, her voice trembling as she tried to choke back her sobs. "It wasn't my fault. I didn't do anything-"

Her words were suddenly drowned out by a rising tide of voices, and then the crowd in the room began to move, surging toward the doors.

"What car?" Charles asked.

Melissa swallowed. "A black one," she said. "Like Brett's."

Phyllis flinched at the words. "Brett's?" she repeated. "But weren't you-"

Charles cut her off. "Not now," he said, his voice carrying an urgency that silenced his wife. "Let's just find out what happened." Holding Melissa's hand tightly in his own, he turned away from Phyllis and pushed through the crowd toward the doors.

The scene above the rocky sh.o.r.e upon which Brett Van Arsdale's ruined car lay had a surreal quality to it. Cars lined the road, their headlights on, and a grotesque ballet of strangely clad beings seemed to be under way as the guests from the ball, still in their costumes, moved from one spot to another, whispering the latest news from the beach to each other before moving on, weaving in and out of the odd spotlights created by the automobiles' headlamps.

Melissa, her tears abated for the moment, pressed close to her father, holding on to his hand as his arm lay protectively around her shoulders. "Not Jeff," she breathed. "It can't be Jeff...It was Brett's Brett's car..." Her voice trailed off as she tried to accept what had happened. But it wasn't real-it couldn't be. Jeff was the last person she'd want to hurt. Choking back the sob that formed in her throat, she huddled even closer to her father. car..." Her voice trailed off as she tried to accept what had happened. But it wasn't real-it couldn't be. Jeff was the last person she'd want to hurt. Choking back the sob that formed in her throat, she huddled even closer to her father.

A spotlight had been brought from the clubhouse, connected by a series of long extension cords that wound down the driveway to the nearest electrical outlet. Its brilliant halogen bulb cast a powerful flood of white light down onto the beach below, where seven people were working frantically to cut Jeff Barnstable loose from the wreckage of the black Porsche.

"I'm going down there," Charles said, withdrawing his hand from his daughter's grasp.

"No," Melissa protested. "Please? Don't leave me alone!"

"But you're not alone," Charles replied. "Your mother's here, and Teri. You'll be fine."

Before Melissa could say anything else, he hurried away and began working his way down the steep face of the cliff, following the same route the police and paramedics had taken only minutes before. At last he came to the rocky shelf at the base of the cliff and picked his way carefully through the maze of tide pools until he reached the wreckage. One of the policemen glanced up at him, nodding a greeting, and a moment later, when the light from above caught the man's face, he recognized him. Tom Mallory had grown up in Secret Cove, joining the police department right out of high school. "What's the situation?" Charles asked. "Is he going to make it?"

Mallory shook his head. "They're still working, Mr. Holloway, but it doesn't look good. His chest is pretty smashed up, and they think his back's probably broken, too."

Charles's eyes drifted away from the cop. A man with an acetylene torch was crouched by the driver's door, cutting away the crumpled metal as quickly as he could. The tide was rising, and as Charles watched, a wave broke offsh.o.r.e and a cascade of foaming water rushed toward him, churning around the rocks, momentarily engulfing the roof of the car in an inch or two of water.

His heart froze as he heard a m.u.f.fled sound come from within the car itself. "Jesus," he muttered. "He's not conscious, is he?"