Comes The Blind Fury Part 24

Talk about what?" Cal stared at her, and June could see a wall go up in front of his eyes, a wall that threatened to shut her out entirely. He frowned slightly, the skin around his eyes crinkling into deep lines. When he spoke, his voice was brittle. "I don't know that there's anything to talk about"

June's mouth worked for a moment, then she found her voice. "Don't know!" she exclaimed. Then she repeated the phrase, louder. "Don't know? "Don't know? My G.o.d, Cal, we have to get help for her." What was he doing? Was he shutting everything out? Ignoring everything that was happening? Of course he was. She could see it in his eyes. My G.o.d, Cal, we have to get help for her." What was he doing? Was he shutting everything out? Ignoring everything that was happening? Of course he was. She could see it in his eyes.

"I don't think anything's so terribly wrong."

And there it was. That was why he'd been so silent since Mich.e.l.le had told them her version of the afternoon-he was simply blocking it all out. But she had to find a way to get through to him. "How can you say that?" she asked, struggling to keep her voice calm and reasonable. "Today Susan Peterson died, and Mich.e.l.le was there-she saw saw it, or at least she it, or at least she should should have seen it. If she really didn't, then we're in more trouble than I even thought. She hasn't got any friends, except Mandy, who's a doll, for G.o.d's sake. And now there's this thing with the fog. Cal, there have seen it. If she really didn't, then we're in more trouble than I even thought. She hasn't got any friends, except Mandy, who's a doll, for G.o.d's sake. And now there's this thing with the fog. Cal, there wasn't wasn't any fog today-I know, I was here all day, and the sun was out. Cal, she must be losing her vision! And you say you don't think anything's terribly wrong? Are any fog today-I know, I was here all day, and the sun was out. Cal, she must be losing her vision! And you say you don't think anything's terribly wrong? Are you you blind?" June stopped suddenly, realizing her voice had risen and become shrill. But it didn't matter. Cal's eyes were icy now, and she knew what he was going to say before he spoke. blind?" June stopped suddenly, realizing her voice had risen and become shrill. But it didn't matter. Cal's eyes were icy now, and she knew what he was going to say before he spoke.

"I won't hear this, June. You want me to believe I've made Mich.e.l.le crazy. I haven't. She's fine. She had a shock this afternoon, and blocked it. That's a normal reaction. Do you understand? It's normal!" normal!"

Stunned, June sank into a chair, and tried to gather her thoughts into some kind of coherency. Cal was right: there was nothing left to talk about-something had to be done.

"Now listen to me," she heard Cal saying, his voice calm, his words maniacally reasonable. "You weren't there this afternoon, and I was. I heard what Constance Benson had to say, and I heard what Mich.e.l.le had to say, and it doesn't make much difference whom you believe-Mich.e.l.le had nothing to do with what happened to Susan. Even Mrs. Benson didn't say Mich.e.l.le did did anything-all she said was that Mich.e.l.le didn't react to what happened. Well, how could she have? She must have been in a state of shock. So how anything-all she said was that Mich.e.l.le didn't react to what happened. Well, how could she have? She must have been in a state of shock. So how could could she react?" she react?"

Half of June's mind was listening to what Cal was saying, but the other half was screaming in protest. He was twisting things, forcing things to sound the way he wanted them to sound.

"But what about the fog?" she asked. "Mich.e.l.le said there was fog, and there wasn't! d.a.m.n it, there wasn't."

"I didn't say there was," Cal said patiently. "Maybe Mich.e.l.le did see what happened to Susan, and her reaction-the reaction Mrs. Benson said wasn't there-was simply to shut it out of her mind. Her mind could have invented the fog, to screen out what she didn't want to see."

"Just like your mind is screening out what you don't want to see?" June regretted her words as soon as they were out, but there was no way to recover them. They seemed to hit Cal with a physical force: his body shrank into his chair, and he raised Jenny just slightly, as if the baby were a s.h.i.+eld.

"I'm sorry," June apologized. "I shouldn't have said that."

"If that's what you think, why not say it?" Cal countered. "I'm going up to bed. I don't see much point in going on with this."

June watched him go, made no move to try to stop him, or to continue the conversation. She felt glued to her chair, unable to summon the strength to get up. She listened as Cal climbed the stairs, then waited until his footsteps had faded away toward their bedroom. Then, when the house was quiet, she tried to think, tried to force herself to concentrate on Mich.e.l.le, and what was to be done for her. Steeling herself for whatever might be about to happen, June made her decision. She would not be dissuaded.

Time seemed to have stopped for Estelle and Henry Peterson. Now, near midnight, Estelle sat quietly with her hands in her lap, saying nothing. She wore a slightly puzzled expression, as if she were wondering where her daughter was. Henry was pacing the floor, his florid face flushed a deep red, his indignation growing every minute. If Susan was really dead, someone was to blame.

"Tell me again, Constance," he said. "Tell me once more what happened. I just can't believe you haven't left something out."

Constance Benson, perched uncomfortably on one of Estelle's better chairs, shook her head tiredly.

"I've told you everything, Henry. There just isn't anything more to say."

"My daughter would not have run over the edge of a cliff," Henry stated, as if by saying it he could make it true. That girl must have pushed her. She must must have." have."

Constance kept her eyes firmly fixed on her hands as they twisted nervously in her lap, wis.h.i.+ng she could tell Henry Peterson what he wanted to hear.

"She didn't, Henry. I suppose she must have said something, but I couldn't hear it from my kitchen. And she wasn't even very close to Susan, It was-well, it was very strange, that's all."

Too d.a.m.n strange, if you ask me," Henry muttered. He poured himself a shot of whiskey, bolted it down, then clapped his hat on his head. "I'm going to talk to Joe Carson," he said. "He's a doctor-he should know what happened." He stalked from the room. A moment later the front door slammed, and a car engine raced.

"Oh, dear," Estelle sighed. "I hope he isn't going to do anything rash. You know how he can be, Susan gets so upset with him sometimes...." Her voice faded away as she realized Susan would never get upset with her father again. She looked beseechingly at Constance Benson. "Oh, Constance, what are we going to do? I just can't believe it. I just keep having the feeling that any minute Susan's going to walk through that door, and it will all turn out to be a dream. A horrible dream."

Constance moved over to the sofa and drew Estelle close to her. Only now, with Constance's large and comforting arm around her, did Estelle give in to her tears. Her body trembled, and she dabbed ineffectually at her eyes with a crumpled handkerchief.

"You just let it out," Constance told her. "You can't keep it all bottled up, and Susan wouldn't want you to. And don't worry about Henry-he'll calm down. He just has to make a fuss, that's all."

Estelle sniffled, and straightened up a little. She tried to smile at Constance, but the effort was too much for her. "Constance, are you sure you told us everything? Wasn't there maybe something you didn't want to say in front of Henry?"

Constance sighed heavily. "I wish there was. I wish there was something that would make sense out of the whole thing. But there isn't. All I know is that I've told people time and time again, don't let the kids play around that cemetery. It's dangerous. But n.o.body believed me, and now look what's happened."

Estelle's eyes met Constance Benson's. For some time the two women simply gazed at each other, as if there were an unspoken communication going on between them. When at last Estelle spoke, her voice was low, and highly controlled.

"It was that girl, wasn't it? Mich.e.l.le Pendleton? Susan told me there's something wrong with her."

"She's crippled," Constance said. "She fell down the bluff."

"I know," Estelle said. "I don't mean that. There was something else. Susan told me about it yesterday, but I can't remember what it was."

"Well, I don't see that it matters much," Constance sniffed. "It seems to me that what has to be done is see to it that everybody's warned. I think we should warn everyone to keep their children away from that graveyard, and away from Mich.e.l.le Pendleton. I don't know what she did, but I know she did something."

Estelle Peterson nodded.

It didn't take long for the word to spread through Paradise Point. Constance Benson called her friends, and her friends called theirs. As the night wore on there were small family groups all over the village, huddled together in kitchens and living rooms, talking quietly to their sleepy children, warning them about Mich.e.l.le. The older children nodded wisely.

But to the younger ones, it made no sense....

At the Carstairses', it was Bertha who talked briefly to Constance Benson, then murmured a few words of sympathy for Estelle Peterson before hanging up and facing her husband. Fred was watching her.

"A little late for phone calls, isn't it?" he asked, pulling himself to a sitting position. He hated being disturbed in the middle of the night.

"That was Constance Benson," Bertha said matter-of-factly. "She seems to think that Mich.e.l.le Pendleton had something to do with what happened today."

"Leave it to Constance," Fred grumbled sleepily, but he looked wary, nonetheless. "What does Constance think Mich.e.l.le did?"

"She didn't say. I don't think she exactly knew. But she said we ought to have a talk with Sally, and warn her to stay away from Mich.e.l.le."

"I wouldn't warn a man to stay out of a beartrap on Constance Benson's say-so," Fred muttered. "She's always yammering about that graveyard, too, but she hardly ever goes out of the house. Must be tough for that boy of hers."

"Well, that's between him and her, and nothing to do with us."

Bertha was about to snap out the light when there was a soft tap at their door, and Sally came in. She sat down on their bed, apparently wide awake.

"Who was that?" she asked. "On the phone."

"Just Mrs. Benson," Bertha said. "She wanted to talk about Susan. And Mich.e.l.le," she added.

"Mich.e.l.le? What about her?"

"Well, Mich.e.l.le was with Susan today, you know," Bertha pointed out. Sally nodded, but seemed puzzled.

"I know," she agreed. "But it's funny. Susan hated Mich.e.l.le. Why would Susan have been with someone she hated?"

Bertha ignored the question. Instead, she posed one of her own. "Why did Susan hate Mich.e.l.le?"

Sally shrugged uncomfortably, then decided that it was time she told someone how she'd been feeling.

"Because she's lame. Susan kept acting like Mich.e.l.le was some kind of freak-kept calling her r.e.t.a.r.ded, and things like that."

"Oh, no..." Bertha murmured. "How terrible for her."

"And-and we all sort of went along with it," Sally said miserably.

"Went along with it? You mean you all agreed with Susan?"

Sally nodded, her eyes filling with tears. "I didn't want to-really I didn't. But then-well, Mich.e.l.le didn't seem to want to be friends anymore, and Susan.... Well, Susan acted like anybody who wanted to be Mich.e.l.le's friend couldn't be hers. And I-I've known Susan all my life." She began crying, and Bertha hugged her close.

"Now, honey, don't you cry. Everything's going to be all right..."

"But now Susan's dead," dead," Sally wailed. A thought struck her, and she pulled away from her mother. "Mich.e.l.le didn't kill her, did she?" Sally wailed. A thought struck her, and she pulled away from her mother. "Mich.e.l.le didn't kill her, did she?"

"Of course not," Bertha said emphatically. "I'm sure it was just an accident."

"Well, what did Jeff's mother say?" Sally asked.

"She said-she said-" Bertha floundered, then looked to her husband for a.s.sistance.

"She didn't say anything," he said flatly. "Susan must have tripped and fallen, just like Mich.e.l.le did a while ago. Mich.e.l.le was just luckier than Susan, that's all. And if you ask me, I think what Susan and the rest of you kids did to Mich.e.l.le is rotten. I think you ought to tell her you're sorry, and that you want to be her friend again."

"But I already told her that," Sally said.

"Then tell her again," Fred Carstairs said. "That child has had a bad time, and if Constance Benson is doing what I think she's doing, things are only going to get harder for her. And I don't want anybody to say my daughter was a part of it. Is that clear?"

Sally nodded silently. In a way, what her father had just told her was exactly what she wanted to hear. But what if Mich.e.l.le really didn't want to be her friend anymore? Then what could she do?

It was very puzzling, and when she went back to bed, Sally was still unable to sleep.

There was something wrong.

Something very wrong.

But she couldn't figure out what it was.

Although no one had called the Pendletons that evening, Cal could feel a tension in the air. Coming to Paradise Point, he sometimes felt, had been a mistake. What had it gotten him? Up to his ears in debt, a starvation-level practice, a new baby, and a daughter who would be crippled for the rest of her life.

But the problems would be solved, all of them. For as the weeks had gone by, Cal had come to a realization. For some reason, a reason he only vaguely understood, he belonged in Paradise Point. He belonged in this house, and he knew he wouldn't leave it. Not for anything. Not even for his daughter.

But she wasn't his daughter, not really. They'd adopted her. She wasn't a real real Pendleton. Pendleton.

As the thought struck him, Cal s.h.i.+fted in bed, his guilt at even entertaining such an idea making him even more restless. And yet, it was true, wasn't it?

Of all his probems, why should the worst come from someone who wasn't even his daughter?

He turned over and tried to think about something else.

Anything else.

Images began to flow through his mind, images of children. Alan Hanley was there, and Mich.e.l.le, and now Susan Peterson as well. Faces. Faces twisted in fear and pain, blending one into the other, all of them staring at him, all of them accusing him.

And there were others. Sally Carstairs, and Jeff Benson, and the little ones, the ones Mich.e.l.le had been playing with-when? Yesterday? Was it really Just yesterday? It didn't matter, not really. They were all there, and they were all looking at him, asking him.

Are you going to hurt us, too?

Sleep began to swirl over him, but it wasn't an easy sleep. Always they were there, helpless, appealing.

And accusing.

During the night, Cal's confusion grew, and his anger grew with it. None of it was his fault. None of it! Then why were they accusing him?

The night, and his emotions, exhausted him.

The moon, going into its last phase, had reached its crest as Mich.e.l.le awoke, and her room was filled with its ghostly light. She sat up in bed, sure that Amanda was with her.

"Mandy?" She whispered her friend's name, then waited in the stillness of the moonlit night for an answer. When it came, Amanda's voice was faint, faraway, but the words were clear.

"Outside. Come outside, Mich.e.l.le..."

Mich.e.l.le got out of bed and went to the window. The sea sparkled in the moonlight, but Mich.e.l.le only glanced at it, then s.h.i.+fted her gaze to the lawn below her, searching the shadows for a flicker of movement that would tell her where Amanda was.

And then it came. A shadow, darker than the rest, suddenly moved out onto the lawn.

Her face tipped back, catching the strange light of the fading moon, Amanda beckoned to her.

Mich.e.l.le slipped her bathrobe on and crept from her room. She paused in the hall, listening. When she heard no sound from her parents' room, she started down the stairs.

Outside, Amanda waited for her. As Mich.e.l.le approached she could feel her friend's presence, pulling at her, guiding her.

She moved down the path, then along the bluff to the studio.

Letting herself in, Mich.e.l.le made no move to turn on a light. Instead, knowing what Amanda wanted, she went to the closet, and took out a canvas.

She set it up on the easel, picked up a piece of her mother's charcoal, and waited.

Whatever Amanda wanted to see, Mich.e.l.le knew she would be able to draw it.

A moment later, she began.

As before, her strokes were bold, quickly drawn, and sure, as if an unseen hand were guiding her. And as she worked, a change came over her face. Her eyes, her brown eyes that had always seemed so alert, grew hazy, then seemed to glaze over. In contrast, Amanda's milky pale, blind eyes came alive, flickering eagerly over the canvas, darting around the studio, drinking in the sights so long denied her.

The picture emerged rapidly, in the same bold strokes she had used the night before.

Only tonight, Mich.e.l.le drew Susan Peterson, her face twisted in fear, at the edge of the bluff. Susan seemed to be suspended in mid-air, her body pitched forward, her arms flailing.

And on the bluff, her mouth curving in a mirthless smile, there was another girl, dressed in black, her face all but covered by her bonnet. It was Mandy. She seemed to be suspended in midair, her body pitched arms extended, not in fear, but as if she had just pushed something.

Her smile, though joyless, seemed somehow victorious.