Comes The Blind Fury Part 32

"You still haven't explained Amanda," she said.

"I've explained it five hundred times."

"Oh, sure! You keep telling me that she only exists in Mich.e.l.le's imagination. Except you still haven't explained one thing-how come everyone around here has been talking about Amanda for so many years? If she's only Mich.e.l.le's imaginary friend, why has she been around so much longer than Mich.e.l.le?"

"Everybody hasn't been talking about Amanda. Only a few impressionable schoolgirls have."

Corinne's eyes narrowed angrily, but before she could begin her argument, Tim held up his hand as if to fend her off.

"Let's not talk about it anymore, all right? Can't we just forget about it for tonight?"

"I don't see how," Corinne replied. "It's like a cloud hanging over us."

The ringing of the telephone interrupted her. Corinne automatically rose to answer it before she remembered that it wasn't her phone. Tim, using the diversion to try to change the mood of the evening, grinned at her. "If you'd just marry me, you could answer the phone here any time you wanted to."

He had just reached for the receiver when it stopped ringing. Both he and Corinne waited expectantly for Lisa to call one of them. Instead there was a silence, then Lisa came downstairs.

"That was Alison. I'm going to go over to her house tomorrow, and we're going to look for the ghost."

"Oh, G.o.d," Tim groaned. "Not you, too?"

Lisa rolled her eyes in contempt. "Well, why not? Alison says Sally Carstairs already saw the ghost once, and I think it would be fun. I never get to do anything!"

Tim looked helplessly at Corinne. He was about to give his a.s.sent, but Corinne stopped him.

"Tim, don't"

"Why not?"

"Tim, please. Just humor me, all right? Besides, even if I'm wrong, and you're right, do you know where they'll be looking for the ghost? Out near the Pendletons', in the Carsons' old graveyard. That's where Amanda's grave is."

"It isn't a grave," Lisa sneered.

"There's a headstone," Corinne said automatically, but Lisa was paying no attention to her. Instead, she was pleading with her father.

"Can I go, Daddy? Please?"

But Tim decided that Corinne was right. Whatever was happening, he didn't want his daughter near the Pendletons'.

"I don't think it's a good idea, sweetheart," he said. "You tell Alison you'll go some other time, all right?"

"Aw, Dad, you never let me do anything. All you ever do is listen to her her, and she's as crazy as Mich.e.l.le Pendleton!" Lisa's words were directed to her father, but she was staring at Corinne, her face pinched with anger, her mouth in a pout. Corinne simply looked the other way. For once, she was going to ignore Lisa's rudeness.

"You can't go, and that's final," Tim said. "Now go up and call Alison, and tell her. Then finish your homework and go to bed."

Lisa silently decided that she would do what she wanted to do, made a face at Corinne, then sulkily left the room. An uncomfortable silence fell in Tim's living room as both he and Corinne tried to pretend that their evening wasn't hopelessly ruined. Finally Corinne stood up.

"Well, it's getting late-"

"You mean you want to go home, don't you?" Tim asked.

Corinne nodded. "I'll call you in the morning." She started out of the room, intent on gathering her coat and purse, but Tim stopped her.

"Don't I even get a good night kiss?"

Corinne gave him a perfunctory peck on the cheek but resisted his embrace. "Not now, Tim. Please? Not tonight."

Defeated, Tim let her go, standing alone in the living room as she put on her coat. Then she came back in and smiled at him.

"Now I know where Lisa gets her pout-from her father. Come on, Tim, it isn't the end of the world. I'll call you tomorrow, or you call me. Okay?"

Tim nodded.

"Men!"

Corinne said the word out loud, then repeated it, as she drove herself home. Sometimes, she reflected, they could be so d.a.m.n stubborn. And not just Tim, either. Cal Pendleton wasn't any better. He and Tim should be great friends, she decided. One of them hanging on to the idea that everything was fine, and the other hanging on to the idea that whatever was happening was only happening in Mich.e.l.le's mind.

But it wasn't. Corinne was sure it wasn't, but she didn't know what to do next. Should she talk to June Pendleton about it? She should. Right now. She pulled the car into a sharp U-turn, and headed toward the Pendletons'. But when she arrived, the house was dark. She sat in her car for a few minutes, debating with herself. Should she wake them up? What for? To tell them a ghost story?

In the end, she simply went home.

But, as she went to sleep that night, Corinne Hatcher had a sense of events closing in, as if whatever was finally going to happen was going to happen soon.

And when it happened, whatever it was, they would all know the truth.

She only hoped that, in the meantime, n.o.body else would die....

Her hip was exploding with pain. She wanted to stop and rest, but she knew she couldn't.

Behind her, but getting closer, she could hear people calling to her-angry people-people who wanted to hurt her.

She couldn't let them hurt her-she had to get away, far away, where they wouldn't be able to find her.

Amanda would help her.

But where was Amanda?

She called out, begging her friend to come and help her, but there was no answer-only those other voices, screaming at her, frightening her.

She tried to move faster, tried to force her left leg to respond as she wanted it to, but it was useless.

They were going to catch her.

She stopped and turned around.

Yes, there they were, coming toward her.

She couldn't see their faces, not clearly, but she thought she knew the voices.

Mrs. Benson.

That didn't surprise her: Mrs. Benson had always hated her.

But there were others.

Her parents. Well, not her parents, but those two strangers who had pretended to be her parents.

And someone else-someone she thought liked her. It was a man, but who? It didn't matter, really. Whoever he was, he wanted to hurt her, too. Their voices were growing louder, and they were coming closer. If she was going to get away, she would have to run.

She looked around frantically, sure that Amanda would come and help her. But Amanda wasn't there. She would have to get away by herself.

The bluff.

If she could get to the bluff, she would be safe.

She started toward it, her heart pounding, her breath coming in short gasps.

Her left leg was dragging her back. She couldn't run! But she had to run!

And then she was there, poised at the top of the cliff, the sea below her, and behind her those voices, insistent, demanding-hurting. She glanced once more over her shoulder. They were closer now, almost upon her. But they wouldn't catch her.

With a final burst of energy, she threw herself off the bluff.

Falling was so easy.

Time seemed to stand still, and she drifted, relaxed, felt the air rush by her, looked at the sky.

She looked down-and saw the rocks.

Jagged, angry fingers of stone, reaching up to her, ready to tear her apart.

Terror finally engulfed her, and she opened her mouth to scream. But it was too late-she was going to die....

Mich.e.l.le woke up s.h.i.+vering, her throat constricted with an unuttered scream.

"Daddy?" Her voice was soft, tiny in the night. She knew no one had heard her. No one, except- "I saved you," Amanda whispered to her. "I didn't let you die."

"Mandy-?" She had had come. Mich.e.l.le sat up in bed, her fear draining away as she realized that Amanda was there, helping her, taking care of her. "Mandy? Where are you?" come. Mich.e.l.le sat up in bed, her fear draining away as she realized that Amanda was there, helping her, taking care of her. "Mandy? Where are you?"

"I'm here," Mandy said softly. She emerged from the shadows of the room, standing near the window, her black dress glistening eerily in the moonlight. She held out her hand, and Mich.e.l.le left her bed.

Amanda, holding her by the hand, led her down the stairs and out of the house. It wasn't until they had reached the studio that Mich.e.l.le realized she had left her cane behind. But it didn't matter-Amanda was there for her to lean on.

Besides, her hip didn't hurt at all. Not at all!

They slipped into the studio, and Mich.e.l.le knew immediately what to do. It was as if Amanda could talk to her silently, as if Amanda were truly inside her.

She found a sketch pad and set it up on her mother's easel. She worked quickly, her strokes bold and sure. The picture emerged quickly.

Billy Evans, his small body perched on the top of the backstop, balancing himself precariously. The perspective was strange. He seemed to be very high up, far above the figure of Mich.e.l.le herself, who stood on the ground, her cane forgotten as she stared helplessly upward.

Near her, clutching the support post, was Amanda, a smile on her face, her empty eyes seeming somehow alive with excitement as Billy started to fall.

Mich.e.l.le stared at the picture and, in the dimness of the studio, she felt Amanda's hand in her own. They stood together for a moment in silent closeness. Then, knowing what she must do, Mich.e.l.le let go of Amanda's hand, tore the sketch from the pad, and took it to the closet. She found what she was looking for easily, though she had turned on no lights. She took out the canvas, that first canvas she had drawn for Amanda, and left her new sketch-the sketch of Billy Evans, with the one of Susan Peterson.

She set the canvas up on the easel, and picked up June's palette.

Though the dim light washed the colors on the palette to little more than shades of gray, Mich.e.l.le knew where to touch the brush to find the hues she wanted.

She worked quickly, her face expressionless. Behind her, watching over her shoulder, her hand lightly resting on her elbow, Mich.e.l.le could feel Amanda watching in fascination, her milky white eyes fixed on the picture, her expression eager. The picture was telling her the story-soon she would see it all. Mich.e.l.le would show her everything.

Mich.e.l.le had no sense of time as she worked. When she finally set the palette aside and stepped back to look at the canvas, she wondered why she didn't fed tired. But she knew, really-it was Amanda, helping her.

"Is it all right?" she asked shyly.

Amanda nodded, her sightless eyes still fixed on the picture. After a few seconds, she spoke.

"You could have killed her this afternoon," she said.

Jennifer. Mandy was talking about Jennifer, and she was angry at Mich.e.l.le.

"I know," Mich.e.l.le answered quietly.

"Why didn't you?" Mandy's voice, silken but hard, caressed Mich.e.l.le.

"I-I don't know," she whispered.

"You could do it now," Amanda suggested.

"Now?"

"They're asleep. They're all asleep. We could go to the nursery...." Amanda took Mich.e.l.le's hand and led her out of the studio.

As they crossed the lawn toward the house, a cloud drifted across the moon, and the silvery light faded into darkness. But the darkness didn't matter.

Amanda was leading her.

And the fog was coming in.

The wonderful fog that cuddled Mich.e.l.le, shutting out the rest of the world, leaving her alone with Amanda. Whatever Amanda wanted, Mich.e.l.le knew she would do....

June woke up in the darkness, some maternal sixth sense telling her that something was wrong. She listened for a moment.

A cry.

m.u.f.fled, but a cry.

It was coming from the nursery. June got out of bed, grabbed her robe, and crossed the bedroom.