THE UNWANTED [011-5THE UNWANTED [011-5.0]
 
By: John Saul
 
Category: Fiction Horror
 
Synopsis:
 
Cassie Winslow is sixteen. She just lost her
mother in a terrible accident. Now, lonely and frightened,
she has come
to live with the father she barely knows and his new family
in tiny False Harbor on Cape Cod. For
Cassie, the
strange, unsettling dreams that come to her suddenly in
the dead of night are merely the beginning.
Very soon, Cassie Winslow will come to know the
terrifying powers that are her gift. And in the
village of False Harbor, nothing will ever be the
same.
 
 
'SAUL HAS THE INSTINCTS OF A
NATURAL STORYTELLER."
 
-People
DEATH DREAM
In the dream, she was standing by the freeway watching the
traffic rush by, and then, far in the distance, she had
seen her mother's car. There didn't seem to be
anything different about that car-in fact, in the dream it
had looked just like all the other cars on the freeway.
But still, somehow, she had known that that particular car was
her mother's. And then, as the car passed her, she saw
her mother turn and look at her. The odd thing was that the
woman in the car, whom she
knew
was her mother, didn't look like her mother at all.
While her mother's hair was sort of drab brown the
woman in the car in her dream had long black hair
that fell around her shoulders, and deep blue eyes that
seemed to penetrate right into Cassie's soul.
Her mother's eyes had been brown, like Cassie's
own.
And then, in the dream, her mother had said something.
Cassie couldn't quite make out the words, but a second
later her mother had begun laughing, and the car had
suddenly shot forward. A second after that, it veered
sharply to the left, smashed headlong into the concrete
supports of an overpass, and burst into flames.
 
 
It was then that Cassie had awakened, sweating and
shaking, her ears still ringing with the sound of the
explosion, her vision still filled by the sight of her
mother's face-the stranger's face-as, flames
consuming her, she stared at Cassie and uttered a
single word: "Good-bye." Then she had started laughing
as if she didn't care that she was leaving Cassie
alone in the world.
 
 
It had been the very next night that the dream had
repeated itself-this time in horrible reality.
 
 
By John SAUL
SUFFER THE CHILDREN
PUNISH THE SINNERS
CRY FOR THE STRANGERS
COMES THE BLIND FURY
WHEN THE WIND BLOWS
THE GOD PROJECT
NATHANIEL
BRAINCHILD
HELLFIRE
THE UNWANTED
THE UNLOVED
CREATURE
SECOND CHILD
SLEEPWALK
The Unwanted
 
 
JOHN SAUL
BANTAM BOOKS NEW YORK TORONTO
LONDON SYDNEY AUCKLAND
THE UNWANTED
A Bantam Book August 1987
All rights reserved.
Copyright [*copy] 1987 by John SAUL.
Cover art copyright
[*copy]
198st by Bantam Books.
No part of this book may be reproduced or
transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic or
mechanical,
including photocopying, recording, or by any
information
storage and retrieval system, without permission in
writing from the publisher. For information address:
Bantam Books.
ISBN 0-553-26657-8
Published simultaneously in the United States
and
Canada
Bantam Books are published by Bantam
Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell
Publishing Group, Inc. Its trademark,
consisting of the words "Bantam Books" and the
portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.s.
Patent and Trademark Office and in other
countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam
Books, 666 Fifth Avenue, New York,
New York 10103.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF
AMERICA
KR 16 15 14 13 12 11 10
 
 
For my father,
the best father
in the whole world.
 
 
The Unwanted
 
 
Prologue
 
 
The sun was high in the cloudless blue sky, and had it
not been for the faint trace of a breeze drifting in from
the sea, the stiflingly humid heat of the August afternoon
would have been unbearable. The beach was all but deserted.
Only far away-much farther than she was allowed
to go-could the little girl see the barely visible
figures of the big children playing at the water's edge.
Once-and it didn't matter how long ago it had
been, for in her two-year-old world every day was forever and
each week an eternity long forgotten-she had
tottered toward the distant figures, her
tiny hands reaching out as if she could touch them at any
moment. But long before she had gotten close enough even
to see them very well, she had felt the stinging slap of
her mother's hand and heard the horrible word.
"Nor
Even before the first scream of pain burst from her, she
had felt herself being jerked around and dragged back in the
direction from which she had come, the rough sand scraping the
skin from her knees as a stream of unintelligible
sound rained down on her from her mother's looming face
above. Though she didn't know what all the words
meant, the message was clear.
She had done something wrong. When they got back to the
blanket, her mother would spank her, and then she would have
to sit on the blanket even long after she had
forgotten just why she was there or what she had done.
Today she watched the children playing in the distance for a
while, but made no move to abandon her bucket and
shovel and try to escape down the beach toward them.
Though she no longer remembered exactly what would
happen if she did, she knew going that way hurt,
and she didn't want to hurt.
She began digging in the sand with her shovel. In a little
while there was a hole beside her, with water seeping into it
as if by magic. She tried to splash the
water out of the hole, but each time more water came in,
and it always seemed to be just as deep.
She tried digging the hole deeper, but that didn't
work either. It kept filling up with water, and then the
sides would cave in, and pretty soon the hole
would be wider but almost all filled up again.
Then she noticed that if she dug into the sand at the
bottom of the hole, and scooped up whole handfuls
of the mixture of sand and water, she could dribble it out
onto her legs in neat rounded drops that looked like
tiny little gray pancakes.
And if she dribbled more on top of that, it looked like
a whole stack of little pancakes.
Chuckling and clucking softly to herself, she began
covering her legs with dribbles of sand, building towers
of it on top of her knees and ankles, then covering
her toes as well.
After a while she noticed that if she held very still, the
gray sand would turn white. And if she waited for it
to turn white, then wiggled her toes, it would crumble
away into the beach again.
Over and over she repeated the game. Then another
idea came into her head.
She packed her bucket full with wet sand from the
bottom of the hole, then patted the sand next
to the hole flat. Turning the bucket upside down
on the flat space, she lifted the bucket away
and found a neat round pile of sand with a flat top.
Scrunching around onto her knees, she began
dribbling wet sand from the hole over the top of the mound,
letting it run down over the edges like frosting on a
cake. Then she began dribbling it into towers, turning
it into a castle. When she was done, she picked up
her shovel and began carefully digging a moat around
the castle. But when the moat was
about six inches deep, it began to fill up with water
and its sides began to cave in.
The little girl watched in fascination as her sand castle
crumbled away.
When it was gone, she started another one.
The sun drifted slowly across the sky, but the little
girl didn't notice.
She was surrounded now by the ruins of five sand
castles, and was starting to build another one when she
felt something brush against her.
It was a kitten, its tail sticking straight up in
the air, its gray fur matted with sand.
It mewed softly, then sat down in the sand, staring up
at her with large, curious yellow eyes.
The little girl reached out to touch the kitten, but
it backed quickly away.
"Kitty," the little girl said softly. Then, again:
"Kitty."
Her sand castles forgotten, she pulled herself to her
feet and took an uncertain step toward the kitten.
It was then that she saw the little boy standing a few yards
away, frowning deeply as he stared at her.
She looked back at him, then grinned and plumped
back down onto the sand.
The little boy giggled and came closer.
The kitten, three feet away now, sat back
down on the sand and wrapped its tail around its
legs.
As the sun continued its slow course across the sky, the
two children sat in the sand looking at each other,
giggling happily as each of them mimicked the other's
movements, with the kitten sitting a few feet away,
watching them both.
Then, mewing softly, the kitten stood up, stretched
elaborately, and darted away across the beach.
"Kitty!" the little boy exclaimed. Pushing himself
to his feet, he started after the tiny cat, the little
girl apparently forgotten.
The girl sat where she was for a few seconds, then
turned around and stared solemnly at the
blanket on which her mother was sitting.
Her mother was looking the other way, talking to a man the
little girl didn't recognize.
The little girl scrambled to her feet and started after the
boy and the kitten-her bucket and shovel, as well as
her sand castles, completely forgotten.
She had to hurry to catch up with the little boy, but she
knew that if she called to him, her mother might hear and
stop her, so she stumbled along as fast as she could,
tumbling down every few steps, then scrambling back
to her feet and hurrying forward once again. Every few
steps she felt her shorts slipping down over her
bottom and reached down to pull them up again, but when the
little boy kept getting farther and farther ahead, she
finally abandoned the shorts altogether, leaving them in a heap
on the sand.
The slope of the beach got steeper, and the little girl
found her feet sliding out from under her with almost every step.
But there was dune grass here, and she could use that
to pull herself along. When she finally got to the top
of the slope, the little boy was standing by himself, the thumb of
his right hand poked securely into his mouth while his
eyes- wide set and round-stared at the kitten. The
kitten was sitting next to what the girl knew was the
Bad Place.
She wasn't sure why it was the Bad Place, but
dimly she remembered her mother bringing her here once
and pointing to the place, then spanking her while she
repeated the Word.
"No! No, no, no! Do you understand?"
Between the Word and the angry sound of her mother's voice
and the stinging on her bottom, she understood.
She stopped uncertainly, and instinctively looked
back. But all she could see was grass.
After a moment the little boy saw her, and his thumb
suddenly popped out of his mouth. He pointed at the
kitten and giggled happily. Then he started walking
toward the Bad Place, holding his own shorts up
with his left hand as his right thumb went back into his
mouth.
The little girl hesitated, then followed.
The slope dropped away, and in a few seconds
the little girl caught up with the little boy. He stopped
walking and turned to stare at her, but didn't say
anything. Instead his eyes watched her gravely.
She reached out and put her hand in his. Then,
following the skittering kitten, the two of them started
toward the Bad Place.
Suddenly there was no more of the warm dry sand that felt so
good between her toes.
Instead there was an icky sticky feeling, and she could
feel something cold oozing around her feet. She
stopped and looked down.
Mud
Thick and black, it squished around her feet, and
there was an odor about it that made her wrinkle her
nose and make a face. But the kitten didn't
seem to notice it at all, and neither did the little
boy.
The little girl took another step, pulling her foot
loose from the muck and wiping it carefully on her
other leg before putting it back down into the ooze.
But there was a path into the Bad Place, and if there was
a path, it must be all right.
Now there was tall grass on both sides of her, and
it almost felt as though she was in a jungle.
And there were sounds all around her, sounds she had never
heard before.
At first she didn't know whether she should be frightened
or not.
Then she remembered the sounds she'd heard in her
room on the nights when the "monsters" had come for
her, and she'd started screaming until her daddy had
come in and turned on the lights and told her that there
weren't any monsters.
But she knew there
were
monsters, and as she walked along in the Bad
Place, holding on to the little boy's hand, she knew
that the monsters were all around her, even if she couldn't
see them.
It was the monsters that were making the sounds.
She had a crawly feeling in her tummy now, and
her skin felt all tingly.
And in her chest, her heart was beginning to thump
loudly.
If the monsters heard her heart, they would know where
she was and come after her.
A tiny whimper of fear escaped her lips, and her
eyes burned with tears.
She wanted to call to her mother-wanted her mother to
come and get her, although she was afraid of what would
happen to her if her mother found her in the Bad
Place.
She tugged at the little boy's hand and he stopped. His
thumb still in his mouth, he gazed at her
uncomprehendingly.
"M-monster-" the little girl managed to say.
"There!" She pointed at the jungle that was all around
them, but the little boy shook his head.
"Kitty."
Then, pulling at her arm, he toddled along the path
toward the kitten that they never seemed to be able to catch
up with.
She didn't know how far into the Bad Place they
had gone, but she was crying now, her heart pounding so
hard she knew the monsters had to hear her soon.
They were all around her, making low moaning sounds, and
she could hear them rustling softly as they searched for
her.
Her crying got worse, and she let go of the little
boy's hand and started running as fast as she could,
trying to catch up with the kitty. But the muck seemed
to grab her feet, slowing her down, and the harder she
tried to run, the slower she seemed to go.
Just like in the middle of the night, when she had to run
away from the monsters but couldn't. . . .
The jungle was reaching out for her, trying to trap her in
its writhing green arms, trying to wrap her in a web
and pin her down so the monsters could come and eat her. .
. .
It wasn't grass and vines around her now. It was
snakes, coiling up and striking out at her, hissing
angrily as she fled past them.
And then, so suddenly the little girl didn't
realize it was happening, the jungle opened up to one
side and there was a big sandy place that looked just like
the beach down by the water.
She was safe!
She was out of the Bad Place, and there was sand, and she
was safe!
The kitten was still a few yards away, but it had
stopped again and was sitting in the path, watching her. The
child's heart was pounding a little less now, and she stumbled
out
onto the sand, out of the sucking muck, away from the
terrors of the jungle that had threatened to suffocate
her.
The sand gave way beneath her feet.
She screamed now, a full-throated howl of terror
that echoed around her and made even the jungle monsters
fall silent.
She screamed again, then tried to pull her legs
free
from
the sand that was suddenly knee deep.
Knee deep and cold and oozing like the mud in the
jungle.
The little boy tottered out of the jungle and stopped,
staring at her.
She screamed again, then lost her balance and fell
into the cold, wet quicksand.
The little boy took a step toward her, then another.
First his right foot then his left sank into the
bottomless depth of the sand.
The little girl knew why it was the Bad Place now.
It was the place where all the monsters of her
nightmares lived, and as she thrashed in the quicksand, she
could feel them coming closer, creeping out of the jungle,
coming to get her.
She could hear her heart pounding, and her screams
grew even louder, but even in her panic she knew
her daddy wouldn't come for her.
She wasn't in her room, and it wasn't night, and
her daddy couldn't hear her.
Even her mother couldn't hear her.
This time the monsters were going to get her.
She knew they were going to get her, because always before, when
they had come for her in the night, her daddy had been
there.
But now it wasn't night, and her daddy was nowhere
near, and there was nothing but the monsters.
The monsters and the little boy.
He was coming closer to her now, but she knew the
monsters were going to get him too. And even as
she watched-his image blurred through the tears that
streamed from her eyes-he stumbled in the sand and fell.
The quicksand closed over him for a moment, then his head
reappeared and his screams were added to her own.
And the monsters grew ever closer. . . .
Night came suddenly, a cold dark night that
closed around the child, cutting off her screams,
blocking out the sound of the monsters as well as the
light.
Her chest felt as though it was going to burst, and she
struggled against the chill weight of the darkness, struggled
to breathe against the watery night.
Now she couldn't even scream anymore, couldn't
fight the monsters anymore, couldn't escape the
black abyss of the Bad Place. . . .
She opened her eyes, a scream welling in her
throat.
The blackness was gone.
Hands were touching her.
Warm hands.
But not her daddy's hands.
She blinked, the scream dying in her throat.
Warmth was all around her, and she felt herself being
held close to the softness of a body.
When she looked up, there was a face above
her.
Not her mother's face.
A face she had never seen before, but a woman's
face.
And then she heard the voice, a low, crooning
voice.
"You are mine now. You've come to me, and now you will
belong to me. Forevermore you will belong to me."
 
Cassie Winslow stood quietly in the heat of the
April afternoon, doing her best to focus her mind on
the casket suspended over the open grave. The
machinery that would lower it into the ground in a few more
minutes was only partially concealed by the flowers that her
mother's friends had sent, and even the largest bouquet-the
one from her father-looked tiny in its position of honor
on top of the coffin. There was a numbness in
Cassie's mind-the same numbness that had settled
over her three days ago when the police had arrived
at the little apartment in North Hollywood she and her
mother had shared to tell her that her mother wouldn't be coming
home. Now, no matter how often she reminded herself
that it was her mother they were about
to
bury, she couldn't bring herself to accept the
idea. Indeed, she half expected to feel her
mother's elbow nudging her ribs and hear her mother's
voice admonishing her to stand up straight and pay
attention.
I'm almost sixteen! Why can't she leave me
alone?
She felt herself flush guiltily at the thought, and
glanced around to see if anyone was staring at her. But
who would there be to stare? Except for the minister and herself,
the only other person who had come to the funeral was the
lawyer who had arrived the day after her mother had died
to tell her that he was taking care of everything; the day
after the funeral-tomorrow-she would be flying to Boston, where
her father would pick her up.
Pick her up in Boston! If her father really cared
about her, why hadn't he come out for the funeral?
But Cassie knew the answer to that-her father was too
busy taking care of his new family to bother about the
one he'd dumped almost the minute she was born. So
why would he fly all the way to California just for a
funeral? As if she were still alive, her mother's
voice rang in Cassie's ears:
"He's
no good! None of them is any good
 
your father, your stepfather
-
none of them! In the end they always run out on you.
Never trust a man, Cassie! Never trust any
of them!"
Cassie decided her mother had been right, for her
stepfather, who had always made such a big deal about how
much he loved her, hadn't shown up at the funeral
either. In feet she hadn't heard from him since the day
he'd walked out of the apartment almost five years ago.
It had been almost that long since she'd heard anything
from her father.
The minister's voice droned on, uttering the words of
prayers Cassie hadn't heard since the last time
she'd gone to church-about ten years ago, she thought,
before her mother had gotten mad at the minister. Her
attention drifted away from the gravesite, and she
looked out over the broad expanse of the San
Fernando Valley. Her home had been here for so
long that she couldn't remember anything else. It was
a clear day, and on the far side of the Valley, the
barren mountains were etched sharply against a deep blue
sky. It was the kind of day when everyone always said,
"This is why I came to California. Isn't it
great?" By tomorrow the smog would close in again and the
mountains would disappear behind the brown stinging morass that
would choke the Valley all summer long.
As the machine began whirring softly, and the coffin was
slowly lowered into the ground, Cassie Winslow
wondered if they had smog on Cape Cod.
Then the funeral was over and the lawyer was leading her
down the hill to put her into the limousine the funeral
home had provided. As they drove out of the huge
cemetery that seemed to roll over mile after mile of
carefully watered green hills, Cassie wondered
if she would ever come back here again.
She knew that a lot of people went to cemeteries
to visit their dead parents, but somehow she didn't
think she would.
For as long as she could remember, she'd always had a
fantasy that perhaps her mother wasn't really her mother at
all. Sometimes, late at night in the dark
security of her bedroom, she'd let herself dream of
another woman-a woman she saw only in her
mind-who never yelled at her, never corrected her,
never soured her with bitter words. Never-
She shut the thought out of her mind, unwilling even
to remember the other things her mother had done to her.
She concentrated once more on the woman in the
fantasy. This woman-the woman she wished
were her mother- always understood her, even when she didn't
understand herself.
But that wasn't the woman they had just buried, and in the
deepest place within her heart, Cassie knew she
would never return here. But would she ever find that other
woman, the woman who existed only in her dreams,
who would truly be her mother?
Eric Cavanaugh watched the ball hurtle toward
him, tensed his grip on the bat, squinted slightly
into the afternoon sun, then, swung.
Crack!
The wood connected with the horsehide of the baseball,
and Eric swore softly as he felt the bat itself
splitting in his hands. Then, as the ball arced off
toward right field, he dropped the bat and began
sprinting toward first base. If the bat hadn't
splintered, it would have been a home run for sure.
As it was, he'd still get a base out of it, unless
Jeff Maynard managed to snag it.
There was little chance that Jeff would make the catch. That
was the reason Eric had hit it to him in the first
place. He rounded first easily and, fifteen feet
before he got to second base, he plunged headfirst
into a slide and felt his uniform tear away at the
shoulder.
"You're gonna break your neck doing that someday,"
he heard Kevin Smythe say, and knew from the
second baseman's tone that he'd made it.
Safe! Grinning, he got to his feet, and began
scraping mud from his torn jersey. But then, as his
eyes swept the field, his smile faded.
Beyond the fence, parked by the curb on Bay Street,
was the old white pickup truck with Cavanaugh
fish emblazoned in cobalt blue on its side.
Leaning against the truck was his father, his arms folded
over his chest, his head shaking slowly as he muttered
something to the coach, who nodded in apparent agreement from
his place just inside the fence.
Eric's heart sank. Why couldn't his father have shown
up half an hour before, when he'd put the ball
over the left field fence? But that was the way it always
seemed to happen: if he was going to make a
mistake, his father was going to see it, and over dinner
tonight Ed Cavanaugh would want to talk about it.
Since this mistake had come on the baseball
diamond, it meant that after dinner he and his father would be
back here on the high school diamond, going through
batting practice until the light got so bad
neither of them could see. Even then Ed would insist on
"just a couple more," so Eric wouldn't be able
to get to his homework until after eight o'clock.
Unless his father got drunk. That was always a
possibility. But when his father was drunk, things were
always even worse than when his father was sober.
The coach's whistle signaled an end to the
practice session, and Eric, after waiting for Jeff
Maynard to catch up with him, started toward the locker
room, wondering if he should skip the four-thirty
student council meeting. If he weren't the
president of the council, he wouldn't even be thinking
twice about it. The council, he knew, didn't
really mean anything at all. Being on it just gave
him one more opportunity to have his picture in the
yearbook, and gave his father one more thing to brag about when
he was out getting drunk. But Eric
was
the president, and if he didn't go, his dad would be
sure to hear about it. Coach Simms would make
sure of that. Then there would be a long speech about
"living up to what I expect of you" to go with the extra
batting practice.
"That woulda been another homer if the bat hadn't
busted," Jeff observed as he caught up. "How
come you always hit those to me? You know I can't catch
"em."
Eric's grin came back, and his blue eyes
sparkled with quick good humor. "You don't care if you
catch 'em or not. If
I hit 'em to you, I know I'm gonna get a
base, and I know you're not gonna worry about it."
Jeff shrugged his indifference, but his eyes clouded
slightly. "Your dad saw what happened," he said
quietly. "You gonna get in trouble?"
"I always do, don't I?" Eric replied. He
tried to make his voice sound as if his father's wrath
didn't mean any more to him than a missed fly
ball meant to Jeff. Except that Jeff had been
his best friend almost as long as he could remember, and
Jeff always seemed to know what was going on in his
head, no matter what he said out loud. Now, he
proved it once again.
"Wanta cut the council meeting? If we did,
we could get the trig assignment out of the way before
you've gotta be home. Or we could cut the trig,
too, and go down to the beach," he added hopefully.
Eric thought about it, then shook his head as he pulled
open the heavy locker-room door and stepped
inside. "Can't. If I don't get an A on
the test next week, I won't get an A in the
course. And you know what that means."
Jeff rolled his eyes. "How would I know? And you
don't either, since you've never gotten anything
but
A's. Besides, your dad won't kill you, will he?"
"I don't-" Eric began, but was immediately cut off
by the coach yelling at him from the equipment cage
next to the showers.
"That's two bats this week, Cavanaugh! One more
and you start paying for them! Got that?"
"I didn't mean-"
Simms's voice grew louder, and his words seemed
to echo the lecture Eric heard from his father so often:
"I don't care about what you meant. All I care
about is what you do!"
Eric felt a sudden surge of anger flood up
through his body, and struggled against it. Getting mad would
only make things worse. What the hell was the big
deal about a broken bat anyway? Except it
wasn't just the bat-it was everything. And it had been that
way as long as he could remember. No matter what
he did, it never seemed to be good enough-not for his father,
not for his teachers, not for anyone. Always they seemed
to think he wasn't trying hard
enough, that he ought to do better. But he was already doing the
best he could. What more did they want?
Once again Jeff Maynard seemed to read his mind.
"Forget it," he heard his best friend say so softly
that he knew no one else could hear. "If you say
anything else, he'll tell your dad you mouthed off
and make you run laps. Then you'll miss the meeting
and flunk the test too! 'Course," Jeff couldn't
resist adding, "it might be fun to watch Mr.
Perfect fall on his face just once!" Then, as
Eric swung around to punch him on the arm, Jeff
darted off and disappeared around the corner toward his
locker.
Eric glanced at the big clock on the wall, and
realized he only had ten minutes to get to the
council meeting. He began stripping off his stained
jersey, shoving it into his book bag for his mother to wash
that night.
He would mend it himself.
It was five-thirty when Eric finally left
Memorial High and started home. The streets of
False Harbor were nearly empty, since the
summer season wouldn't start for another six weeks
and most of the small fishing fleet was out to sea. Hie
summer shops along Bay Street were still boarded
up, and the town wore the strangely deserted look it
took on every winter after the summer people were gone
and the seasonal shopkeepers had closed their stores,
heading south to bask in the sun and sell the same
merchandise to the Florida vacationers that they sold on
Cape Cod all summer. Though the town had an
oddly forlorn appearance, the offseason was still Eric's
favorite time of year. It was only then that he could
go off by himself sometimes, hiking across the dunes and combing
the beach, alone with the pounding sea and the stormy winter
sides.
Then there was the marsh, flooded at high tide, that had
given the town its name by making the harbor appear much
larger and more easily accessible than it actually
was. In the summer the dredged channel, which
provided the only opening to the deeper harbor inland
of the marsh, was choked with pleasure boats, and when the
air took on the stillness of August, the acrid
exhaust of their engines hung over the reeds like a
poisonous haze. But in winter, with a northern
wind howling, the marsh held a special magic for
Eric, and he would sit for hours, his back to the
village while gulls screamed and wheeled
overhead. Once or twice he'd talked Jeff
Maynard into exploring the marsh with him, but Jeff had
only shivered in the cold for a few minutes, then
suggested that they go bowling at the little
six-lane alley on Providence Street, where
at least it was warm. But that was all right with Eric-he
didn't have the opportunity to go to the marsh very often, and
when he did, he preferred to be alone.
Today there was no time for a hike out to the marsh, but as
Eric strode along Bay Street, his book bag
slung over his right shoulder, he considered stopping at
the wharf. A gull had built the first nest of the
season on one of the pilings, and Eric had already
checked it twice for eggs. So far there were none. Still,
you could never tell.
When he reached Wharf Street and glanced up at the
clock that stood atop an iron tower at the entrance
to the marina, he changed his mind. If he wasn't
home by six, there would be hell to pay. So he
turned left, starting toward the old common two
blocks away.
It was only there, in the center of the town, that False
Harbor began to look lived-in again, for it was in the
long . central strip-four blocks wide and
eighteen long-stretching from the marsh at the western end
of town to the rolling expanse of dunes that marked the
far eastern boundary, that the year-round population
lived. The residents of False Harbor had
left both Cape Drive and Bay
Street to the summer people. Indeed, once you left
Bay Street there wasn't much to set False
Harbor apart from any other small New England
village. It was built around a rectangular
common that hadn't seen a sheep grazing in more than a
century, and the owners of the buildings facing the common
had resisted the temptation to turn the village center
into anything that might be called
quaint
by the tourist guides.
Yet quaint was exactly what it was, for many of the
buildings were more than two centuries old. Once
they had been private homes, but most had long
since been converted into stores, remodeled by former
owners in the days when Victorian architecture had
been modern. The brick town hall still dominated the
acre facing Commonwealth Avenue, which
was bounded on the east by the common and on the west by High
Street. Next to it stood the stone Carnegie
library, which had replaced the town stables in the early
twentieth century.
Eric turned away from the town hall as he emerged
from Wharf Street, cutting diagonally to the point where
Commonwealth picked up again after having been broken
for a block by the square. Then, changing his
mind, he veered south again, toward Ocean Street
and the old Congregational Church which occupied its own
acre between the common and Cambridge Street.
The church had always been Eric's favorite
building in False Harbor, though if anyone had
asked him why, he would not have been able to say. A
tall, narrow structure, its severe white
clapboard side walls were broken at regular
intervals by stained-glass windows which had only
replaced the original flashing two hundred years
after the church had been built and a hundred fifty
years after the last of its puritan founders had been
put to rest in the adjoining graveyard. Its steeply
pitched slate roof was surmounted by a tall steeple
in which the original bell still hung, though it was rung
now only on Sundays and holidays. Eric paused
again in front of the church, wondering if he dared
take enough time to slip inside and watch the ancient
clock in the vestibule strike six. Just as he'd
made up his mind to risk it, a horn sounded. He
turned to see his father's white truck idling at the
curb. From the driver's seat Ed Cavanaugh was
waving impatiently.
Eric felt his stomach begin to knot up with a
familiar tension as he hurried across the
lawn and slid into the truck next to his father.
"Got time to waste hanging out in there?" Ed
Cavanaugh growled as he shoved the truck into gear,
then let out the clutch.
Eric said nothing. He looked straight ahead. He
could feel his father's eyes boring into him.
"Seems to me you could be spending your time a little more
productively than standing around watching an old
clock strike," Ed Cavanaugh went on. His
voice was dangerously soft, a certain sign
to Eric that his father was angry.
"I wasn't going to be there more than a couple of
minutes-" he began, but got no further.
"Unless you want to end up in the gutter, I don't
think you've got a couple of minutes to waste," the
elder Cavanaugh replied. He glanced at the
road as he turned into Cambridge Street, then
shifted his attention back to his son. "And you can
damn well look at me when I talk to you," he
added.
Eric felt the knot in his stomach tighten, but he was
determined not to let his expression betray his fear.
Obediently he turned to face his father.
"You think I'm too hard on you, don't you?" Ed
Cavanaugh asked, his voice edged with an
acid whine. He was breathing harder now, and the heavy
reek of whiskey on his breath made Eric shrink
back slightly. When the boy made no reply,
Ed shook his head. "Well, I'm not. All I
want's for you to do your best. And you can't do that
by dawdling your afternoons away."
like you can dawdle yours away in a bar?
Erie thought, but didn't dare voice the thought. "I
was on my way home, and I just decided to stop at
the church for a minute," he ventured. "That's all."
"Should have been home studying," Ed groused. "And it
seems to me you and I better spend a couple hours
on the diamond after supper. At sixteen you should be
able to hold a bat right."
"It was an accident," Eric groaned. He'd
hoped that if nothing else, at least the drinks his father
had consumed had made him forget about that afternoon's
baseball practice. "I know how to hold a
bat. You taught me yourself, didn't you?"
Ed Cavanaugh's eyes narrowed with suspicion, and
his jaw tightened. "You getting fresh with your old
man, Eric?"
"But you did teach me," Eric insisted. "And I'm
not getting fresh. You didn't see the rest of the
practice, did you? I hit a home
run, and I pitched three strikeouts in a row.
How come you couldn't have seen that?"
"It wouldn't matter if I had," Cavanaugh
replied. "Home runs and strikeouts are what I
expect of you. What I don't expect are
broken bats and pop flies that any idiot
except Jeff Maynard could catch. And I
don't expect sass either!"
"Jeff's not an idiot," Eric protested. "He
just doesn't care
as much about baseball as you do. If he'd wanted
to catch that fly, he could have."
"If he could have, he should have," Ed said tersely.
He swung the truck right into Alder Street and
halfway down the block pulled it up in front
of the shabby two-story clapboard house he'd bought
when he and Laura arrived in False Harbor the
year Eric had been born. Back then he'd only
thought of the house as something temporary, a place for
them to live while he built up a fleet of
commercial fishing boats. But the business hadn't
worked out at all. Ed Cavanaugh's "fleet" still
consisted of nothing more than the same fifty-foot
trawler he'd started with seventeen years before.
He'd long since given up any hope of
moving into one of the larger houses in the west end of the
village. Besides, he told himself whenever he still
bothered to think about it, it wasn't really his fault the
fishing hadn't panned out, any more than it was his
fault that the house, like the boat, had gotten more and more
run down over the years. But where the boat only
needed a coat of paint, the house needed a new
roof as well, and the garden that had once run neatly
along the front of the house was overrun with weeds.
Of course, if he'd had a wife who gave him
at least a little bit of support, it all would have
been different. The house would look great and the
business would be booming. Well, it didn't matter
anymore. In fact nothing mattered much anymore.
He glanced over at Eric once more, and found a
point of focus for the anger that was suddenly threatening
to boil over inside him.
Eric, he decided, wasn't much better than
Laura. Everything came too easy for the boy, and the
rotten kid didn't appreciate it. Besides, the
little know-it-all wasn't quite the hot shit he thought he
was.
Oh, Eric was smart-Ed knew the kid was a lot
smarter than Laura, if not himself, and he was almost as
well coordinated as he himself had been at
the same age. Almost, but not quite.
Nobody-but nobody-had been as good an athlete as
Big Ed Cavanaugh. And if things had just turned
out different-if he'd just gotten even one decent
break-he'd
have played in the big leagues. But, of course,
he'd never gotten a decent break.
Eric, on the other hand, always seemed to get the
breaks. And all it had done for him, as far as Ed was
concerned, was to make him cocky.
That meant he had a duty to take the kid down a
peg or two.
And he knew how to do it too. Just keep pushing at
the kid. Never let him think he was doing enough.
Swinging himself down from the cab of his truck, Ed
glanced around the yard, looking for some extra chores
to add to Eric's list of weekend duties. Then he
glanced at the house next door, and the rage he was
feeling toward his son shifted again.
How come, he wondered, the Winslows" house always
looked so much better than his own? But, of course,
he knew the answer: Keith Winslow-who wasn't
any better than anyone else, except he always
got all the breaks-had somehow managed to snag himself
a decent wife. And that made all the
difference in the world. If
he'd
been married to Rosemary Winslow, things would be
different for
him
too. Not only did she keep the house looking
good, but she made a decent living as well.
And that let Keith spend his time lounging around on a
boat that never did any real fishing at all. Just
took a bunch of rich people from Boston and New
York out for sport every now and then.
Ed's gaze drifted to the upstairs front window
of the Winslows' house as he thought about what
Rosemary Winslow was doing right now. But he
figured he knew, since Keith had gotten home
from a four-day cruise just this morning.
He wondered what Rosemary did all those nights
when Keith was gone. Sometimes, when he could see that
she'd put the kid to bed, he'd thought maybe he ought
to go over and keep her company for a while. Of
course, so far he hadn't actually done it, but that
didn't mean he never would. And if Laura
didn't like it, that would be just too damned bad.
Suddenly he became conscious of his son's eyes
on him, and he turned to see Eric staring at
him, almost as if the boy
had been reading his thoughts. "You got a problem?" he
demanded. Then his mouth twisted into an ugly leer.
"You're thinkin' about Winslow's daughter, huh? The
one that's comin'
from
California tomorrow?" Eric, quickly shaking his head,
turned away and started up the driveway toward the
back door, but Ed merely raised his voice.
"Well, you can forget about her, boy! I don't
want you gettin' in trouble with any trashy little slut
from California. You hear me?"
Once more Eric said nothing, but his shoulders hunched
defensively, as if he could physically deflect
his father's words.
A moment later, with a last glance at the Winslows'
house, Ed followed his son up the drive. There was
going to be trouble tonight. He could feel it coming. Either
Eric or Laura was going to smart off, and he'd have
to teach them a lesson. But that was all right. He'd
had a lousy day anyway. He always felt better
after he'd let off some steam.
From her regular post by the kitchen sink Laura
Cavanaugh watched her husband and son come up the
drive, and knew immediately that there was trouble.
Ed's face-always florid-" redder than usual,
and Eric wore the expression of strained placidity
that she had learned a long time ago to recognize as
repressed anger.
What was it about this time? she wondered. Well, she
would find out soon enough. She opened the oven door
to give the spareribs a final basting, then pulled the
salad out of the refrigerator and took it into the dining
room, where the table was already set for dinner. She
heard the screen door slam, and went back to the
kitchen just as Ed and Eric came in from the service
porch. Eric gave her a quick kiss on the cheek,
and a moment later she heard him taking the stairs two
at a time as he went up to his room. Ed dropped
his lunch box on the counter, then started washing his hands
at the kitchen sink. The muscles on his back
rippled under his blue denim shirt.
Fifteen years ago she would have gone to him, slipped
her arms around him and hugged him. But she knew what
would happen if she tried that now. He would stiffen,
then twist away from her, his eyes flashing with anger.
Then, acting as if nothing had happened, he'd ask
why dinner was
late, and before she could reply, he would settle into the
breakfast nook and bury himself in the
newspaper.
Unless Eric came back down.
If Eric came downstairs, Ed would put the paper
aside and start rehashing every minute of Eric's day with
him. What had happened? Who had he had lunch with?
How were his classes going? What had he done after
school? What was he doing in the evening? Was he
seeing Lisa Chambers?
And Eric, looking to Laura like a trapped
animal, would do his best to give his father
satisfactory answers. Except, as Laura was
all too well aware, there were no satisfactory
answers.
Now Ed turned away from the sink, dried his hands on
one of the dish towels, then shoved his bulk into the
breakfast nook. His eyes met hers, and his brows
knit into a scowl. "Something wrong?" he asked.
Laura opened her mouth, then changed her mind,
closed it and shook her head.
For a second she thought Ed was going to stand up again, but
he merely reached out and pulled the newspaper over
to the place in front of him. Breathing a silent
sigh of relief, Laura turned back to the sink.
I should leave him, she told herself. I should take
Eric and get out.
But, of course, she wouldn't. There was no place for
her to go. She was trapped, and there was no way out.
Besides, none of what had gone wrong for her family
was Ed's fault. She knew that-Ed reminded her of
it almost every day, one way or another.
Everything that went wrong was her fault. Somehow, some
way, she'd failed Ed. And having failed him, she
couldn't walk out on him.
But why did he always have to take it out on Eric
too?
She'd tried to talk about it with him a few times, when
he seemed to be in a particularly good mood, but
he'd always insisted that he wasn't being hard on the
boy, that he was only giving Eric the guidance that a
father owed to a son.
But Laura was certain there was more to it than that. Though
Ed maintained that all he wanted was the best for
Eric, Laura always had the distinct feeling that it was
something else, that it wasn't just the normal desire
of a man to see his son succeed.
It was as if her husband wanted to punish Eric. But
she had never been able to discover the reason why.
Almost surreptitiously she found herself studying her
husband. His hair-dark brown when she had first met
him- was iron gray now, and the athlete's
body that had been his pride then had thickened over the
last twenty years. His hands-the large hands that had
once made her feel so safe when they held
hers-were callused now, and the veins on their backs
stood out, even under the thick mat of hair that started
at his fingers and ran all the way up to his elbows.
His face had been ruggedly handsome when he was in his
twenties, but the years of drinking had blurred those
sharp features, and there was a puffy looseness in the
skin under his eyes.
So different from Eric, whose lithe body would never
attain the mass of his father's, and whose hands always
struck Laura as being the hands of an artist or a
musician. Not, of course, that Eric had ever tried
any such thing, although Laura knew that sometimes, when
he was by himself, Eric liked to draw. Several times
she had found sketches in his room. Once she'd
even thought about showing them to Ed.
She had quickly changed her mind, knowing how her
husband felt about art: "Sissy way to make a
living," she remembered his saying as he'd sat in
front of the television, drinking a beer while she
watched a documentary about the life of Andrew
Wyeth. "And even most of the good ones wind up
starving." So she'd put Eric's sketches
back in the drawer where she'd found them, and never
mentioned them at all.
Eric's face, too, was different from Ed's. Where
Ed's handsomeness-while he'd still had it-had always been
rugged, Eric's face was sensitive, his blue
eyes ringed with long black lashes, and his
delicately chiseled features framed by an
unruly mass of curly black hair which, when he
was small, had been the bane of his existence. Even
today Laura found it difficult to pass her son
without running her hand through his hair.
Indeed, she sometimes wondered if it was Eric's
looks alone that make Ed ride him so hard.
Perhaps, she some
times thought, if Eric had looked more like his dad, Ed
wouldn't have needed to mold him quite so strictly.
Suddenly her husband's angry voice intruded on
her reverie.
"It's ten after six, Laura. Can't you ever have
dinner ready on time?"
Laura jumped at his voice, then hurriedly bent
to open the oven. "I'll start serving right away," she
promised. "H-how was your day? Did everything go
all right? Did you get the engine fixed?"
Ed glared at her, his attention already drifting
back to the sports page open in front of him.
"If it went badly, I'd tell you, right? And
no, I didn't get the engine fixed. I had
to spend most of the afternoon with the wholesaler, trying to soften
him up to give me a decent price on the catch."
Which means you sat in the Whaler's Inn, drinking all
afternoon, Laura thought as she began placing the ribs
onto the three plates on the counter.
Silently she carried the plates into the dining room.
Then, just as she was about to call upstairs to Eric, he
appeared in the doorway that separated the dining room
from the kitchen.
"Mom?" he asked, his voice low enough so that Laura
knew he didn't want his father to hear. "Can you
talk to Dad? He wants me to go practice
batting with him tonight, but I have to study."
Laura stood still. Her eyes met her son's.
She could read the fear in them, and the shame he was
feeling at asking for her help. She hesitated,
then almost in spite of herself, shook her head.
"I can't," she said quietly. "If he's made
up his mind, I can't change it. You know that."
For a moment something flickered in Eric's eyes, then
it was gone. "Yeah," he said finally. "Yeah, I
know. Well, don't worry, Mom.
It'll be all right-I'll figure something out."
A moment later Ed Cavanaugh came in and took
his place at the head of the table. He waited
silently until his wife and son had seated themselves.
His eyes surveyed the dinner in front of him, then
came to rest on them.
"I guess I can't complain," he said, his voice
oozing with a stinging slime of vicious sarcasm. "A
crappy house, a lazy
I
 
son, and a wife who can't cook. What more could
anyone want?"
Eric's eyes flashed with anger as his mother winced at
the lash of the words, but neither of them answered him, each
silently hoping that when Ed started shouting, the
neighbors wouldn't hear him. But of course, they
would-they always did-and though none of them ever said much,
Laura and Eric always knew what they were thinking.
Eric always did his best simply to act as if nothing
had happened, but for Laura the pitiful looks she
always got from the neighbors;-particularly from
Rosemary Winslow-were almost as painful as her
husband's blows.
"If you don't get started, you won't
make it," Rosemary Winslow said, her eyes
flicking to the clock on the wall. It was already after
nine, but Keith didn't seem the least bit
worried. As she watched, he poured himself another
cup of coffee and neatly folded
The Boston Globe
to the sports page. "Keith! Didn't you hear
me? This is not a fishing trip-you're picking up your
own daughter, and you can't be late!"
"I won't be late," Keith replied, setting the
paper aside. "It's Saturday-there won't be that
much traffic." He heard the sound of a screen door
slamming next door, and glanced out the window to see
Ed Cavanaugh starting down his driveway, his eyes
bleary, his footsteps dragging. He gestured toward
the window with his head, at the same time grinning
wickedly at his wife. "Bet Laura doesn't
nag
him
the way you nag me."
Rosemary's eyes darkened as she remembered the
sounds that had erupted from the Cavanaughs' house
late the night before. Though Ed's yelling hadn't
been punctuated with any of Laura's quickly
stifled screams of pain, Rosemary was still
certain the man had been slapping his family around
again. Perhaps last night she should have given in
to Keith's desire to call the police. "It's not
funny," she said, "and I wish you wouldn't make
jokes about it."
From her place next to her father Jennifer, who had
mercifully slept through the Cavanaughs' argument,
looked up from the little rivers of maple syrup she was
dredging
through the scrambled eggs on her plate. "What's not
funny?" she demanded, her large eight-year-old's
eyes searching her parents' faces.
"The way Mr. Cavanaugh treats his family,"
Keith replied, his bantering tone suddenly gone.
"And your mother's right. I shouldn't make jokes about
it."
"Oh," Jennifer replied, immediately losing interest.
Then, once more taking up an argument she'd lost
earlier that morning but saw no point in abandoning, she
turned to her mother. "How come I can't go to Boston with
Daddy to pick up Cassie?"
"I already told you, sweetheart," Rosemary
replied. She reached out to ruffle the red curls that
capped Jennifer's freckled face. "Cassie just
lost her mother, and she won't be feeling very
good. We just think it would be easier for her if she
didn't have to deal with anyone but your daddy right away.
Besides, you and I have a lot to do. We have to go shopping,
then finish the bedroom. We want it to be ready for
Cassie, don't we?"
Jennifer's face darkened and her lower lip quivered
petulantly. "That was supposed to be my room,"
she reminded her mother. "You promised me-"
"I know what I promised." Rosemary sighed,
wondering how to explain to an eight-year-old that
promises sometimes had to be broken. "But that was before
we knew Cassie was coming to live with us. And
didn't you decide it would be nicer to have a big
sister than a bigger room?"
Jennifer hesitated, then decided not to answer the
question at all. "But what if she doesn't like me?"
"Of course she'll like you, Punkin," Keith told
her. "What's not to like? Just because you talk all the time,
tend to be a little sassy, and kick and scream when you
don't get your way? What's not to like?"
"I do not!" Jennifer protested. She was trying very
hard to look indignant, but instead she dissolved into the
giggles that always came over her when her father teased
her. "And my name's not Punkin, either. It's
Jennifer."
"Right, Punkin," Keith said. He slid off his
chair just in time to avoid his younger daughter's fist as
she aimed it at his side. "Stop
worrying-Cassie will like you."
Jennifer's giggles faded away, and suddenly her
expression became serious. "If she'll like me,
how come she never came to visit me? Doesn't she
like you?"
For a split second Keith's eyes met his
wife's. Jennifer, they both realized, had just
asked the question neither of them was willing to deal with.
Neither Rosemary nor Jennifer had ever met
Cassie, and Keith himself hadn't seen her for more
years than he liked to admit. The last time he'd
gone to California to see his daughter-until then an
annual pilgrimage-the trip had turned into a
disaster. His first wife, Diana, had been divorced
for the second time by then, and she seemed to blame the
failure of her second marriage-as well as her
first-squarely on Keith.
"I don't want to see you," she'd told Keith
on the phone. "I don't suppose I can stop you
from seeing Cassie, but I don't have to see you
myself."
"But why?" Keith had demanded. "What did
I do?"
"Tommy left me," she'd said bitterly. "He
left me because I couldn't trust him, couldn't let
myself depend on him. And that's your fault. Thanks
to you, I can't trust anybody."
Immediately Keith had understood what had happened.
Once more Diana's insane jealousy had destroyed
her marriage. It wasn't, he knew, that she
hadn't been able to trust or depend on him.
Somewhere, deep inside her, there was a demon who
whispered to her every minute of every day, telling her that people
didn't like her, that they looked down on her, that she
wasn't good enough.
But the worst of what the demon whispered was that her
husband was cheating on her.
And though it was untrue-Keith had never betrayed
her, had never even contemplated doing so-Diana had
believed the demon within her. She had begun questioning his
every move. When he wasn't with her, she sat alone
at home, imagining him in the arms of another
woman. Eventually she'd come to the conclusion that a
baby was the answer to their problems, and Keith had
finally agreed with her. It had occurred to him that
Diana's jealousy might be rooted in her
deep-seated conviction that Keith didn't
truly need her. A baby might change that, giving
Diana both the self-esteem of being a mother and a new
focus for her energies.
And so they had conceived Cassie.
But Diana's jealousy had only worsened, until
finally, unable to deal with it any longer, Keith had
left.
Diana had never forgiven him. When the divorce had
finally come, he'd given up his rights to partial
custody of Cassie rather than subject the child to what
Diana swore would be an unending fight through the
courts. As soon as she'd won, Diana had
taken Cassie to California.
Each year Keith had gone by himself to Los
Angeles for a week, checked into a hotel, and
spent as much time with his daughter as Diana would
allow.
But on that last trip Cassie had barely spoken
to him, and toward the end of the week Keith had finally
discovered that Diana had convinced the child, too, that the
loss of her stepfather was her father's fault.
One week a year, Keith had decided, was not enough
to repair the sundered relationship. The following year,
when Diana had told him that Cassie didn't
want to see him, he and Rosemary had
decided it would be better for Cassie, if not for
Keith, to stay out of the situation entirely.
Then, four days ago, Diana had gone out after work
for dinner with some friends, but never made it home.
It had been three o'clock in the morning when Rosemary
had sleepily answered the phone, to be told her
husband's first wife was dead.
Cassie, not knowing what else to do, had given the
police her father's phone number, but Rosemary had
learned the next day that Cassie had also warned them
not to be surprised if Keith hung up on them.
Her exact words were, "He hung up on my
mom and me a long time ago." When Rosemary had
repeated them to Keith, he'd winced with a pain that was
almost physical.
Had it been any other time, Keith would have been on
a plane to Los Angeles immediately, but when
Rosemary was finally able to reach him, he was two days
out of False Harbor, with no one else on the
boat who was capable of skippering it alone. And so,
through a series of tense radiotelephone calls,
arrangements had been made for Cassie to fly
to Boston, where he would meet her and bring her
to False Harbor to live with him and his second
family.
As for Jennifer's question, he had no simple answer
for it.
As far as he knew, no, Cassie did not like him.
On the other hand, she hadn't seen him for five
years, and hadn't lived with him since she was two.
But he was still her father. He still loved her, and now that
she needed him, he would be there.
"She'll like me," he finally told Jennifer.
"She'll like us all."
Then, after kissing his younger daughter and giving his wife
a hug, he left the house and hurried out to the car.
Five minutes later he was out of False Harbor
and on the highway to Boston.
Gassie felt a gentle tap on her shoulder, and
glanced up from the book in her lap to see a
stewardess leaning over the two vacant seats between
her and the aisle. She reached up and pulled one
earphone of her Walkman away from her head.
"Your seat belt," the stewardess said, pointing to the
sign that glowed on the bulkhead three rows ahead.
"We're making our final approach. We'll be
landing in five minutes."
Cassie nodded silently, removed the headset, and
dropped both it and the Walkman, along with her
unread book, back into the big leather tote
bag that had been her mother's. The previous night,
when she'd decided to take it with her, she had thought that
the bag might make her feel better, might give
her at least a tenuous connection with her mother. But every
time she looked at it, her eyes flooded with tears,
and already she was wishing she'd left it behind with everything
else in their little apartment in North Hollywood,
to be packed for shipment by the movers who would arrive the
next day. She looked resolutely away from the
bag as she fastened the seat belt, and her gaze
drifted out the window to the city that lay below.
All through the five hours of the flight, she had
entertained the impossible hope that she might
recognize Boston, but deep inside had known she
wouldn't. Now she discovered she'd been right. As the
plane soared out over Massachusetts Bay, then
banked into the final turn before gliding over Boston
harbor to touch down on the runway at Logan
Airport, Cassie searched the landscape below for
something- anything-that looked familiar. But there was
nothing, and as the plane sank lower and lower, until
finally only the buildings along the waterfront were still
visible, she turned away from the window. Why, after
all, should anything look familiar? She hadn't
been here since she was barely two years
old. How could she remember it? Besides, if it
hadn't been for the accident, she wouldn't even be trying
to remember it. For a split second she felt a
flash of anger toward her mother, then resolutely
put the feeling aside. The accident, she told
herself one more time, was only that-an accident. But still the
thought remained. Twice since her mother had died,
Cassie had awakened in the dark, her body
trembling and damp with a cold sweat, for the dream
she'd first had the night before her mother died had come
back.
In the dream she was standing by the freeway watching the
traffic rush by, and then, far in the distance, she had
seen her mother's car. In the dream it looked just tike
all the other cars on the freeway, there didn't
seem to be anything different about it. But still, somehow
she had known that that particular car was her mother's. And
then, as the car passed her, she saw her mother turn and
look at her. The odd thing was that the woman in the
car, whom she
knew
was her mother, didn't look like her mother at all.
While her mother's hair was a sort of drab
brown-at least at the roots-the woman in the car in
her dream had long black hair which fell
around her shoulders, and deep blue eyes which seemed
to penetrate right into Cassie's soul.
Her mother's eyes had been brown, like Cassie's
own.
And then, in the dream, her mother had said something.
Cassie couldn't quite make out the words, but a second
later her mother had begun laughing, and the car suddenly
shot forward. A second after that it veered sharply to the
left, smashed headlong into the concrete supports of
an overpass, and burst into flames. Cassie had
awakened then, sweating and shaking, her ears still ringing with the
sound of the explosion, her vision still filled by the sight
of her mother's face-the stranger's face-flame
consuming her as she stared at Cassie and uttered a
single word: "Goodbye."
Then she'd started laughing, a high-pitched screeching
laugh, as if she didn't care that she was leaving
Cassie alone in the world.
But the strangest part of the dream was that the woman in the
car-the woman Cassie was still certain had been her
mother-" a stranger.
It didn't make sense. Had her mother killed
herself, or had Cassie herself, in some unknown way,
caused the accident? And yet she knew she couldn't
have caused it, for she hadn't even really seen
it, except in the dream.
The very next night the dream repeated itself-this time in
horrible reality. And Cassie's feeling that she
might somehow have caused the accident still persisted.
She felt a slight bump as the plane touched
down. She tightened her grip on the armrests as the
engines reversed, fighting the ground winds, and the
plane slowed to a stop. A few minutes later it
was parked at the gate and the jetway was swinging slowly
around to link up with the door. Beyond that door, waiting for
her, was the man who had abandoned her when she was only
a baby, and eventually even stopped visiting her.
Why couldn't she have stayed in Los Angeles? At
least there she would have had her friends around her.
As the other passengers streamed up the aisle past
her, Cassie stayed in her seat putting off as long
as she could the moment when she would have to get off the
plane and face her father.
What if he didn't even recognize her? Would
she have to go up to him and say, "I'm Cassie?"
No, that wouldn't happen. There wouldn't be anyone
else left on the plane, so he would
have
to know who she was. Finally, when the last person had
disappeared from the aisle in front of her, she
released the seat belt, pulled her coat down from the
overhead compartment, and picked up her tote bag.
She passed the stewardess at the door, saying
nothing when the woman wished her a nice day, then
moved slowly down the jetway. A few seconds
later she stepped into the terminal and looked around.
The last of the passengers was drifting away, and a few
people sat in chairs, baggage at their feet, waiting
for the next leg of the flight.
But no one at all was waiting for her.
Her first instinct was. to turn around and hurry back
into
the airplane, but she knew she couldn't do that.
Suddenly she felt embarrassed, as if everyone in
the airport were watching her. What should she do?
Maybe she had misunderstood, and her father was going
to meet her at the baggage area. But no, she
distinctly remembered his telling her that he would meet
her at the gate and she needed only to pack enough for a
few days. Everything else would be shipped, and what
she didn't have room to pack in a bag small enough
to carry on, they could buy. She wasn't to worry
about checking luggage. That, in fact, was the other
reason she had chosen her mother's tote bag. It was
big enough to carry a lot of things, but had a
shoulder strap.
She looked around once more. He had to be there. He
had
tot He couldn't make her fly all the way across
the country and then just not show up. Or could he?
She remembered how her mother used to talk about her
lather: "I could never trust him. Every time I turned
around, he was gone, and I could never be sure he'd
ever come home again. And then one day he didn't.
There wasn't any warning, any sign that anything was
wrong. He just didn't come home one day; and the
next thing I knew, he was divorcing me! And he
did the same thing to you, Cassie! Just stopped coming
to see you, and stopped writing to you! Just like that. In a
way, it's lucky for you you're finding out what kind of
man he
is
now, before he can hurt you any more."
But he wouldn't do that, Cassie told herself. I just
talked to him last night. He promised he'd be
here.
But he wasn't.
A few yards away a bank of telephones lined
one wall of the terminal area. Cassie started toward
it, fishing at the bottom of the tote bag for
some loose change. She would call him and find out
what had gone wrong.
When she'd let the phone ring twenty times, she
hung up. She slumped down on the floor, staring
up at the phone, her eyes flooding with tears.
What if the same tiling had happened to him that had
happened to her mother? What if he was on his way
to Boston, and there had been another accident?
What if he was dead?
Then, as if from a great distance, she heard her name
being called. She looked up, and there he was,
hurrying toward her.
"Cassie? Cass!"
She stood up and started to take a step toward him,
but then he was there, his arms around her. She stiffened for a
moment before she let herself relax slightly.
"I'm sorry, baby," Keith whispered in her
ear. "I would have been here in plenty of time, except
for the tunnel. It's my own fault
-
I should have left a little earlier."
Cassie pulled back and tipped her head up
to look at him. "I
-
I was afraid something had happened. I was
afraid
-
his
"Shh," Keith purred, pulling her to him again.
"You're safe, and I'm safe, and nothing's going
to
happen to either of us.
Taking the heavy tote bag from her, he led her out
of the terminal.
Neither Keith nor Cassie spoke much on the long
drive from Boston down to Cape Cod, for Keith
was reluctant to press his daughter to talk until
she felt like it, and Cassie was, for the moment,
content to sit curled against the door, staring out the window
at the passing scenery, still hoping for a feeling of
familiarity to come over her.
But none did.
Instead she had a growing sense that here, in the part of the
country where she was born, everything was too small.
As they left Boston, and suddenly the urban area
ended
-
replaced by gently rolling hills covered with forests
which had a miniature look to them
 
she suddenly realized that she had no idea which
direction they were going.
At home she'd always known which direction was which, just
by the positions of the two mountain ranges that bounded the
San Fernando Valley on the north and the south. But
here, no matter which way she looked, there were no
mountains.
be
Cassie began to have a feeling that the countryside was
closing in around her. She tried to get over it
by concentrating on the forests, but they, too, had a
different feeling to them. Her only previous
experience with forests had been in the Sierras, or
among the redwoods of northern California, where
enormous trees, widely spaced and primeval,
dominated the woods with their splendor. Here even the
trees seemed small and crowded together, and looked
to her as if they were fighting to survive. Then, finally,
they turned off the main highway and began winding
along a narrow road, passing through one small town
after another. Suddenly things began to look more
familiar.
It wasn't memory, she decided, or the feeling
that she'd been here before. Instead she recognized the
towns from pictures she'd seen in
magazines, from movies she'd been to, and from
television shows she'd watched. Small towns with
well-kept yards, which seemed to begin quite suddenly,
emerging from the surrounding woodland with no warning, then as
suddenly disappearing again. Not at all like the towns she
was used to, where you couldn't really tell where one ended
and the next one began. In California, when you went
out into the desert, the towns always seemed to start
slowly, with a lone house or two sitting back from the
road, surrounded by wrecked cars. Then, a little
farther on, there would be a junkyard, or a gas
station, and then more houses, until eventually you would
find yourself in a town, not quite certain when you had gotten
there.
Here, in New England, you knew. First you were in the
woods, then you were in the middle of a town, then you were in
the woods again.
"Are all the towns like this?" she asked her father.
Keith, startled out of a reverie, glanced over at
her. "Like what?"
"I don't know. So ... well, all the towns
seem separate, as if they're all by themselves. At
home everything runs together."
Keith smiled. "I noticed the same thing when I
used to go out there. I could never tell the
difference between North Hollywood and Studio City
and Van Nuys and Sherman Oaks. I could never
see how anyone could stand it."
For the first time since her mother had died, Cassie found
herself giggling. "That's because there isn't any
difference," she said. "They're all the same. The
whole Valley's all the same." Her smile
faded. "Is that how come you stopped coming to visit me?
Because you didn't like the Valley?"
Keith said nothing for a moment, then shook his head.
"I
wouldn't have cared where you lived. I just thought- Well,
it doesn't matter now."
Now it was Cassie who fell silent.
He doesn't want to talk about Mother,
she thought. Her mind drifted back to the last time
she'd seen him, right after Tommy had moved out.
She'd wanted to talk to him then, wanted to ask him
what had happened when she was little and he'd left her
mother. But she'd been afraid to. Her mother had
told her often enough that all he'd done
was lie
to
her and that she shouldn't believe a word he said. So she
hadn't said anything at all that day. And then
she'd never seen her father again.
"You could have written to me," she said finally.
Keith looked at her once again. She was feeing
straight ahead, her eyes apparently fixed on the
highway, but he could see they were glistening with tears.
"I did write to you, honey," he said quietly.
"I wrote to you every month. And I sent you
Christmas presents, and birthday presents too.
But I never heard anything back." Keith waited,
but Cassie said nothing. "Your mother never gave them
to you, did she?" he finally asked.
Cassie hesitated, then shook her head.
For the rest of the trip to False Harbor, neither of them
said anything.
Eric Cavanaugh was mowing the front lawn when he
saw the Winslows" station wagon pull into the farthest
of the twin driveways that separated his house from the
Winslows'. He waved, and was about to call out a
greeting, when the passenger door opened and a girl
got out.
She looked about the same age as he was. Her
face was pale, and her dark brown hair, pulled
back in a ponytail, made her skin seem even
whiter than it was. She was wearing a pair of red
jeans, with sneakers of the same color, and had
on a white blouse. As he watched, she opened the
back door of the station wagon and pulled out a brown
raincoat and a bulging leather bag. Though Eric
couldn't see anything about her that looked much different
from all the other girls he knew, he had a distinct
feeling that there was something odd about her. Then he heard
Mr. Winslow speaking to him.
"I want you to meet someone, Eric. This is my
daughter, Cassie. She's just arrived from
California
to
live with us.
Cassie, this is Eric Cavanaugh. The
proverbial boy next door," he added, winking
at Eric.
Cassie smiled shyly and held out her hand, but
Eric didn't take it. Without meaning to, he
frowned slightly, still trying to place her in his mind.
As their eyes met, he took an involuntary step
backward. Then, remembering his manners, he
recovered himself and managed a crooked grin.
"H-hi," he stammered. "I'm sorry about your
mother. ..." Cassie's face turned even more
pale, and as she turned and hurried toward the house,
Eric wished he'd thought of something else
to say. But his mind had suddenly gone blank, for as
he'd looked at Cassie, something had happened
to him.
It was as if their minds had met, as if an instant
connection had been made. Something within her had reached
out, and something within him had responded. As he went
back to his lawn mowing, the strange feeling inside
him grew stronger.
She was someone he'd been searching for, though he had
been unaware that he was even searching. He knew
her, knew how she felt, knew what she was thinking.
For some reason he didn't understand, he was certain that
it had been the same for her.
And in that instant, he had known something else-that
Cassie Winslow didn't truly care that her mother
had died.
But that's stupid,
Eric told himself.
I've never seen her before, and I don't know anything
about her at all.
 
She looks so much older than I thought she would,
Rosemary Winslow thought as the front door opened
and Cassie stepped inside. But, of course, why
wouldn't she? After all, the last pictures
Keith had brought back had been taken when
Cassie was only eleven. The child in those
pictures, the little girl with the large-almost
haunted-dark brown eyes which had stared out from beneath
thick bangs, was gone. The girl who stood before
Rosemary was now almost grown up. Nearly as tall
as Rosemary herself, Cassie held herself erect,
her long chestnut hair drawn back to expose a
pale face that seemed more mature than her fifteen
years. But the girl's eyes still seemed to have the same
haunted look that Rosemary remembered so
vividly from the last set of snapshots.
"I'm Rosemary," she said, offering Cassie a
smile and stepping forward, ready to hug the girl.
"I'm so very sorry about what's happened. If
there's anything I can do . . ."
Cassie hesitated-Rosemary could almost feel the
girl shrinking away from her. Then she offered
Rosemary her hand. "I'm Cassie," she said
softly. "It... it was good of you to take me in."
Good of us? Rosemary repeated in her own mind.
What a strange thing to say-what else could she have
thought might happen?
"I've been wanting to meet you for so long,"
Rosemary said out loud. "I even tried
to convince your father to take Jennifer and me along the
last time he went to visit you, but
Jennifer was only three, and in the end it just didn't
seem like it would be fair." She turned and glanced
up the stairs. "Jen? Don't you want to come down
and meet your sister?"
Jennifer suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs,
looking shyly down at Cassie. Very slowly she
started down the steps. "My name's Jennifer
Elizabeth," she said, offering her hand to Cassie.
"But you can call me Jen, or Jenny. Just don't
call me Punkin. Daddy calls me that, and I
hate
it
Did he call you by a dumb name when you were little?"
Cassie stared at the little girl, who was a tiny
feminine version of her father. Her reddish curls
seemed to go in every direction, and her sparkling green
eyes peered out of a square face with a jaw that gave
her a stubborn look. But though her voice had been
serious when she spoke, Cassie still saw a happy
gleam in Jennifer's eyes.
"I don't remember what he called me," she
said. "I was only a baby when he went away."
She turned to her father. "Did you have a
nickname for me?"
Keith spoke without thinking. "Same as Jen's.
Punkin." Then, seeing the hurt in both his
daughters' eyes, he wished he could take the words
back. "I guess I don't have any imagination,
do I?" he offered, trying to ease the moment.
"Jenny, why don't you take Cassie upstairs
and show her her room?" Rosemary said hurriedly,
then turned to Cassie. "Did you really manage
to get everything into that one little bag, or are there some
suitcases in the car?"
Cassie shook her head. "This is all I brought.
Daddy said I shouldn't bring anything else-"
"And you paid attention to him?" Rosemary replied with
an exaggerated gasp. "I told him no girl your
age could put everything in one bag, and that he shouldn't
have asked you to.
"It's all right," Cassie replied. "I don't
really have much anyway. All I needed was a few
extra clothes."
"Well, all right," Rosemary said doubtfully.
"But if you find out you forgot anything, just let me
know, and we'll go do some shopping."
Jennifer, who was already halfway up the stairs,
whirled around. "Come
on,"
she urged. "Don't you even want to see the
room?"
Cassie hurried up the stairs after Jennifer, then
followed
down the hall to a large room in the southeast corner
of the house. As she stepped through the door, she stopped
short. The room had obviously just been done over,
but whoever had planned it must have thought she was still ten
years old. The walls were papered with what looked like
characters out of
Alice in Wonderland,
and the curtains were made out of material that matched the
paper. Against one wall there was an ornate brass
bed, covered with a blue quilt with white ruffles.
In addition to the bed there was a wooden desk, a
bureau, and a rocking chair, all of it painted
white. The rocking chair had a cushion on its
seat, upholstered in the same blue as the quilt on
the bed.
"Don't you just love it?" Jennifer asked
excitedly.
"Alice in Wonderland
is my favorite book in the whole world."
Cassie suddenly understood. "This is your
room, isn't it?"
Jennifer hesitated, then slowly nodded. "It's
always been my room. Mom and I just finished
decorating it, and I was going to move back into it
today. But then when we found out that you were coming, we
decided I should stay in the other room and you should have this
one, because this one is bigger."
"That's dumb," Cassie announced. "Let's go
see the other room."
Jennifer's eyes clouded over with doubt. "I
shouldn't show it to you. Mom says I shouldn't let
anyone in my room unless I've cleaned it, and I
didn't even pick it up today."
"Well, that's dumb too," Cassie decided.
"I never cleaned my room at home, and I had
anyone in it I wanted. Let's go see it.
Reluctantly Jennifer led Cassie back into the
hall, then across to the other side of the house. "It's
kinda small," she said before she opened the door.
"Daddy says there didn't used to be a bathroom
up here, and when they put one in a long time ago, they
took half of this room for it." She pushed the door
open and let Cassie step inside.
This, she knew as soon as she crossed the
threshold, was the room that would be hers.
Had it not been for the space lost to the bathroom, the
bedroom would have been large and L-shaped, with two
windows on each wall. As it was, the room was
perfectly rectangular, but no more than eight
feet wide, with its fifteen
foot length giving it more of the feeling of a hall than
a room. Just inside the door-to the left-a
closet had been built. The floors were pine, and
as Cassie moved slowly down the length of the room
toward the single window at the far end, the planks
creaked under her feet.
And yet despite its odd proportions and creaking
floor, or maybe even because of them, the room felt
right to her. Its relationship to the rest of the house
seemed to her to reflect her own relationship to her
father's family.
Not quite connected, not quite fitting in.
Set apart.
In her mind's eye she emptied the room of
Jennifer's toys and filled it with her own things.
She covered the pink wallpaper with forest-green
paint, and trimmed the window sashes in white
enamel. Suddenly the room took on a cozy
feeling, as if it were wrapping itself around her,
protecting her. As Jennifer had said, the
room wasn't nearly as large as the other one, but it
wasn't really small either. It was just oddly shaped.
As Cassie examined it more carefully, she realized
she could divide the space in half, with her bed in the
part closest to the door. The rest of the room would be
set aside as a private place, a place shut
off to everyone else but her.
She came finally to the window and looked out. Below her
was the backyard, its lawn neatly cut, and beyond that,
separated from the yard by a black wrought-iron fence,
was a small cemetery. "What's that?" she asked,
and Jennifer came over to stand beside her.
"It's the graveyard," the little girl said
solemnly. "It's the oldest one in False
Harbor, and everyone in it's been dead a real long
time. Practically nobody ever gets buried there
anymore-it's almost all full."
Cassie grinned mischievously at the little girl.
"Are there any ghosts in there?"
Jennifer's eyes rolled scornfully upward.
"There's no such thing as ghosts. Everyone knows that!"
"But it's still fun to think about," Cassie replied.
"I mean, wouldn't it be neat to think maybe there are
still people down there who've been there for hundreds of
years, and sometimes, when it's real dark, they
get up and wander around the town?"
Jennifer frowned. "Why would they want to do that?"
Cassie shrugged, and let her imagination begin
to flow. "Lots of reasons. Maybe they just want
to see the houses they lived in, or keep an eye
on their descendants." Her voice dropped
slightly. "Or maybe there are people in the graveyard
who weren't supposed to die, and they're still there,
waiting for revenge."
Jennifer's eyes narrowed, but when she spoke, her
voice quavered just the tiniest bit. "Now,
that's
dumb!" she declared in conscious imitation of
Cassie's earlier pronouncements. "All you're
doing is trying to scare me, and you can't. I'm not a
baby."
"But it could be true," Cassie insisted, her gaze
returning to the graveyard once more. "Nobody knows
what happens to us after we die. Maybe we just
die, but maybe we don't. Maybe we keep on
living, in different bodies."
Jennifer frowned. "You mean like re-reincar-whatever
that word is?"
"Reincarnation," Cassie said. "Maybe-" She
fell silent as she noticed a slight
movement out of the corner of her eye. Peering out the
window, she looked to the left and saw Eric
Cavanaugh leaning into the power mower, pushing it through the
thick grass in his backyard. She frowned
slightly, remembering his odd reaction when he'd
been introduced to her. For a second he'd almost
seemed afraid of her.
She watched him for a few moments, and then, as if he
could feel her eyes on him, he turned, squinted
against the sun as he tipped his face up, and
hesitantly waved. Another moment went by before
Cassie waved back.
Abandoning the window, she looked at the room once
more, then her eyes fell on Jennifer, who was
watching her warily. "I told you it was small," the
little girl said cautiously. "You don't like it, do
you?"
"Yes, I do," Cassie said. "In fact I like
it a lot better than the other room, and I think
we ought to trade."
Jennifer's eyes lit with sudden excitement.
"Really?"
Cassie nodded. "Why don't you go down and tell
your mother, and if she says it's all right, we'll just
start moving your stuff back into your room,
okay?"
Jennifer squealed with delight, and darted out of the
room. A second later Cassie heard her
pounding down the
stairs. Then, alone in the room, she let herself
feel it once more.
As before, it felt right.
This house wasn't hers, and the people she lived with weren't
hers. Not really. But this room, for some reason she
couldn't quite understand, truly felt as though it belonged
to her, and she was meant to have it. Here she would feel
comfortable, feel safe.
When Rosemary appeared in the doorway a few
minutes later, Cassie was still by the window, sitting
on its ledge.
"Cassie?" Rosemary asked. For a moment the
girl didn't move. "Cassie, is something
wrong? Is there anything I can
do?"
Cassie looked at her then, and fleetingly
Rosemary had the impression that the girl was somewhere
else, somewhere far removed from the little bedroom. Then
something in Cassie's eyes changed, and she smiled.
"No. I just think I should have this room, and Jennifer
should have the other one. Is it all right?"
For a moment Rosemary was tempted to argue, tempted
to point out that surely Cassie would need the extra
space much more than Jennifer. But as her eyes met
Cassie's, she changed her mind. For in
Cassie's eyes she saw something that suddenly
worried her.
Keith's stubbornness, like Jennifer's, was in his
jaw, and was nothing more than a physical feature.
But Cassie's was reflected in her eyes, and that,
Rosemary knew, was something else entirely.
Cassie's stubbornness was in her spirit, and Rosemary
was suddenly quite certain that once this girl made up
her mind about something, it would be very difficult to change
it.
"If that's what you want," she said at last, "I
don't see any reason why you shouldn't have it."
But as she left the room a moment later,
Rosemary had the strange feeling that although
Cassie's voice had betrayed nothing, the two of
them had just had their first confrontation, and Cassie had
won.
That's ridiculous,
she told herself. All she did was make a very nice
gesture toward Jennifer, and I should accept it at
face value.
But for some reason she couldn't. And as she went back
down the stairs, she realized why. All through their
conversation she'd had the unsettling feeling that she
wasn't truly talking to Cassie at all, but
to someone else, some persona Cassie had devised
to present to the world. Beneath that persona, Rosemary
thought, there was someone else-the real Cassie.
Of that person, she was certain, nothing at all had
been exposed.
Eric finished his yard work at six-thirty, put the
tools back into the garage, swung its lopsided
door shut, and started across the driveway toward the
back door. At least the lawn looked all right,
and he'd gotten most of the weeds out of the garden. But the
Cavanaughs' house still didn't look nearly as
nice as the Winslows' house next door, and Eric
knew exactly why: paint.
If he could only talk his father into buying a few
gallons of white paint, Eric knew he could
make their house look a lot better than it did.
But he also knew it was hopeless, for he'd asked his
father about it last year. Ed had only glowered darkly
at him and told him he should keep his mind on his
schoolwork and not worry about the house. "Besides," he
had added, "I don't have money to waste just
to put on a show for the neighbors. Only reason
to paint a house is to sell it, and I don't plan
to sell this place."
But there was another reason why his father wouldn't buy
paint, and Eric knew all too well what it
was: most of Ed Cavanaugh's money was spent on
liquor.
It had happened again today. His father had left right after
breakfast, having announced that he was going down to the
pier to finish the repair job on the
Big Ed.
But when lunchtime came around and his father hadn't come
home, both Eric and his mother had known where Ed was,
though neither of them had said anything. Then, half an
hour ago, the truck had pulled into the driveway.
When his father climbed down from the driver's seat,
Eric immediately knew that he was drunk. His step was
unsteady, and his eyes held the bright glaze of anger
that meant he was looking for a fight. Eric had looked
away as quickly as he could, concentrating on clipping
the edge of the lawn next to the sidewalk. But he
hadn't been quick enough.
"You staring at something, boy?" Ed had growled.
"Well, let me tell you something-anyone works as
hard as I do deserves a little relaxation, and
if I stop off for a coupla beers with my friends, that's
my business. Got it?"
Eric had nodded mutely, not daring to challenge his
father, but sure in his own mind that it had been a lot more
than a couple of beers his father had shared with his friends.
Maybe it started that way, but after the second beer
Ed would have switched to a shot of whiskey with a beer
chaser, and bought the same thing for anyone willing
to listen to him talk while they drank his booze.
Only when there was no one left willing to listen, would
his father have finally come home. Eric kept his mouth shut
and his eyes on his work, and after a few seconds which
seemed to stretch out into eternity, his father had shambled
down the driveway and into the house.
Now, unable to put off going inside any longer,
Eric pulled the screen door open and went into the
service porch. He could hear his father's voice from the
kitchen beyond. Though he couldn't see him, Eric
knew Ed was sitting in the breakfast nook, a
half-empty glass of bourbon in front of him,
his glazed eyes fixed dangerously on his wife.
"Some reason why supper's late again?" Ed
Cavanaugh was saying, his voice slurring
slightly, his words edged with bitter sarcasm. "You
been doing something useful again, like sitting on
your ass watching TV all day? Seems to me if
I can work all day, the least you could do is have my
meals ready when I get home."
"I'm sorry, Ed," Laura replied, her
voice barely audible. "But I'm fixing you a
roast, and it's just taking a little longer than I
expected."
Eric moved into the kitchen. The oven door was open,
and his mother bent down in front of it, tapping the meat
thermometer with a wooden spoon. As Eric watched,
she removed the roast from the oven and set it on the
counter.
"Smells good, Mom," Eric offered, hoping
to deflect his father's anger.
"It should," Ed growled. "The price they get for that
crap, and all it is is gristle."
"Aw, come on, Dad," Eric protested when he
saw his mother's eyes start to flood with tears. "Mom
cooks great-"
Suddenly Ed was out of the breakfast nook, his bulk
planted in front of his son, his eyes blazing with
fury. "What the hell do you know about it?" he
demanded. "You an expert on cooking too?" His right
hand rose threateningly. "Ed, don't!" Laura
protested. "Eric didn't do anything." But
it was too late. Ed's arm flashed downward and his
open palm smashed against Eric's left cheek,
twisting his head around. Eric staggered, stunned by the
blow. Then, as his own eyes flooded with tears of
pain, he rushed out of the kitchen and up the stairs
toward his room.
"And don't come back down till you can show some
respect!" he heard his father shouting after him.
Eric lay on his bed, still seething from the blow his father
had dealt him nearly three hours before. The stinging on
his cheek had diminished, but in his head the rage he
felt only grew stronger.
I'm going to kill him,
he thought.
Someday he's going to hit me once too often, and
I'm just going to kill him.
Staring at the shadows that played over the ceiling of his
room, wishing the anger would subside so sleep would
come, he found himself beginning to fantasize about how he
could do it.
How he could actually kill his father.
The boat would be the easiest way. There were all
kinds of things he could do to the boat, and nobody would
ever know what had really happened. If it sank, no
one would even think twice about it. His father
took such crummy care of the
Big Ed,
it was a miracle it hadn't sunk already.
Except that deep in his heart, Eric knew he would
never do it. He might dream about it, might even
figure out exactly how it could be done, but when it
came to actually doing it, he knew he wouldn't.
Because in the end his father was still his father.
He tossed restlessly on the bed and punched at the
pillow. If only he could understand why his father was always
mad at him. It wasn't as if he didn't try
to please him-he did. But for some reason nothing he
said or did was ever good enough.
His mother always told him it wasn't his fault, that he
should just try to ignore it when his father got drunk and
started beating up on him. But how could he when no
matter how hard he tried, it always seemed to turn
out wrong?
The rage and frustration grew. Eric tossed and
turned, twisting the bed covers. If he didn't do
something, he was going to start ripping the bed apart.
He got up and went to the window. Outside, beyond the
suddenly confining walls of the house, the night was calm
and peaceful. The first of the tree frogs were beginning
to chirp softly to each other, and in the distance
he could just make out the sounds of a low surf washing the
beach.
Maybe he should go out-j go for a walk-until he was
calm enough to sleep. He started to pull on a heavy
sweater, then stopped, aware that he could not leave the
house.
Often on nights like this when his father was drunk and
angry, he came into Eric's room late, his
fury still not expended. If Eric wasn't there, it
would enrage Ed more, and he'd turn on the only other
person in the house.
His mother.
Better to take the beatings himself than have to watch his
mother's silent suffering as she nursed her bruises in
the morning.
Trapped in his room, he stared out across the
driveway to the Winslows' house, where the window
to Jennifer's room stood open.
That, too, was sometimes the subject of his
fantasies. Some nights he lay awake for
hours, wondering what it would be like to live there, where
no angry words ever erupted in the night and everyone
seemed to love each other.
Suddenly there was a flicker of movement in the window
across the driveway, and a face appeared. But
it wasn't Jennifer's face.
It was Cassie's.
His eyes met hers, and for a long moment they simply
looked at each other. As the moment stretched on,
Eric slowly began to feel his anger draining away.
It was as if in the look that passed between them,
Cassie had somehow understood the feelings he was
experiencing, had let him know that she understood.
At last Cassie smiled slightly and nodded, then
disappeared from the window.
Long after she was gone, Eric stayed at the window,
trying to figure out what had happened. After several
minutes had passed, he felt something else.
Somewhere in the night something was watching him.
His gaze shifted then, to scan the little graveyard that
lay behind his yard as well as the Winslows'. At first
he could see nothing but the shadows of the trees and the
tombstones, but then, slowly emerging from the night, a
shape took form. It was indistinct at first, but as
he concentrated on it, he suddenly knew what it
was.
Miranda.
The strange woman who lived alone outside the
village. But what was she doing here in the middle of the
night, watching his house?
And then, as the dark figure moved slightly and
became clearer, he realized that it wasn't his house
Miranda was watching.
It was the house next door.
Like himself, Miranda was watching the room in which
Cassie Winslow now lived.
Cassie awoke in the blackness of the hours before
dawn, her heart thumping, her skin damp with a cold
sweat that made her shiver. For a moment she didn't
know where she was. Then, as she listened to the
unfamiliar sound of surf pounding in the distance, the
dream began to fade away, and she remembered where
she was.
She was in False Harbor, and this was where she lived
now. In the room next to her, her stepsister was
asleep, and down the hall her father was in bed with her
stepmother.
Then why did she feel so alone?
It was the dream, of course.
It had come to her again in the night. Again she had seen
the strange woman who should have been her mother but was not.
Again, as Cassie watched in horror, the car burst
into flames, and Cassie, vaguely aware that she was
in a dream, had expected to wake up, as she had
each time the nightmare had come to her.
This time, though she wanted to turn and run, she stood
where she was, watching the car burn.
This time there had been no laughter shrieking from the
woman's lips, no sound of screams, no noise
at all. The flames had risen from the car in an
eerie silence, and then, just as Cassie was about to turn
away, the stranger had suddenly emerged from the car.
Clad in black, the figure had stood perfectly
still, untouched by the flames that raged around her.
Slowly, she raised one hand. Her lips moved and a
single word drifted over the crowded freeway, came
directly to Cassie's ears over the faceless
mass of people streaming by in their cars.
"Cassandra ..."
The word hung in the air for a moment. Then the woman
turned, and as soundlessly as she had emerged, stepped
back into the flames.
Instinctively Cassie had started toward her,
wanting to pull her back from the flames, wanting
to save her.
The silence of the dream was shattered then by the blaring of a
horn and the screaming of tires skidding on pavement.
Cassie looked up just in time to see a truck
bearing down on her, the enormous grill of its
radiator only inches from her face.
As the truck smashed into her she woke up, her own
scream of terror choked in her throat.
Her heartbeat began to slow, and her shivering stopped.
Now the room seemed to close in on her, and she
found it hard to breathe. Slipping out of bed, she
crossed to the window at the far end of the narrow room and
lifted it open. As she was about to go back to bed, a
movement in the darkness outside caught her eye.
She looked down into the cemetery on the other side
of the back fence. At first she saw nothing. Then she
sensed the movement again, and a dark figure came
into view. Clad in black, perfectly silent, a
woman stood in the shadows cast by the headstones.
Time seemed to suspend itself.
And then the figure raised one hand. Once more
Cassie heard a single word drift almost
inaudibly above the pounding of the surf from the beach a
few blocks away.
"Cassandra ..."
Cassie remained where she was, her
eyes
closed as she
strained to recapture the sound of her name, but now there
was only the pulsing drone of the surf. And when she
reopened her eyes a few seconds later
and looked once more into the graveyard, she saw
nothing.
The strange figure that had stepped out of the shadows was
gone.
She went back to her bed and pulled the covers
close around her. For a long time she lay still,
wondering if perhaps she'd only imagined it all.
Perhaps she hadn't even left the bed, and had only
dreamed that she'd seen the woman in the graveyard.
But the woman in the graveyard had been the woman in
her dream. But she didn't really exist.
Did she?
 
"Can't I go with you?" Jennifer Winslow begged. The
little girl was gazing at Cassie with the wistful
expression that never failed to soften her father, though her
mother usually ignored it. "Please?" With Cassie,
the look seemed to work.
"All I'm going to do is look around the town,"
Cassie replied. "Don't you think it might be
kind of boring?"
Jennifer shook her head vehemently, and pushed her
empty breakfast plate aside. "I like to go for
walks. And I know all the neatest places too."
She turned to her father. "Can I show
Cassie the boat? Please? We won't touch
anything!"
Keith glanced questioningly at Rosemary, then shrugged.
"Why not? In fact, maybe we should all go for a
cruise this afternoon. We can run over to Hyannis if
the weather holds."
"And if you get all the yard work done," Rosemary
added pointedly. "I believe Jennifer was going
to help you with that."
Jennifer's eager smile faded. "Do I have to?"
she asked plaintively.
"Why don't Jennifer and I go for a walk, and then
we can both help Dad?" Cassie suggested. Her
eyes fixed on Rosemary, and a small smile
played around the corners of her mouth. "We won't
be gone very long. I promise."
Rosemary hesitated, feeling vaguely
uncomfortable, as if she'd just been manipulated.
And yet what Cassie had suggested made perfect
sense. Still, she felt a certain reluctance
as she nodded her assent. She said nothing until the
girls had shrugged into their jackets-Cassie
nearly lost in one she had borrowed from her father-then
sat down opposite her husband. "Do you get the
feeling we've just been worked around?" she
asked, carefully keeping her voice light.
Keith glanced up from his paper. "Worked around? All
they wanted to do was go for a walk. I'm just glad that
Jen wanted to go with Cassie, and Cassie didn't
object to her tagging along."
"Jennifer knew perfectly well she was supposed
to help you this morning," Rosemary pointed out.
Keith snapped the newspaper impatiently.
"There'll be plenty of other mornings, and there isn't
that much work to do in the yard. Let them have a good time.
Considering what Cassie's been through-"
"It's not that," Rosemary objected, suddenly
wishing she'd never brought the subject up, but
determined to have her say. "It's just that I had a
feeling both girls were trying to manipulate me."
Now Keith set the paper aside entirely.
"Oh, come on, Rosemary. Jennifer's always
trying to work her way around both of us. All
Cassie did was suggest a compromise."
"Then why did I suddenly feel as though I'd
lost control of my own daughter?" Rosemary
blurted out. "Why do I feel as if everything has
changed?"
Keith was silent for a moment, then reached out to cover
Rosemary's hand with his own. "Because it has,
sweetheart," he said gently. "I know you weren't
planning on having to deal with a teenager for another
few years, but sometimes things don't work out the way
we want them to. Let's not start getting ourselves
worked up over nothing, all right? Cassie's only
been here a few hours. Let's just get used to it."
He grinned. "Or are you planning on turning into a
wicked stepmother on her very first day?"
"I don't know what I'm planning." Rosemary
sighed. Slipping her hand out from under Keith's, she
got up and started clearing away the breakfast
dishes. "It's just a feeling I have, that's all. I
would have thought Cassie would want the nicer room, but
she didn't. And I've never yet met a teenaged
girl who wanted a younger sister tagging around
after her. It just doesn't seem . . . well, I
guess she just isn't reacting to things the way I would
have thought she would."
"But she's reacting fine," Keith replied. "And
don't forget that she's a stranger here. She's just
trying to feel her way along and fit in. But give
her a week or so, and I'll bet you find you have a
perfectly normal teenager on your hands. Then
we'll both have something to complain about."
Rosemary forced a smile she didn't
feel, and began scraping the leftovers into the
disposal. Of course Keith was right. What had just
happened was nothing out of the ordinary. She should count
herself lucky that Jennifer and Cassie were accepting
each other so readily.
Then why did she feel so uneasy about Cassie?
It's just that it's something new, she reminded herself. And
if I'm feeling uneasy, how must Cassie be
feeling?
Terrified, she silently answered herself. She's
lost her mother, and she's been jerked out of the only
home she ever knew.
She finished the dishes, then went upstairs
to straighten up the master bedroom. Jennifer's
door, as usual, stood open to reveal the mess in
which the little girl always left her room.
Cassie's door was closed.
Rosemary stared at it for a moment, knowing she should go
about her business, remembering how much she herself at
Cassie's age had resented it when her own mother
violated her privacy. I won't do anything, she
told herself. I won't touch anything, and I won't
go in. I'll just take a look. Guiltily, she
put her hand on the doorknob, twisted it, then
pushed the door open a crack. Feeling like
a spy in her own home, Rosemary peered into the
room.
The bed was perfectly made, and the few clothes
Cassie had brought with her were neatly hung in the
closet. On the small dresser, her comb and
hairbrush were laid out, and behind them stood a silver
picture frame.
The frame was empty.
Frowning slightly, Rosemary stepped into the room
and approached the dresser. Then, instinctively, her
eyes went to the wastebasket that stood on the floor
next to the dresser. Scattered on its bottom were
the fragments of a picture.
Ignore it, Rosemary told herself, but knew she
couldn't.
Almost against her will she fished the pieces of the
photograph out of the wastebasket and carefully fit
them back together.
A chill passed through Rosemary as she realized
what she was looking at. Cassie had destroyed her
own mother's portrait.
Cassie walked slowly beside Jennifer, studying the
village with fascination. Everything about it was
completely different from what she'd been used to.
Everywhere, enormous maple and elm trees
were just beginning to come into leaf. Their branches stretched
out, meeting and intermingling overhead to form a canopy
over the street. Even now, with the last traces of
winter still in the air, she could picture them in
summer, when their full foliage would create cool
green tunnels of shade.
There were no fences between the yards, and all the houses
looked to Cassie as if they were at least a hundred
years old. Most of them were two or three stories
high, surrounded by neat borders of tulips and
daffodils which were already sprouting. Even now, in early
spring, the grass was lush and green.
Then they came to the square, and Cassie looked about
her curiously. There was a drugstore and a market,
but they, too, looked nothing like the enormous stores
surrounded with huge parking lots that she was accustomed
to. Here instead were small wooden buildings looking
out on the sidewalk, with diagonal parking spaces
marked in the streets they faced. She could also see a
little bookstore, three clothing stores, and some
antique shops. Jennifer was dragging her toward one
of them.
"This is Mom's store," the little girl said
excitedly when they were in front of a window displaying
a Queen Anne dining room set.
"Isn't it neat?"
To Cassie the shop didn't look much different from
the other antique stores on the block, but she
dutifully squinted in through the window, scanning the
contents of the store as Jennifer continued, "It's open
every day during the summer, and sometimes Mom lets me
help out if I'm real careful not to break things.
That's in the summer, though. This time of year hardly
anybody comes out here."
As Jennifer chattered on, Cassie turned away
from the shop, and surveyed the rest of the square with
disappointment. "Is-is this all there is?" she asked
finally, and Jennifer giggled next to her.
"Except for the stores down on Bay Street,"
she explained. "But only the summer people go to them."
"But where do you shop?" Cassie asked. "Isn't
there a mall?"
Jennifer shook her head. "Sometimes we go
to Providence, or Boston. We don't even have
McDonald's in False Harbor."
Cassie looked curiously at the little girl. "But
. . . what do all the kids do here?"
Jennifer shrugged, unconcerned. "There's lots
to do. All summer long we can go to the beach, and in the
winter you can go ice skating on the pond out
by the school," she explained. Then, as a figure
turned the corner onto the square a block away,
she fell silent, and a moment later tugged at
Cassie's hand. "Come on," she said in a whisper.
"Let's go somewhere else."
Startled, Cassie looked down to see Jennifer
watching the approaching figure, her small face
creased in worry. "What's wrong, Jen? Who's
that?"
"It's Miranda," Jennifer breathed. "Let's go
somewhere else. Please?"
Cassie felt the little girl tug at her arm, but
she stayed where she was, transfixed by the approaching
figure. As the woman drew closer, Cassie
began to feel a chill of deja vu pass over her.
Silently, the woman drew closer. She was
dressed all in black, and her skirt nearly
touched the ground. She was pushing a shopping cart, and in
the cart were several shopping bags that looked as though
they were filled with old clothes. She moved slowly
along the sidewalk, pausing every few steps to stare
into the shop windows.
Every now and then her lips moved as if she were speaking,
but no sound came out.
"Come
on,"
Cassie heard Jennifer urging her. The little girl
had started to cry, and was now tugging at her arm hard.
Cassie finally gave in and let Jen pull her
across the street and into the square.
But she turned back to look at the strange woman
once again. The woman was moving steadily along the
sidewalk now. At first Cassie didn't think
she was even aware of being watched. Then, when she was
directly across the street, she stopped abruptly
and turned to face Cassie.
Her eyes met Cassie's and held them for a
moment. Then she nodded and turned away. Moving more
slowly than before, the black-clad figure continued
down the street, pushing her shopping cart ahead of
her.
Cassie, her heart pounding now, felt another
chill as the odd figure turned the corner at the
end of the block and disappeared.
In that single moment when their eyes had met,
Cassie recognized the woman in black.
It was the woman she had seen in her dreams ever
since the night her mother died.
The woman who had been driving her mother's car.
The woman who was a stranger, but who-in the
dream- had also been her mother.
The woman she had seen in the graveyard last
night, who had spoken her name.
But it didn't make any sense-how could she have
dreamed about that woman? She'd never seen her before,
had she? Again Cassie became aware of Jennifer
jerking at her arm. She looked down to find the little
girl staring up at her worriedly, her face
streaked with tears.
"Did she look at you?" Jennifer asked, her
voice sounding surprisingly younger than before.
Cassie hesitated, then nodded.
Jennifer's eyes widened with apparent fear.
"Don't let her do that," she said. "Don't ever
let her do that again."
Cassie frowned, puzzled. "Don't let her
look at me?" she asked. "Why not?"
"Because she's a witch," Jennifer breathed, then
glanced around as if she was afraid the woman might
still be watching them. "She's a witch, and she can put
a hex on you just by looking at you."
Cassie stared at the little girl in disbelief. "A
witch?" she repeated at last. "Who told you that?"
"I ... I don't know," Jennifer said
uncertainly. Then, seeing that Cassie
didn't believe her, her eyes darkened. "It's
true," she stated. "All the kids know she's a
witch. She lives out by the beach, and she's real
mean, and you have to stay away from her. And don't ever
let her look at you."
"But, Jen, there isn't any such thing as a witch.
It's just a story, that's all. You're not really
afraid of her, are you?"
Jennifer's head bobbed up and down. "Everybody's
afraid of her. She acts real crazy, and all
she ever does is stay in her house, except when
she pushes her grocery cart around."
"She's just a bag lady," Cassie protested,
despite the eerie feeling that had passed through her when
the woman's eyes had met hers. "They're all
over the place. We even had them at home. They
used to wander up and down Ventura Boulevard all
day, and sleep in the park, if the cops would let
them. They're just a little crazy, that's all."
But Jennifer shook her head. "Miranda's
different. Wendy Maynard's mom told her that
Miranda's mother was just like her, and that all the kids were just
as scared of her as we are of Miranda. And her mother
lived in the same house she lives in, and nobody
ever goes out there."
Cassie stared at the little girl. It was just childish
nonsense-it had to be! And yet Miranda was the
woman she'd seen in her dreams-she was almost
positive of it now. But how was it possible?
Her heart beat faster as she realized that she had
to know more about the strange woman in black-had to find
out the truth about her.
She was frightened now-very frightened. But at the same time,
she was fascinated. "Do you know where she lives?" she
asked Jennifer, and the little girl, after hesitating a
moment, slowly nodded.
"Will you show me?"
Instantly Jennifer shook her head. "I won't
go anywhere near her house," she said. "And if you do,
I'm going to tell Mom and Dad!"
"But has she ever actually done anything to anyone?"
Cassie pressed. "I mean, anything really
bad?"
"I... I don't know," Jennifer replied.
"For a long time she wasn't even around here. When I
was a little girl, she was locked up somewhere. In an
insane asylum."
"Well, then, what's there to be afraid of? If
she was dangerous, they wouldn't have let her out, would
they?"
But Jennifer wasn't to be dissuaded. "I don't
know," she said stubbornly. "All I know is that
she's crazy, and she's a witch, and I bet she
could kill you just by looking at you, if she wanted to.
And we better go home or we're going to get in
trouble."
"But I thought you were going to show me Dad's boat,"
Cassie said, carefully controlling the smile
playing around the corners of her mouth. When Miranda
had disappeared, she'd noticed, it had been in the
direction of the marina. Apparently Jennifer had
noticed too.
"I'll show it to you next time," Jennifer
promised.
The bells of the Congregational Church began to peal as
they started back toward Alder Street, and as the
two girls drew near it, the doors opened and the
crowd of morning worshipers began flowing out onto the
sidewalk. Jennifer began waving to her friends, and
suddenly Cassie found herself surrounded by a covey
of small children, all of whom listened excitedly as
Jennifer told them about having seen Miranda a few
minutes before.
"And Cassie looked right at her," Jennifer
reported, her voice betraying none of the
fear of a few minutes earlier. Some of the children stared
up at Cassie in obvious awe. Cassie was about
to say something when she felt eyes watching her.
Looking up, she saw a blond girl about her own
age standing just outside the church door, staring at her.
Cassie raised her hand in a tentative wave, but
the girl turned pointedly away from her and began
talking to someone else.
Although she couldn't hear what was being said, Cassie was
almost certain the girl was talking about her. Feeling
herself flush with embarrassment, she took Jennifer's
hand and drew her away from the small crowd of children.
Only when they were around the corner, out of sight of the
group gathered in front of the church, did she speak.
"Who was that?" she asked. "The girl who was staring at
me?"
Jennifer looked up at her curiously. "I
didn't see anyone. Why would anyone stare at
you?"
Cassie shrugged helplessly. "I don't know,"
she said. "But it was a blond girl-" Before she could
finish, the same eerie sense that someone was staring at
her came over her again. She quickly turned around.
At the corner the same girl was talking to two other
girls. Both the other girls were staring at
Cassie, but seeing her looking at them, they turned
away.
"There," Cassie said to Jennifer. "Who is she?"
But it was too late. Jennifer, spying her father
pushing the power mower over the front lawn, had dashed
ahead. Cassie hesitated, half tempted to go
back to the corner and introduce herself to the three
girls. But in the end, her face once again burning
with the humiliation of being stared at, she hurried across the
lawn and into the house.
"Cassie, is something bothering you?" Rosemary
asked after dinner that evening. All of them were in the den,
Jennifer sprawled on the floor, her chin propped
in her hands as she watched the early movie on
television. Keith was leafing through a marine
catalog, while Rosemary worked on the sweater she
was knitting. Cassie was curled on one end of the
sofa, a book open in her lap, but Rosemary
noticed that she hadn't turned a page for the last
fifteen minutes.
Startled, Cassie glanced up at her stepmother, then
shook her head and went back to her book, but
Jennifer rolled over on the floor and faced her
mother.
"We saw Miranda in the square today," she
said. "And Cassie looked right at her."
Rosemary glanced at Keith, who had stopped
turning the pages of the catalog. When she spoke,
she was careful to keep her voice neutral. "You
know perfectly well that there's no harm in looking
at Miranda. As long as you weren't staring."
Jennifer gasped. "I wouldn't stare at her. I
won't even look at her if I can help it.
Wendy Maynard says-"
"I know perfectly well what Wendy Maynard
says," Rosemary interrupted her, "and you know as
well as I do that it's all so much nonsense.
Miranda Sikes is perfectly harmless."
"That's not what all the kids say," Jennifer
protested. "And when Cassie looked at her, she
looked right back at Cassie too!" She
shuddered, letting her imagination run away with her.
"It was weird. There she was, in that awful black
dress, walking along talking to herself. I made
Cassie cross the street, and told her not
to look, but she did it anyway."
"I wasn't staring," Cassie said, closing the
book. "I just looked at her, that's all."
"That's all it takes," Jennifer pronounced.
"I bet she put a spell on you!"
"Oh, for heaven's sakes!" Rosemary said, her
voice edged with exasperation. She leaned forward and
looked directly at her daughter. "Jennifer,
we've been through this a hundred times. Miranda
Sikes is a bit eccentric, but she's perfectly
harmless."
"Then how come they locked her up?" Jennifer
demanded. "How come they put her in the insane
asylum?"
"But she's not still there, is she?" Rosemary countered.
"If she were still sick, they wouldn't have let her out.
She's trying to get well, and the way you and your friends
treat her doesn't help her at all!"
Jennifer's face crumpled at the severity of her
mother's scolding, but Rosemary couldn't stop herself.
"How would you feel if every time your friends saw you, they
ran away from you? Don't you think you might start
talking to yourself and acting funny too?"
Tears welled up in Jennifer's eyes, and she
scrambled to her feet. "I didn't do anything,"
she wailed. "All I did was cross the street
because I'm scared of her. I didn't point at her
or look at her or anything!" Bursting into tears,
she fled from the room. A moment later her door
slammed shut.
The living room was silent until Cassie
spoke, her voice soft. "She didn't stare at
her, Rosemary. She didn't do anything at all.
She was just scared, because Miranda looks so strange."
She stood up, leaving her book on the couch.
"I'll go up and talk to her-"
"No!" Rosemary broke in, her voice
strident. "I'll do it. I was the one who snapped
at her, not you." She got to her feet and hurried
up the stairs, but before she left the room, she saw
the look on Keith's lace. Though he said nothing,
she could feel his reproach at the way she'd
spoken. And, of course, he was right-Cassie had
only been trying to help.
After apologizing to Jennifer, she would have
to apologize to Cassie too.
She found Jennifer in her room, lying facedown
on the bed, her body shaking as she cried into her
pillow. "Jen?" Rosemary asked quietly.
"May I come in?"
When Jennifer said nothing, Rosemary entered the
bedroom and closed the door behind her. Sitting on the
edge of
the bed, she gathered her daughter into her arms. "I'm
sorry I snapped at you, honey," she
said.
Jennifer wriggled around and looked up at her. "I
didn't do anything-" she began, but Rosemary put
her fingers over the child's lips.
"I know," she soothed. "But I just want you to understand
that when you act like you're afraid of Miranda, it
hurts her."
"But I
am
afraid of her," Jennifer protested, rubbing her
eyes with her fists. "All the kids are."
"But what I'm telling you is that you don't have to be.
She's just a strange woman, and a little bit different
from everyone else, that's all. But she's not wicked,
and she's not a witch. There's no such things as
witches, at least not the kind that can cast spells on
people, or work magic. So there's nothing to be afraid
of. All right?"
Jennifer nodded, but Rosemary could see she
wasn't convinced. And why should she be? she thought
to herself, remembering when she'd been Jennifer's age
and all her friends had been as positive as she that the
woman who lived in the old house on the corner was
a witch. Of course, by the time she was in her teens
she'd discovered that the woman wasn't a
witch at all-she was simply an alcoholic, and
perhaps agoraphobic as well. Someone to be pitied,
not feared. But the old stories had certainly served
to keep the neighborhood children away, which was
probably what the woman had wanted all along.
Maybe, after all, Miranda Sikes didn't mind
the tales that were circulated about her among the children of
False Harbor.
Rosemary decided she'd said enough. "Do you want
to go back downstairs and finish watching the movie?"
Jennifer shook her head. "It wasn't any good.
It was for kids."
Her mother chuckled affectionately. "Well,
preserve us from that, right?"
Jennifer nodded solemnly, then met her eyes.
"Cassie said someone was staring at her in front of the
church today."
Rosemary's smile faded. "Staring at her?
Who?"
"I don't know. I didn't see anybody. But
why would anyone stare at Cassie?"
Rosemary shook her head and stood up. "Maybe
no one
was," she replied. She bent over and kissed
Jennifer on the forehead. "It's
eight-thirty, and I want you in bed by nine. All
right?"
Jennifer automatically started to argue, but
Rosemary held up an admonishing hand. "Not tonight.
Nine o'clock, and not a minute later. Okay?"
Jennifer hesitated, then looked up hopefully.
"Can Cas-sie come up and tuck me in?"
Rosemary hesitated as an emotion very much like
jealousy stabbed at her. Resolutely, she put the
feeling aside. "Of course," she said. "I'll
send her up in a little while." Then, kissing her
daughter once more, she went back downstairs.
Keith had returned to his catalog, and Cassie
was once more involved in her book. Rosemary went
back to her knitting, but every few moments she found
herself glancing at Cassie. Though Cassie was now
turning the pages of the book every couple of minutes,
Rosemary was still certain her stepdaughter wasn't
reading a word.
Several times Rosemary was tempted to speak to the
girl, but each time she changed her mind. Later,
she decided. After she's gone upstairs, I'll go
up and talk to her.
It was almost ten when Rosemary tapped softly on
Cas-sie's door then let herself into the
room, even before Cassie had replied. Cassie
lay on the bed, her book propped up on her
knees, but once again Rosemary was certain she
hadn't been reading.
"I ... I thought maybe we could talk for a few
minutes," Rosemary began uncertainly. She
came to perch on the edge of the bed, and reached out as if
to take Cassie's hand, but when Cassie made no
response to the gesture, she pulled her own hand
back. "I just thought you might like to talk," she began
again. Then, almost against her will, her eyes flicked to the
empty picture frame on the dresser.
"Is that what you want to talk about?" Cassie
asked immediately. "My mother's picture?"
Rosemary felt her face burn. "n-no ..."
she stammered.
I mean-
"I tore it up," Cassie said.
Rosemary took a deep breath, then nodded. "I
know,
she admitted. "I ... well, I came in
earlier, and I couldn't help but notice the empty
frame." She reached out again, and this time she took
Cassie's hand in her own. "Why did you tear it
up, Cassie?"
Cassie hesitated, then shook her head. "I
... I don't know. This morning when I woke up,
I just couldn't stand to look at
it
anymore."
Rosemary thought she understood. "I know," she said.
"It must be terrible for you. But why didn't you just put
the picture away? After a while, when you get used
to the idea of..." She faltered, then chose her words
carefully. "When you get used to her being gone, you'll
want a picture of her."
Cassie's eyes darkened. She shook her head.
"No, I won't," she replied, her voice low.
"I don't care if I never see a picture of
her again."
"Cassie-"
"Well, I don't!" Cassie exclaimed. "And
why should I? She never cared about me. If she had,
she wouldn't have-" She cut her own words off, her
eyes brimming with tears.
"Wouldn't have died?" Rosemary asked gently.
Cassie said nothing, and Rosemary leaned forward and
brushed a strand of hair away from the girl's forehead
with her free hand. "Cassie, she didn't die on
purpose. It was an accident. She loved
you very much-"
"She didn't!" Cassie flared. "Nobody's
ever loved me. Daddy sent us away when I was just a
baby, and all Mom ever did was go out! She
didn't care about me! All she ever did was tell
me I wasn't doing anything right, and she always made
me feel like I was in her way! And the only reason
I'm here is because Daddy had to take me!"
"No," Rosemary protested. "That's not true!
You're here because your father loves you, and I love you-"
Cassie sat bolt upright and jerked her hand out of
Rosemary's. Her eyes were blazing. "No you
don't. You don't even know me! Nobody loves
me. Nobody at all! And don't tell me you
know what I'm feeling! Nobody knows what I'm
feeling. Nobody's
ever
known what I feel!"
Once again Rosemary reached out to hold Cassie's
hand, but Cassie pulled away, her voice rising.
"Leave me alone!" she yelled. "Why can't you just
leave me alone?"
Suddenly the door opened and Keith, his face
pale,
stood framed against the light from the hall.
"Cassie?" he asked. "Cassie, what's
wrong?"
Cassie swung around to face her father. "Make her
leave me alone," she sobbed. "She's not my mother and
she doesn't know me and she doesn't have any right
to come in my room! Just make her leave me alone."
Keith stood silently for a moment, then spoke
to Rosemary. "What happened?" he asked. "What
did you say to her?"
"Nothing," Rosemary said helplessly. "I just
came in to talk to her and-" She turned and reached out
toward Cassie once again. "Cassie, I'm so
sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I just
thought-"
"Leave me alone!" Cassie screamed. "Why
can't you just leave me alone?"
"I-" Rosemary began, but this time it was Keith who
cut her off.
"I'll take care of her," he said. He came
into the room and gestured Rosemary away, then sat
on the bed, taking his daughter into his arms. "Just
leave us alone a minute, okay, honey?" he
asked.
Rosemary hesitated, then nodded quickly and hurried
out of the room, closing the door behind her.
"What is it, Punkin?" Keith asked when he was
alone with Cassie. "Can you tell me about it?"
Cassie shook her head and turned away. "I'll
be all right," she said. "I just ... I just need to be
left alone. Please? Can't you just leave me
alone?"
Keith hesitated, certain there was something he should
say, something he should do. But finally, feeling helpless
to console her, he shrugged and patted Cassie's
leg. "All right, Punkin," he said gently.
"Whatever you want. But if you want to talk, just
remember that I'm here, all right?" He waited for a
response from Cassie. When there was none, he got
up and quietly left the room. Maybe that was all
she needed, he told himself as he went back
downstairs. Maybe all she needed right now was to be
left alone.
Rosemary was waiting for him downstairs, her face
ashen. "Is she all right?" she asked as he came
into the den.
Keith gestured helplessly with his hands. "All right?
How can she be all right, given what she's been through?
What happened up there?"
As best she could, Rosemary recounted what had
happened in Cassie's room. "She
wouldn't even talk to me," she finished. "She says
no one loves her and no one understands her. I was
only trying to help."
"I know," Keith replied. "But maybe the best
way we can help her right now is simply to leave
her alone so she can work things out for herself."
Rosemary's eyes widened. "Keith, she's only
a child-"
"She's almost sixteen," Keith pointed out.
"She's not a child, and we can't treat her like one."
"But if she thinks no one loves her-"
"She doesn't," Keith interrupted. "For
heaven's sake, Rosemary, I'm her father. She
knows I love her. She's just upset right now, and
she has a right to be. But she'll get over it."
But what if she doesn't? Rosemary thought. What
if she truly believes no one loves her? What
will happen to her? But she said nothing, for Keith's
jaw had taken on the stubborn set that told her that
for tonight, at least, the discussion was over.
Cassie lay on her bed, trying to sort things out.
She hadn't meant to yell at Rosemary, not
really. But how could she explain to this woman the real
reason why she'd torn up the picture of her mother?
How could she tell her that when she'd gotten
up that morning and seen the picture, a wave of
cold anger had washed over her and she'd ripped the
picture to shreds before she'd even thought about it.
It wasn't that her mother had died-that wasn't it at
all. It was all the things that happened while she was still
alive.
It was her mother's voice, constantly correcting her.
It was her eyes, constantly accusing her.
It was all the other things-the things she would never tell
Rosemary about, never even tell her father about. And so
she'd torn the picture out of its frame and ripped
it to pieces.
She couldn't explain it to Rosemary-she never would have
understood.
Then she remembered Miranda, remembered the look
that had passed between them in the square that morning.
Miranda would have understood. Miranda would have listened
to her and nodded. Hadn't Miranda smiled gently at
her this morning? Cassie was certain now that the woman
had.
Miranda. Cassandra.
The names almost rhymed, almost sounded like music.
The more she thought about it, the more certain she was that
Miranda was, indeed, the woman she'd seen in her
dreams, the woman who had stood among the
flames and wreckage and beckoned to her.
But who was she, really?
Cassie felt a sensation sweep over her, a
feeling of yearning-of need-that was so intense it made
her shiver. She pulled the quilt on the bed up
tight around her neck. She had to see Miranda again,
had to know who the woman in black was. She closed
her eyes, seeing again the woman in the street, the
woman of the dream. Once again, as she drifted
toward sleep, she heard Miranda call her name.
She was almost asleep when the first faint scratching
sounds intruded on her. She curled deeper into the
mattress and pulled the covers closer.
The sounds came again, an odd rasping, as if something
were brushing up against the window screen.
She tried to ignore it. She switched on the
radio and focused her mind on the soft music. But
the sound persisted. Finally she sat up and looked at
the window.
At first she saw nothing. Then, in the darkness
outside, a shadow moved.
Cassie's heart began to pound and she felt the first
stirrings of panic as the darkness in the room began
to close around her. Instinctively she reached out,
fumbling to find the lamp that stood on the
nightstand.
At the window a pair of feral eyes suddenly
glowed yellow in the blackness outside.
Cassie gasped as an icy finger of fear played
along her spine. The eyes, unblinking, stared in at
her.
Slowly she reached out to turn off the radio, and the
click seemed to echo loudly in the room. Then the
only sound Cassie could hear was the pounding of her own
heart.
At last, from the window, another sound came.
The same rasping scratch as before, but this time the
yellow eyes blinked, and there was a soft mewing sound.
A cat. It had been nothing more than a cat
scratching at the window.
Suddenly feeling foolish, Cassie got out of bed
and went to the window. The cat, clinging to a branch of
an elm tree, meowed again as she approached, then
reached out with one of its forepaws and scratched once more
at the screen.
"Hello, cat," Cassie said softly, half
expecting the creature to bolt at the sound of her
voice. "Do you want to come inside?"
As if it understood her words, the cat reached out and
raked the screen yet again.
Cassie groped in the darkness for the hooks that held
the screen in place, released them and pushed the
screen outward. As soon as the crack was wide
enough, the cat leaped from the branch to the windowsill and
slithered through. Dropping to the floor, it rubbed up
against Cassie's ankles, its long tail twining
around her left leg. Then, as Cassie refastened
the screen, it bounded across the room and up onto the
bed.
Returning to bed, Cassie switched on the lamp
again and in the dim light looked more closely at the
cat.
It seemed nothing more than an alley cat, its
grayish fur marked across the shoulders and down its
back with two stripes which were almost black. It sat
on the bed, the tip of its tail twitching nervously,
staring back at Cassie with eyes so bright that they
looked almost golden in the soft light of the lamp.
"Who are you?" Cassie asked. "Do you live
here?"
The cat mewed softly, then crept close and began
purring as it licked at Cassie's hand.
As Cassie slid back under the quilt, the cat
did, too, and as she reached out to switch the light
off, she felt it curling up around her
feet.
A few minutes later, with the cat purring quietly
at the foot of her bed, Cassie finally fell
asleep.
That night she saw Miranda in her dreams once more.
Miranda smiled at her, then reached into one of her
shopping bags and brought forth a wriggling creature, which
she handed silently to Cassie.
"This is for you," Miranda said as she placed the
animal
in
Cassie's arms.
Cassie looked down into the cat's eyes.
"What's its name?" she asked.
For a long time Miranda said nothing. Then, still smiling,
she reached out and stroked the cat. "He has no
name," she said. "He is a gift, and it
is
for you to decide what to name him, and how to use him."
The image of Miranda merged into the blackness,
disappearing. For a moment Cassie was startled back
into wakefulness.
At her feet the cat stirred restlessly.
And deep in Cassie's subconscious a
long-forgotten memory also stirred.
 
Monday morning dawned bright and clear, but with a snap
to the air that reminded Cassie immediately that she was no
longer in southern California. At home on a day
like today the temperature would reach eighty degrees
before noon, and by lunchtime she and her friends would be
talking about cutting the rest of their classes and going
to the beach. But here the morning was still far too chilly
even to think about the beach. Cassie got out of bed,
pulled on the same pair of red jeans she'd been
wearing all weekend, and found a clean white shirt
to wear under her black sweater. The cat, emerging from
under the quilt, sat at the foot of the bed watching her
dress, then bounded over to the windowsill. A moment
later it looked expectantly back at
Cassie.
"You want to go out?" Cassie asked. Crossing to the
window, she unhooked the screen and pushed it open.
The cat leaped into the tree, jumped from branch
to branch, then dropped to the ground and slipped through the
fence into the graveyard. Cassie watched it until
it disappeared, then frowned thoughtfully. Finally she
went to her closet, found a wire coat hanger, and
worked it into a brace to hold the window screen open a
few inches. Then, leaving the window open,
too, she went downstairs.
Her father and Jennifer were already at the table in the
corner of the kitchen, eating scrambled eggs and
pancakes. From the stove Rosemary smiled at her
uncertainly. "Are you
 
,
all right, Cassie?" she asked. "Maybe. . .
maybe you'd rather wait a few days before you start
school. I mean ..."
It took a moment before Cassie understood, but then
her eyes met Rosemary's. "You mean because of last
night," she said calmly.
Rosemary hesitated for a fraction of a second,
then nodded.
"It's okay," Cassie told her. "I'm
sorry I yelled at you. I just. . . well, I
guess things just sort of got to me, that's all."
Rosemary smiled in relief. She'd lain awake
for hours last night, turning the scene with Cassie
over in her mind again and again and dreading the coming of
morning, certain that when Cassie appeared at the
breakfast table-
if
she appeared- she would be sullenly silent.
But Cassie seemed to have put the incident behind her.
Yet Rosemary still felt uneasy. "Are you sure
you want to go to school today? It just seems like it might
be too much for you. I mean, you don't really have
anything to wear-"
"What's wrong with what I have on?" Cassie
asked, frowning. "At home everyone wears jeans
to school."
"That's what they do here too," Keith put in.
"I think Rosemary's just wondering how clean they
are."
Cassie's face clouded. "They're clean enough.
Besides, the only other thing I packed was a dress.
And nobody wears dresses to school!"
Jennifer snickered, then fixed her eyes
gleefully on her mother. "See? I told you so.
How come no one ever believes what I say?"
"Because you're eight years old, and everybody knows that
eight-year-olds named Jennifer lie their heads off
all the time," Keith replied, then ducked away from
Jennifer's pummeling fists. "Anyway, even if
she wanted to change her clothes, there isn't time.
You want some eggs, Cassie?"
Cassie shook her head. "All I ever have in the
morning is orange juice and coffee."
As her father and stepmother exchanged a glance, she
shrugged. "That's all Mo-" She stopped
abruptly, then went on. "That's all Diana and
I ever had. Neither of us ever ate breakfast."
At Cassie's use of her mother's name, Keith
glanced up, but Rosemary shot him a warning glance.
"Suit yourself," she said quickly. "But if you get
hungry before lunch, don't blame us." As she
poured Cassie a cup of coffee there was a
soft rap at the back door. Rosemary put the
coffeepot down and went to the service porch. A
moment later she came back with Eric Cavanaugh
behind her. Keith stared at the boy in surprise.
"Eric! What brings you over so early?"
Eric flushed slightly. "I... I just thought
maybe Cassie might want to walk to school with
me. I mean, since it's her first day and everything."
"I was going to drive her-" Rosemary began, but
Cassie was already on her feet.
"It's okay. I'd really rather walk. I mean-"
Her voice faltered, and she flushed even redder
than Eric had a few seconds earlier.
Rosemary's brows arced knowingly. "You mean you're
not sure that being driven to school by your stepmother is quite
the thing to do?" she asked.
Cassie's flush deepened. "I-I didn't
really mean that-"
"It's okay. Really," Rosemary assured her.
"In fact it was kind of stupid of me not to have
figured it out for myself. I guess I'm not very good
at being a mother to a teenager yet."
"But you're not-" Cassie began, then stopped. For a
moment there was an awkward silence, broken finally
by Jennifer, who looked up at Eric, her eyes
wide.
"Cassie's mother died," she announced. "And that
makes my mom her stepmother, and me her halfsister.
Isn't that neat?"
Keith stiffened. "Jennifer! I'm sure Eric
already knows what happened to Cassie's mother, and I'm
sure we don't need to talk about it right now! And from
now on your mother is going to be Cassie's mother too.
Understood? We don't need any of that "step"
or "half" nonsense around here."
At the anger in her father's voice, Jennifer's
expression froze and her eyes filled with tears.
Wordlessly, she looked to Cassie for help.
"It's all right," Cassie said. "Jennifer
didn't mean anything, did you, Jen? She was just
telling Eric the truth."
Keith hesitated, then nodded. But his expression
remained serious. "Okay. But I won't have either of
you getting the idea that Rosemary cares more for
Jennifer than she does for you."
Cassie stared at her father for a moment, and Rosemary
 
braced herself for another outburst. But instead of saying
anything, Cassie merely bobbed her head and
followed Eric out the back door. Only when
Jennifer had disappeared up to her room in search of
her school bag did Rosemary speak.
"I wish you hadn't said that," she said quietly.
"Cassie didn't believe you, and there's no
reason why she should have."
"I just don't want her to feel like she's a
second-class member of this family," Keith
insisted.
"She's not," Rosemary agreed. She smiled
wryly. "I guess I'm going to tell you what you
told me. Leave her alone, Keith. Let her
fit herself in. You can't force her."
Keith reddened slightly. "I'm not-" he began.
But he knew that his wife was right. "I'm sorry,"
he said. "I guess I just want her to feel that
she's at home here."
"She will," Rosemary promised. "In time she
will." But even as she spoke the words, she wondered
if they were true. Remembering Cassie's words from
the previous night, she wondered if Cassie had
really ever felt at home anywhere, wondered if that
was the reason for the pain that seemed constantly to linger in
the depths of her eyes.
"I-I'm sorry about your mom," Eric said when they
were a block away from the Winslows' house.
Cassie said nothing for a few seconds, then smiled
shyly at Eric. "Would you think I was weird if
I said I'm not really sorry she's dead!"
Eric frowned, and cocked his head. "But she was your
mom, wasn't she? I mean, you have to be sorry your
mom died, don't you?"
Cassie bit her lip. "I don't know. I
guess I am, in a way. But I ... well, I
just don't really miss her. It's kind of strange.
I don't think she ever really wanted me in the first
place." She hesitated, then went on. "I always
had this neat fantasy that I had another mother-that
maybe I was adopted."
Eric was silent for a few seconds. When he
spoke again, his voice was very low, as if he were
afraid someone would overhear what he was
saying. "I wish . . . sometimes I wish I'd
been adopted too. At least if you're adopted,
you know someone wanted you."
Cassie stopped walking and turned to face Eric.
"That's a fanny thing to say. Don't your folks
want you?"
Eric shrugged. "I don't know," he said at last.
"I guess maybe my mom does, and my dad
says he does, but I don't believe him.
He's always putting me down, telling me I'm no
good"
"And he beats up on you, too, doesn't he?"
Cassie asked.
Eric stared at her for a long moment. "H-how did
you know that?" he asked finally.
Cassie was silent for a long
time.
There was something she'd never told anyone before, something
she'd been determined to keep secret forever. But there
was something about Eric-she'd felt it that first moment
she'd met him-that was different.
Finally she turned to face him, looking deep
into his eyes.
He looked back at her steadily, his blue eyes
clear and open, ready to accept whatever she
might say.
She made up her mind.
"I knew because it happened to me too," she
whispered. "Only it wasn't my father. It was my
mother. Every time something went wrong, she used to beat me
up ..." Her voice quavered slightly, but she was
determined to finish. "It didn't matter if I
hadn't done anything. She did it anyway. She just
. . . sometimes she'd just start hitting me! I hated
her for it. I really hated her!"
During the rest of the walk to school, neither Cassie
nor Eric said anything else.
The first thing Cassie noticed was how small
Memorial High was.
At home the high school had spread out over
several city blocks, with separate gym buildings
for the boys and girls, and so many students that on the
days when she decided to skip her afternoon classes, the
odds were good that she'd never even be missed. Here there
were only two buildings: a large frame
structure, three stories tall, capped by a
steeply pitched roof with a bell tower on top; and
next to it a low building that she knew must be the
gymnasium, since it faced a playing field that
covered the rest of the block on which the school
sat.
There couldn't be more than a couple hundred students
in the whole school, she thought, and turned to Eric
nervously. "How many kids are there in our grade?"
"Fifty-three," Eric replied. "Fifty-four,
including you."
Cassie frowned. "And everyone knows everyone else,
don't they?" she asked, her voice reflecting her
sudden nervousness.
"Sure they do. We all grew up together."
"What. . . what if they don't like me?"
Eric looked at Cassie curiously. "Why
wouldn't they like you? There's nothing wrong with you, is
there?"
Cassie hesitated, then shook her head. "But
I'm new. And at home whenever someone new came
in, everyone . . . well, everyone just sort of
ignored them at first. You know what I mean?"
Eric shrugged. "I guess. But nobody's going
to ignore you. I know everyone, and I'll introduce
you around. Who's your homeroom teacher?"
"I don't know. I guess I'll have to go to the
principal's office to find out."
"Right. It's on the main floor, on the left.
There's only two classes in our
grade, so if you're not in my homeroom, I'll
see you at lunch. Okay?"
Cassie nodded, and started up the steps toward the
front doors of the school, threading her way through the
groups of students chattering among themselves before their first
classes began. As she passed among them, they
all fell silent around her, as if her very presence
had silenced them. Then she stopped, her back tingling
once again with the eerie sensation of eyes watching her.
The memory of the crowd in front of the church the day
before was still fresh in her mind, and when Cassie
turned, she wasn't surprised to see the same
blond girl staring once again, her angry eyes
fixed coldly on her. She was a little smaller than
Cassie. When Cassie met her gaze, the other
girl quickly looked away, then moved over to Eric
Cavanaugh, and slipped her arm through his.
Suddenly Cassie thought she understood. The other
girl must be Eric's girlfriend, and she must have thought
Cassie was trying to cut in on her. But before she could
go over and say anything, the first bell rang and the
students on the steps
began pushing through the front doors. Eric, with the
blond girl still clinging to his arm, disappeared into the
building.
When Cassie entered the principal's office a
few minutes later, a friendly looking woman of about
forty peered up at her over the tops of
horned-rimmed half glasses and smiled
cheerfully.
"Good morning. I'm Patsy Malone, and you must be
Cassandra Winslow."
Cassie's head bobbed. "H-how did you know?"
"You're the only new face I've seen in seven
months," the woman replied. "Besides, your stepmother
called us last week. You can go right on in-Mrs.
Ambler is waiting for you.
For the first time, Cassie noticed the door to an
adjoining office; charlotte ambler was neatly
stenciled onto the opaque glass set into its upper
half. She hesitated, then twisted the knob without
knocking. As she slipped inside, though, she could
feel Patsy Malone still watching her.
Charlotte Ambler looked up from the papers on her
desk, then removed her reading glasses and let them
drop. They were fastened to her neck with a heavy gold
chain, which was the only jewelry she ever wore. The
glasses came to rest on her ample bosom; she
had grown so used to having them there that she rarely
noticed them anymore, sometimes searching her
desk for several minutes before she remembered where
to find them. Once, to her chagrin, her secretary
had caught her unconsciously putting the glasses
on in an effort to make the search for them easier.
Though the secretary had said nothing, Mrs. Ambler
noted that she was unable to keep from grinning. The next
day she'd brought an extra pair of glasses to her
office. "So I'll have something to find when I start
hunting," she'd explained. As Charlotte hoped,
by the end of the day the story had spread through the school,
and her carefully nurtured reputation for being just a little
vague had grown a little larger.
Charlotte Ambler, though, was anything but vague, and
as she rose from her desk to greet her newest
student, she used the two seconds to size up the
girl who stood nervously next to the door.
"Troubled" was the first word that came to Mrs. Ambler's
mind, but she quickly dismissed it. Given Cassie
Wins
low's circumstances, it would be remarkable if she
looked anything but troubled. "Is it Cass, or
Cassie?" she asked.
"Cassie."
"Good," Charlotte replied, smiling warmly.
"Cassandra's a lovely name, but a bit
formal. And Cass is too short. Why don't you
sit
down?"
Cassie moved across the small office and lowered
herself into the wooden captain's chair next
to Charlotte Ambler's desk. "Well, what do you
think of things so far? False Harbor isn't much like
California, is it? And I guarantee you that our
school is different from the one you went to at home."
Cassie's eyes widened in surprise. "How do
you know about Harrison?"
"I don't, really," Mrs. Ambler admitted.
"But according to your records, you were ranked fifty-fifth
in a class of over four hundred. That makes your
class alone twice as large as our entire
school. It's got to be different." As she
spoke, she opened a thick folder on her desk and
put her glasses back on.
"What's that?" Cassie blurted out, and Mrs.
Ambler glanced up once more.
"Your records. Harrison's computer transferred
them to ours on Friday afternoon. Amazing, isn't it?
It used to be that you couldn't count on records
arriving at all. Now they send you more than you could ever
want. Sometimes I wonder if computers
are really a blessing at all."
As Charlotte Ambler went back to the file on her
desk, Cassie sat perfectly still. She stiffened
as the principal's brows rose slightly at something
she'd read in the file, but the woman said nothing,
merely flipped through a few more pages then leaned
back and smiled at her. "Well,
it
doesn't look as though you and I are going to be
spending too much time together," she said. "According to these, you
managed to get through almost three years at Harrison
with no problems at all. Mind telling me what your
secret was?"
Cassie felt her face flushing. "I-I guess
I just never had time to get in trouble," she said. "I
just went to school, and then went home and studied."
Charlotte Ambler cocked her head. "Then you were
something special," she remarked. "The way I hear
it, most of the big schools are having all kinds of
problems now. It
seems some of the students only come to school about
half the time!" she added pointedly.
Cassie said nothing, but her heart sank.
Apparently someone
had
noticed all those afternoons she'd cut.
Though she'd been careful to keep her tone light, the
principal had watched Cassie's face carefully
as she spoke, and she was certain her words had struck
home.
Cassie said nothing. After a few seconds of
silence that seemed to her to go on forever, Mrs. Ambler
finally spoke again.
"I'm putting you into Mrs. Leeds's class for your
homeroom, and as it happens, we were able to work in
most of the same classes you were taking at
Harrison, except for Advanced Art. I'm
afraid we're just not big enough to offer anything past
Art Two, and that's only for seniors. We can either
give you a drama class or a study hall."
"Study hall," Cassie said immediately. This time there
was no mistaking Mrs. Ambler's frown.
"Drama might be a better way to get acquainted
with people," she suggested, but Cassie only shook her
head. Charlotte Ambler hesitated, then decided
not to push the issue. She made a note on an
enrollment card, then handed it to Cassie. "Just give
this to Mrs. Malone and go on along to room 207,
upstairs at the other end of the hall. Mrs. Leeds
already knows you're coming." She stood and started
around her desk to walk Cassie to the door, but
Cassie was already on her feet. Clutching the
registration cards in her hand, she hurried out of the
office.
Charlotte Ambler waited a few seconds, then
sat down at her desk again and reopened Cassie
Winslow's file. Slowly, wanting to miss nothing,
she read it through for the third time.
All she could see were the records of a very bright girl
whose only problem was that she had never truly applied
herself to her schoolwork.
"Highly imaginative," "very creative mind," and
"potential beyond her performance" were the phrases her
teachers had most often used to evaluate Cassie.
Indeed, if it hadn't been for her lackadaisical
attendance record, Charlotte assumed that
Cassie would have been at the very top of her class.
Then why was it that the moment Cassie had come into
her office, all the instincts Charlotte had
developed over the years immediately set her antenna
to quivering?
"Troubled" was the word that had come instantly to the
principal's mind. And now, as she sat alone in
her office, reflecting on Cassie Winslow's
arrival in False Harbor, the idea still
hung in the atmosphere. For some reason Charlotte
Ambler couldn't quite put her finger on, she was certain
that Cassie Winslow was going to cause trouble.
Cassie paused in front of room 207, then
pulled the door open and stepped inside.
The room was small, and looked old-fashioned.
Instead of the green chalkboards she was used to at
Harrison, the walls at Memorial High were
covered with old-fashioned slate blackboards.
Dark-stained wainscotting rose four feet up from the
floor; above, the walls were painted a stark white.
The wood-framed windows, double hung from the
wainscotting to the ceiling and running the full length
of the eastern wall, were covered with ancient Venetian
blinds, and the old student desks were solid wood, their
surfaces deeply carved by the knives and
ballpoint pens of generations of students.
Mrs. Leeds sat at a large wooden desk at
the front of the room, severe-looking in a dark
blue suit and high heels. At home
Cassie's teachers had dressed almost as casually as
the students themselves, but there was nothing casual about
Mrs. Leeds.
As the door closed behind her, the rustling of papers in
the room suddenly stopped as one by one the
students swung around to gaze curiously at the new
student. Cassie did her best to smile under the
scrutiny of her classmates, but almost immediately she
spotted the girl who had been staring at her that
morning. She was sure that the blonde, whoever she
was, had already been talking about her to the rest of the
kids.
After what seemed an eternity to Cassie, Mrs.
Leeds finally spoke. "There's a seat next
to Eric Cavanaugh. Why don't you sit there?"
Cassie saw Eric nodding to her, but beyond him she could
also see the blond girl, her eyes flashing
wrathfully. Cassie quickly scanned the room for
another vacant seat, but there were none, so she
reluctantly
moved up the aisle and slid into the seat. As she
did, she saw the blonde lean over and whisper
something to Eric.
"I'm afraid you've arrived in the middle of a
test," Mrs. Leeds went on. "Of course, I
won't expect you to take it-"
"What's it on?" Cassie asked without really
thinking.
The teacher hesitated a moment. "History," she
said finally. "The Vietnam war."
Once again Cassie found herself speaking without intending
to. "I don't mind taking the test," she said, and
in the silence that followed, she felt the class
scrutinizing her again.
"All right," Mrs. Leeds agreed. "But if you
don't do well, I won't count it." Her eyes
left Cassie and swept the rest of the class. "That
doesn't go for the rest of you, so you'd better get
back to work." She approached Cassie's desk and
handed her four sheets of paper stapled together in the
upper-left-hand corner. "Don't worry about
finishing. There's only twenty minutes left. Do
you have your registration card?"
Cassie nodded silently, handed the card to the teacher,
then focused her attention on the exam. It was a
combination of true and false and multiple choice
questions, and covered the same material Cassie had
studied in California only a month earlier.
Fishing in her bag for a pen, she started working.
There were still five minutes left in the hour when
Cassie finished. She looked around, surprised
to see that most of the class was still concentrating on the
quiz. Finally she looked at Mrs. Leeds, who
smiled sympathetically and beckoned her to the front
of the room.
"I guess I shouldn't have let you take it after
all," the teacher said quietly when Cassie was
next to her.
"It's all right," Cassie replied. "I'm
finished."
Frowning, Sarah Leeds took the quiz from
Cassie and quickly compared it
to
the answer key on her desk. Her brows rose
appreciatively as she marked an A in the corner
of the paper. "Three minutes," she announced to the
class, andwitha wink at Cassie, added, "and I
might as well tell you that you have some new competition.
Cassie Winslow has
finished the test in twenty minutes, with only one
wrong answer."
The silence that fell over the class this time was
resentful rather than curious, and Cassie quickly
realized her mistake. She shouldn't have finished the
test-shouldn't have taken it at all. But now it was too
late. Though she couldn't bring herself to look at the
rest of the kids, she could feel them all staring at her
with the same hostility that earlier had come only from the
girl next to Eric.
She could practically hear what they were
thinking:
Her
first day, and she's already trying to look better than
us.
Then-mercifully-the bell rang, and suddenly the
class was on its feet, milling around Cassie as
the students dropped their test papers onto Mrs.
Leeds's desk before churning out into the hall on their
way to their next classes. Only when the room was
empty did Cassie start toward the door.
"Do you know where you're going?" she heard Mrs.
Leeds ask, and stopped short, realizing that she
didn't. She turned back to see the teacher writing
quickly on a piece of paper.
"Here's your schedule, with all the room numbers and
names of your teachers." Mrs. Leeds handed her a
scribbled list. "And don't worry about the test.
I shouldn't have said anything, but I spoke before I
thought. I'm sorry."
"It's all right," Cassie replied after a slight
pause. "I just . . . well, tests have always been
easy for me. I just remember things."
"Like Eric Cavanaugh," Mrs. Leeds observed.
"Ill bet he finished in twenty minutes, too,
and I suspect he got a perfect
score. But I'll bet I'm the only one who
knows how quick he is. He always spends the whole
hour going over and over his answers, pretending he's
having trouble." She winked at Cassie. "You
might try that trick."
Cassie nodded, then hurried out of the room as the
warning bell for the next period sounded in the crowded
halls. She glanced at the paper in her hand and
began working her way toward the staircase at the end
of the hall. Suddenly she was bumped from behind and felt
herself losing her balance. She reached out, grabbed the
banister of the stairwell, and turned to face the
person who had bumped into her.
"Can't you watch where you're going?" a voice
demanded.
"I'm sorry," Cassie blurted, then
recognized the blonde with the angry eyes. Once
again the girl was glaring at her.
"You should be sorry," the girl replied. "And you
shouldn't be trying to show us all up just because you're from
California either!"
"I didn't mean to do anything-" Cassie began,
but the girl cut her off.
"And if you think Eric's going to look out for you just because
he lives next door to you, you're wrong!
He doesn't even like you. Now, would you mind getting
out of my way?"
The girl pushed past Cassie, running down the
stairs to catch up with two other girls, who were
waiting for her on the landing below. As Cassie started
down the flight, the other girls disappeared from her
view and she heard a burst of laughter.
They were talking about her. It was only her first day, but
they were already talking about her.
She told herself it didn't matter, tried to convince
herself that she wouldn't even see the girls again.
Except that when she found her second-period
classroom, there was only one seat left, and in the
next seat the blond girl sat whispering with someone
on the other side of the aisle.
"I didn't mean to show anyone up," Cassie said
as she slid into the seat. "My name's Cassie.
Cassie Winslow."
The girl glared at her. "I know your name," she
replied, her voice mocking. "We all do. We
just don't care!" Then, twisting in her seat so her
back was to Cassie, she went on with her conversation.
For the next hour Cassie sat stiffly at her
desk, staring straight ahead.
She would give it until lunchtime. But if
things weren't any better by then-if something good
didn't happen-she wouldn't be back in her
classes when lunch was over.
Rosemary glanced at the clock above the kitchen
sink. She still had half an hour before the shop had
to be open. Just enough time to change the beds and get the
laundry started. She hurried up the stairs, then
paused outside the closed door to Cassie's
room.
Memories of the previous night came flooding
back to her.
Maybe she should ignore Cassie's room, and
leave a note for Cassie to change her bed when she
got home from school.
But that was ridiculous. All she was going to do was
make the bed. Surely Cassie couldn't resent
anything as simple as that, could she?
Making up her mind, she turned the knob and opened
the door. The first thing she noticed was the chill in the
room, and her eyes immediately found the open window.
She walked the length of the room quickly and was about
to close the window when she noticed the bent coat
hanger holding the screen open. She paused,
frowning at the mangled piece of wire, trying
to imagine what it might be for. Finally,
deciding that perhaps the screen had been rattling during
the night and that Cassie had propped it open rather than
wiring it shut, she took the coat hanger out,
rehooked the screen, and shut the window.
Then Rosemary went to the bed and began to pull the
quilt back, intending to straighten the bottom
sheet.
An angry screech filled the room as the quilt
came away from the bed, and a grayish form rose off the
mattress and hurled itself at her. Instinctively
she raised her right arm to shield her face, and a
split second later felt the burning heat of
claws sinking into the flesh of her wrist.
Barely able to stifle a scream of pain and shock,
she jerked her arm away from the cat's claws and
leaped backward. The cat dropped to the floor then
shot across the room toward the window, leaping up to the
sill as if it expected to be able to slip outside.
Thwarted, it turned back, arching its back and
hissing.
Rosemary gasped, suddenly understanding why the screen
had been propped open.
But where had the cat come from? She'd never seen it before,
couldn't remember even seeing one that looked like it.
She started toward it, stopping when the
creature's fur stood up and its hissing turned
into a dangerous snarl. Rosemary glanced around the
room but saw no weapon, nothing with which to fend the cat
off. She picked up a pillow and threw it at the
angry animal. The cat ducked away from the
pillow,
leaped from the windowsill, and disappeared under the bed.
Instantly Rosemary ran to the window, jerked it
open, and fumbled with the hooks. As soon as they were
free and the screen was once more loose, she felt the
cat brush past her. As she watched in astonishment,
it leaped into the tree, dropped to the ground, then
disappeared into the cemetery next to the church.
Her heart beating rapidly, Rosemary waited by the
window for a moment, trying to catch another glimpse
of the cat, but then the burning pain in her arm
penetrated her consciousness. Looking down, she saw
four deep scratches in her wrist, a line of
blood oozing from each of them. Slamming the window
shut, she abandoned Cassie's bedroom and hurried
into the bathroom to wash her injured wrist.
A cat, she thought. Where on earth had it come from, and
what was it doing in Cassie's room? But, of
course, she already knew-it had come around begging, and
Cassie had let it in. Well, there would
be no more of that-if there was one thing Rosemary Winslow
had never been able to stand, it was cats.
 
"There she is!" Lisa Chambers whispered loudly,
leaning forward across the cafeteria table to make sure
Teri Bennett and Allayne Garvey could hear
her. "Isn't it spooky? I mean, just look at
her!" She straightened up, brushing a stray lock
of her blond hair back in place, then fell
silent as her two best friends shifted their attention
to the cafeteria door, where Cassie Winslow stood
scanning the room as if she were looking for someone.
After a few seconds she moved to the end of the food
line and picked up a tray.
"I don't think she looks so weird,"
Allayne commented, then wished she hadn't said it when
Lisa's eyes raked her scornfully.
"Are you nuts?" Lisa demanded, her voice no
longer a whisper. "Look at the way she's
dressed. She looks like some kind of leftover
hippie or something!"
"What's wrong with comt?" Teri protested. "And
she's dressed just like everyone else, except her
jeans are red. If I could find a pair that
color, I'd buy them too."
Allayne, feeling more secure now that she knew
Teri hadn seen anything particularly strange about
Cassie either, nodded. "And her hair's
gorgeous," she added. "It's almost the same color
as Eric's, except his is curly and hers is
straight." At the mention of Eric's name she saw
Lisa's color deepen, and suddenly understood what
Lisa really had against Cassie. She grinned
mischievously, and her voice took on a
needling quality. "In fact I'll bet she and
Eric would look neat together, wouldn't they, Teri?"
"They would not," Lisa snapped, instantly rising
to Allayne's bait. "Besides, Eric can't stand
her."
"Then why did he walk her to school this morning?"
Teri asked with a deliberately innocent tone. She
was enjoying Lisa's obvious discomfort. Usually it
was everyone else who felt uncomfortable while
Lisa said whatever was on her mind. As Lisa
struggled to find an answer to her question, Teri spoke
again, keeping her voice blandly innocent. "Here come
Eric and Jeff Maynard. Let's ask Eric."
"Don't you dare," Lisa gasped, her face
suddenly paling. "If you ask him, Teri, I
swear I'll never speak to you again!" As
Eric dropped into the seat next to her, and Jeff
into the one next to that, she fell silent.
"What's going on?" Eric asked as the two girls
across the table stifled a giggle.
"Nothing," Allayne finally said. "We were just
talking about Cassie. Lisa doesn't like her very
much." Lisa's eyes flashed her a warning, but
Allayne decided to ignore it. "What's she
like?"
Eric shrugged. "I don't know. I only talked
to her on the way to school this morning."
"Well, what did you talk about?" Teri pressed.
Before Eric could answer, Cassie appeared next
to the empty seat beside Teri Bennett.
"Is anybody sitting here?" she asked, her
voice betraying nervousness.
Eric was about to shake his head when he felt Lisa's
elbow nudge him sharply.
"It's saved," Lisa said. "Teri's boyfriend always
sits there, and he'll be here any minute.
Sorry."
Cassie hesitated, then moved off toward a
small empty table next to the far wall. Teri
stared at Lisa.
"My footstfriend?" she echoed. "Would you
mind telling me who that's supposed to be?"
"Well, why should she sit with us?" Lisa
protested. "Can't she make her own friends? Just because
she lives next door to Eric doesn't make her
part of our group. She's just a nobody, and I
don't think any of us should have anything to do with her."
A silence fell over the table as the other four
teenagers looked at each other, each of them waiting
for someone else to speak first. Finally Eric
Cavanaugh broke the silence.
"How's she supposed to make friends if nobody will
even talk to her?" he asked. Without another word he
rewrapped his sandwich and put it back in the bag.
Then, with his lunch in one hand and an open carton of
milk in the other, he got up and walked over to the
table where Cassie sat alone. As his friends watched
in silence, he said something to Cassie. She nodded,
and then he sat down.
Finally Allayne Garvey leaned across the table.
"I thought you said he couldn't stand her."
Lisa's eyes narrowed and her lips tightened with
anger, but she said nothing.
When the bell rang twenty minutes later, Eric
began stuffing the remains of his lunch into the paper
bag. Across from him Cassie didn't
seem to have heard the bell at all. "What's your
next class?" he asked.
She started slightly, then shook her head. "I-I
don't know. Math, I think."
"Mr. Simms," Eric grunted. "He's a real
creep. You want me to walk you up there?"
But instead of answering his question, Cassie asked one of
her own. "What's Lisa's next class?"
Eric frowned. "Math. So what?"
Cassie took a deep breath then stood up,
hooking her right arm through the straps of her bag so
she'd have both hands free to pick up her tray.
"So, I guess I won't go to class," she said.
"Not go?" Eric asked blankly. What was she
talking about? You didn't just decide not to go
to classes. "What do you mean?"
"Just that," Cassie replied, her voice calm.
"I decided during second period that if things
didn't get any better by lunchtime, I was going
to leave."
"But you can't leave," Eric protested, scrambling
to his feet to follow Cassie as she headed toward
the bins of dirty dishes at one end of the long food
counter. "Besides, what's been so bad?"
Cassie added her tray to the stack on the
counter, then quickly sorted her dishes into the various
bins. When she was done, Eric shoved his empty
lunch bag into a trash barrel and fell in beside her as
they started toward the cafeteria doors. "I just
feel like everybody hates me," Cassie
replied. "They're all talking about me, and
Lisa's the worst. So if she's in the math
class, I'm just not going to go."
"But what'll you do?" Eric asked.
Cassie shrugged. "I don't know. Wander around,
I guess. Maybe I'll go to the beach." She
glanced at Eric. "Want to come with me? You could show
me the beach."
Eric stared at her. He'd thought about cutting
school, even talked about it with Jeff Maynard a
few times. But he'd never actually done it, because
he'd known what would happen if his father ever found out.
And yet now, as Cassie challenged him with her
eyes, he felt himself wavering. When she spoke
again, it was as if she'd read his mind.
"If your father catches you, I'll tell him it was
my fault. We'll say I was feeling really
sick and you were walking me home, but then I felt
better and wanted to go to the beach. And you couldn't just
leave me by myself. I mean, what if I
got sick again?"
Eric knew his father wouldn't buy a story like that, even
if it were true. But as he opened his mouth to tell
Cassie it wouldn't work, he found himself agreeing
to it.
"Okay," he said. "But if we get caught,
I'm gonna be in big trouble."
"We won't get caught," Cassie replied.
"Come on."
They walked down Maple Street to Cape
Drive, crossed to the beach side, then started
walking west, toward the mouth of the harbor. Cassie
carried her tote-bag in one hand and said little,
concentrating instead on the weathered shingled houses that
bordered the beach. They were spaced wide apart, and between
them were expanses of grassy sand, broken here and there
by low picket fences whose paint had long since been
worn away by the storms of winter. The houses, their
shutters closed, had a lonely look to them.
Finally, as they passed the fifth one, Cassie
turned to Eric.
"Doesn't anyone live in them?"
"Not this time of year. They won't be opened up
until school lets out."
"You mean they're empty all the time
except during summer?"
Eric shrugged. "They're just summer houses. Who
wants to go to the beach during the winter?"
"I do," Cassie replied. "At home that was one
of my favorite times to go to the beach. There'd hardly
be anybody there except me, and sometimes I'd go out
on the bus all by myself and just walk for miles. The
summer's okay at the beach, but it gets too
crowded. I mean, at the good beaches there's so many people
in the summer, you can hardly move. It gets really
gross."
Eric grinned. "It's never that crowded here, even when
all the summer people are around. Unless you go out
to Provincetown. Out there it gets really jammed."
They came to a path and turned right, then began
climbing a series of low grass-covered dunes that
separated the road from the beach itself. As they crested the
last of the dunes, the soft roar of the surf grew
louder. Suddenly the Atlantic lay spread before
them. Cassie stopped abruptly, staring at the
ocean.
"It looks different," she said, cocking her head
thoughtfully. Then she understood. "It's the sun. The
sun's coming from a different direction." She dropped
down onto the sand, stretched out on her
back and stared straight up into the sky. Gulls
wheeled overhead, and she could hear them screeching
to each other as they dove down every few seconds
to snatch something out of the water or off the sandy
expanse of beach. Finally she rolled over, jumped
to her feet, and ran down the beach toward the water
line. A flock of sandpipers skittered away from
her, then spread their wings and fluttered into the air.
Flying straight out to sea, they suddenly banked around
to the right, then glided in to land again, fifty yards
farther along. Cassie watched them, entranced, then
kicked off her shoes, stuffed them into her tote bag,
rolled her jeans up to her knees, and waded into the
water. Immediately a shriek burst from her throat.
"It's cold!" she shouted to Eric, who had followed
her down onto the hard-packed sand of the beach, but not
into the water.
"What did you expect?" Eric shouted back.
"It's only April!"
"At home everybody's swimming already," Cassie
gasped, splashing out of the water. She dashed back
up the beach to her tote bag and put her shoes back
on. Then something at the far end of the beach caught her
eye. "What's that?" she asked.
Eric squinted into the afternoon sun. "It's the
marker at Cranberry Point. It shows where the
channel starts, so the boats don't wind up in the
marsh."
Cassie gazed thoughtfully at the channel marker for a
few moments, then turned to face Eric. "Is that
where Miranda Sikes lives?" she asked
abruptly. "Down that way?"
Eric blinked in surprise. "Why do you want to know
that?" he asked.
Cassie regarded Eric carefully. Should she tell
him about the dreams she'd had, and that she was almost sure
Miranda was the woman she'd seen in the dream? But it
would sound crazy to him, wouldn't it? Besides, she
didn't even know if it was true or not. Except
that she had this feeling, deep inside . . .
"I don't know," she said finally. "I just saw her
yesterday, and she . . . well, she looked kind of
interesting."
"She's just a bag lady," Eric replied, too
quickly. "She's nuts.
Cassie felt a surge of anger. "How do you
know?" she demanded. "Have you ever talked to her?"
Eric said nothing.
"Then you shouldn't talk about her," Cassie plunged
on. "You don't know what she's like any more
than anyone knows what I'm like!" The memory of
Lisa's cutting words in the classroom came
back to her. "Doesn't anybody around here even
want to get to know me? Or do you just not count unless you
grew up here?"
"Hey, that's not fair-" Eric began. But then he
remembered Lisa gossiping in the cafeteria, and
realized that what Cassie had said wasn't very far from
the truth. "I want to get to know you," he said
quietly.
But Cassie didn't seem to hear him as she
kicked moodily at the sand. "Maybe I never should
have come here," she said almost to herself.
Eric frowned. "But you had to, didn't you? What
were you going to do, stay in California all by yourself?"
Once more Cassie's eyes met his. "Lots of
kids my age live on their own. I could do it
too."
"Sure," Eric agreed. "And you could wind up
hooking in the Combat Zone in Boston, and doing
drugs too. Or you could even end up like Miranda."
Cassie's eyes glistened with tears. "Well,
maybe it would be better than this," she said. "And
what's so awful about Miranda, anyway?"
Eric opened his mouth to say something, then
abruptly closed it again and looked out to sea.
Cassie said nothing, waiting for Eric to make up his
mind. Finally, still not looking at her, he shrugged his
shoulders. "I don't know," he said. Then he
grinned crookedly, and managed to meet her eyes.
"I guess you're right. Nobody knows anything about
her, really. She never talks to anybody, and
nobody even looks at her anymore."
"Well, where does she live?" Cassie asked.
"Does she work?"
Again Eric looked nervous. He shook his head.
"She must be on welfare or something. She lives
down there," he went on, nodding toward the point.
"Down in the marsh. I-I can show you where it is, I
guess."
"Then let's go see," Cassie said immediately. She
got to her feet again and slung the bag over her
shoulder. Without waiting for Eric to reply, she started
toward the tall red channel marker barely visible in
the distance. When Eric caught up with her a few
moments later, her mood seemed to have changed. She
glanced over at him, grinning happily. "Now,
isn't this better than school?" she asked. "Out
here I can almost forget about everything and pretend
everything's perfect!"
"It's fan," Eric admitted. "But what if we
get caught?"
"If you always worry about what will happen, how can you
do anything?" Cassie asked. "Besides, what's so
great about school?"
"If you want to go to college, it helps if you go
to high school," Eric pointed out.
"I go," Cassie replied. "Anyway, I go enough
so I don't get behind. Besides, all you're
supposed to do is learn the
stuff they teach, so if I learn fast, why should I
waste my time sitting in classes all day?
Especially with people like Lisa."
Eric kicked self-consciously at the sand.
"Lisa's okay."
Cassie looked at Eric out of the corner of her
eye. "Is she your girlfriend?"
Eric felt himself flushing. "I-I don't know. I
guess she is. Anyway, she thinks she is, and
my dad likes her."
Cassie stopped short. "Your
dad
likes her? What's that got to do with anything?"
Eric shrugged uncomfortably. "It-well, it just
makes things easier if I go out with people my
dad likes." He could feel Cassie's eyes
on him then, and he tried not to look at her. At
last he couldn't help himself, and his eyes met hers.
"That's kind of stupid, isn't it?" he asked.
Gassie said nothing, but nodded her head.
They continued walking along a few feet apart, and
though neither of them said anything for a long time, there was
nothing uncomfortable about the silence. When Cassie
finally spoke again, Eric knew immediately what she was
talking about.
"I bet she's rich, isn't she?"
"Uh-huh. Mr. Chambers married Kevin
Smythe's aunt, and the Smythes used to own most of
False Harbor."
"I bet your dad wishes
he'd
married Kevin Smythe's aunt.
Almost in spite of himself Eric snickered. "She
wouldn't have married him. She can't stand my dad."
Cassie's eyes rolled. "So your dad likes
Lisa because of who her parents are, and her parents
don't like your dad but let Lisa go out with you?"
Eric nodded.
"What a bunch of crap. Doesn't it make you
want to puke sometimes?"
Eric frowned. "I'm not sure what you're talking
about," he said, even though he thought he knew
exactly what she meant.
"Just parents," Cassie said. She tipped her
face up into the breeze, enjoying the feel of the
crisp air on her face. "They always do things for
dumb reasons. Like my mom hated my dad and was
always telling me how rotten he was." Her voice
took on a hard edge, but her eyes were glistening with
tears. "She only kept me around
so
he couldn't have me. Then she went out and got killed
on the freeway, and how was that supposed to make me
feel? I mean, Mom wanted me to hate Dad as
much as she did, and now I have to live with him
"cause she's dead. ..." She hesitated,
fighting the conflicting emotions that roiled inside her.
"Well, it's no big deal that she died-just because she
was my mom didn't give her the right to beat me up!
And you know what? She was wrong about my dad. He's
not a bad guy. But what does he need me for?
He's got a whole other family." She
sniffled, then determinedly wiped her tears away and
managed to smile weakly at Eric. "It makes you
wonder why they bother to have lads in the first
place."
Eric looked at the sand at his feet, embarrassed
by Cassie's outburst. And yet almost everything she'd
said were things he himself had thought about. "But what can you do
about it?" he asked softly. "You can't choose who
your parents are."
Cassie stopped walking and turned to face him.
"Maybe I can," she said quietly. "I mean,
Dad and Rosemary don't really want me. I'm
just in their way. So . . ." She hesitated,
wanting to tell Eric about the fantasy but not wanting
him to laugh at her. If he laughed at her- But
she had to take the risk. "Maybe . . . maybe
I can find a mother who really wants me." She
hesitated, but Eric didn't laugh. Instead he
only looked at her intently.
She decided to tell Eric a little bit of what was in
her mind. Not much. Just enough to see what his reaction would
be. "I had a dream," she said, a nervous laugh
rippling around her words. "I-I dreamed that Miranda
Sikes was really my mother. Isn't that weird?"
Eric looked away from her, and when he replied, his
voice was low. "I don't know," he said. "Lots
of funny things happen in dreams. And-and sometimes they
mean something, don't they?"
Feeling suddenly encouraged by Eric's response,
Cassie bobbed her head eagerly. "In the dream,
she called my name, and she was reaching out to me. I
think she wanted me to come to her."
Eric looked at her strangely. "What makes you
say that? he asked.
A stab of fear ran through Cassie. Did he think
she was crazy? "I didn't say she did," she
added quickly. "It was just a dream."
Eric said nothing for a while. When he finally spoke,
his voice was barely audible. "But if she were calling
you," he said, "that would mean you'd have to go out there."
Cassie frowned. "Why shouldn't I?"
Eric hesitated for a long time. "No reason," he
said at last. "I'll show you where it is. And maybe
I'll even show you what happens if you get too
close."
Rosemary Winslow heard the tinkling of the bell above
the shop door and glanced up from the chair she was working
on to see Charlotte Ambler pausing just inside,
examining a copy of a Tiffany lamp. It couldn't
be after three already, could it? Frowning, Rosemary
glanced at her watch.
It wasn't. In feet it was barely two o'clock.
Then what was the high school principal
doing here? Suddenly alarmed, she rose to her feet
and threaded her way through the maze of furniture that
cluttered the small store.
"Charlotte?" she asked. "Has something happened
to Cassie?"
Charlotte Ambler shook her head. "I doubt it,
but I don't know, really," she said. "In fact
I was hoping you might know. Is she here, by any
chance?"
"Here?" Rosemary repeated. "B. . . well,
school isn't even out yet, is it?"
The principal sighed. "No, it isn't. But I'm
afraid that Cassie didn't go to any of her
classes after lunch. I thought- well, I thought
perhaps I might find her down here."
Rosemary shook her head in confusion. "I'm not
sure what you mean. Was she ill?"
"Not according to Lisa Chambers," Charlotte said. "It
seems that Lisa saw Cassie and Eric
Cavanaugh leaving school after lunch. Neither of them
have been seen since."
Rosemary's brows arched in surprise. "You're
telling me that Eric Cavanaugh cut school?" she
asked.
"Eric Cavanaugh?"
"Well, it's hardly as earth-shattering as the
second coming," Charlotte observed dryly, "but
yes, that's what I'm
telling you. More to the point, I'm also telling you that
Cassie cut along with him. I'd hoped she'd at
least last out the first day."
Rosemary frowned. What was the woman talking about?
"I'm afraid I don't understand."
Charlotte nodded. "That's why I came," she said.
"Do you have a minute? I have some things here I think you
ought to see."
Her apprehension deepening, Rosemary led
Charlotte to the back of the shop, where she had a tiny
office. As Charlotte settled herself into a chair,
she drew a file folder from her briefcase.
"These are Cassie's records from her former
school. I thought perhaps you should look at them."
Frowning, Rosemary took the file from the
principal with her unbandaged hand and flipped through it.
But it was the first page, obviously, that Charlotte
Ambler was concerned with.
"I see," she said. "Apparently this isn't the first
time she's cut some classes."
"Apparently she's in the
habit
of cutting," Mrs. Ambler corrected her. "I
thought perhaps we ought to discuss it face-to-face.
Given all the circumstances," she added pointedly.
The principal's tone made Rosemary look up
at her. "The circumstances?" she repeated. "What
circumstances? Couldn't you have just called me? After
all, it's her first day of school in a strange town
where she has no friends. Perhaps she shouldn't even have
started today."
"I hope you're right," the principal replied, "but
I'm afraid there might be more to it than just the
simple feet of her being new here." She fell
silent, but her eyes remained expectantly on
Rosemary.
"I'm sorry," Rosemary said after a moment's
silence. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're
talking about."
The blank look on Rosemary's face made
Charlotte Ambler wonder if coming here had been a
mistake. But it was too late now. "I'm not
sure how to approach this. ..." she began.
Rosemary felt a pang of alarm. What on earth
was bothering Charlotte? "Directly, I should
imagine," she replied.
Charlotte took a deep breath, as if
preparing herself for a
plunge into icy water. "I've been a teacher and a
principal for a long time, Rosemary," she began.
"And I like to think I've developed a sixth sense
about children."
Rosemary felt a chill pass through her, and
instinctively knew what was coming next.
"And there's something about Cassie," Charlotte went
on. "I can't quite put my finger on it. It's just
something . -. ." She fell silent, as if searching
for the right words.
"Something in her eyes?" Rosemary said quietly.
Charlotte Ambler looked at her quickly, startled.
Then she nodded. "That's it," she said. "That's it
exactly. When she came in this morning, the first thing
I noticed was her eyes. They're so deep, and
yet I kept having the feeling that I wasn't
really seeing into them. I had the feeling there was something
else there-something, well, "hidden" is the word that
keeps coming to my mind. And usually when children are hiding
something, it's anger. I know this must all sound a little
strange, but-"
"But it doesn't, Charlotte," Rosemary broke
in. "It's the same thing I've seen. I keep
telling myself it doesn't mean anything, that
she's been through a lot, and of course she's doing her
best to hide her pain, but-well, I guess I
keep thinking there's something more."
Charlotte frowned thoughtfully. "Have you talked
to Keith about it?"
"I've tried, but you know Keith. He sees what
he wants to see, and he never wants to admit that
anything's seriously wrong. And he's usually right."
She gestured helplessly. "I'm hoping he's right
about Cassie too."
Charlotte's head cocked thoughtfully. "I
wonder-do you know how Cassie's relationship with her
mother was?"
"Not good," Rosemary blurted before she. thought it
through. Then she paused. "I mean . . . well,
apparently she feels some resentment toward her mother,
but that's common with children when their parents die, isn't
it? They feel abandoned, and then turn their hurt
into anger, don't they?"
Charlotte nodded. "It's almost stereotypical,"
she agreed. "And maybe that's what's happening with
Cassie."
But when the principal left a few minutes later,
neither she nor Rosemary were satisfied with their
conversation.
They both felt that something had been left unsaid,
though neither of them had been willing to say it.
What neither of them had talked about was the strange
sense of fear that Cassie Winslow induced in both
of them.
Rosemary closed the shop early, but instead of going
home, she went down to the marina, and as she'd hoped,
found Keith aboard the
Morning Star III,
polishing her brass fittings. He grinned as she
stepped aboard, and held up a rag.
"Want to help?"
Rosemary shook her head and held up her injured
hand. "Good for sanding, but not for Brasso," she said.
"Would you believe I found a cat in Cassie's
room this morning?"
"A cat?" Keith echoed. "How on earth could it have
gotten in?"
Rosemary shrugged. "For some reason she'd propped
the screen open this morning. Anyway, it was sleeping
in her bed, and it didn't take kindly to me
disturbing
it
But that isn't why I'm here. I wanted to talk to you
before you got home, in case Cassie
gets there before we do."
Keith's grin faded. "Cassie? What's
wrong?"
"She cut school. She and Eric both."
Keith only shrugged. "What's the big deal? I
mean, every kid cuts school now and then, and-"
Before he could finish his sentence, an angry voice
erupted from the boat in the next slip. Both he and
Rosemary turned to see Ed Cavanaugh, his eyes
bleary but blazing with anger, emerging from the hatchway
of the
Big Ed.
"I'll tell you what the big deal is," he
snarled, wiping grease from his hands with a filthy rag.
"The big deal is that
my
boy doesn't cut school. And maybe you don't
give a damn about what your girl does, but I do!
I'm gonna find Eric, and you better hope that
tramp of yours isn't with him. Got that, Winslow?"
Keith's mouth opened, but before he could speak,
Rosemary put a restraining hand on his arm, and neither
of them said anything until Ed Cavanaugh had
shambled off the dock.
"He may be able to talk to Laura like that,"
Keith finally said, his voice quaking with anger. "But
he can't talk to me that way, and he can't talk about
Cassie that way."
"He's drunk," Rosemary said. "He doesn't
even know what he's saying. And even if he finds
them, he won't touch Cassie. Ed's a lout, and
he's lazy, but he's not that stupid."
Keith was silent for a long moment, then Rosemary
saw the tension drain out of his body. "Hang on for
five minutes and you can give me a ride home.
On the way we can decide what to do about
Cassie."
When they got home ten minutes later, Cassie
was not there.
 
Cassie stood at the very end of Cranberry
Point. The noise of the surf was much quieter here,
for a sandbar lay off the mouth of False Harbor, and
only beyond the bar was the bottom steep enough to allow the
ocean swells to build into breakers. Between the bar and the
beach the water was no more than four feet deep,
except for the narrow channel visible only by a
darkening of the water where its depth had been dredged out.
Standing like a beacon in the middle of the harbor's mouth,
a red marker rose high out of the water, a
light at its top flashing four times every five
seconds. Inland of the marker a series of red-painted
pilings marched in a gently curving line toward the
shelter of the inner harbor.
"Why are they painted red?" Cassie asked,
frowning thoughtfully. "If they're marking the channel,
shouldn't they be green?"
Eric shook his head. "Red right returning. If
you're coming in on a boat, you always keep red markers
to your right. So if the pilings were green, everyone would
come in on the wrong side of them and run aground in the
marsh."
Cassie's gaze shifted then, taking in the
weed-choked marsh which was separated from the sea only by the
low strand of beach that formed the point. The strangest part
about it, she decided, was that you couldn't really tell
where it started and where it stopped.
Then, on a rise far out in the middle of the marsh, she
saw a thin stand of windblown pines. In their midst,
nearly
hidden from view, she could just make out the shape of a
small cabin.
"What's that?" she asked Eric, but the sudden racing
of her heartbeat told her the answer before Eric even
spoke.
"That's Miranda's house," Eric said. "It's on
the only solid ground in the whole marsh."
"Can we go out there?" Cassie asked.
"You're not supposed to," Erie replied
carefully. "It isn't really safe unless you know
your way around. I've been doing it all my life,
and I know almost all the trails. But you still have to be
careful because some of the trails change from year to year.
When we have really big storms, with real high
tides, the marsh floods completely. Sometimes the
paths wash away. Then you have to find new ones."
Cassie frowned. "But what does she do when the
marsh floods?"
Eric shrugged. "Just stays there, I guess."
Cassie stared out over the marsh in fascination, trying
to imagine what it must be like for Miranda Sikes,
living alone in the marsh with only a few ragged
trees to protect her from the winter winds. Then, as
she gazed at the little cabin, the ancient, unfocused
memory from the night before stirred within her once again.
There was something about the house that seemed to beckon
to her, almost as if it were trying to draw her to itself. She
tried to ignore the strange feeling, but couldn't.
"Take me out there," she said softly. "I want
to see it up close."
Eric's gaze followed Cassie's and fixed on the
little house as if he were searching for something. Then,
finally, he nodded. "Maybe she's not home. If
she isn't ..." His voice trailed off, and he
led Cassie back along the point, finally veering
off into the marsh on a path that was barely visible
to Cassie's eyes. The ground felt spongy under
her.
With each step, she felt the soil compress beneath her
weight, leaving footprints that flooded briefly
then faded into the swampy ground. "What is it?" she
called to Eric, who was a few yards ahead of her.
He looked back.
"What's what?"
"What we're standing on. It doesn't look like
sand."
"Hie sand's underneath, except in a few spots
where there's
quicksand on the surface. But this is all peat, and
it's about thirty feet deep. Come on."
They moved slowly through the thick grass that covered the
surface of the marsh. Every few steps birds,
disturbed in their feeding, burst into the air, their wings
flapping wildly as they screamed their alarm.
Twice Cassie heard vague rustling
noises that sounded like snakes slithering invisibly
around her. She shivered with a sudden chill, then quickened
her step to catch up with Eric.
Suddenly Eric stopped short. Cassie nearly
bumped into him before she realized he was standing
perfectly still, staring off into the grass to the left.
"What is it?" she whispered, her eyes following his
but seeing nothing.
"A goose. First one I've seen this year. See?
Over there, sitting real still. He's watching us."
Still Cassie could see nothing, but then a movement
caught her eye and the bird was suddenly perfectly
clear. It was waddling placidly now, dipping its
head under the surface of the water to feed off the
bottom. They watched it for a few moments before Eric
started along the path once more. As soon as he
began moving, the goose honked loudly and launched
itself into the air.
Eric stopped when they were still fifty yards from the base
of the little hill on which Miranda's house perched. A
network of paths seemed to go off in every direction, but
only one path led to the hill and the tiny cabin in the
stand of stunted pines. A post had been planted in
the marsh here, a weatherbeaten sign warning
trespassers away.
"Can't we go any farther?" Cassie asked,
instinctively dropping her voice to a whisper.
Eric shook his head and pointed toward the house.
"See that?" he asked. "On the roof?" It was
sloped on all four sides, and rose steeply to a
sharp point in the precise center of the square
structure. Cassie searched carefully and finally
spotted a white shape perched on the very point of the
cabin. "It's hers," Eric went on. "It's an
albino hawk, and it's always up there, just sitting and
watching. She trained it. Come on."
He veered off to the right, and slowly they began
circling the little rise. The house was visible now through
the scraggly trees. As they moved slowly around it,
Cassie had the feeling they were being watched.
The cabin was perfectly symmetrical, built of
peeled logs that had long since weathered to a silvery
gray. There was a single window on either side of the
front door, and a low porch, only one step above
the sandy soil on which the house stood, ran the width
of the structure. The door was closed, but the heavy
oak shutters that hung at each window were held open
by large wrought-iron hooks.
Cassie stared at it for several seconds, trying
to imagine how anyone could live here, in so
small and cramped and desolate a place. Even
the trees around it looked as if they were trying to draw
away from the building. A tangle of weeds struggled
for survival in the nearly barren soil surrounding
it.
As Cassie and Eric began making their way slowly
around the cabin, the bird on the roof stirred, its
feathers ruffling angrily as it screeched an alarm.
Still perched on the point of the roof, the eerie white
hawk began shifting nervously from one foot to the
other. It shook itself every few seconds, and its
head-dominated by an evil-looking hooked beak-"
constantly in motion as the creature's sharp eyes
endlessly surveyed its territory. From deep in its
throat an ominous clucking sound emerged.
Only when the two teenagers stopped moving did the
hawk once more subside into silence.
Each side of the house bore two shuttered windows,
and the back, like the front, had a door in its exact
center. But instead of twin windows, the back of the
house had a single window to the left of the door and a
stone chimney to the right. Nor was there a porch along
the back wall-only a small step from the threshold
to the ground. From a few yards away Cassie could
also make out a well, its mouth circled
by a low ring of stones. Above the well twin posts
supported a wooden roof, with a metal rod and a
crank at one end. A rope was wound around the rod,
and a bucket stood on the lip of the well.
"Does she still use that well?" Cassie asked,
her voice little more than a whisper.
Eric nodded. "There isn't any electricity or
anything. All she has is a wood stove, and
there's an outhouse over there. See it?"
He pointed off to the left. At the bottom of the
hill,
covered with a tangle of vines, Cassie saw a
sagging privy, its weathered planking cracked and
splintered.
"How can she live here?" she asked. "Why do they
even let her?"
Eric tipped his head noncommittally. "She's
always lived here, except when she was in the
hospital." He faced Cassie, his blue eyes
serious. "This is how come everyone thinks she's
crazy," he went on. "I mean, you would think you'd
have to have something wrong with you to live like this, wouldn't you?"
Cassie bit her lip, her eyes suddenly filling
with tears again. "But how come nobody does anything for
her?" she asked.
Eric paused, then shrugged his shoulders again. "Mom
says people tried a few times, but Miranda wouldn't
even let them into the house. She ..." He
hesitated, then went on. "Well, I guess she
just likes it out here."
At last-with the hawk eyeing them warily every step of the
way-they worked their way back to where they'd begun and
Cassie stopped to look at the house once more. As
she watched, the front door opened and Miranda,
dressed in the same black clothes she had been
wearing the day before, stepped out onto the porch.
She stared out over the swamp for a moment, then, as her
eyes found them, she slowly raised her arm.
Instantly the white hawk rose from the roof, its
wings beating rapidly as it lifted itself into the sky.
As the hawk soared higher and higher and Cassie
felt a shudder of sudden fear, a shout floated over
the marsh. "Eric?
Eric!"
"Oh, Jesus," Eric whispered. "It's my father.
What are we going to do now?"
Cassie said nothing. She stood motionless, as if
hypnotized by the ghostly bird. Then she tore her
eyes away and faced Eric. "Nothing," she told
him. "We already decided what we'd say
if we got caught. So let's go do it. Come
on."
With a last quick glance at the strange figure of
Miranda standing on her front porch, Cassie
turned and began making her way back toward the
beach.
The hawk, screaming with fury now, beat its way after
them, flying low over the reeds of the marsh. Only when
they reached the beach did it finally turn back,
screeching once more, to return to the peak of the cabin's
roof. Panting, Eric and Cassie watched it for a
few seconds then headed for the parking lot that edged the
easternmost border of the marsh.
Ed Cavanaugh was leaning against the fender of his
truck, his eyes flashing with unconcealed rage.
"What the hell are you doing out here, boy?" he
demanded. "You got any idea what time it is?"
"I-I don't know," Eric stammered.
"Two-thirty? Three?"
"Don't sass me, Eric. You know what happens
when you sass me." The muscles in Ed's jaws
twitched dangerously, and his right hand clenched into a
fist.
"I'm not sassing you, Dad," Eric said, his voice
desperate. "I don't know what time it
is, that's all."
"It's four," Ed rasped. "Four o'clock! And if it
were two-thirty or three, it wouldn't make a
goddamned bit of difference. What the hell are you
doing out here?"
"It's my fault, Mr. Cavanaugh," Cassie
tried to interrupt, but Cavanaugh raked her
scornfully with his eyes.
"I ain't talking to you, you little slut," he snarled.
"Get your ass in the truck, Eric! You and I are
going to have a little talk when we get home!"
Eric's face paled but he said nothing, only
glanced quickly at Cassie before climbing into the
passenger seat of the battered "white truck.
A second later Ed Cavanaugh's eyes met
Cassie's, and she felt a chill of pure
terror.
He hates me,
she thought.
He's never even met me, and he hates me.
Then Cavanaugh swung himself into the driver's seat,
slammed the door, and gunned the engine. The truck
shot forward, spraying Cassie with a stinging hail of
sand and gravel. She instinctively raised her arm
to shield her eyes. When she touched her
face a moment later, her fingers came away
bloody.
Biting her lips against both the pain of the, cut on
her forehead and the sting of tears in her eyes, she started
home. But before she'd gone more than a few yards,
she found herself stopping to turn back once more and
gaze out over the marsh toward the tiny cabin in the
pines. She could
barely make out the dark form of Miranda Sikes, still
standing on her porch. Seconds, marked only
by Cassie's heartbeat, passed. At last, almost
tentatively, Cassie raised her arm and waved.
For a moment Cassie thought Miranda hadn't seen
her. But then, just as she was about to turn away, she
thought she saw Miranda smile.
Whatever anger Keith may have been feeling toward
Cassie vanished as she came in through the back
door. Her right hand was held against her forehead, and
her cheek was stained with a dark smear of drying blood.
"Cassie? Honey, what's happened?"
"I'm okay," Cassie said. "I just-it was an
accident, that's all." She dropped her tote bag
on the kitchen table, then went to the sink and bent over
it, washing the cut with warm water. She groped for a
paper towel, pressed it against the wound, then
straightened up and faced her father. "Are there any
Band-Aids?" she asked, managing a weak smile.
"Upstairs in the bathroom," Keith told her.
"Come on." Herding Cassie up the stairs ahead
of him, he guided her into the bathroom and opened the
medicine cabinet. "Maybe we better let a
doctor have a look at that," he suggested as he
rumbled with the little metal box. "When Rosemary
gets back from Jen's dance class, I'll take
you."
"It's just a cut. It doesn't even need a big
one. Are there any of the little round ones?"
"Got it," Keith said, ripping open the paper
cover and extracting the small plastic disk
inside. He peeled away the backing, then told
Cassie to tip her head back. When she took the
paper towel away, he saw that she was right-the cut
wasn't nearly as bad as it had looked when she
came in. He centered the bandage carefully, then
pressed it tightly to her skin.
"Okay," he said when they were both back
downstairs, "now let's hear the whole story.
Starting with why you left school right after lunch."
Cassie's heart sank. How had he found out so
soon? But then she knew the answer:
False Harbor wasn't like the San Fernando
Valley, where nobody ever noticed what anyone was
doing. False Harbor was a tiny little town, and every
body knew everybody else. Someone had seen
Eric and her, and told on them.
"School was-" she began. She was about to blurt out
the truth, but then remembered the story she had made
up for Eric. What would happen to him if she told
her father the truth and Mr. Cavanaugh found out about
it? "I-I got sick," she began again. "I was
having lunch with Eric and I got sick to my
stomach. I decided to come home and lie down, and
Eric said he'd come with me, in case I started
throwing up on the way home."
Keith frowned. "But that was three hours ago," he
said. "Where have you been since then?"
Cassie's expression turned wary. "I got
better," she replied. "By the time we got home,
I was all over it."
Keith eyed her suspiciously. "Then why didn't
you go back to school?"
"I didn't
want
to," Cassie said without thinking. "School was
horrible, and I hate it. It isn't
anything like I'm used to, and everyone was talking about
me."
"Talking about you?" Keith repeated, his eyes
narrowing slightly. "Why would they do that?"
Cassie shrugged. "One of the girls hates me."
"Hates you? That's a little hard to believe, honey.
How could anyone hate you on the first day?"
"It's Lisa Chambers," Cassie replied.
"She's Eric's girlfriend, and she thinks I'm
trying to take him away from her."
Keith relaxed. "And for that you skipped half a day
of school?" he asked, the beginnings of a smile
playing around the corners of his mouth.
"It's not funny," Cassie began, just as the back
door opened once more and Rosemary came into the
kitchen.
"Well, she's right," Rosemary sighed after Keith
had repeated what Cassie had told him. "It's
not funny, really. Lisa Chambers can be pretty
nasty when she wants to be." But just as Cassie was
starting to let herself relax, her stepmother turned stern
eyes on her. "But that still isn't any reason for you
to stay away from school. If you were sick, you should have
gone to the nurse's office."
"I-I didn't know there was one,"
Cassie stammered.
Rosemary's brows arched skeptically. "Did yon
ask?"
Cassie hesitated, then shook her head and turned
to her father. "Mr. Cavanaugh found out we cut
too. Eric says he's going to be in trouble."
Keith glanced at his wife, who said nothing,
apparently waiting for him to take the lead. "Don't
you think you might be in a little trouble too?" he asked
with more severity than he was really feeling.
Cassie shrugged. "I don't care. But Eric's
father-I think Mr. Cavanaugh's going to beat Eric
up."
"Beat him up?" Rosemary echoed, her voice
clearly betraying her doubt. "Just for cutting
school? What gave you that idea?"
"Eric told me. He says his father hits him when
he gets mad. He hit him Saturday night"
Simultaneously both Keith arid Rosemary
remembered the shouting they'd heard coming from the
Cavanaughs' two nights before. Surely it had
been no more than an argument, hadn't it? But, of
course, they both knew better, for each of them had
at one time or another seen the bruises on
Laura's and Eric's faces and arms.
Eric's injuries had always been explained away as
nothing more than accidents on the playing field, but
neither Keith nor Rosemary had ever put much faith
in Laura's implausible accounts of her own
clumsiness.
Suddenly Keith understood the truth of his daughter's
tale. "You didn't get sick, did you?" he
asked, his voice gentle. "You made that story up
for Eric, so his father wouldn't beat him up."
After a moment Cassie nodded unhappily. "You
won't tell, will you? It was all my idea. Eric
didn't want to go with me, but I talked him into it.
Please?"
Keith hesitated, uncertain. When he glanced at
his wife, he could see she was still determined to leave the
situation up to him. "I don't sea what harm it can
do," he said at last. "If claiming you got sick
will keep Ed Cavanaugh's hands off Eric, I
think it's worth it. But I want you to promise me
you won't cut school again. Or if you do, at least
don't try to talk anyone else into going along.
Understood?"
Rosemary saw Cassie glance at her, but said
nothing, and after a long silence Cassie finally
nodded. "Yes, Daddy," she said
quietly.
"Then that's settled," Keith said.
"Not quite," Rosemary interjected. "Don't you think
we have to do something about this?"
Now Cassie's eyes met her stepmother's
directly, and Rosemary was sure she recognized
a challenge in them.
"Why?" Cassie asked. "My mom never did
anything when I cut school at home."
"Did she know what you were doing?" Rosemary
countered.
"Sure," Cassie replied, her tone just short of
belligerence. "I used to do it all the time. What's
the big deal? I get good grades, and the classes
are so dumb I don't see the point of going."
Rosemary decided to ignore the jibe. "What
did you do when you cut school?"
"Nothing much," Cassie replied vaguely.
"Sometimes I'd go to the beach, like Eric and I did
today. But usually I just went home and read."
"And your mother didn't care?"
Cassie's jaw tightened, but when she spoke, her
voice was almost emotionless. "Most of the time she
probably didn't even know. She was always at work,
and then after Tommy left, she usually went
out all the time. Sometimes I didn't even see her
except on the weekends."
"I see," Rosemary breathed, suddenly softening.
Apparently Keith was right-Diana hadn't really
cared about Cassie at all. "Well, under the
circumstances I guess we can let it go this time,"
she said. "But I want you to understand that here we
do
care if you go to school or not. Even though I have my
store, I won't be working all the time, and I
certainly won't be going out every night. If you have
problems at school, we want you to talk about them,
not just stop going to classes. Okay?"
Cassie's eyes narrowed slightly, but she bobbed
her head. "Can I go up to my room now?"
Rosemary hesitated, feeling certain there was more
to be said, but not quite sure what it was. As had already
happened a couple of times before, she felt vaguely
manipulated. "All right," she sighed. "I'll
call you when I need you to come down and help
Jennifer set the table." Cassie started
toward the stairs when Rosemary suddenly remembered
the cuts on her wrist. "Cassie?" she called.
The girl stopped, and turned back questioningly.
"There was a cat in your room this morning,"
Rosemary said. "It was in your bed, and when I went
in to make it, it scratched me." She held up her
bandaged hand. "Do you have any idea where it came from?"
Cassie said nothing for a moment, the dream from last
night suddenly coming back to her. Then she shook her
head. "I don't know. It was in the tree last
night, so I let it in. Then I let it out this
morning, but it must have come back." She hesitated a
second, then: "Can-can I keep him?"
Immediately Rosemary shook her head. "You shouldn't
even have let him in. I'm sure he belongs
to someone, and I let him out again."
Now it was Cassie who shook her head. "He'll
come back," she said. "I know he will. When he
does, can I keep him? Please?"
Rosemary glanced at Keith. Wasn't he going
to say anything? He certainly knew how she felt
about cats-she'd made it perfectly clear last
year when Jennifer wanted a kitten. "I-I
don't know," she finally temporized. "He
probably won't come back, but if he does,
we'll talk about it then."
Cassie opened her mouth to say something, but then
seemed to change her mind.
A moment later Keith and Rosemary were
alone in the kitchen. Rosemary went to the
refrigerator and pulled out the bottle of white
wine they had opened the night before but hadn't finished.
"I know it's a bit early," she said, offering
Keith a glass of wine and a rueful smile. "I
guess I'm just feeling a little overwhelmed."
Keith raised his glass and tipped it toward her.
"Well, if you ask me, you handled that situation like a
champ."
"Did I?" Rosemary mused. "I wonder. I
have this nagging feeling that maybe we should have insisted on
some kind of punishment."
"But you heard her," Keith replied. "It was almost
as if she didn't even know that what she did was
wrong. And it's obvious she didn't think we'd
care."
Rosemary shook her head. "I don't know. She
certainly knew there was the possibility of getting in
trouble. I mean,
she went so far as to make up that story to protect
Eric. And I'm also having a problem dealing with the
idea that Diana really didn't know what was going
on, or didn't care."
"Well, it doesn't surprise me," Keith
replied bitterly. "In feet I'm not
sure Diana ever really cared about anyone but herself.
Even when we were married and she claimed she loved
me so much she couldn't stand to have me out of her sight,
she wasn't telling the truth. The truth was that she
couldn't stand being away from me because she could only
convince herself I loved her if I was there every
second. And I've never been sure she didn't
take Cassie just to keep me from having her."
"My God," Rosemary said, her eyes drifting
up to the ceiling toward Cassie's room. "What
must it have been like for her?"
Then they both fell silent as they heard Ed
Cavanaugh's voice shouting from next door.
"Lying, stinking, rotten kid!
I'll teach you to talk back to
I""
Laura's voice came next, softer. "Ed-"
"SHUT UP!"
Keith rose to his feet, but Rosemary stopped
him. "Don't," she said. "We can call the
police, or we can ignore it. But I don't
want you to get involved."
"But we are involved, damn it," Keith replied.
"We have to listen to it, don't we? And what about
Eric and Laura? Do we just let him beat
them up?"
Rosemary met his eyes. "Then call the
police," she insisted. "If you want to do something,
call the police. But let them handle it."
Keith reached for the phone, then, as he always did when
he was tempted to report the fights at the
Cavanaughs', hung up again before he dialed. If
he called the police, Ed Cavanaugh would know
immediately who had reported the fight at his house. And
there were too many nights when Keith had to be at
sea, and Rosemary and the girls would be alone in the
house. He couldn't risk Ed taking out his drunken
anger on them when Keith himself was hundreds of
miles away.
"Shit," he said softly, pouring himself a second
glass of
wine. Then he smiled sadly at Rosemary. "I
guess Cassie's story didn't work for Eric.
But at least she tried, didn't she?"
For a moment Rosemary said nothing. Was that really all
the lie had been? An attempt to help Eric?
Or had it been meant for them too? She wished she
could be sure.
She dismissed the uncharitable thoughts from her mind and
made herself smile. "Yes, I guess
she did." She reached over and squeezed her
husband's hand. "We'll make things work out. She's
got some problems, but nothing we can't handle."
"And it's hard to get mad at someone whose always
looking out for someone else, isn't it?" Keith
added. "She did it for Jennifer the other night, and
she did it for Eric today. Whatever mistakes
Diana may have made, I think she raised a good
kid."
But Rosemary made no reply, for once again her
mind was occupied with the strange feeling she had about
Cassie, the feeling that the things Cassie was doing,
no matter how well-intentioned they seemed on the
surface, were cloaking something else. Cassie, she
was beginning to believe, was a lot more complicated than
she seemed on the surface. Something was going on behind
those large brown eyes of hers, and it wasn't something
that Rosemary understood.
More and more, she was growing certain that it was something she should
fear.
But that's silly, she told herself once again. She's
only a child. What can there be in a child to be afraid
of? But as the afternoon turned into evening, and the evening
turned to night, Rosemary found herself watching
Cassie, looking for something.
What it was, she didn't know. . . .
Late that night, as Miranda Sikes carefully
banked the fire in the ancient wood-burning stove
that sat next to her makeshift kitchen sink, the
nondescript grayish cat with the black markings on
its back wove around her feet, rubbing itself against her
ankles. She finished with the stove, closing the vent
to let in only enough air to keep the fire going, then
turned the oil lantern on her table down low.
She began stripping off her clothes, hanging them
carefully in the armoire against the east wall, and
finally slipped
into a worn flannel nightgown. As she turned the
bed down, the cat leaped up and slithered under the
covers, but Miranda shook her head.
"No, no, no, Sumi," she crooned.
Reaching into the depths of the bed, she scooped the cat
up and cradled it in her arms. Stroking its belly,
she looked down into its glowing yellow eyes.
"Didn't we have a long talk yesterday, and
didn't I explain to you that you can't come back here
anymore?"
The cat mewed softly, and one of its forepaws
stroked Miranda's wrist.
"Yes," Miranda crooned. "I know what
you want, but you can't always have what you want, can you?
And you just can't live here anymore, no matter how
much you want to. You have to stay with Cassandra. You have
to stay with her and do what she wants you to do. She
needs you now, doesn't she?"
Opening the front door, she stooped down and slid
the cat out into the night.
The cat hesitated, looking up almost questioningly
into Miranda's eyes. But once again Miranda shook
her head.
"No, you can't come back in. You know where you live
now, and you know what you're to do." Quietly but
firmly she shut the door.
The cat stared at the closed door for a moment, then
bounded off the porch and down the slope into the darkness
of the marsh. It moved quickly, slipping through the reeds and
grasses like a dark shadow, its eyes glittering
brightly in the starlight.
As the clock in the church tower struck midnight, the
cat slipped once more through Cassie's window. A
few minutes later it was asleep at its new
master's feet.
 
By the end of the week Rosemary Winslow was finding that
she no longer looked forward to each new
day. So on Saturday morning, instead of getting
up at her usual time, she allowed herself to sleep
in, lingering in bed, not quite asleep, but somehow
unwilling to dress and begin the day.
"Are you sure you're all right?" Keith asked when
he came up to look for her just after seven.
The look of concern on his face and the slight tremor
in his voice almost made Rosemary laugh out loud,
but when she had reassured him and he'd gone
downstairs again, she lay awake, a strange
feeling of ennui overcoming her. Slowly she'd come
to realize that she wasn't nearly as all right as
she'd told Keith she was, though she still couldn't
put her finger on precisely what was wrong.
Part of it was simply the fact of Cassie's being
there. She understood that and accepted it. Time would take
care of that. It was simply a matter of waiting for
new routines to establish themselves. What, after all,
had she expected? Had she really thought that a
teenaged girl could come into their lives without having
anything change? Of course not.
Yet deep down inside she suspected that she had
hoped for precisely that. A part of her knew that
she'd hoped nothing would change, that somehow Cassie
would simply meld into their family, sliding
naturally into her role as Jennifer's older sister
and her own eldest daughter. Which, of course, was a
stupid idea, even if it had been an
unconscious
one. And if she was completely honest with herself, she
also knew that so far everything had gone much better than
she could realistically have hoped for.
And yet . . .
She cast her mind back over the week, remembering
all the little things that had happened, the little things that
really shouldn't have bothered her but somehow did.
The biggest of those things was the cat.
Tuesday morning when Cassie had come down
to breakfast, the cat had been with her. Rosemary's
first instinct had been to tell her to put it out and not
let it come back in again, but when Jennifer had seen
it, she'd squealed with excitement and immediately demanded
to be allowed to hold it. Rosemary had opened her
mouth to protest, but before she could say anything,
Cassie had set the cat in Jennifer's lap. It
immediately closed its eyes and began purring.
"His name's Sumi," Cassie said.
"Sumi?" Keith repeated. "How did you come up
with that?"
"I dreamed it," Cassie replied. She
turned to Rosemary, smiling softly. "When you
dream something, you should pay attention to it, don't you
think?"
Before she could even think, Rosemary had nodded. She
wanted to protest again and insist that the cat must go, but
Cassie had artfully changed the subject. By the
time she was able to turn the conversation back to the cat, it
all seemed to be over.
"But I always wanted a cat," Jennifer wailed.
"And it's not a kitten, like the other one was. This
one's all grown up, and I bet it won't even
scratch the furniture or anything."
"You have to admit it's kind of pretty," Keith
argued. "It almost looks like a gray Siamese,
except I've never heard of such a thing."
"But it's just an alley cat," Rosemary
protested. "And it looks far too well-fed to be
a stray. It has to belong to someone."
It wasn't until the girls had left for school
and Keith had gone down to the marina to work on the
Morning Star,
that Rosemary realized that throughout the discussion
Cassie had said nothing. She had merely brought the
cat downstairs and let her father and half sister
talk Rosemary into letting it stay.
As she'd loaded the breakfast dishes into the washer,
the cat had sat quietly on a chair, watching
her.
Watching her, Rosemary had thought, as if it knew
exactly what had happened, and knew that it-and
Cassie-had gotten the best of her.
That's stupid, Rosemary told herself now. It's
only a cat, and cats don't think. Even so,
all week long, whenever she found herself alone in the
house with the cat, she'd kept getting the feeling that the
cat was watching her, assessing her somehow. As each
day passed, she grew more wary of the animal. More
wary, and also more suspicious.
Where had it come from?
What did it want?
Unreasonable as she knew the thought was, she had a
growing certainty that the cat did, indeed, want
something.
But it wasn't just the cat.
One night-Wednesday night, she remembered-she
had asked Cassie how things were going at school.
Cassie had shrugged. "Okay."
"What about the kids?" Rosemary asked as casually
as she could. "Do you like them?"
Though Cassie's face had tightened, she
had shrugged once more. "They're okay, I
guess," she said, though her eyes never left her
plate.
Rosemary opened her mouth to speak again, then changed
her mind, remembering the conversation she'd had with
Cassie on Monday. So far Cassie had not
cut school again, nor had she complained of any
problems with her classmates.
She hadn't spoken of school at all, in fact.
Each day she'd come home and disappear into her room,
presumably to do her homework. Once, when
Rosemary had been passing through the upstairs hall,
she'd paused outside the closed door
to Cassie's room and listened.
Within, the soft tones of music from the radio had been
barely audible, and above that she'd heard the sound of
Cassie's voice, murmuring softly.
Immediately, unbidden, an image of Miranda Sikes
had come to Rosemary's mind-Miranda, pushing her
grocery cart slowly along the sidewalk, muttering
to herself in barely audible tones.
No!
Rosemary told herself, forcing the image from her
mind.
She's just talking to Sumi, that's all.
Everyone talks to pets, and there's nothing strange
about it.
Then why had she become increasingly uneasy about it
as the week had passed? Why had she begun to feel
that though Cassie was being perfectly cooperative,
appearing whenever she was called and doing whatever was
asked of her, she was separating herself from the rest of the
family, turning increasingly inward?
Then, late on Thursday afternoon, something else had
happened.
She had been in Jennifer's room, finally unable
to stand any longer the mess that never seemed to bother
Jennifer at all. She was packing Jennifer's
toys away in the chest below the window when she'd
glanced outside.
In the cemetery on the other side of the fence,
kneeling in front of one of the graves, she'd seen
Cassie. For several minutes she'd watched in
silence.
Cassie seemed to be reading one of the headstones.
Then she reached out and touched it. Her hand rested on the
granite for a few moments before she moved on to the
next one, where she repeated the process.
Finally, after about ten minutes, Rosemary left
Jennifer's room, went downstairs and out
the back door, then crossed to the low fence that
separated the yard from the graveyard.
"Cassie?" she asked, keeping her voice low.
Cassie froze, her left hand, about to touch another
of the grave markers, hovering in midair. Slowly,
almost furtively, she'd turned around and looked at
Rosemary.
"What are you doing?" Rosemary asked.
Cassie's eyes flicked almost guiltily away
from Rosemary. "I was just reading the gravestones,"
she replied. She met Rosemary's gaze, and
once more Rosemary saw that look of challenge in
her eyes. "They're-they're interesting."
Rosemary's brows creased into a frown. "But you can
hardly see them."
Cassie hesitated, then nodded and got to her
feet. "It's all right," she said. "I was just about
done anyway." She came to the fence and scrambled
over it, then looked at Rosemary uncertainly.
"Did I do something wrong?" she asked. "I mean,
aren't I allowed to go into the graveyard?"
Suddenly flustered, Rosemary shook her head.
"No, of
course not," she said. "It's just . . . well, it
seemed like an odd thing for you to be doing, I
suppose."
Cassie's eyes immediately darkened. "Well,
maybe I'm just an odd person," she said, her
voice quavering. "But I don't think there's
anything wrong with that either!" Covering her face with her
hands, she fled toward the house.
Rosemary took a single step after her then stopped.
It was too late-once again she'd said the wrong thing,
and once again Cassie was upset. She took a
deep breath, wondering once more why it was that she
seemed to have such a talent for saying the wrong thing to the
girl. She was about to go back into the house herself when
she changed her mind and carefully climbed the low
picket fence into the graveyard. It was nearly dark
now, and the huge ancient trees that dotted the little
cemetery seemed to be closing their branches
overhead, as if trying to shut out what little light
remained.
The air in the graveyard seemed to carry a chill
Rosemary had not felt a few moments before.
Slowly, almost apprehensively, she moved toward
the grave Cassie had been kneeling over when
she'd come outside a few minutes ago. It was the
grave of Rebecca Sikes, who had been Miranda
Sikes's mother.
Next to that was the grave of Charity Sikes,
Rebecca's mother.
Rosemary moved slowly down the row of graves,
examining the stones that marked the memory of the generations
of Sikes women.
It wasn't the first time she'd looked at these
graves- indeed, over the years she'd read most of the
headstones in the village cemetery. And long ago
she'd noted the oddity about the Sikes women.
None of them had ever married, and each of them had
borne a single child-a daughter.
Except for Miranda.
Miranda was the last of the line. When she was gone, for the
first time since the seventeenth century there would be no
Sikeses in False Harbor.
But what was it that Cassie had been looking for? Why
had she been touching the stones?
Suddenly Rosemary remembered standing outside
Cassie's door, listening to Cassie talking
softly in the privacy of
her room. She remembered how she'd been reminded
of Miranda.
Shivering against the chill and the darkness, Rosemary
hurried out of the cemetery.
That night she'd tried to talk to Keith about
it. Though he'd listened patiently as she
attempted to voice her concerns about Cassie, he
became coldly furious when she'd mentioned
Miranda.
"What are you trying to say?" he asked. "That
Cassie is going to turn into another Miranda,
walking around in rags and talking to herself? For
Christ's sake, Rosemary, look at things from her
point of view. She's an outsider here, and she's
having a hard time making friends. So she's lonely.
Haven't you ever talked to yourself? And as for the graves,
why shouldn't she be interested in them? Miranda's the
town character, isn't she? Cassie's probably been
asking questions about her, and somebody told her about the
graves."
"But she hasn't been talking to anyone,"
Rosemary protested. "That's the problem-she spends
all her time in her room, with that cat."
Keith only shrugged. "Just because you can't stand cats
doesn't mean everybody has to hate them," he
said. If he noticed how his words stung
Rosemary, he gave no sign. "Sumi's a
nice cat. Besides, Cassie has a lot to work out
for herself, and she hardly knows us. You can't expect
her to open up to us right away.
Give
her a chance, honey. Just give her a chance." He
snapped his paper and turned the page, and Rosemary
knew the conversation was over.
Feeling dismissed, she retreated into silence.
And then, yesterday, Miranda Sikes had come into her
shop.
Many times before, Rosemary had seen her pause in
front of the shop to stare inside. She had often
wondered if Miranda was really seeing what she was
looking at, or if her eyes merely drifted from
object to object while she herself watched whatever
strange visions might be going on in her head.
Over the years Rosemary had been tempted to open
the door and speak to her, but when she tried, Miranda
had quickly moved on. After a while, understanding that the
woman didn't want to be spoken to, Rosemary
had given up. Indeed, for the last year or so she'd
barely been conscious of
the strange figure in black who drifted through the
town almost like some sort of ghost.
But on Friday morning Miranda had paused
outside the shop again, staring in through the window, and
Rosemary had suddenly become aware of the feet that
her lips were not moving in their customary
whispered monologue. As Rosemary watched,
afraid to move lest Miranda dart away, the
woman pushed her shopping cart close to the window,
carefully tucked the large black shawl she always
wore on her head over the tops of the bags, and
opened the door.
She stopped cold as the bell tinkled above her, then
slowly tipped her head up to stare at the tiny
brass object. At last, nodding, she came
inside and closed the door behind her.
She looks like a fawn, Rosemary thought. She
looks exactly like a frightened fawn. Rosemary
stayed where she was, certain now that if she moved,
Miranda would bolt out the door.
For a moment Miranda seemed totally disoriented, as
if she didn't know quite what to do. She glanced around,
then took a tentative step forward and reached out
to brush her fingers lightly over the marble top of a
Victorian sideboard. As if reassured by the
fact that the piece of furniture didn't crumble
under her touch, she moved farther into the shop, pausing every
few steps to lean down over one of the display cases.
Finally she was only a few feet from Rosemary, but
still Rosemary didn't speak.
At last Miranda turned and looked
directly at her.
As their eyes met, the room seemed to reel, and for a
split second Rosemary was afraid she might
faint.
Suddenly she knew why she'd been
so
certain she had seen Cassie's eyes before. She was
looking into them now.
Yet Miranda looked nothing like Cassie at all.
As Rosemary studied the ruin that was Miranda's
face, she could see no resemblance to Cassie's
clean, clear features. Whatever beauty Miranda
might once have had was long since buried under the sea
of wrinkles that had ravaged her flesh. Her
gray-streaked black hair was pulled back into a
thick braid that had always before been hidden in the
folds
of the black shawl.
And where Cassie's eyes were dark brown,
Miranda's
were the startling blue of sapphires. Always,
Rosemary had had the impression that Miranda
Sikes's eyes held the strange vacant stare
of the mentally disturbed. But now, as the woman faced
her, she saw that they held the same
strange intimation of darkly hidden secrets that
Cassie's eyes contained. In their depths
Rosemary was sure she saw an underlying residue
of anguish, and something more.
"If you don't want me here, just say so,"
Miranda said in a voice that was little more than a
whisper.
Slowly, deliberately, Rosemary tried to clear
away the fog that seemed to have gathered around her mind.
Part of her-a part she immediately understood to be
irrational- wanted to turn away from Miranda,
to banish this grotesque figure from her shop and her
mind. But the pain she'd seen in Miranda's eyes was
so clearly reflected in the woman's voice that a
tear welled up and overflowed onto her cheek.
Vainly she searched for her voice. Miranda waited
for her to reply, then finally nodded slightly and
turned away. Only then did Rosemary manage
to get to her feet. "No-no, please don't go,"
she said.
Miranda turned back.
"I'm sorry," Rosemary floundered. "You-I
didn't know what to say. I thought-oh, Lord, I
don't know what I thought. ..."
Miranda smiled then, but instead of replying,
she turned away from Rosemary again and looked
curiously around the shop. "I've always wanted to come
in here, you know," she said at last. "It's my
favorite place in the whole village. I always
look forward to the days when you change the windows."
Rosemary swallowed. I have to speak, she thought. I
have to say something. Anything. "y-you should have come in
then," she heard herself say.
But Miranda shook her head. "I don't go in any
of the shops. They don't want me, and I don't
want to impose myself."
"But you came in today," Rosemary breathed. And
yesterday Cassie was looking at your ancestors'
graves, she thought. And the day before that I thought of you
while I listened to Cassie. She could feel her
heart begin to pound.
A shadow fell over Miranda's eyes. Rosemary
noticed for
the first time that she was clasping her hands nervously
together.
They were the hands of an old woman, the skin as
translucent as parchment, covered with a network of fine
wrinkles. Dark brown spots were scattered over
their backs, and the fingers seemed permanently bent.
She's an old woman, Rosemary thought.
So old. But it was impossible. Surely Miranda
Sikes couldn't be much past forty.
As if she felt Rosemary's eyes on them,
Miranda's hands suddenly disappeared into the folds of
her long black skirt. "I wanted to talk to you
about Cassandra," she said. "I wanted to tell you that
she's going to come to see me."
Rosemary's jaw sagged dumbly. "She's spoken
to you?" she asked, her voice hollow. "I didn't
know-"
"She hasn't spoken to me," Miranda interrupted,
as if she'd read Rosemary's mind. "But she
wants to talk to me. She wants to know who I
am."
Rosemary shook her head uncomprehendingly.
"I-I'm afraid I don't understand. ..."
"She's going to come tomorrow," Miranda went on. Her
eyes took on a faraway look, and she nodded
slightly. "Yes, tomorrow. I hope you will let her."
Rosemary's confusion only deepened. Tomorrow? How
could Miranda know what was going to happen tomorrow, unless
she'd already talked to Cassie? What did Miranda
want of her stepdaughter? Rosemary felt a
shiver of foreboding pass through her. "What is it?"
she pressed. "What is it about Cassie?
Why do you want to see her?"
Miranda's eyes met Rosemary's, but she did not
answer. She turned away then, and started slowly out
of the shop.
Rosemary stood frozen where she was for a moment,
trying to absorb the strange words the woman had
uttered. And then, without thinking, she spoke.
"Miranda!"
Miranda stopped and turned back.
"Miranda," Rosemary asked, "is something wrong with
Cassie?"
For a moment Miranda said nothing, then she shook her
head. "No," she said in a voice that was oddly
empty. "Nothing's wrong with her. But she belongs
to me." She fell silent for a moment, then smiled
again. "Yes," she repeated. "She belongs to me."
Then she turned awayddag, and left the
shop. Outside she removed the black shawl from the
shopping cart and carefully wrapped it around her head.
Without looking back, she started down the sidewalk,
pushing the shopping cart in front of her.
The memory of that strange visit had hung over
Rosemary all the rest of that day, and last night
she'd found herself watching Cassie.
Perhaps it had been meaningless. Perhaps Miranda
was-as everyone thought she was-only harmlessly
daft.
But what had she meant? Cassie belonged to her? It
was crazy!
She had said nothing the night before, unwilling to try
to talk to Keith about it and knowing that to Cassie none of
it could possibly make any sense. But still, before
Cassie had gone up to her room for the night,
Rosemary had asked her what her plans were for the
weekend.
Cassie looked at her disinterestedly. "I don't
know," she'd said at last. "I don't have any,
really. I guess I'll just study."
Then she hasn't talked to Miranda, Rosemary had
thought. So it probably doesn't mean a thing. Still,
she'd been unable to sleep last night.
It was nearly nine when Rosemary finally went
downstairs. She found Keith sitting at the kitchen
table, working on a crossword puzzle. There was no
sign of either Cassie or Jennifer.
"Where are the girls?" she asked as she poured herself
a cup of coffee and settled into the chair opposite
her husband.
He glanced up from his paper, shrugging. "The beach,"
he said. "Cassie was going by herself, but
Jennifer made such a nuisance of herself--"
"The beach?" Rosemary echoed hollowly.
"Did-did she say why?"
Keith grinned at her. "Why do lads ever go to the
beach?" he countered.
But Rosemary knew Cassie hadn't gone to the
beach at
all.
It was the marsh.
The marsh where Miranda lived.
The fear that had been flitting around the edges of her
 
consciousness ever since Cassie had come to False
Harbor suddenly coalesced into a tight knot in
her stomach. Her hands shaking, Rosemary tried
to pour herself a cup of coffee. It spilled over the
rim, scalding her hands.
 
There was a sharp bite to the morning air, but the sky was
a deep cloudless blue and the morning sun made the
sea sparkle as if it had been scattered with
millions of tiny diamonds. A strong wind was
blowing in from the east, and a heavy surf was building, the
swells close together, so the beach resounded with a steady
din of crashing water. There were birds
everywhere-gulls and sandpipers covered the beach. A
flock of ducks churned over the marsh, rising as one
into the air, circling, then dropping back down into the
reeds to continue feeding. As Cassie and Jennifer
walked along the hard-packed sand, staying just above the
highest reach of the surf, the sandpipers skittered out of
their way, opening a path before them then closing it again
after they'd passed. Jennifer stopped short,
clutching at Cassie's hand. "Look!"
From the south, barely visible above the horizon,
Cassie could make out a faint line. "What is
it?"
"Geese,"
Jennifer explained. "Sometimes they stop in the
marsh."
The birds flew steadily toward them, and Cassie
watched, fascinated by the perfect formation. As they
drew nearer she could make out the individual
birds, their necks stretched out straight, their feet
tucked up under their bodies, their wings beating
steadily in an almost hypnotic rhythm. By the time the
formation reached the coast, everything else in Cassie's
consciousness had faded away and she found herself
imagining that she was with them, riding on the wind, looking
down
on the sparkling expanse of water and the thin strip of
beach along its edge.
The big Canada geese were flying low, and as they
came across the surf line, Cassie could hear the
rush of air across their wings and almost feel it on her
brow. Her whole body began to tingle with
excitement. Then, as if giving a signal, the
bird at the center of the V-formation honked loudly and
veered off to the left. In perfect synchronization the
rest of the flock banked to follow, then the formation
suddenly broke as the geese lost altitude,
braked in midair, and plummeted into the marsh in a
cacophony of flapping wings and excited honkings.
Even after they had disappeared from her sight
completely, Cassie gazed out over the marsh, the
image of the magnificent birds still vivid in her
mind. Then, in the distance, she saw something else.
Far out on the rise in the middle of the marsh, Miranda
was standing on the porch of her cabin. Though the distance was
far too great for Cassie to see clearly, she
knew that Miranda, too, had been watching the
geese.
Now Miranda was watching her.
Watching her, and silently calling to her.
Already Cassie could feel the first stirrings
of the strange force within her, drawing her toward the
marsh.
"Isn't it neat?" Jennifer said excitedly,
totally unaware of the strange feeling that had come over
Cassie. "By next week there'll be so many of them
you can hardly believe it. They just keep coming in, and
then one day they all take off. They're going up
to Canada, and after they're gone there won't be any
more until fall." Her eyes widened in wonder as
she gazed at the marsh. "How can they do it? How can
they fly that far?"
Vaguely, Cassie heard Jennifer speaking, but
her eyes never left the figure on the porch of the
little cabin, and she made no reply.
Finally Jennifer looked anxiously up at
Cassie. "Cassie? Is something wrong?"
"Look," Cassie said quietly. "Look out
there."
Puzzled, Jennifer followed the older girl's
gaze, and then gasped with sudden alarm. "It's
Miranda," she breathed. "Don't look at her,
Cassie."
But Cassie seemed not to hear her. She took a
step forward.
Sumi, who had followed them from the house and
was now sitting quietly at her feet, suddenly
leaped to his feet and darted ahead, his tail
twitching.
Jennifer's heart began to beat faster as she
realized what Cassie had in mind.
"Cassie?" she called. "Cassie, what are you
doing?"
Jennifer's voice sounded to Cassie as if it was
coming from far away. In her mind, Cassie could hear
another voice- Miranda's voice-calling to her.
She had to answer that call-she had to!
She took a step forward, then felt something tugging
at her. Almost in a trance now, she looked down
to see Jennifer clutching at her arm, trying to hold
her back.
"I have to go out there," she said softly. "She wants
me."
"No!" Jennifer protested. "You can't go out there.
It's dangerous, and Miranda's crazy, and-" She
fell silent as she saw the strange faraway look
that had come into Cassie's eyes.
"She isn't crazy," Cassie breathed. "And you
can't keep me from going out there. Nobody can."
With a short gasp, Jennifer dropped Cassie's
arm and backed away. "B-but you'll get
lost," she whispered in a final attempt to change
her halfsister's mind.
Cassie only shook her head. "Sumi knows the
way. He'll show me. Look." A few yards
away the cat had stopped and turned around, his eyes
fixing on Cassie. His tail twitched
impatiently and he uttered a loud meow.
Jennifer backed farther away, her heart thumping
now. Cassie took a step toward the frightened child, but
when Jennifer shrank back from her, she turned
away and began following Sumi along the beach.
Jennifer stayed where she was, too afraid
to follow, until Cassie was fifty yards away
from her. Then her curiosity overcame her fear, and
she timidly started after her halfsister.
Sumi angled across the beach, loping easily up the
gentle rise of the low dune. He disappeared over the
crest, but a moment later Cassie spotted him
ranging back and forth at the very edge of the marsh, his
tail once again twitching as if to signal her. She
moved faster then. When she was within a
few feet of Sumi, the cat turned and bounded down
one of the narrow paths that led into the tangle of tall
grasses and reeds. Cassie hesitated only a
second, then followed.
Jennifer stopped short at the edge of the marsh. She
stared fearfully at the oozing black water. Visions
of slithering snakes and huge spiders made her
skin crawl.
"Cassie?" she called out, her voice sounding
small and lost against the cries of the birds and the
muffled roar of the surf. "Cassie, don't..."
But Cassie was gone, already lost from Jennifer's
view. She paused for a moment, trying to decide
what to do. Should she go home and tell her parents
what Cassie was doing? But that was tattling, wasn't
it?
Then she had an idea. She wouldn't go into the marsh,
but at least she knew a place where she could watch.
Her fear easing slightly, she turned and started
running down the beach.
Lisa Chambers and Allayne Garvey walked
along Oak Street, which skirted the marsh from Bay
Street all the way to Cape Drive. It was one
of the prettiest streets in False Harbor, for before
the village had been laid out, Oak Street had
been a cow path that wound along the edge of the wetlands.
When the town fathers had laid out a more formal
structure of streets, Oak Street's route was
allowed to follow the natural contours of the
land, as the path had always done, instead of being forced
into the puritan uniformity of the rigid grid upon which the
rest of the village streets had been surveyed.
On both sides of the gently curving road, rows of
giant oaks had spread their branches wide.
Near the end of the street a strip of the marsh had been
reclaimed in the early part of the century to form a
grassy park, dotted now with picnic tables,
swings, and teeter-totters.
All the beauty of the street was lost on Lisa,
however, for her mind was totally occupied with her fury
toward Cassie Winslow.
"I don't see why Eric wants to walk her
to school every day," she complained, kicking sullenly
at an empty Coke can that lay next to one of the
trash barrels. "Doesn't he even care what people
think?"
"What's he supposed to do?" Allayne argued.
"Cross the street every time he sees her?"
"Well, why shouldn't he? She's not part of our
group, and she never will be." She stopped in
mid-step and turned to face Allayne. "Mom
doesn't think she has any class at all, and
nobody even knows where her mother came from."
Allayne's eyes rolled, and she started
tuning Lisa's voice out. There wasn't much she
hadn't already heard about Lisa's own family, and
how old it was, and how important. But
Allayne knew perfectly well that outside of
False Harbor nobody had ever heard of the
Chamberses or the Smythes or the Maynards.
Nor, for that matter, had they heard of the Garveys,
either, and Allayne's family had been around at
least as long as any of the others. It was just that in her
family, the kind of haughty pride the Chamberses
displayed was known as arrogance. "Most of the founding fathers
were a pretty sleazy bunch anyway," her father always
said. "Stealing the land from the Indians, then snooping
on their neighbors all the time. And we all think that
just because we haven't had the gumption to get out of here,
we're something special. The only special
person we have around here is Miranda Sikes, and
nobody will even talk to her."
"Including you," Allayne had pointed out, but her
father had only dismissed her words with a wave of his hand.
When Allayne had asked him what was special about
Miranda Sikes, he'd shaken his head and replied,
"If you want to find that out, maybe you ought to go out there
and see." Ever since, Allayne had thought about his
words and wondered if he was really serious.
She also wondered if she'd ever work up the courage
to take up his challenge.
Now, as Lisa Chambers's voice droned on,
Allayne sighed and glanced at the park in the hopes
of finding something that might divert Lisa from her
monologue of complaints about Cassie Winslow.
Almost immediately she found something. Standing on one of the
picnic tables, staring into the marsh, she saw Jennifer
Winslow. Allayne watched the little girl for a few
seconds, and when she didn't move, gently
nudged Lisa. "Look," she said quietly.
Lisa, annoyed at being interrupted, looked
irritably toward Jennifer. "So what?" she
asked.
"What's she doing? There must be something in the marsh."
Birds," Lisa said. "That's all that's ever in the
marsh. Why don't we go down to the drugstore and
get a Coke?"
But Allayne ignored Lisa's words. "I think
she's watching something," she said. "Come on, let's
find out what it is." She veered off the sidewalk
into the park, and after a moment Lisa followed her.
"Jennifer?" Allayne called.
Startled, Jennifer jumped, then turned to face
them. She looked almost frightened, but as she
recognized Allayne, who had been her
favorite baby-sitter before Cassie arrived, her
expression eased.
"Jen?" Allayne asked. "Is something wrong?"
"It's Cassie," Jennifer breathed. "Look."
She pointed out into the marsh, and a second later
Allayne and Lisa saw what the child had been
watching.
Far out in the marsh, maybe two hundred and fifty
yards away, they could see a figure moving quickly
through the weeds.
"But what's she doing out there?" Allayne asked.
"Doesn't she know it's dangerous?"
"I told her," Jennifer said solemnly. "But
she wouldn't listen to me."
"She's crazy," Lisa Chambers pronounced.
"She doesn't know anything about the marsh."
"She isn't either crazy," Jennifer shot back.
"Isn't she?" Lisa taunted. "Well, if she
isn't, what's she doing out there?"
"She's going to see Miranda!" Jennifer
exclaimed without thinking, then clamped both hands over
her mouth as if she could take back her words.
Lisa and Allayne stared at the little girl for a
moment, and then suddenly understood. They
looked out over the marsh once more, but this time they
ignored Cassie, searching instead the low rise on
which Miranda Sikes's cabin stood starkly
silhouetted in its scraggly grove of trees.
On the porch of the tiny house, standing so still she might
have been carved from stone, was Miranda.
A slow, cruel smile spread over Lisa
Chambers's face, and her eyes gleamed with
malice. "I knew it," she said quietly. "I
told you so, didn't I? She's just as crazy as
Miranda is!"
But Allayne, fascinated, said nothing, for in the
wetlands
beyond the park even the birds had suddenly fallen
silent as Cassie slowly approached the strange
cabin in the marsh.
Cassie was barely inside the grove of spindly
pines when the hawk on the roof of Miranda's cabin
suddenly came to life, raising its head from beneath its
wing to peer out into the surrounding swamplands. Then, as
its eyes found Cassie, it rose up onto its
feet, its wings flapping noisily.
With a high-pitched scream of fury, the hawk rose
up off the roof, its wings beating hard as it circled
up into the cloudless blue of the sky.
Cassie watched as the bird flew higher and began
to circle. She turned slowly, both fascinated and
frightened by its graceful flight. Then, as she
followed the bird's path across the marsh, she saw the
three figures in the park. For a split second
she thought they were watching the hawk too. Suddenly,
with a flash of anger, she realized that they weren't staring
at the hawk, but at her.
They were staring at her, and talking about her. She could
almost hear the sneering words coming out of Lisa
Chambers's mouth. Her surge of anger grew,
and for a moment she wished the hawk would see them, too,
and know what they were saying, and stop them.
From high above her head another angry screech
erupted from the hawk's beak. Instantly, a flock
of ducks burst from the reeds. Cassie froze, her
heart suddenly beating faster as she remembered the
terror she'd felt when she had first seen the bird
rise from the roof in a frenzy of beating wings. But then
she felt Miranda's eyes upon her once more, and her
fear began to abate.
Cassie braced herself, certain that the bird was about
to plunge down to attack her.
Instead the white hawk shot away to the east, passing
over Cassie's head, blotting out the
sun. As Cassie watched it, unable to move, it
circled above the park. Then it dove downward.
Allayne looked up just as the hawk, screaming
once again, burst through the budding branches of the oaks
and chestnuts that circled the picnic table. Her
eyes widened in shock as she realized what was
happening, and she snatched
Jennifer off the table. "Run!" she shouted as she
lowered the child to the ground. "Put your arms over your
head and run!" Jennifer, a shriek of fright
escaping her lips, obeyed instantly, but Lisa
Chambers, too surprised by what had happened
to move, was frozen to the spot, staring mutely at the
attacking bird.
Only at the last instant did she manage to throw
up an arm to fend off the hawk's extended claws.
A searing flash pain shot through her forearm as its
talons sliced through her skin and tore at her
flesh, then she finally came to life as Allayne
grabbed her other arm. Screaming with fear and agony,
she stumbled after Allayne.
The attack was over as quickly as it began. The hawk
rose once more into the air, caught the wind, and soare
skyward without so much as a beat of its wings.
Cassie watched it all. She saw the
bird dive, saw Allayne send Jennifer
running from the park, saw the hawk slash viciously
at Lisa's arm then burst back out of the trees.
But as Lisa and Allayne stumbled away, the hawk
screamed once more. Cassie looked up into the sky.
This time the hawk was coming toward her.
Cassie felt herself begin to tremble, and her skin
turned clammy with a cold sweat as the bird flew
over the marsh, gained altitude, then hovered over the
pines for a moment.
Then it closed its wings and dived. Cassie couldn't
move. She remained where she was, paralyzed with
fear. She closed her eyes and waited for the bird
to strike.
At the last moment she heard a fluttering of
feathers, then felt a weight on her shoulder. A
moment later, something brushed her cheek, and when she
finally managed to open her eyes again, the hawk was
perched on her shoulder.
Sumi sat at her feet, his tail wrapped around
her leg.
From the front porch of the cabin Miranda beckoned.
"They are your friends," she said softly. "They'll
always be your friends."
Then, reaching her hand out to Cassie, the
woman in black drew her inside the cabin.
 
"Why the hell would Cassie want to go out and see
Miranda?" Keith asked. Though his tone was light,
Rosemary knew by the expression on his face that he
was really wondering why she'd wasted a whole night
worrying about the words of an old woman the whole
town knew was half crazy.
"I don't know," Rosemary repeated for the third
time. Her lack of sleep was catching up with her, and
she felt herself growing angry with Keith. Why was he
insisting that she should have simply dismissed whatever
Miranda had said to her? Wasn't he even interested?
"All I'm telling-you is what happened yesterday,
and that I think you ought to go out to the marsh and see if
she's there. Probably you're right-she's down at the
beach with Jen and there's nothing at all the matter. But
I just wish you'd take a look. Is that so horrible
of me, that I'm worried about your daughter?"
Keith's eyes narrowed. "My daughter," he
repeated. "Is that what this is all about? She's my
daughter, and you don't really have anything to do with her?"
Rosemary's eyes brimmed with tears. "You know
that's not true," she said, her voice quavering. "And
I'd go myself, but it seems as though every time
I try to talk to her, I say something wrong. If
I go, she'll think I'm . . . well, she'll
think I'm spying on her."
"Which is what you want me to do, isn't it?" Keith
asked. "I have a lot to do today," he went on, "and
I'll be damned if I'll waste my time poking
around in the marsh just
because Miranda was babbling to you yesterday. And if I were
you-"
Before he could finish, the back door slammed open and
Jennifer plunged into the kitchen, her frightened face
stained with tears. Behind her, sobbing
uncontrollably, was Lisa Chambers, her right
arm bound up with a bloody scarf. At her side was
Allayne Garvey. Keith froze in mid-sentence
as Jennifer threw herself into his arms. While
Lisa continued to sob hysterically, Allayne tried
to explain what had happened in the park.
Rosemary-her anger at Keith momentarily
banished from her mind-carefully unwound the scarf from
Lisa's arm and gently rinsed the wound at the kitchen
sink.
There were deep slashes in the girl's forearm, each of
them almost an inch long, so clean that they might have been
made by a razor blade. The skin had
shrunk back from them, exposing the torn muscle
beneath. Wincing with sympathetic pain as she soaped the
cuts, Rosemary tried to follow what Allayne
was saying while still keeping half an ear on
Keith's hurried call to Paul Samuels, the
village's only doctor.
"We'd better take her in," he said after he'd
hung up. "Paul says if the cuts are as deep
as I told him, she'll need stitches. I'll
call Fred Chambers and tell him to meet us at the
clinic." Leaving Rosemary to take care of
Jennifer, he half carried Lisa out to the car,
then, with Allayne tending to Lisa, he drove
toward the twelve-bed emergency hospital a few
blocks away.
"Lisa said Cassie did it," Jennifer told
her mother when she was finally calmed down enough to make
sense. Her eyes were wide and her jaw set
stubbornly. "All the way home she kept yelling
that Cassie did it. " Her fear was quickly giving
way to anger now. "But that's dumb, isn't it?
Cassie wouldn't do something like that! Only a mean
person would, and Cassie's not mean! I don't
care what Lisa Chambers says. She's a big
liar, anyway."
"Slow down, darling," Rosemary protested.
"Slow down, and just try to tell me what happened.
Everything, from the moment you left the house with Cassie
this morning."
Jennifer's face screwed up into an expression of
intense concentration as she began telling the story, her
eyes fixed anxiously on her mother. "I tried
to stop her," she finished. "I
told her she shouldn't go in the marsh by herself, but she
wouldn't listen to me."
"But where is she now?" Rosemary asked when
Jennifer was finally done. Even before Jennifer
spoke, she was already certain she knew the answer
to her question.
"She went into Miranda's house," Jennifer
breathed, her voice trembling with awe. "Allayne
saw it. She said the bird just came down and perched
on Cassie's shoulder for a minute, and then
Cassie followed Miranda into her house."
Twenty minutes later Keith was back, his face
flushed with anger. "You want to hear something really
wonderful?" he asked tightly. "Fred Chambers
says if there's so much as a single mark on
Lisa's arm, he's going to sue us. Can you believe
that?"
"Sue us?" Rosemary echoed. "What on earth
for?"
Keith's voice hardened. "He seems to think
he's got lots of grounds. For starters, there's
Lisa's cockamamie story about Cassie making
the hawk attack her. But it gets worse. There's
also the fact you took the scarf off Lisa's arm and
tried to clean up the cuts. That, he claims, could
be construed as practicing medicine without a license."
Rosemary's eyes flashed indignantly. "That's
ridiculous!"
"Of course it is," Keith agreed. "But
ridiculous has never stopped Fred Chambers before.
Even if he loses, he can make life miserable
for us." Shaking his head with barely contained anger, he
began shrugging into his pea coat. "I'd better go
out there and find Cassie. Maybe she knows what
really happened."
But as he left the house, Rosemary noticed that
he'd said nothing about the fact that apparently she had
been right all along. For whatever reasons,
Cassie had, indeed, gone out to see Miranda
Sikes.
Just as Miranda had said she would.
Eric Cavanaugh was walking aimlessly
over the dunes. The chill wind whipped around him,
slowly cooling the anger that still burned inside him.
He'd been walking for more than an hour, not really
aware of where he was going, and not caring. But now,
looking up, he realized he was halfway out
Cranberry Point. He paused, breathing deeply
of the salt air and enjoying the cool sting of spindrift
against his skin. As far
as
he could see, whitecaps glistened brightly in the sun
and the thundering surf had scrubbed the beach clean of every
trace of seaweed. The last of his fury seemed
to drain into the roiling sea, and when he at last
turned away to gaze out over the wetlands on the
leeward side of the point, he felt the beginnings of the
peacefulness he always found here begin to wash gently
over him.
In strange contrast to the churning ocean, there was a
placidity about the marsh now. The wind, rushing
freely over the open expanse of the Atlantic,
had been unable to vent its full strength on the
protected marsh, and the reeds were merely swaying in the
breeze. Here and there open expanses of black and
brackish water rippled gently, reflecting the
crystal blue of the sky in a rainbow of
hues. A redwing blackbird, its beak filled with a
tuft of grass, was industriously pulling reeds
together in the first stages of its nest building. Far in
the distance Eric could make out the familiar shape of
Miranda Sikes's cabin, the ubiquitous white
hawk perched on the peak of the roof.
Then, as he watched, someone emerged from the cabin.
At first, as the figure hesitated on the porch,
he was certain it was Miranda, but a second later
he knew it was someone else, for the person bolted off
the porch and began running down the slope of the hill.
Cassie. It had to be Cassie.
As she disappeared into the tall grasses, a shout
drifted over the marsh, then another. A movement off
to the right, near the park, caught Eric's eye, and then
he recognized Keith Winslow running along the
strip of grass that edged the marsh. As Eric watched,
Keith shouted once more, then veered off into the marsh
itself.
A moment later the hawk on the roof of Miranda
Sikes's cabin came to life, rising off its perch
with a single beat of its powerful wings. A second
later Eric lost sight of it as its ghostly image
disappeared into the brightness of the morning sunlight.
Cassie reappeared for a moment, then was
gone again, lost somewhere in the reeds. But even in the
split second she'd been visible, Eric knew
she was running toward him rather than her father. He
hesitated, wondering what could have happened. Had she
really gone to Miranda's house
alone? But how had she done it? How had she threaded
her way through the maze of trails and paths, most of
which led nowhere but simply petered out into boggy
morasses of peat and treacherous expanses of
quicksand?
And what had made her father come looking for her?
And then, over the pounding surf and Keith Winslow's
shouts, Eric heard a high-pitched scream. The
hawk, no more than a tiny speck high above the
marsh, was preparing to dive.
Cassie had no idea of where she was-on both
sides of her the reeds seemed to be closing in,
reaching out, grasping at her. The pounding of her heart
thundered in her ears, but above the throbbing she could hear the
cries of the birds in a howling cacophony.
And then her foot slipped and she plunged headlong
off the path and into the marsh itself. Screaming, she
flailed in the muck and tried to grab at a clump
of reeds. The reeds came loose in her hand and she
only rolled over, the foul waters of the
marsh oozing through her clothes. Struggling to her hands and
knees, she looked wildly around, but the path
seemed to have disappeared.
"Help!" she yelled. "Somebody help me!"
Staggering to her feet, she took a single step, then
tripped again, plunging face first into the mire. The
screams of the marsh birds were even louder now, and she
imagined she could hear the beat of the hawk's wings as
well. She looked up, and at first saw nothing.
Then, high above her, she found the pale shape of the
hawk, floating on the wind. As she watched, it
seemed to discover her, and folding its wings against its
body, dropped into a plunging dive.
It couldn't be coming after her-it couldn't! It was her friend,
and it wouldn't turn against her. And yet with every second
it was swooping closer.
Keith dodged to the right, then to the left. Almost there-
just a few more yards. He shouted to Cassie again, but
she didn't seem to hear him. She just kept
plunging onward, stumbling through the mud.
Why didn't she stop? Why couldn't she hear him?
Her screams were muffled now, but the white hawk was
clearly visible, streaking out of the sky. From its open
beak a high-pitched scream of attack rent the
air, and its feet were extended, the talons
glittering in the sun like deadly jewels. Still
running, Keith ripped his pea coat off, preparing
to throw it over Cassie.
Only at the last minute did he realize that the
hawk was not attacking Cassie at all.
He himself was the target.
He froze, caught in a nightmare as the hawk
loomed larger and larger above him. He could see its
eyes now- bloodred spots bored into the white
mask of its face. Suddenly its wings spread out as
it braked in midair, and the creature's talons
seemed to spread wide.
At the last instant Keith's arm jerked
reflexively upward. The bird's talons
closed, but instead of sinking into his own flesh, they
tore only into the thick wool of the jacket.
Instantly the hawk's mighty wings spread wide as
it tried to launch itself back into the sky with its prize
clutched in
its
claws, but Keith jerked hard on the jacket, and the
bird plunged into the reeds, thrashing wildly.
Screaming in furious confusion, it rolled over, then
found its balance and hurled itself into the air for a
second attack.
Keith plunged through the reeds and found Cassie,
half mired in the mud, struggling to free herself from the
entangling reeds. Grasping her arm, he pulled her
to her feet, then shielded his head with his free arm as
he prepared for the hawk's next attack.
"Hang on," he shouted. "J
ust
hang on, Cassie!"
Half carrying and half dragging her, his feet sinking
into the peat with every step, Keith slogged through the marsh
until he found a path. Then, still clutching
Cassie's hand, he ran toward the beach.
The hawk, beating against the wind, kept pace with them.
As they neared the edge of the wetlands, it spiraled
high until it was once again only a shimmering
speck against the blue backdrop of the sky. As they
reached the dunes and the beach beyond, Keith braced himself
for another attack.
But it never came. As he watched, the hawk turned
away, then sailed back out over the marsh in a
graceful loop, settling once more on the peak of
Miranda Sikes's cabin. Only then did Keith
finally turn to face his daughter.
Her clothes were black with the reeking waters of the marsh,
and her face was smeared with mud. Slimy
grasses had tangled themselves in her hair, and her
hands were covered with a network of tiny cuts where the sharp
edges of swamp plants had slashed her skin. Beneath
the mud her face was pale, and her entire body was
trembling.
Releasing her father's hand, she sank down onto the
beach and choked back a sob.
"What is it, baby?" Keith breathed, dropping
to his knees beside her. "What happened out there?"
Cassie looked at him with haunted eyes and shook
her head mutely, still overcome by the churning of her
emotions and the thoughts reeling through her mind. It was
real. It was true. Miranda Sikes was the woman
of the dream, the woman in black. And Cassie
knew now that she was Miranda's. She belonged
to Miranda, and it was to her that Miranda would reveal her
incredible powers. But at the same time as she knew
this, Cassie also had a terrifying foreboding that something
was about to happen. Something terrible. To Miranda. And
to her.
Keith stared helplessly at his anguished daughter
for a few seconds. She was sobbing
uncontrollably now. "She's going to die,"
Cassie gasped. "I know it."
"Who is, baby? Who's going to die?"
Keith whispered, but he got no response.
Cassie's hysteria was abating now as she struggled
to regain control of herself. At last, Keith drew
her to her feet, his arm around her, supporting her.
"Come on, baby," he said soothingly. "It's all
right. I'm taking you home. I'm taking you home
now." Slowly, with Cassie still sobbing against his chest,
he led her away.
Only when Cassie and her father were gone from the beach
did Eric Cavanaugh stand up in the patch of dune
grass where he'd lain hidden. He looked out into the
marsh. It was quiet now-its placid calm restored
as if the chaotic scene of a few minutes before had
never happened.
He stood still for a few minutes, Cassie's words
echoing in his mind. Then, moving slowly and
deliberately, he started out into the marsh, following the
familiar twists and turns that would lead him out to the
low hill on which Miranda's cabin stood.
He hadn't really believed Cassie would go out there.
No one went out there, no one at all, except .
. . He made up his mind. It was time for him to go
see Miranda.
By the time Keith got Cassie home, her crying
had stopped, but she had fallen into a silence
that neither Keith nor Rosemary could penetrate.
She offered no explanations about why she'd gone out
to Miranda's house, no explanations for her strange
words. Instead she simply retreated to her room,
where she spent the rest of the day alone, with the door
closed.
Around noon there was a scratching at the back door,
and Rosemary let Sumi in. The cat, ignoring
its bowl of food, streaked up the stairs, and a moment
later Cassie let it into her room.
As the day wore on, there was still only silence from the
second floor. Rosemary went upstairs several
times and tapped softly at Cassie's door, but
when there was no response, she turned away and went
back downstairs, shaking her head at Keith's
inquiring glance.
"We should try to
make
her talk about it," Rosemary finally said when dinner
was over and Cassie had still not been seen. "Whatever
happened out there obviously terrified her."
Once again Keith shook his head. "She'll talk
about it when she's ready to," he said, though
remembering the stricken look on his daughter's
face and her hysterical sobs, he was more
worried than he cared to admit.
Rather than precipitate another fight, Rosemary
reluctantly agreed to let it go-at least until
morning.
Cassie jerked awake, her skin clammy and her
heart pounding. In the dream she'd been in the marsh, but
the grass had been higher than it really was. It
had towered over her head almost like a bamboo forest,
and the stems of the cattails and reeds had seemed almost
like the trunks of trees.
Ahead of her, Miranda was walking, and though
Cassie couldn't quite see her, she knew she was there.
There was someone else there too. Cassie could feel
a presence in the darkness, but she didn't know who it
was.
The night sounds of the marsh were loud in her ears, and she
could distinguish every separate noise, from the soft
thruppings of the tree frogs and chirpings of the
crickets, to the restless rustling of sleeping birds
as they ruffled their feathers. The marsh was filled with
odors, too, odors that brought vague images
to her mind and made her want to leave the trail and
investigate.
But she never did. Instead she stayed on the path,
quietly following Miranda.
She had no sense of time, but after a while she began
to feel a sensation of foreboding.
Something had gone wrong. Miranda was no longer moving
ahead of her.
She moved faster, and as she came around a bend in the
path, everything suddenly changed.
The reeds were broken and the grasses crushed down.
Then, a little way off the trail, she saw it.
Miranda was on the ground and there was a shape above her,
staring down at her. Miranda was staring back at the
looming figure, but neither of them was saying anything.
Then the peaceful sounds of the night were interrupted by a
stream of angry curses, followed by a loud,
broken laugh.
It was the laugh that awakened Cassie.
She sat bolt upright in bed, shivering against the
clammy chill of cold sweat that covered her body.
Sumi was sitting in the darkness beside her, his eyes
fixed on her as if he knew she'd just awakened from
a nightmare. Then he ran to the window, leaping up
onto the sill. But instead of disappearing out into the
limbs of the tree beyond, he looked back at her,
mewling anxiously.
At first she didn't understand. Then, slowly, the
realization of what the cat wanted became
clear. He wanted her to follow him.
Instantly she knew that this dream was like the other one-the
one in which she had seen her mother die and first met
Miranda.
It wasn't just a dream. It was a vision. It was
real.
Miranda needed her.
But where was she? It didn't matter-wherever Miranda
was, Sumi would lead her there.
Slipping out of bed, she pulled on her clothes and
went
to the window. A moment later she was gone, climbing
down through the tree to the ground, following Sumi into the
night. . . .
Rosemary's eyes blinked open and she stared for a
moment at the glowing numerals of the clock on the
bedside table.
Midnight.
She wasn't sure what had awakened her; she
wasn't even sure how long she'd been awake.
All she knew was that something in the house felt
wrong.
She told herself it was nothing, and turned over.
Keith stirred next to her, then rolled over on his
back and began gently snoring.
She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the
strange feeling of something amiss. But the feeling
only grew stronger. At last she sighed, slid out
from under the covers, and shoved her arms into the robe that
hung over the chair in front of her vanity.
Slipping out of the master bedroom, she moved quickly
down the hall and opened the door to Jennifer's
room. By the bright glow of the moon she could see
Jennifer sleeping peacefully, one arm cuddling her
favorite doll, a large Raggedy Ann. Her
chest rose and fell in the deep steady rhythm of
sleep. With a soft click Rosemary pulled the
door closed.
She paused outside Cassie's door, listening for
any sounds from within.
There were none.
She rapped softly, then hesitantly twisted the
knob and pushed the door open.
She caught her breath, then stepped inside. The
bed, its covers piled at the foot, was cold. At
the far end the window stood open. The screen had been
removed from its hinges and stood next to the window,
leaning against the wall. Her heart beating faster,
Rosemary hurried back to her own room and shook
Keith. He mumbled, rolling over, then
sleepily opened his eyes.
"She's not here," Rosemary whispered urgently.
"Keith, Cassie's gone."
Keith blinked, then sat up and switched on the
lamp next to the bed. "Gone?" he repeated.
"What do you mean, she's gone?"
Quickly she explained. "We'd better call Gene
Temple-ton," she finished.
Ten minutes later the False Harbor police
chief appeared at the front door, his eyes red with
sleep, his uniform rumpled. He listened
to Rosemary's story silently, then shrugged.
"Lots of kids take off like that," he told her.
"She's probably just poking around town, having herself
an adventure.
But Rosemary shook her head. "She's gone out to the
marsh," she said. "I don't know why she's gone out
there, but I'm sure that's where she is. I can feel
it."
Templeton sighed, and wondered why it was that women
always "felt" things. Never men. Men had
"hunches." But it was the same thing, and Templeton
had long ago learned to act upon his hunches. So now
he would act on Rosemary Winslow's feeling.
"Okay, I'll go out and take a look
around."
"I'll go with you," Keith said, but the police chief
shook his head.
"No you won't. You'll stay right here with your wife.
The last thing I need is having the father along while
I look."
Keith started to protest, but the look of determination
in Templeton's eyes stopped him. And, of
course, the chief was right. His job was to find
Cassie, not deal with Keith.
As Templeton left the house, Jennifer, rubbing
her sleepy eyes, came downstairs. "Something
woke me up," she said, reaching up to her father. "Is
something wrong?"
"It's okay," Keith assured her, lifting her
into his arms and kissing her on the cheek. "Cassie
just went for a walk, and Mr. Templeton's gone
to find her."
Jennifer screwed her face into a worried
expression. "Did she go back to Miranda's
house?" she asked.
"Now why would she want to do that?" Keith asked.
"Because Miranda's a witch," the little girl said
solemnly. "And I bet she cast a spell on
Cassie."
Templeton swung the police car into the parking
lot at the end of Oak Street, then maneuvered it
in a wide curve so the headlights swept out over
the marsh like twin searchlights. A few birds,
disturbed by the sudden brilliance, burst into the air then
settled down again. Seeing nothing, Templeton
turned off the ignition and the headlights, then sat for a
moment, letting his eyes adjust to the pale glow of the
full moon above. At least the night was clear and the
moon high, he reflected as he released the
flashlight from its clip beneath the dash. He left the
car and started toward the marsh-If Cassie Winslow
was out there, she wouldn't be too hard to spot.
Unless she didn't want to be spotted.
If that was the case, his job would be the next thing
to impossible, for all she would have to do was stay low and
there would be no way for him
to
see her among the reeds. Unless, by sheer chance, he
happened to stumble across her.
He chose the widest path he could find and started
into the boggy morass, moving carefully but swiftly,
his easy grace belying the bulkiness of his
six-foot-four-inch frame. He searched for anything
that might be construed as fresh footprints,
but in the saturated soil even his own tracks
disappeared almost as soon as his feet left the ground.
After a few minutes he stopped looking at the
trail ahead, letting his eyes constantly flick out
over the marsh itself, looking for a movement or a
silhouette that might be Cassie. Almost without
making a conscious decision, he found himself moving in
the general direction of Miranda Sikes's cabin.
The paths began to grow narrower, branching off in a
haphazard fashion dictated more by the contours of the
marsh than any particular destination. Around him
Templeton could hear the night sounds of frogs and
insects, and twice he saw snakes slither across
the path to disappear into the tangled safety of the reeds.
He was halfway to the rise on which Miranda's house
stood, when he suddenly froze.
Off to the left there had been the barest flicker of
movement, then nothing. He stood perfectly still, his
eyes flicking back and forth as he searched for the
source of the movement.
It came again, and then from out of the gloom a shape
emerged. Twenty or so yards away, almost lost in
the reeds, a figure was making its way carefully
along one of the paths.
Cassie, or someone else? Miranda?
Templeton couldn't be sure. But whoever it was,
the figure moved very, slowly, head tipped down
slightly, as if watching something on the trail.
Templeton watched for a few moments, then
silently began working his way closer. He
circled around, always keeping the dark shadow of the
figure within his range of vision, until he was
ahead of her.
The trail she was following intersected his own a few
steps ahead. He crouched down, waiting.
Suddenly a shadow darted across the trail ahead, but
it was gone before Templeton could identify it. Then
the figure of the person stepped into the intersection of the
two trails, and Templeton, every muscle in his
body tensed, rose to his feet and switched the
flashlight on.
"Hold it!" he said, his words snapping in the quiet
like the flick of a whip.
The figure froze, then turned slowly toward him.
In the brilliance of the flashlight's halogen bulb,
he recognized Cas-sie Winslow, her skin
pale and her eyes frightened. He relaxed and took
a step forward.
"It's all right, Cassie," he said gently.
"It's Chief Templeton." He
turned the flashlight off, and in the shimmering
moonlight saw Cassie blink as her eyes tried
to adjust to the sudden darkness. He reached out a hand and
took her arm
to
steady her. "What are you doing out here?" he asked.
For a moment Templeton wasn't sure she'd
heard him, but then she spoke. Her voice was
barely audible, and tears were streaming down her face.
"Miranda," she whispered. "She needed me."
Templeton frowned in the darkness. "Miranda needed
you? Why?"
Cassie
made no reply, but her eyes flicked away from
Templeton, scanning first the path ahead, then the
sky above. "Where is she?" Templeton asked.
"Isn't she in her house?"
Cassie slowly shook her head. "There," she said,
and her right arm slowly came up, pointing into the sky.
"She's over there."
Templeton studied the sky in the direction she was
pointing, and at first saw nothing. But then, in the
blackness, he saw a sudden flicker of light, then
another. Slowly a ghostly shape took form in the
darkness, and after a few moments
Templeton realized what it was.
The white hawk, sailing silently on the air
currents, was slowly circling a spot a hundred
yards away. "Come on," Templeton said
quietly. "Let's take a look."
Guiding Cassie with his free hand, Templeton
started along the trail, lighting their way with the
flashlight. Every few seconds he looked up at
the hawk, half expecting it to have disappeared. But it
was always there, and as they drew closer, its circle
seemed to tighten. Ahead Templeton heard a
soft mewling.
"Sumi," Cassie breathed. "He's already there."
There was a bend in the trail a few paces farther
on, and as they came around it, the flashlight's beam
trapped the cat in a circle of brilliance. It was
sitting in the middle of the path, its twitching tail
curled around its feet, its eyes glowing with an almost
unnatural brightness. It suddenly squawled loudly
and bounded away. Above them the hawk screamed once
then folded its wings and dropped down out of the night
sky.
Templeton's eyes followed the hawk, watched it
plunge downward into a small area to the right which was
free of anything except a thin sheen of
shining water. At the last moment it spread its wings
to break its fall and landed on something that protruded out
of the marsh. Clucking softly, the bird settled its
feathers then fell still and silent.
Templeton played the light out over the open area.
The bird, red eyes glowing like embers, blinked, but
made no attempt to fly away. And then
Templeton realized what it had perched on.
From the depths of the quicksand a human hand protruded
upward into the night. On its crooked fingers-frozen
in death-the hawk had found its roost.
"She needed me," Cassie said once again, her
voice cracking. "She needed me, and I had to come.
I had to . . ."
 
At three o'clock on Tuesday afternoon Cassie,
wearing a navy-blue skirt with a white blouse and
dark blue sweater that her stepmother had bought for her the
day before, walked up the steps in front of the
Congregational Church. Keith and Rosemary were on
either side of her, and Jennifer, clutching her mother's
hand tightly, did her best to keep up with
Rosemary's quick stride.
The four of them walked down the aisle and slipped
into the front pew. In front of the altar a
plain white coffin containing Miranda Sikes's
body sat on a small catafalque. Its lid
was closed, and on top of it lay the spray of
flowers that Rosemary had ordered that morning.
Other than that single spray, the church was barren of
any decoration whatsoever.
The organist sat at the console, staring straight
ahead, her thin lips forming a disapproving line across
her face. As soon as the Winslows had seated
themselves, she began playing. The music echoed oddly
in the silent church. A moment later the little door
behind the empty choir box opened and the dour-faced
Congregational minister stepped out, a bible held
tightly in his hand. As he closed the door behind him
and stepped to the pulpit, Rosemary glanced over her
shoulder.
Except for the Winslows, the church was totally
empty.
His reedy voice sounding hollow in the nearly
deserted
church, the minister began the short service in
memory of Miranda Sikes.
There was no choir, no eulogy, only a short
prayer and brief recounting of the life of a woman
to whom the minister had never spoken in all his
years in False Harbor. Twenty minutes later
it was over, and the doors of the church were opened. Six
pallbearers hired for the occasion by the undertaker in
Barnstable marched quickly down the aisle, picked up
the coffin, then began their slow retreat from the church.
The Winslows rose to their feet.
Cassie, with her family behind her, followed the
coffin and the minister out into the spring afternoon. The bearers
carried the coffin around the church to the graveyard, where
an open grave awaited, the newest-and last-in the
even row that contained the earthly remains of all the
generations of Sikes women. As the Winslows gathered
around the grave, the minister began intoning the prayers
for the dead.
It was during the prayers that Cassie first felt
eyes watching her. The skin on the back of her
neck began to prickle. Finally, when she could stand it
no longer, she turned around.
Just beyond the fence separating the graveyard from the
sidewalk, she recognized Wendy Maynard,
pulling at her mother's arm. But Lavinia Maynard
was ignoring her daughter. Instead she was staring at
Cassie as if examining a bug on the end of a pin.
As soon as their eyes met, though, Mrs.
Maynard turned away, then she hurried
down the sidewalk with her daughter, the two quickly
disappearing around the corner. Cassie turned back
to face the minister again, but in a few moments felt
her skin begin to crawl once more. When she looked
back this time, she saw Lisa Chambers standing across
the street in the square with some of her friends. They were
whispering to each other while watching Cassie.
She felt a tear well in her eye, but didn't
brush it away until she'd turned her back on
Lisa.
At last the minister finished his prayer and reached down
to pick up a clod of earth. He crushed the lump
between his fingers and the dirt dropped onto the casket the
pallbearers were lowering slowly into the grave.
As the casket disappeared from view, Sumi slipped
out from behind one of the gravestones and darted over to peer
into the open grave. The fur on his neck rose, and a
soft
mewing emerged from his throat. Then he backed away,
his eyes fixed on the yawning chasm in the earth,
until he came in contact with Cassie's leg.
She bent over slightly, and he leaped up into her
arms and licked gently at her cheek.
As the casket touched the bottom of the grave,
Cassie had a sudden urge to look up
into the sky.
So high up it was barely visible, the white hawk was
floating above the graveyard, its wings fixed as it
effortlessly rode the wind coming in off the sea. As
Cassie watched, it turned and soared away.
Finally it was over, and with Sumi still cradled in her
arms, Cassie was led out of the cemetery and back
around the church to the house on Alder Street.
Before she went inside, she glanced out toward the marsh.
It wasn't fair, she thought. She'd barely met
Miranda, and already she was gone.
Except that deep within her Cassie had a feeling
that Miranda wasn't gone at all.
This funeral-Miranda's funeral-hadn't been at
all like her mother's. All through the ceremony she'd
found herself reliving once again those few moments she'd
spent with Miranda, feeling once again the power of the
connection between them, hearing once again the words Miranda
had spoken to her.
"You are mine. You've come home again, and now you
belong to me. Forevermore you belong to me."
And Cassie knew that she had heard those words before.
The memory was becoming clearer, though it was still not
complete.
But Cassie knew that though Miranda was
dead, she wasn't gone. Not the way Cassie's
mother was gone.
Miranda's spirit, the spirit to which Cassie had felt herself
drawn from the moment she'd first seen the strange
woman who lived in the marsh, was still alive.
Alive within Cassie herself.
Gene Templeton tipped back in the large chair
behind his desk and propped his feet up on the open
drawer which had been designed to hold an array of
files but had long since been converted into a convenient
storage bin for the endless snacks with which he filled his
stomach. Someday, he sup
posed, he would pay for his constant grazing, and his
stomach would begin bulging out over the wide black
belt of his uniform. But it hadn't happened yet,
despite the dire warnings of his wife Ellie. His
weight hadn't changed an ounce from the two hundred
ten pounds he'd carried when he graduated from
college thirty-odd years ago. Though Ellie
liked to tease him that forty of those pounds had converted
themselves over the years from muscle to fat, Gene knew
it wasn't true: his body was as hard as it had ever
been. Metabolism, he always told her. That was the
key to it: a good, healthy metabolism.
Except that the whole thing with Miranda
Sikes was making him overeat, and if he wasn't
careful, he would throw that precious metabolism off
balance. Then watch out. He could picture himself
ballooning up fifty pounds overnight, and having
to forego most of the meals Ellie liked fixing for him.
Which wasn't, he knew, really the point. He was
thinking about food to avoid thinking about what had
happened to Miranda and what the implications of his
investigation might mean. Besides, things like finding
Miranda Sikes's body in the marsh weren't
supposed to happen, not in quiet little towns like
False Harbor.
In Boston, where he'd worked for more than twenty
years, you expected bodies to turn up
unexpectedly dead, and more often than not you wound up
never finding out exactly what had happened, or why.
But Miranda Sikes had lived in the marsh all her
life and knew every inch of it as well as Templeton
knew the inside of his snack drawer. Could she
really have simply wandered off one of the paths in the
middle of the night and gotten caught in quicksand? Of
course, it was possible that she had committed
suicide. But suicide didn't really make much
sense either, if she were going to kill herself, surely
she would have found a less macabre way to go
than to hurl herself into quicksand.
And there was also the question of Cassie Winslow.
It wasn't simply the fact that Cassie had not
only been in the marsh when Miranda had died, and even
been able to lead him to her body. That could have been
coincidence, and it was, in truth, the hawk that had
led both of them to the body.
But there were also the words she had spoken to her father on
Saturday afternoon.
"She's going to die. ..." Had Cassie had some
uncanny premonition? Had she somehow known what was
going to happen? Or had she been somehow involved?
Templeton leaned forward in the chair and heard the
springs screech in protest at the sudden shift of his
weight. The words, written in his own hand, seemed
to leap off the page at him. But what, exactly,
did they mean?
If Cassie had known Miranda was going to kill
herself why hadn't she told anyone? You didn't
listen to someone announce she was going to commit
suicide, and then just not tell anyone, did you?
On the other hand, he remembered watching her at the
moment they had discovered Miranda's corpse. The
expression on her face had been one of pure
horror. Nothing about her had suggested that
she knew what they were going to find, nor did anything
she said. "She needed me, and I had to come." Those
had been her words, and Templeton was certain that she
had hoped to find the old woman alive.
He sighed heavily. He had to make up his mind
what to do. Should he talk to Cassie again? But what
good would it do? What could she tell him that she hadn't
told him already?
He also had to consider the harm it might do. Nothing
had been easy for Cassie since the day she'd
arrived in False Harbor, and it wasn't about
to get any easier. And if he kept after her, the
rumors that had already begun-the rumors that she must have
had something to do with Miranda's death-were only going
to spread.
Spread, and grow.
And in the end what would be accomplished? Nothing. For
in the end there was no evidence. No weapon had been
involved, and no injuries had been apparent on
Miranda's body. Nor was there a motive.
In his gut Templeton didn't truly believe
that Cassie Winslow had killed Miranda.
He made up his mind, and filled in the one remaining
blank on the report of Miranda Sikes's death.
Cause of Death: Accidental Drowning.
Then he closed the file on Miranda Sikes.
Cassie knew she had to be alone for a while, had
to deal with everything that had happened. As soon as she'd
changed her clothes, she slipped out of the house and
started toward the marsh. But when she got to the park, she
found herself unable to cross it and move into the marsh itself.
The memory of Saturday night was still too raw,
too painful.
Instead she turned toward the beach, walking slowly,
reliving the night Miranda had died.
She came to the beach finally and walked out into the
dunes, settling in a patch of grass from which she could
see both the ocean and the marsh.
She sat gazing out at the cabin, thinking again about the
vision she'd had Saturday night, the vision that at
first she'd thought was a dream.
She had said nothing to the police chief about the vision-
had said nothing to anyone. Who would believe her?
No one.
But ever since, she'd been going over the vision again and
again, trying to see clearly the figure that had been
looming over Miranda while she died.
It had done no good. Even in the vision it had been
too dark and she'd been too far away.
Since that night a knot of grief had
held her in its grip, and the cold shroud of
loneliness that had wrapped her in its folds so long
ago closed even tighter around her.
Sometimes-times like now, when she sat alone in the
dunes, staring out at the sea-she wished that it was she
herself who had died in the marsh.
And yet there were the words Miranda had spoken to her in
those hours they had spent together. They were, indeed, the
last words Miranda had spoken.
"It's all right. I will die soon, but I
will never leave you. Remember the things I've taught
you, and I will live on within you. I will live on, and
you will never be alone again."
But what did the words mean?
Cassie didn't know, but as she sat watching the
heaving sea, a certain knowledge began to grow within her that
soon she would find out.
"Even from the grave Miranda would find a way
to tell her.
Eric Cavanaugh had avoided the village square
after school that day," knowing that his friends had made
plans to go down and watch the burial of Miranda
Sikes from outside the cemetery fence.
What they really planned to do, he knew, was watch
Cassie Winslow.
He'd been listening to them talking about her all that day
and the day before, speculating on whether or not she would
come back to school on Wednesday.
Or, possibly, not at all.
"I hope she never comes back," Lisa Chambers
had said angrily at lunch hour. Her injured arm,
freed of the unnecessary sling she wore around her neck, was
displayed on the table as if it were an indictment.
"If you ask me, she's just as crazy as Miranda
was, and even if she didn't kill her, she
doesn't belong here. And if she comes back, I
don't think any of us ought to speak to her at all!"
Eric had said nothing, and when Lisa-and most of his
other friends as well-had trooped down to the square after
school, he'd gone to the beach instead, and spent an
hour walking slowly along the dunes, watching the
birds and enjoying the feeling of the wind on his face.
And enjoying the solitude.
When he'd seen a figure in the distance, he almost
turned away and started walking west again. But then
he'd realized it was Cassie Winslow and quickened his
step. She was sitting on the grass in the dunes,
looking out over the marsh. As he approached, she'd
looked up at him, her eyes large and rimmed red
with tears.
"Hi," he said, shifting his weight from one foot to the
other, uncertain about what to say. Finally, deciding
it didn't really matter, he dropped down onto
the sand beside her. "Is
it
all over with?"
Cassie nodded, and bit her lip. "Some of the kids
were in the square while they were burying her," she said
softly, her eyes still fixed on the marsh.
"I know," Eric replied. "They wanted me to go with
them, but I wouldn't."
Cassie turned to see him then. "Why not?" she
asked, her voice bitter. "You could have laughed at
me too."
Eric flinched, and the pain she saw in his eyes made
her wish she could take back the words. "I'm
sorry," she whispered. "I just. . . well, I
wish you'd come to the funeral."
"I-I couldn't," Eric stammered. "I had to go
to school." He looked away quickly, afraid his
face would betray his thoughts. Cassie only nodded
silently, then, after what seemed an eternity
to Eric, spoke again. "Nobody else came either."
Eric's eyes widened. "Nobody?" he echoed.
"My dad, and Rosemary, and Jennifer.
But they had to go, I guess. And then afterward, in the
cemetery, everyone was staring at me from across the
street." Her voice broke, and Eric saw a
tear welling up in her eye. She blinked it back,
then looked at him shyly. "Are you going to start staring
at me too?" she asked, her voice barely
audible. "Is that why you came out here?"
Eric frowned. "Why would I do that?"
"Because that's what everyone else is doing. They all
think I'm crazy, don't they?" She saw Eric
start to shake his head then think better of it.
"Well, I'm not," she went on, her voice
rising slightly, "and Miranda wasn't either! And I
didn't do anything to her. I don't care what
anybody thinks, I didn't do anything to her!"
"Hey," Eric protested. "How come you're mad
at me? I didn't say anything, and if I was
going to start staring at you, I would have been with everybody
else, wouldn't I?"
Cassie hesitated, her eyes flickering with
uncertainty. "Does that mean you're going to be my
friend?" she asked, and once more her voice had turned
shy.
Eric looked at her out of the corner of his eye. "I
thought we were already friends," he said carefully.
"If I wasn't your friend, I wouldn't be here right
now, would I?"
Now Cassie turned to face him squarely, and as
their eyes met, he had a peculiar feeling that she
was looking beyond his eyes;-" looking straight into the
depths of his soul. It was a strange sensation, almost
frightening, and for a moment he wanted to look away again.
But then she nodded, and smiled at him.
"You
are
my friend," she said quietly, and stood up. "Would you
like to see my house?"
Eric frowned. "Your house?"
Cassie nodded, and pointed out into the marsh.
His
Miranda's house," she said softly. "It's mine
now."
Hers? Eric thought. What was she talking about?
Miranda wouldn't have given her the cabin. She
couldn't
have.
"I think that ..." Cassie went on uncertainly,
"Well, I just have a feeling she wants me to have it.
So I've decided it's mine." She smiled
crookedly. "You won't tell anyone, will
you? I mean-well, I guess it sounds sort of
crazy, doesn't it?"
Eric hesitated only a moment. "I don't think
so," he said. "If that's the way you feel, that's the
way you feel." Pausing, he added, "I guess
she wasn't going to give it to anyone else." His
eyes went to the cabin, and he saw the white hawk
on the rooftop suddenly lift up and spread its
wings. A shrill whistling sound drifted across the
wetlands.
"It's all right," Cassie said, certain she knew
what he was thinking. "He won't hurt you. He
won't hurt anyone who's my friend."
Eric shook his head. "I can't stay," he told
her. "My dad-I promised my dad I'd be
home early."
Cassie smiled sadly. "All right," she said.
"Tomorrow. I'll show it to you tomorrow."
As Eric hurried away, she started walking slowly
out into the marsh. The white hawk rose up off the
rooftop, his wings beating rapidly as he flew
toward her.
 
Eric sat silently at the breakfast table the next
morning, his eyes carefully avoiding his
father's, for he had known the moment he came into the
kitchen that his father's anger was still seething just below the
surface. Finally, though, Ed spoke to him.
"You not going to say good morning to your old man?" he
asked, his voice rising and falling in the sarcastic
singsong that was always a sure signal he was looking
for a fight.
"Morning, Dad," Eric mumbled, glancing up
to see his father's eyes-little more than narrow red-rimmed
slits this morning-fixed balefully on him.
"I been thinking," Ed went on. "And I decided
something. I don't want you hanging around with
Cassie Winslow. You only got enough time for Lisa
Chambers."
"What's wrong with Cassie?" Eric protested.
"And I'm not hanging around with her. All I did
was-"
"Don't you argue with me!" Ed commanded, rising
slightly out of his chair. "You were messin" around with
her again yesterday afternoon!"
Now Eric felt his own anger beginning to rise
inside him. "We didn't do anything," he
replied. "All we were doing was talking. What's the
big deal?"
"Don't you sass me, boy," Ed
snarled. He was on his feet now, looming over
Eric, his right hand reflexively clenching into a fist.
"No!" Laura Cavanaugh suddenly exclaimed.
Though her
eyes were wide and frightened, the strength in her voice
deflected Ed's wrath from his son to his wife.
He swung around to face her.
"What did you say?" he rasped, his voice
dangerously low.
"Don't hit him," Laura pleaded. "Do you
want him to have to go to school with a black eye? What
will people say?"
"They wouldn't say a damned thing," Ed growled.
"What's the big deal if a kid takes a swat
from his old man now and then? I got my share from my
pa, and I didn't turn out so bad, did I?"
He glared at his wife and son, as if daring them
to challenge him. Then he was gone, slamming out the
back door. A moment later they heard a grinding
sound as the engine of the old pickup reluctantly
turned over, then caught and roared into life. The
screeching of spinning tires followed, the truck
shooting backward down the driveway and out into the
street.
A strained silence hung over the kitchen.
Laura gazed at Eric beseechingly but saw that his
eyes had gone dark and his jaw had tightened in
unconscious imitation of his father.
Laura, her voice little more than a sob, finally
spoke. "Why?" she breathed. "Why does he
hate us so much?"
"I wish he wouldn't come back. I wish he'd just
go away and disappear."
"I know," Laura said tiredly, getting to her
feet to begin clearing the breakfast dishes away.
"Sometimes I wish the same thing. But it won't
happen." She smiled with wan encouragement. "But in
another year you'll be away at college."
"Yeah," Eric agreed, making no attempt
to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "That'll be
really great, won't it? I'll be gone, and you'll be
stuck here with him all by yourself. How come you don't just
kick him out, Mom?"
"I can't," Laura said. "What would I do? How
would you and I live?"
As she spoke Eric's pity for his mother's
defenselessness turned to rage.
"How do we live now, Ma?" he demanded.
"We're scared witless all the time, and half the time
he beats us up. And all we ever do is
pretend nothing's happening! You call that living? I
sure as hell don't!" Before Laura could reply,
he grabbed his book bag and stormed out the back
door.
Just like his father, Laura found herself thinking. He
walked out the same way his father does. She started
washing the dishes, but her mind kept drifting away
from her work as she saw over and over again the image of
her son-as filled with rage as his father-stamping out of the
house. What if it was too late? she wondered.
What if she'd stayed with Ed Cavanaugh too
long, and the fury and hatred that had already consumed Ed was
working now in Eric as well?
Cassie caught up with Eric just as he was leaving the
Common to start down Wharf Street. "How come you
didn't stop this morning?" she asked shyly, falling
into step beside him.
Eric said nothing for a moment, then managed to give her
a weak smile. "It wasn't you," he explained.
"It was my dad. He says he doesn't want
me to spend any time with you anymore."
Cassie said nothing as she continued to walk silently
beside him. By the time they'd turned the corner on
Hartford Street, with Memorial High four more
blocks away, she could contain herself no
longer. "He thinks I'm crazy, doesn't he?"
Eric hesitated, then nodded once. "I guess."
"They're all going to act like that, aren't they?"
Cassie went on. "It's not just going to be your father.
It's going to be your friends too."
"So what?" Eric asked carefully.
"So I was just wondering what's going to happen, that's
all," Cassie replied. "I mean, what are you
going to do if everyone starts treating you the way they've
been treating me? Are you still going to be my friend?"
Eric nodded, his jaw setting stubbornly. "It
doesn't matter what my friends think, and I don't
give a damn what my dad says either," he
insisted.
A hopeful smile touched Cassie's lips, but
her eyes seemed to plead with him. "Then meet me
after school this afternoon," she said. "I-I really want
to show you my house. I mean Miranda's house," she
corrected herself quickly.
Eric hesitated, then shook his head. "I-I
don't think I better," he said, and the pleading in
Cassie's eyes dissolved into unconcealed pain.
"I mean, I have baseball practice
today. I skipped it yesterday, and if I do it again,
Simms'll kill me."
"I'll wait for you," Cassie decided. "In
fact I'll come out and watch you practice. I've
never done anything like that before."
Eric cocked his head quizzically, relieved that the
subject of the conversation had shifted. "How come?
Lots of the guys' girlfriends come out and watch them
practice. Didn't they do that in California?"
He hadn't told her not to come, Cassie thought.
Maybe he really was still going to be her friend. "That's
what I'm talking about," she said. "It was always the
airheads that went out to watch the boys. And none of
my friends had boyfriends. I mean, we all had friends
that were boys, but they weren't boyfriends." Suddenly her
eyes turned wary again. "If I come out and watch
you, is everyone going to think I'm your girlfriend?
What's Lisa going to think?"
Eric grinned. "Do you care?"
Cassie hesitated. "I just . . . well, I just
don't want her to think I'm after you, that's all."
Eric's grin widened. "Don't worry about
Lisa," he said, with more confidence than he felt.
They started up the steps of the school, and for the first time
since Miranda had died, Cassie was genuinely
smiling. But suddenly Lisa Chambers detached
herself from a group of her friends, her eyes
flashing with anger when she saw Cassie with Eric.
"What's so funny?" she demanded of Cassie,
slipping her arm possessively through Eric's.
Cassie's smile faded away, and she hurried
up the steps and disappeared into the building.
"We were just talking, that's all," Eric explained.
He faltered, seeing the jealousy in Lisa's
eyes. "It didn't mean anything. I mean-"
"I know what you meant, Eric," Lisa said,
dropping his arm as her voice turned chillingly
cold. Silence fell over the group on the steps as
they all listened. "And if you want to spend your time
with someone like her, I'm sure I don't care."
She turned back to the group she'd left seconds
before, leaving Eric standing helplessly alone as all the
rest of the kids stared at him.
This is how Cassie felt last week,
Eric thought.
Just like some kind of freak.
When the last bell of the day finally rang, Cassie
still hadn't made up her mind what she was going to do.
Today had been even worse than last week. She'd
made it through the morning only by telling herself
repeatedly that she'd see Eric at noon and at
least she wouldn't have to eat at a table
by herself, with everyone staring at her. But when she got to the
cafeteria, Eric was nowhere to be seen. She'd
waited at the door for ten minutes, hoping he'd
show up, but when they finally began closing down the steam
table, she took a tray, chose some food without
really looking at it, and started toward the same table
she'd occupied the week before.
As she moved through the cafeteria she felt the rest
of the students staring at her, and heard them whispering
to each other after she passed their tables. Though she
couldn't hear all that they said, she heard enough.
"Everybody
knows
she did something," Lisa Chambers said as Cassie
passed the table where Lisa sat with Allayne
Garvey and Teri Bennett. Lisa hadn't even
bothered to lower her voice. "I mean, my mother
actually
saw
Mr. Templeton's car in front of their house
yesterday!"
"But what's going to happen?" Teri demanded. "If
she killed Miranda, why don't they arrest her?"
"Maybe she didn't do anything at all,"
Allayne Garvey suggested, but by the time
she spoke, Cassie was out of earshot. "Maybe
you're just mad, Lisa, because Eric came to school with
her again."
"I don't care about Eric," Lisa insisted. She
raised her voice to make sure it would carry across
the room to the table where Cassie sat by herself. "If
he wants to spend all his time with someone who's
crazy, why should I care? But he better watch
out-she might do the same thing to him that she did
to Miranda Sikes!"
A wave of rage washed over Cassie and she
wanted to scream at Lisa. But she didn't.
Instead she made herself remember the words Miranda
had spoken to her the day she'd died.
"It doesn't matter what they say about me, and it
doesn't matter what they say about you. Some people are
set apart
from everyone else, Cassie. But whatever they say
about you, they can never truly hurt you." She'd
smiled then, a small, cryptic smile that
Cassie hadn't understood. "I made certain of
that. So don't worry about what they say. Just
don't let them hurt you. Be true to yourself, and always
remember that you must never let them hurt you."
So instead of saying anything, Cassie
simply sat alone at her table, concentrating on
forcing the tasteless food into her mouth and trying not to gag
as she swallowed it. The lunch hour seemed endless,
and when the bell finally rang, she began the afternoon
ordeal, moving somnolently from class to class, the
stares and whispers of her classmates stinging her
soul.
At last it was three o'clock, and she had to make up
her mind.
Should she go out to the baseball diamond to wait for
Eric, or should she just leave and spend the afternoon by herself?
She thought about the beach and the little house in the marsh, and the
prospect of being alone with nothing but the seabirds and the
crashing of the surf for company. At least out there no
one could stare at her, and if people were whispering, she
couldn't hear them.
Then she remembered Eric, and his absence from the
cafeteria at lunchtime. Making up her mind, she
shoved her books into her bag and left the building
by the back door. A small set of bleachers stood
behind the backstop. Already a group of girls was
clustered at the far end of the lowest three tiers. They
turned away from Cassie as she approached, and
began giggling among themselves. Every few seconds, one
of them would surreptitiously glance at
Cassie. Head held high, Cassie pretended
she didn't notice.
There was no one on the baseball diamond yet, so
Cassie fished her math book out of the bag and began
working on the homework assignments from the last two
days, which Mr. Simms had insisted be completed even
though Cassie had missed the classes. "After
all," he'd pointed out in front of the whole
class, his voice edged with sarcasm, "it isn't as
if you were sick, is it? No one else went
to Miranda Sikes's funeral, did they? It's
beginning to look as if you don't think school is
worth bothering with."
Cassie's face had burned as a ripple of
snickering had passed over the class. "But she was
my friend," she'd breathed.
Simms's thin lips had only curled into a
scornful sneer. "Even if that were true,
Cassie, you hardly knew her. And if you had,
you'd know she was nothing more than a mental case who
should never have been let out of the hospital. In my
opinion you simply used Miranda Sikes's
unfortunate demise as another opportunity to cut
classes. Your parents may approve, but I
don't. Please have the assignments
completed by tomorrow."
Cassie had forced herself to stifle an urge to run from
the room. It didn't matter, she told herself
once again. He can't hurt you. None of them can. So
instead of running away, she'd controlled her tears,
and her anger, and her pain. And now, as she looked
at the assignment, she was glad she had. The
problems in algebra were so simple she could work most
of them in her head. Shutting everything else out of her
mind, she quickly began writing down the equations and
their solutions.
Twenty minutes later, just as she finished the last
problem, the baseball team trotted onto the
field to warm up. Eric hesitated for a split
second, and Cassie felt a quick pang of fear that
he was going to ignore her, but then he waved before he
and Jeff Maynard began tossing a ball back and
forth along the first-base line. At last the coach
came out of the gym, but it wasn't until he'd
actually arrived at the diamond that Cassie
recognized him.
It was Mr. Simms.
His mouth was twisted into the same ugly smile he'd
worn while humiliating Cassie earlier that day,
and she knew instantly that something else was
about to happen. But this time she couldn't be the target-he
hadn't even seen her.
He blew his whistle, and the team immediately gathered around
him. He said nothing for a few seconds, and the boys
fell silent, squirming uncomfortably as they cast
sidelong glances toward Eric. In the bleachers
Cassie suddenly understood who Simms's new
victim was.
"Decide to join us today, Cavanaugh?" Simms
finally asked, his small, close-set eyes fixing
on Eric.
Eric nodded. "I-I'm sorry about yesterday," he
said. "I shouldn't have skipped practice, and I
won't do it again."
"What you do or don't do isn't really of interest
to me, Cavanaugh." Simms's eyes glittered with
pleasure at Eric's
discomfort. "If you can do without us, we can certainly do
without you. As of now you're off the team. Smythe,
you'll be taking over as pitcher."
Eric's eyes widened as the coach's words sunk
in. "Off the team?" he repeated. "But-but you can't
do that."
"Can't I?" Simms replied with an exaggerated
drawl. "And what makes you say that?"
"It's not fair," Eric pleaded. "I'm the best
pitcher in the school, and I have to play baseball."
"Really?" the coach pressed, now openly relishing
Eric's misery. "And why is that?"
Eric's voice fell to a whisper. "If I'm
going to college, I have to have a scholarship," he
managed. "And if I can get one in baseball,
I can go to-"
"Too bad you didn't think of that yesterday," the
coach interrupted. "But it's too late now,
isn't it?" He turned his back on Eric and
faced the rest of the team. "All right, let's get it
going, guys," he called. "Let's have a lot of
chatter out there, okay?"
The boys glanced at each other, uncertain what
to do. Kevin Smythe, his eyes smoldering angrily,
was about to say something, when Cassie, whose own fury
had been growing as she'd listened to Simms talk
to Eric, scrambled off the bleachers and hurried out
onto the field.
"Mr. Simms?" she called.
The coach swung around and looked at her. "Well,
look who's here," he said, glancing at the boys
then facing Cassie again. "I would have thought you'd be
long gone." Two of the boys snickered
quietly but fell silent when the others didn't
join in. "What is it?" Simms asked. "If
it's a question about your assignments, save it for
class."
"It isn't," Cassie said. "I just wanted
to turn the work in now."
Simms hesitated, and his sarcastic smile gave
way to an uncertain frown. "You're done?"
Cassie shrugged. "I'm going to talk to Mrs.
Ambler about changing classes," she said, her voice
perfectly level.
Simms's smile returned. "If the work's too
hard-"
"It's not," Cassie replied. "It's too
easy. But I guess if the school needs a
baseball coach that badly, they have to give you something
else to do, don't they?" She let her voice
drift off, and shrugged again. Then, as the baseball
team stared at her in stunned silence, she turned and
walked away from the baseball diamond. She could
feel Simms's fury bore into her as she left,
and knew she'd gone too far. What if there was no
other class for her to transfer into? What if she
had to stay in Simms's class for the rest of the year?
It didn't matter, she decided: what
he'd done to Eric wasn't fair, and she'd had to do
something. She'd
had
to.
She was three blocks from the school when Eric,
panting, caught up with her. "I thought you were going
to wait
for me."
"I-I wasn't sure you'd want me to,"
Cassie stammered. "I mean, after what happened."
Eric rolled his eyes. "What happened is nothing
next to what's going
to
happen. You should have seen Simms after you left.
All the guys started laughing at him, and I thought
he was going to go crazy. Now he's going to be out
to get you."
Cassie nodded. "I know. But I was so mad, I
didn't even think about it." She hesitated, then
met Eric's eyes. "Is it true? That you have
to get a baseball scholarship if you want to go
to college?"
Eric nodded, his jaw setting angrily, and he
fell into step beside Cassie. "I don't see how
I can make it any other way. God
knows, my dad doesn't make enough money to help me
out. And he probably wouldn't, even if he could."
He shook his head bitterly. "Now I'm going to have
to talk to Mrs. Ambler tomorrow and try to get her to fix
it with Simms. He thinks he's a big deal, but
he's scared to death of her. At least she still likes
me." He shifted his book bag to his other hand and
glanced at Cassie. "So what are you going to do?
He's the only math teacher, and you've gotta take
math."
Cassie shook her head. "What
can
I do? Ill just make sure I do all the work and
pass all the tests. And next year I'll get
someone else."
Eric shook his head. "I told you, there isn't
anyone else. Simms has senior math, too.
The only way you're going to get away from him is
if he quits, and he'll never do that." He
grinned. "Unless we could figure out some way
to make him quit.
Cassie stopped walking and turned to face Eric.
"You're kidding, aren't you?"
Eric's jaw clenched. "Maybe I am. I mean,
he didn't have to kick me off the team just
because I skipped practice, did he? It isn't
fair. Besides, there isn't any harm in thinking about
it, is there? I mean, as long as we don't
actually do anything to him."
Cassie thought about it for a few seconds, and once
more Miranda's words echoed in her mind.
"Don't let them hurt you. Never let them hurt
you."
But what if they
did
hurt you?
"Why not?" she thought out loud. "You can't hurt someone
just by thinking about it, can you?"
Eric glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, but
said nothing.
They were still a hundred yards from the house in the marsh
when the pale form of the white hawk rose up into the
afternoon sky, screeching loudly. Eric froze, his
eyes tracking the bird until it suddenly
disappeared into the sun and the brilliant glare made
him turn away.
"It's all right," Cassie told him. "His
name's Kiska and he's my friend. As long as you're
with me, he won't do anything at all." She started
forward, but Eric didn't move. He was
staring up into the sky once more, watching the hawk
circling above them. "Watch," Cassie said
quietly.
She gazed up into the sky and her eyes locked onto
the soaring bird. Then, slowly, she raised her right
arm, with her index finger pointed directly at the
cabin.
As if she'd issued a command, the bird instantly
banked and began beating its wings against the breeze.
A moment later it settled onto the peak of the house
and began preening its feathers.
Eric's heart pounded. He turned to face
Cassie. "How did you do that?" he asked.
"Did-did Miranda teach you that?"
Cassie smiled at him, nodding happily. "I
told you he's my friend. He was Miranda's friend, but
now he's mine." Her smile widened into a grin.
"He'll do anything I want him to.
Eric looked at her sharply. "What do you mean?"
But instead of answering him, Cassie merely
smiled.
With Eric following behind her and keeping a watchful
eye on the restless hawk on the roof, she led him
toward the little cabin on the hill.
On the porch, his tail curled around his
feet, they found Sumi waiting. He jumped
into Cassie's arms, and she cuddled him for a moment.
Then they stepped through the cabin's door.
Though on the outside the cabin seemed dilapidated
and about to collapse, the walls inside were paneled with
pine, all of it waxed to a soft golden sheen which
appeared to glow from within. There was a large walnut
armoire against one wall, and against another, tucked
into one of the corners, was a small bed. A table sat
in the very center of the cabin's single room, and the back
wall was half occupied by a stone fireplace, to which
a cast-iron wood-burning cooking stove had been
added at some time in the distant past. Along the other
half of the wall was a wooden counter with a sink mounted
in it, and above the counter, on either side of the window,
pine cabinets.
Aside from the two chairs at the center table, there was
an old wooden rocker next to a small table by one
of the front windows. There was no other furniture.
Though everything in the cabin was very old, and obviously
made by hand, each object had been perfectly cared
for. There was not even so much as a speck of dust in the
room, nor was there any sign of the clutter with which
everyone in False Harbor had always assumed
Miranda surrounded herself.
Eric grinned to himself. It was nothing like anyone thought it
was. And that, he decided, was the strangest thing about
the cabin. You couldn't tell from the outside what was
happening on the inside. In some ways, the cabin was
just like himself.
He looked up.
The four triangular panels of the peaked ceiling were
each painted a different color, and all of them were
covered with strange designs that time had faded
until they were nearly invisible.
"What is it?" he asked. "Did she ever tell you
what they
"It's astrology," Cassie explained. "She
told me this house
is special because it's in tune with everything around it."
She hesitated a moment, but when Eric said nothing,
she went on. "She told me it's a magical
place."
Eric's eyes avoided hers, but when he spoke,
she heard no trace of mockery in his voice.
"Did you believe her?" he asked.
"I-I don't know," Cassie replied. "I'm
not even sure what she meant. But I know she
believed it."
"But didn't she tell you?" Eric asked,
his tone more insistent now. "She must have said something
else."
"She did," Cassie said, sinking down onto one
of the chairs at the table. Eric was looking at her, and
she searched his eyes but was sure she saw nothing in
them except curiosity. He wasn't looking at
her the way the rest of the kids had.
She decided she could trust him.
"She said I was special," she told him. "She
said she was giving me a gift and that I could . . .
well, that I could do things. And she said I shouldn't
let people hurt me."
Eric's heart beat faster. "You mean, like Mr.
Simms hurt us," he said.
Cassie thought a moment. "I-I guess so," she
said finally.
Eric dropped onto the chair opposite her and
picked up Sumi, who was anxiously pacing the
floor beneath the table. "But what can you do?" he asked.
"I don't know," Cassie breathed. "But I'm
going to try to find out." She closed her eyes and her
lips began to move, though no sound emerged from her
throat.
Eric watched her as the seconds slowly stretched
into minutes. Silently, fixing his gaze
on her in fascination, he watched until he saw
Sumi slide out from under his caressing fingers and off his
lap.
A moment later the cat slipped out the door.
Harold Simms lounged against the wall of the locker
room until the last of the boys had dressed and
left, then went into the little office he shared with the other
coaches and closed the door.
Still seething with anger at what Cassie Winslow had
said to him earlier that afternoon, he finally picked up the
sheaf of paper on which she'd neatly laid out the two
days of
homework that should have taken her at least two hours
to complete.
All of it was done perfectly.
Obviously, he decided, she must have cheated. Even
if she'd spent the hour of her study hall working on
it, she shouldn't have been able to finish the assignments so
quickly. He concluded that she'd just done today's
assignment, and Eric Cavanaugh had given her the
answers to yesterday's. Smiling to himself, he marked
both papers with an F, and added an admonition that
cheating would not be tolerated in his class. And just let
her try to argue, he thought to himself. She's in big enough
trouble already, and if she starts backtalking,
I'll have her suspended. In fact he hoped she
would
talk back to him, and give him an acceptable
excuse to punish her for the humiliation she'd caused
him. He could still hear the laughter from the baseball
team, still see them looking at him with mocking eyes.
It wasn't that they cared about Cassie Winslow-they
were just mad at him for what he'd done to Eric
Cavanaugh. But he'd been right in throwing Eric off
the team-the kid had always been everybody's
favorite, and he'd been waiting a long time
to knock him off his pedestal. Simms's only
regret was that he wouldn't be there to see what happened
to Eric when Ed Cavanaugh found out his son had been
dropped from the baseball team. Eric would be lucky
to come out of that one with all his teeth intact.
Simms snapped out of his reverie. He had an
uncanny feeling that he was no longer alone in the
building. He glanced around, half expecting to see
someone else at the other desk, but there was no one.
Frowning, he left his chair and went to the door.
Opening it, he gazed out into the empty locker room
and the showers at the far end.
"Hello?" he called. "Anybody in here?"
His voice echoed hollowly off the concrete
walls of the gym. Frowning, he reclosed the door
and returned to the desk, intending to pack his
briefcase before leaving for the day.
His back was still to the door when he heard it slowly
creak open.
He froze, his heart pounding, then turned.
Crouched in the doorway, its tail twitching
spasmodically, was a gray cat.
Simms frowned. He hated cats-had hated them as
long as he could remember. Tentatively he took
a step forward.
But instead of backing away, the cat rose to its
feet, its back arching as its fur stood up. It
bared its teeth, and a hiss emerged from its throat.
"What the hell?" Simms muttered. He took
another step forward, and drew his right foot back
to kick the cat. But before he could swing his leg forward,
the cat leaped at him, all four of its legs
outstretched, its claws extended.
Simms screamed as the animal hit his chest and its
claws slashed through his T-shirt and into his skin.
He lurched backward, grabbing at the cat, but it
seemed to slip through his grip. A moment later he
felt a burning pain as its claws slashed across his
face. He raised his right arm to try
to knock the animal away, but before the blow struck,
he lost his balance, falling backward over his desk
and rolling off onto the floor on the other side.
Sprawled on his back, he looked up to see the
cat poised over him, hissing furiously. Before it
could launch
its
next attack, Simms struggled to his feet and
hurled himself away, crashing into the bare concrete
wall of the office. Swearing, he turned to see the
cat leaping toward him.
The door.
He had to get to the door, had to get out.
He whirled, but the door slammed shut as the cat
struck his back. Simms screamed with pain as he
smashed into the door then sank to his knees. He
felt the cats teeth sink into the flesh on the back
of his neck, felt blood begin to ooze out of the open
wound.
Terrified now, he threw himself to the floor and
rolled, trying to crush the animal beneath his own
weight. But no matter where he turned, the cat
seemed to be there, its fury growing constantly. Its
claws slashed at his face, and its teeth tore
pieces of flesh from his arms and torso.
His screams grew louder, and he staggered to his
feet once more, but there was no escaping the torture.
Everywhere he turned the beast was there first, and over and
over he felt its claws and fangs slashing into his
flesh. Finally, whimpering, he wedged himself into the
kneehole under his
desk and wrapped his arms around his bleeding head. And
then, at last, the attack ended and a silence fell
over the room.
It was broken by the sound of soft laughter, and as
Harold Simms sank slowly into unconsciousness,
he thought he recognized the laughing voice.
It sounded like Cassie Winslow's voice, mocking
him.
Half an hour later the door opened once more, and
Jake Palmer, who had been the janitor at
False Harbor's high school for forty years,
stepped inside. He set his mop and bucket down,
then glanced around the room.
"Holy Jesus," he whispered softly to himself.
"What the hell they been doing in here today?" Everywhere
he looked, the walls were stained with red smears, and the
floor looked as if a wild animal, mortally
wounded, had spent its last moments thrashing around in a
violent search for some unseen enemy. As
Jake's mind tried to accept what his eyes were
seeing, he heard a low moaning sound from a few
feet away. Slowly, carefully, he made his
way around to the other side of the room, then bent over
to look under the desk.
Staring back at him, Jack saw the pale visage
of Harold Simms, his skin torn away, his flesh
oozing blood.
"It was her," he heard Simms moan. "It was that
crazy girl. She . . . she tried to kill me."
Then Simms's eyes closed as he slid
into unconsciousness for a second time.
In the cabin Cassie's eyes blinked open and she
saw Eric watching her intently. "What-what
happened?" she asked.
Eric shook his head. "Nothing. You were just sitting
there, and your lips were moving, and then-well, then you
started laughing."
Cassie cocked her head thoughtfully. She'd been
thinking about Mr. Simms, and then she had drifted
off, as if in a dream. But what had happened in the
dream?
She couldn't remember.
Frowning, she looked around.
Something was different. Then she realized what
it was.
The cat was gone.
Her eyes flicked back to Eric. "What happened
to Sumi?" she asked.
Eric was silent for a moment, then shrugged. "Who
knows?" he said. "He was on my lap, and then he just
sort of took off."
Then he grinned. "Maybe he went after Simms,"
he suggested. "Maybe you sticked him on him."
 
Gene Templeton left Memorial High by the
side door, fishing in his pocket for his car keys.
Only the day after the funeral, and already it had started.
Templeton was pretty sure he was on a
wild-goose chase, for the story he'd heard at the
school made no sense at all. But still, he had
to check it out, he thought, as the squad car cruised
slowly through the village toward the Winslows' house.
He got out of the car and approached the house, sighing
as he pressed the doorbell. A moment later the
door opened. Rosemary Winslow stared at him
apprehensively.
"What is it?" she asked. "It
his
s not something else about Miranda, is it?
I thought we were all through with that."
Templeton held up his hands in a reassuring
gesture. "Nothing to do with Miranda at all,
Rosemary. It's . . . well, uh, it's something
else. I wonder if I might come inside?"
Relief apparent in her eyes, Rosemary stepped
back and held the door open. As Templeton
stepped into the foyer, Jennifer Winslow came
crashing down the stairs.
"Hi, Mr. Templeton!" she said, grinning up
at him with her hand held out expectantly. Grinning
back at her, Templeton fished in his jacket
pocket and pulled out one of the jawbreakers he
habitually carried there, insisting to anyone who asked
that they were only for bribing children, that he never ate them
himself. It was a lie, but everyone knew it, so it
didn't matter.
"Hi, yourself," Templeton replied, holding the
jawbreaker
just out of Jennifer's reach. "You being a good girl?
Haven't tried to rob the bank this week?"
"No," Jennifer shrieked. "Can I have it?
Please?"
Templeton glanced at Rosemary, who nodded,
then gave the candy to Jennifer, who immediately
stuffed it into her mouth, her right cheek bulging
grotesquely. "Now run along," he said. "I
have to talk to your mom about something."
"Can't I listen?" Jen begged, her words garbled by the
mass in her mouth.
"No, you can't," Rosemary told her.
Faced with the unanimous decision of two adults,
Jennifer retreated back up the stairs. When she
was gone, Rosemary led Templeton toward the
kitchen.
"I have a little pie, but I'm afraid that's all,"
she apologized. She poured them each a cup of
coffee and pulled the last slice of last night's
apple pie out of the refrigerator before sitting down
to face Templeton, her eyes still worried.
"Now, what's going on?"
Templeton's expression turned serious, and he
shook his head. "I'm not really sure. But I'm
hoping maybe I can nip this one in the bud real quick.
Do you happen to know where Cassie's been this afternoon?"
The worry cleared from Rosemary's face. "That's
easy," she said. "She's with Eric. They're right
here, upstairs in Cassie's room."
Templeton's brows rose a fraction of an inch.
"Cassie's room?" he repeated, and
Rosemary chuckled.
"Times have changed, Gene. All the kids have their
friends in their rooms now, boys and girls both.
It's not like when you were young. Or me, either, for that
matter."
"Thanks for that, at least," Templeton grumped.
"So, how long have they been there?"
Rosemary shrugged. "All afternoon, as far as I
know."
The relief Templeton had been momentarily
feeling vanished. "As far as you know?"
"Well, I've only been home half an hour.
I did a little shopping after I closed the store, but
they were here when I got home. Now, would you mind
telling me what this is all about?"
Sparing her as many of the details as he could,
Templeton described the scene he'd found in the
high school gym office
an hour before. "And what's happened," he finished,
"is that just before Simms passed out, he told Jake
Palmer that "the crazy girl did it." his
Rosemary gasped, and her face paled. "He . .
. what?"
"It's not quite as bad as it sounds," Templeton
added. "And Jake said he didn't
actually name Cassie. But, well..." He
floundered for a moment, then fell into an embarrassed
silence.
"There's only one girl in town that they're calling
crazy," Rosemary finished for him, her voice
cold. "Is that it, Gene?"
Templeton nodded. "Rosemary, I'm sorry.
I know how all this sounds, but I still have to do my job.
And anyway, it might not be so bad-he didn't
actually name her, and nobody saw Cassie around the
school at all. In fact a couple of the kids
saw her leave, and saw Eric catching up with her.
After that, no one saw either one of them at the school
again. So if I can place Cassie somewhere else,
we can put an end to this right now."
"Then let's do it," Rosemary said. "The last thing
we need right now are more rumors flying around." She
went out into the hall and called up the stairs. A
minute later Eric and Cassie appeared at the
kitchen door. Recognizing Templeton, both
their expressions turned worried.
"What's wrong?" Cassie asked.
Rosemary started to speak, but Gene Templeton
held up a hand to stop her. "You kids mind telling
me where you've been all afternoon?" he asked.
Eric and Cassie glanced at each other, then Eric
shrugged helplessly. "We've been here for about an
hour, I guess," he said.
"An hour," Templeton repeated. Whatever had
happened to Simms, it had happened more than an hour
ago. "What about before that?" Eric's eyes suddenly
took on a wary cast, and he said nothing. Instead
he glanced at Cassie, and Templeton's
stomach knotted as he realized that maybe, after
all, there was some truth to Simms's disjointed words.
When Cassie finally spoke, the nervousness in her
voice only tightened the knot.
"We-we were out in the marsh," she said. "I was showing
Eric Miranda's house."
Templeton glanced at Rosemary, who seemed
to be as
surprised at the words as he was. "All right,"
he said carefully. "Do you mind telling me why you
went out there?"
Cassie's eyes darkened. "I already told you,"
she said. "I was showing Miranda's house to Eric.
Why shouldn't I? Miranda was my friend. I can go there
if I want to."
"Whoa," Templeton protested, holding up his
hands in an exaggerated gesture of
defense. "Slow down. I didn't say you had no
right to go there. I just wondered if there was any
special reason why you went."
Cassie was silent for a moment, then nodded. "We were
mad," she said. "Mr. Simms kicked Eric off
the baseball team this afternoon."
Rosemary gasped, but Templeton managed not
to react to the words at all. Suddenly everything made
even less sense than
it
had before, for Cassie had just blandly confessed to a
motive. "Mind telling me about that?" he asked
Eric, watching the boy carefully. But as Eric
told him the story, Templeton could see nothing in
his manner that seemed anything other than completely
spontaneous.
"Simms is weird sometimes," Eric finished. "But
I'll go talk to Mrs. Ambler tomorrow, and she'll
straighten it out. But what's happening, anyway?"
His eyes still fixed on the two teenagers,
Templeton told them what had happened at the
school that afternoon. "Simms is in the hospital. And
I'm here because he said something that might have meant he
thought Cassie attacked him. From what I saw, it
looked like whoever did it must have used a
knife." He saw Cassie and Eric glance at
each other, and there was something in that exchange of looks
that bothered him. It was more than surprise-there was
something else there, something he couldn't quite put his finger
on. But what? "And you two say you were down in the
marsh and then here all afternoon, right?"
Cassie nodded. "We were."
"By yourselves," Templeton pointed out.
Cassie hesitated, then shook her head.
"Jennifer saw us in the marsh," she said. "Ask
her."
Rosemary hesitated, then went to the bottom of the
stairs and called Jennifer. A moment later the little
girl came running down the stairs and followed her
mother into the kitchen.
'But how do you know they were in Miranda's house all
the time?" Gene Templeton asked five minutes
later, after Jennifer had confirmed what Cassie and
Eric had told him.
Jennifer blushed, and stared shamefaced at the
floor. "I was watching," she finally admitted, her
voice tiny. "All the time they were in there, I was
playing on the swing in the park, and I kept watching
to see if anything was going to happen. But nothing did.
They just went in, and after a while they came
out." Her eyes went fearfully to Cassie. "I'm
sorry," she said. "But I wasn't really spying
on you. I just wanted
to
see what you were doing."
"It's okay, Jen," Cassie told her, a little
smile playing around her lips. "And it's okay for
you to tell them what we were doing too."
Jennifer's eyes shifted to appeal to her mother. "They
weren't doing anything," she said. "They just came over
here and went up to Cassie's room and started listening
to the radio."
The tension drained out of Rosemary, and she turned
to the police chief. "Well, at least we know that
whatever happened to Harold Simms, Cassie and
Eric weren't involved."
Gene Templeton nodded absently, but his eyes were
still watching Cassie and Eric. He was certain there was
something they were holding back. "Miranda's house,"
he said finally. "What were you doing in there?"
Once again that strange look passed between the two
teenagers, and for a moment Templeton thought Eric was
going to speak. But before he could utter the first word,
Cassie rushed in.
"We were talking about Mr. Simms," she
said, her eyes meeting Templeton's. And though
her eyes were clear-as if she had nothing to hide-there
was a challenge in them. "We were talking about what a
creep he is, and wishing something would happen to him.
That's weird, isn't it? I mean, that while we were
wishing it, something really did happen to him?"
"Cassie!" Rosemary exclaimed.
"Well, why should I lie about it?" Cassie
asked. "It's not like we did anything to him. And
I'm not sorry about what happened to Mr. Simms
either. He was awful to me, and
what he did to Eric wasn't fair at all. If
someone beat him up, I'm not going to claim I'm
sorry!"
Before anyone could say anything else, she turned and
fled from the kitchen. Rosemary glanced at
Templeton and started to go after her, when the
policeman shook his head. "Let her go," he said
gently. "She must be sick of me asking her questions
all the time, and I think it's pretty obvious she
didn't have anything to do with Simms." He unfolded
himself from the chair and closed his notebook. "You have
anything else to say, Eric?" he asked.
Eric shook his head.
"Okay." He let himself out the back
door and was just about to start down the driveway when a
sudden movement caught his eye. Turning, he saw
a gray cat slip through the fence between the Winslows"
yard and the cemetery next to the church. It dashed across
the lawn and slithered up into a large oak tree.
When it reached the lowest branch, it paused, then
turned to glare balefully at Templeton. Its
mouth yawned open and a menacing hiss boiled out of its
throat. Then, in a flash, it leaped up through the
branches of the tree and disappeared through an open window
on the second floor.
"Sumi?"' he heard Cassie's voice asking
anxiously. "Did you really do it? Did you do what
I wanted you to?"
His brow creased in thought, Templeton continued down
the driveway.
"Upstairs," Ed Cavanaugh growled. He'd
watched Eric come out of the Winslows" house a few
minutes after the police chief had left, and by the time
the boy had crossed the common driveway and come through
the back door, Ed had worked himself into a fury. It
hadn't taken him long to get the whole story out of his
son. As he listened, his rage had grown. Now his
eyes fixed malevolently on Eric. "Move!"
he snapped when Eric failed to react
to his command.
"Ed, don't," Laura protested. Ed said nothing,
but his hand flashed out, striking Laura's face with enough
force to knock her back into her chair.
"Now!"
he bellowed, then reached out and grabbed Eric by his
shirt collar, dragging him out of the kitchen. As
Laura sat trembling in the chair, she heard her
husband manhandling their son up the stairs.
Why?
she thought bitterly.
Why did he ever think he wanted a son in the first
place?
Eric started to go into his own room, but Ed grabbed his
wrist, twisted his arm up behind his back, and shoved him
into the little room that would have been a guest room had
anyone ever come to visit the Cavanaughs.
Eric's heart sank, for when his father took him in
here, it meant things were really going to be bad.
"Strip!" his father commanded, already pulling his belt out
of the loops in his pants.
Eric's eyes widened. "No," he whimpered.
"Come on, Dad-I didn't do anything-"
"You disobeyed me, and you got yourself kicked off the
team," Ed rasped. "I don't call that
nothing." He reached out with his free hand, grasped
Eric's shirt, and ripped it off. Eric cringed, but
knowing there was no escape, quickly removed his pants
and underwear, then stretched out on the bed.
The belt whistled in the air before it lashed across
Eric's naked buttocks, but Eric knew better
than to scream out with pain. When his father was like this, the
sounds of his agony only seemed to make it worse.
He clenched his teeth, his hands gripping the posts at
the head of the bed.
Again the leather strap whistled in the air and struck.
With each lash, Eric's rage increased.
"Well, it fits with what I've found," Dr.
Paul Samuels commented, after listening to everything
Gene Templeton had to say. "As far as I can
tell, he wasn't attacked by any kind of weapon
at all."
Charlotte Ambler looked at the doctor in
surprise. She'd followed the ambulance over from the
school, then waited impatiently while Sinims was
being examined, anxious to know exactly what had
transpired in the gymnasium. "No weapon?"'
she repeated, her voice taking on the acerbic
quality she usually reserved for her students,
forgetting that it had been twelve years
since Paul Samuels had been one of them. "For
heaven's sake, Paul, I saw Harold myself!"
"And something happened to him," Samuels agreed.
"But it doesn't look to me like he was attacked
by anybody, at least not with a knife."
"You want to expand on that?" Gene asked, glancing
at
the clock. It was now thirty minutes past dinner
time. He sighed silently and turned his attention
back to the doctor.
"A knife makes a clean cut," Samuels
explained. "If you slash someone with a knife, you're
going to stab them deep, or lay them open, but the
edges of the cuts are going to be clean. And there
won't be any pattern. But that's not the way it is
with Harold Simms. It looks to me as though he was
attacked by some kind of animal. At least at
first."
The memory of the hissing animal in the tree
outside Cassie's room came
into Templeton's mind. "Could it have been a cat?"
he asked.
Samuels thought a moment, then nodded. "Could be.
I certainly wouldn't rule it out."
"But Harold was very certain that he heard
someone laughing," Charlotte Ambler reminded them.
"Who simply doesn't seem to have been there,"
Templeton observed wearily. "I'm sorry,
Charlotte, but whatever happened, I can't see how
Cassie could have had anything to do with it. And Simms
could have been wrong."
Charlotte turned impatiently to the doctor.
"Is that true?"
Samuels shrugged noncommittally. "It's
possible. It's even possible that he did most of the
damage to himself."
"Did it to himself?" Charlotte repeated
indignantly. "What on earth are you saying?"
"Just that," Samuels replied. "I think it's
pretty clear what happened, particularly after what
the chief's told us. Simms had just thrown Eric
off the team, and then Cassie managed to humiliate
him in front of the kids. And you yourself have already told
me that Simms was-what? High-strung? Weren't
those the words you used?"
Charlotte's eyes narrowed. "He had some
problems, yes-
"Well, if you ask me, he just snapped,"
Samuels went on. "There's no way of saying
exactly what happened, and some of the marks
were certainly inflicted by some kind of animal. But
I don't think there was anyone in that office with him.
I think that something set him off and he just came apart
in there. He literally started bouncing off the walls.
I don't doubt that he thought he was being attacked
by Cassie. In feet I wouldn't be surprised if
he claimed he actually saw her. But I'd be just
as willing to bet that it was an hallucination."
"But the wounds ..." Charlotte pressed.
"Except for the deepest scratches and bite marks,
the wounds are all consistent with someone striking hard
against concrete block walls. The bruises, the
abrasions, everything. There isn't much that couldn't have
been self-inflicted."
Templeton regarded the doctor thoughtfully, his
fingers absently rubbing at the stubble on his chin.
"What you're saying is that he just went nuts?"
Samuels's brows arched. was 'Just went nuts"
isn't precisely the terminology I would use,
no. I'd be more inclined to label it a psychotic
episode."
"Is there a difference?" Templeton drawled, and
Samuels, despite the circumstances, couldn't quite
suppress a chuckle.
"In some cases, not really," he
admitted. "But with Simms, it's too early
to tell. "Just went nuts," as you put it, always
seems to me to imply a permanent condition. A
psychotic episode can be quite a temporary thing."
"How temporary?" Templeton asked.
"A few minutes. An hour. A day. Who
knows?" Now he turned once more to Charlotte
Ambler. "What can you tell me about Simms's
condition the last few days?"
Charlotte hesitated, then sighed. "Well,
actually, I've been worried about Harold.
He's seemed to be wound up about a lot of things
lately, and I know he's been taking it out on some
of his classes. It hasn't been too serious, and
so far no one has complained. But it
has
been there. I'd hoped he'd make it through the year and
then get a good rest. But I've also had some
reservations about renewing his contract. Frankly,
I'm not sure he's cut out to teach. He ...
well, I've always had the feeling that deep down,
he just doesn't like the students."
"And if he came apart, he'd be likely to blame
it on one of the kids?" Samuels suggested.
Charlotte's lips tightened. "I'm
afraid I find that a little hard to believe." She
paused and met the doctor's eyes. "May I
talk to him again? Is he conscious?"
Samuels nodded. All three of them stood up and
left the doctor's office, walking down the hall
to the last of the six rooms which were all the False
Harbor hospital required. Inside the room,
strapped to a bed, they found Harold Simms.
Charlotte moved to the bedside and looked down at the
math teacher's face. The blood had been washed
away, and now she could see that the lacerations were not as
serious as they'd first appeared. His cheeks were
scratched, and on Simms's forehead a large round
black and blue spot marked the point at which something
had struck his forehead.
But what? The wall? Or even, perhaps, the underside
of the desk beneath which the teacher had been found?
Simms's eyes blinked open and for a moment he
seemed to stare unseeingly at the ceiling. Then his
gaze flickered around the room, finally focusing on
Charlotte Ambler's face. Then he began
struggling against the restraints that held his arms,
legs, and torso immobile, meanwhile mumbling
broken fragments of words. Templeton listened
closely, but nothing the man said made any
sense. It was nothing more than a disconnected stream of
syllables.
Simms's voice rose to a scream and the words
became garbled beyond recognition. He was thrashing on
the bed now, straining against the heavy leather straps, his
hands clenching into fists so tight that his knuckles
turned white and the palms began to bleed where his
fingernails pierced his own skin.
"Jesus Christ, Doc," Gene Templeton
whispered. "Can't you do something?"
His words were unnecessary. Samuels had already picked up
a syringe from a table that lay near the door, filled
it, and was in the process of plunging it into Simms's
arm. After a few seconds the drug began to take
hold, and slowly Simms began to relax.
"What are you going to do?" Charlotte Ambler finally
asked, her voice bleak.
"We're moving him tomorrow," Samuels replied.
"He'll be taken up to the state hospital near
Eastbury."
Templetoon shook his head sadly and turned
away. "Hope they bring a straitjacket," he
muttered softly as he started out the door. "Looks
to me like that guy's going to need one."
And yet, as he left the hospital he still
couldn't get Cassie's words out of his mind.
"Sumi? Did you really do it? Did you do what I
wanted you to?"
 
"I don't
believe
it!" Ten Bennett squealed excitedly. "You
really
saw it?"
Kevin Smythe nodded, glancing at his watch out of the
corner of his eye to make sure there was time to tell the
story once more. So far he'd had to repeat it
twice, but each time new arrivals appeared on the
front steps of the school, and they wanted to hear it
too. Feigning boredom with the repetition, he
began again. "I was just coming around the corner from Pine
Street, and there was an ambulance right there in front
of the entrance on Hartford. I almost just went on by,
"cause at first I didn't think anything was
happening. But then the doors opened and they brought him
out. Man, it was weird-they had him all strapped
down, and there was one of those bottles with a rubber hose
on it, and everything! Then they stuck him in the back
of the ambulance and the lights started flashing and they took
off!"
"But where are they taking him?" Allayne Garvey
demanded. "I mean, are they really going to lock him
up?"
Kevin shrugged with exaggerated casualness. "Search
me," he said, and then his voice dropped to a level
that implied he was about to divulge a secret. "But
my dad said he went absolutely spacey after it
happened-"
"After what happened?" Jeff Maynard asked,
trotting up the stairs to join the group on the top
step. "What's going on?"
Kevin and the two girls stared at Jeff in
disbelief. "You
mean you didn't hear?" Kevin asked. "Cassie
Winslow hung around after school yesterday and tried
to kill Mr. Simms."
Jeffs mouth dropped open. "Are you nuts?" he
demanded. "She left right after Simms kicked Eric
off the team. And-" He suddenly fell silent,
staring at the street. The eyes of the others followed his
gaze, and they, too, stopped talking.
Walking along the sidewalk, their heads close
together, as if they were whispering to each other, were Eric
Cavanaugh and Cassie Winslow. By the time they
got to the foot of the steps, not a sound was
to be heard from any of the thirty or so students
gathered in front of the school, all of whom were now
staring at the latest arrivals.
Cassie glanced up and knew immediately what had
happened. But for Eric it seemed to take a moment.
"Hey!" he called to Jeff Maynard. "What's
going on?"
Jeff looked back at him uncertainly, then his
eyes shifted to Kevin Smythe. It was Kevin who
finally spoke.
"What are you doing with
her?"
he asked, the belligerence in his voice tempered
by nervousness. To him Cassie Winslow suddenly
looked dangerous.
Eric frowned. "What are you talking about? Why
shouldn't I be with Cassie?" His gaze shifted
to Teri and Allayne, but both of them were now looking
somewhere else. And then he, too, understood.
"Hey," he said, "she didn't do anything
to Simms. I was with her, and we were out at the marsh
at-" He stopped himself as he saw his friends
exchange doubtful looks.
Lisa Chambers-who had been silent until now,
trying to sort out the truth from all the
strange things she'd heard last night and this
morning-suddenly made up her mind. She glared
down at Eric. "You were in Miranda's house,
weren't you?" she accused. "What were you doing there?
Helping Cassie figure out how to do it? Or did
you help her do it yourself?"
Eric's jaw tightened. "Do it?" he demanded. "Do
what? You guys don't think she did anything
to Simms, do you? And even if she did, so what?
Every one of you hated his guts! We all did!" No
one said anything as Eric slowly searched the faces
of the people who only yesterday had been his friends. Only
Jeff Maynard seemed to be uncertain. "Jeff?
You don't think Cassie and I did anything, do
you?"
Jeff felt like a trapped animal, caught between his
best friend and practically everyone else he knew.
"I-I don't know," he stammered. "I just got
here. Teri says-"
"What does she know?" Cassie demanded, her
eyes flashing with anger. "Were you there? Did you
see what happened to Mr. Simms? Maybe
she
did it!"
Teri's face turned scarlet with
indignation. "Don't you try to blame me,
Cassie Winslow!" she shouted. "All I know is
what my mother told me, and she says you did it and
they ought to lock you up! So don't try to blame it
on me!" Bursting into tears, she wheeled around and
rushed into the building, Allayne and Lisa hurrying
after her.
Eric, now as angry as Cassie, started up the
steps, his hands clenching into fists. But then he
abruptly changed his mind, and took Cassie's
hand in his own. "Let's just go," he said, his voice
so quiet no one but she could hear him. "It
doesn't matter what they thought about Simms. They
just want to blame you."
They were already a block away when the school P.
A. system came to life and an announcement that the
first class of the day would be replaced by an assembly
was broadcast through the halls and out over the grounds.
Neither Eric nor Cassie heard it.
Charlotte Ambler stood behind the podium atop the
choir platform hastily assembled fifteen minutes
earlier, and looked out at the assembled students of
Memorial High. Ordinarily they tumbled
happily into the auditorium, laughing and chattering
among themselves, looking forward to an
assembly-any assembly-as a release from an
hour of classes. But today it was different. They were still
chattering, but their voices were subdued, and as they
huddled together in small groups, they seemed to glance
furtively around them, as if sensing that they were talking
about something none of them had any information about and that they
shouldn't be talking about at all. Charlotte Ambler
was about to give them the information they wanted, but she had
a sinking feeling that it might already be too late, for
nowhere in the sea of faces could she spot either Eric
Cavanaugh or Cassie Winslow.
Rapping sharply on the podium with a gavel, she
waited for the hubbub to die down, then cleared her
throat.
"I'm sure most of you are aware of the unfortunate
incident of yesterday afternoon," she began, determined
to choose her words as carefully as possible. If she
couldn't defuse the situation now-and quell the
rumors that had already begun-there was a distinct
possibility that the rest of the term would be a complete
loss. If, indeed, it wasn't too late already.
"One of our teachers," she went on, "Mr.
Simms, has suffered a form of illness that is not at
all uncommon in our day and age. Mr. Simms
has been under a great deal of pressure-"
"And maybe a few knives?" someone yelled from the
back of the room.
There was a gasp, followed by dead silence, and
Charlotte Ambler slowly removed her glasses,
letting them drop down to her breast. Abandoning the
short speech she'd written a few minutes before,
she stepped around the podium and moved forward to the edge
of the platform. When she spoke again, her voice
needed no amplification from the microphone.
"I shall not ask who said that," she said, her words echoing
coldly through the room, "because if I found out, that
person would no longer be a part of this high school."
She paused for a split second, then went on.
"What has happened is this: Mr. Simms suffered
a sort of mental breakdown in the gymnasium
yesterday afternoon, and it caused him to inflict a certain
amount of harm upon himself. He is being taken to a
hospital in Eastbury, where he will be treated for
an indefinite period. For the remainder of this term his
coaching duties will be handled by Mr. Johnson, and
his classes by myself!" She paused, as if waiting for
any of the students to dare make comment on her
selection of substitutes for the absent teacher. When
there was no response, she continued. "There may be
certain scheduling changes, and you will be
notified of those in due course. As for the rumors that
have been circulating this morning, there is no evidence
that Mr. Simms was attacked by anyone, or that there
were any weapons involved. That is all. You may
return to your homerooms."
She stepped off the platform and immediately disappeared out
the side door of the auditorium, unwilling to allow
even a moment for any of the students to ask a question she
might not be prepared to answer.
There was a moment of silence before the realization that the
assembly was over sank in. Then, slowly, the
students got to their feet and began drifting toward the
doors. But everywhere there was a soft buzz of whispered
conversation as the teenagers tried to decipher the truth
of what had happened in the gymnasium the day before.
By the time the auditorium had emptied, a consensus
had been reached, and though Charlotte Ambler wasn't
there to hear it, it would not have surprised her.
Lisa Chambers summed it up as she left the
auditorium, the center of a group that only a few
days before had always pivoted around Eric.
"I don't care what anybody says," Lisa
announced. "I could tell Cassie Winslow was
weird the first time I saw her. If Mr. Simms
said she tried to kill him, I believe it.
And if you ask me, Eric better stay away from her
before she does something to him too."
"We can't just ignore it, Keith," Rosemary
insisted. "If you keep trying to bury your head in the
sand, things are just going to get worse and worse!"
"Bury my head?" Keith demanded. He glanced
at the clock above the kitchen sink. It was nearly
nine. He should have been down at the marina an hour
ago, but Rosemary seemed determined to keep arguing
with him until he admitted that there was something wrong with
Cassie. "I'm not burying my head in any sand,
and I'm getting a little tired of you saying I am.
If Gene thought there were anything to Harold Simms's
story, don't you think he'd have been back here
by now?" His strong jaw set in an expression of
grim determination. "What the hell do you want?
Cassie and Eric say they were out at Miranda's
house, and Jennifer backs them up. Even if
Eric and Cassie were lying-which I don't
believe-why would Jen lie?"
Rosemary shook her head doggedly, determined that this
time she wouldn't be swayed by Keith's stubbornness.
"You weren't here," she insisted. "If you'd heard
her, you'd be worried too! I know you would!"
Keith took a final swallow of his
coffee, then drained the
rest into the sink. "All right, so she said she wished
something would happen to Simms. Why the hell wouldn't
she? He's always been a mean little wimp, and I
don't blame her for wishing him the worst." He
set the cup on the drain-board, placing it with the
overly careful precision that was a certain clue
to his growing impatience. "If he'd treated me the
way he did the kids, I'd want to kill him
too." He turned to face Rosemary once more, and
his voice took on a patronizing tone that made
her simmer with anger. "But wanting to do something and
actually doing it are two different things. If
Templeton accepted her story, I don't see
why you can't." The patronizing tone gave way to a
sarcastic edge. "Don't you think I've noticed
how you're always watching her, as if you're just waiting
to catch her in a lie, or make a mistake? My
God, Rosemary, even when she does something nice
you've acted like she's trying to get something for herself!"
"That's not true!" Rosemary breathed, her heart
pounding with indignation. And yet, deep inside, she
knew that there was some truth to Keith's words.
All those strange feelings she'd had about
Cassie, which she'd tried to keep to herself.
Apparently she hadn't been successful.
"All right," she admitted, sagging into one of the
kitchen chairs. "I have been suspicious. There's
just something about her, Keith. I keep getting the
feeling that she's hiding something from us."
"That's ridiculous," Keith snapped. "She's a
perfectly normal fifteen-year-old, and when she
came here we were perfect strangers to her. Even
me, when you get down to it. What did you expect?
That she'd open up to us the first minute she was here?"
Rosemary studied Keith beseechingly, trying to find
the love that she'd always seen in his eyes. Right now
there was none. Only a coldness that made her want
to shiver. "But after all that's happened ..." she
began again, struggling to keep her voice steady.
"Nothing's happened, Rosemary," Keith broke
in. He was wiping the cup with a dish towel, then
abruptly slammed it down on the counter with such force
that it shattered. Keith ignored the fragments of
broken china. "All you're doing is giving in to a
whole lot of unfounded gossip."
It was too much, and Rosemary's temper suddenly
snapped. "I don't believe it!" she said,
angrily snatching up the pieces of the smashed cup,
punctuating her words by hurling them into the
trash basket in the corner. "Is Miranda being
dead nothing but unfounded gossip? What about Harold
Simms? Is what happened to him nothing but unfounded
gossip too? Isn't he really in the hospital
at all, Keith?"
"You know that's not what I meant," Keith replied,
his voice icy. "Of course those things happened.
What I'm telling you-and what seems quite obvious
to me-is that Cassie didn't have anything to do with
them!"
"Then why was she out there?" Rosemary flared. "Why
is it that when Miranda died, and when Harold Simms
was attacked, Cassie was out there in the marsh, doing .
. . God only knows what?"
A heavy silence fell over the kitchen as Keith and
Rosemary faced each other. Finally Keith shook
his head. His anger seemed to dissipate visibly,
to be replaced by a melancholy sadness. "Listen
to us," he whispered. "Will you just listen to us? What are
you trying to say? That Cassie's some kind of
witch?"
"Oh, for God's sake," Rosemary wailed.
"Of course not!"
But it was too late. Snatching his coat from the hook
by the door, Keith slammed out the back
door. A second later Rosemary heard the sound
of his car starting, and then he was gone. But when she was
alone, it wasn't Keith's words that stuck in her
mind, it was her own.
What
had
Cassie been doing in the marsh? But it wasn't the
marsh. It was the cabin in the marsh, the run-down shack
that had stood out there, housing generation after generation of
Sikes women, apparently each of them as strange
as the one who had come before.
Coming to a quick decision, Rosemary abandoned the
remains of the mornings breakfast and put on her own
jacket. Locking the back door behind her, she
hurried down the driveway then cut across the lawn
toward Cambridge Street, at the foot of which
lay the park, and beyond it, the marsh surrounding Miranda
Sikes's cabin. It was time she herself had a look
at the place that seemed to have such a fascination for her
stepdaughter.
Just as she turned the corner onto Cambridge
Street, a
gray shadow slipped out the open window of
Cassie's room and dropped nimbly through the tree
to the ground. Crouching low, Sumi began
stalking after Rosemary.
Laura Cavanaugh glanced at the clock over the
kitchen sink and wondered if she should go upstairs and
waken Ed. She didn't want to, yet at the
same time she was almost afraid not to. But it
didn't matter, really-whatever she did would be
wrong. If she woke him, he'd be mad at her for
not letting him sleep, and if she didn't wake
him, he'd be furious at her for letting him
oversleep. She decided to compromise-ten more
minutes wouldn't matter anyway, and it was nice to have
the house quiet, at least for a little while. Except
that at times like this morning, even the quiet had a
tension to it, like the eye of a hurricane; a moment of
calm, but with storm clouds pressing in from every
direction.
She filled Ed's thermos with coffee, then clamped
it into the top of his lunch pail. There were already three
sandwiches and an apple in the pail. After
hesitating a moment, she added a can of beer-Ed would
take beer on the boat with him anyway, and if she
left it out of his pail, he would only accuse her of
implying that he drank too much. She was just closing
the lunch bucket when she heard him lumbering down the
stairs. Then he was in the kitchen, smiling
at her.
I don't believe it, she thought. Last night he
whipped Eric and slapped me around the bedroom, and this
morning he acts as though nothing happened.
"What's for breakfast, doll face?" he asked,
sliding into the breakfast nook and pulling the sports
page out of the pile of newspapers Eric had left
on the table.
Laura looked at him uncertainly. "I-I thought
you'd just take a Danish and eat it on the boat,"
she said. "It's already after nine, and if you're not out
by nine-thirty, the tide will be too low, won't it?"
The smile faded from Ed's face and his eyes flashed
dangerously. "What the hell does the tide
matter?"
Laura searched her memory for anything he might have
said last night about not working today, but there was nothing.
"I thought ... I thought-"
"I
thought!"
Ed mimicked. "Jesus, Laura, can't you let
me do the thinking around here? I told you last night
I wasn't
going out today. Can't you remember the simplest
goddamned thing?" Tossing the paper
aside, he went to the refrigerator, jerked it
open, and fished around on the bottom shelf for a beer.
Twisting the cap off, he tossed it into the sink then
tipped the bottle and drained half of it in one long
swig. Wiping his lips with his forearm, he shook his
head. "I'm goin' down to the high school to talk
to that snotty principal about Eric. I'm gonna
see to it she puts him back on the baseball
team."
Laura shuddered, remembering the last time Ed had
gone to talk to Mrs. Ambler. He'd stopped off
at the Whaler's Inn on the way, and by the time he'd
gotten to the school, he'd been
so
drunk he'd barely been able to stand up. Mrs.
Ambler had listened to him for only two minutes before
calling up Gene Templeton and having Ed
escorted out of the building. Gene had taken Ed down
to the police station and put him in the town's single
jail cell for the rest of the morning, then sent him
home. "Maybe it would be better if- his
Ed's jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed. "Better
if what?" he demanded, his voice dropping to the
snarl that was always a warning of impending violence. But
it didn't matter. This time Laura was
determined to try to stop her husband.
"Better if you just let everything alone for once,"
she said. "Don't you think you've done enough?
Don't you think I know what you did to Eric in the
guest room last night? You're sick, Ed. You
don't need to go talk to Mrs. Ambler about Eric-you
need to go talk to a doctor about yourself!"
Ed's eyes glowed with a manic rage, and Laura
knew she'd gone too far. She started to back
away, but Ed came after her, his fingers already working
spasmodically. He reached out and grabbed her hair
with his left hand, jerking her head back as he
slapped her across the cheek with his free hand. "I'm
sick?" he demanded. "Me? Who the hell are you
to be talking? Who the hell do you think keeps this
family together? You think I like sacrificing my
life for the likes of you? I shoulda gotten rid of you
a long time ago!" He slapped her again, then
hurled her across the room. Her hip smashed into the
counter and she yelped with pain, then sank to the floor,
sobbing. "It's all your fault," Ed told her,
moving
across the room. He drew his foot back and kicked
her viciously in the ribs.
"No!" Laura screamed. "Ed, I
didn't do anything-I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
"Sorry?" Ed mocked. "You're sorry?"
"But it isn't my fault!" Laura wailed.
"I've never done anything to you! I've never done-"
"Shut up!"
Ed roared.
"Goddamn it, woman, will you just shut up?"
His foot swung back once more, but this time Laura
rolled away, scrambling to her feet and managing
to bolt out the back door. Ed started after her, but by the
time he got outside, she was already up the driveway
and limping across the street. He watched her go, then
shook his head in disgust.
He'd have one more beer, then head for the school. Let
Laura go hide out with the people across the street-he'd
deal with her tonight.
Chapter
 
Charlotte Ambler wondered if she should signal
Patsy Malone to call Gene Templeton, or
try to handle the situation herself. But, of course, it was
too late now. If she was going to call the police
chief, she should have done it thirty minutes ago, when
she'd first seen Ed Cavanaugh sitting in his
truck, drinking from a bottle of whiskey
he hadn't even tried to hide in a brown paper
bag, and glowering darkly in the direction of her
office. When she'd first noticed him, she'd stood
at her window staring back, putting him on notice
that he'd been seen. Usually that was enough, and after
sulking in his truck for a few minutes, he would
drive away, presumably to the Whaler's Inn,
where, Charlotte knew, he would sit at the bar and
brag to whoever would listen about how he'd "set that
uppity Ambler woman straight on a few things."
All of which was fine with her. If he wanted to puff
himself up that way, it wasn't any skin off her
nose. The one time she had actually called the
police, Ed had bided his time through the day, then taken
his rage out on his wife and son that evening. When
Eric had shown up with bruises on his face the
next day, Charlotte had tried to convince him that he
should report what had happened to the police, but
Eric had refused, insisting that nothing had
happened-he'd simply tripped and fallen down the
stairs that morning.
Strange, she reflected cynically to herself as she
watched Ed climb out of his truck and shamble up the
steps of the school, how the drunken fools like Ed
Cavanaugh never trip
and break their necks. She heard him lumber into the
outer office, and went back to her desk. When he
pushed her own door open a moment later, she was
staring at him calmly and coldly. "I don't
believe we have an appointment, Mr.
Cavanaugh," she began, but he only sneered at
her.
"I don't need an appointment where my boy is
concerned," he said, advancing across the room to lean
over Charlotte's desk. The reek of his breath
made the principal lean back, but her eyes never
left his.
"Eric's situation will be dealt with in a-"
"Don't give me that pious bullshit, lady."
His eyes had narrowed to slits, and his jaw was clenched
tight. "None of what's happened is his fault
anyway. It's all that trashy Winslow girl.
If it wasn't for her, none of this would have happened!"
Charlotte decided there was no point in arguing-Ed was
far too drunk for that. "I'm sure you're right-"
she began, but once more Ed cut her off, this time with his
fist pounding on her desk.
"And don't you patronize me!" Ed roared. "I
already took care of Eric for cutting school and
getting himself dumped from the baseball team.
All I want from you is your word that you'll see to it
he gets back on the team! And I want you
to keep him away from that girl too!"
Suddenly Charlotte Ambler had had enough. The
strain of the last fifteen hours suddenly
telescoped, and her temper snapped. She rose
to her feet. Though her height was no match for
Ed's, the fury in her eyes seemed to cut through his
alcoholic haze. "Is it!" she spat. "Is that
what you want? Well, let me tell you what I
want! I want you to get, out of my office and off
my campus. I want you to stop drinking, and stop
beating your wife and son! I want you to start being a
decent husband and father! And then, when I get what
I want, perhaps I'll be willing to listen to what you
want! But until that happens, keep in mind where you
are, and who you are, and who I am! Now get out of this
office, and if you have anything further to say, put it
in writing and send it to the school board. If you
can
write!"
Ed's face turned ashen and his fist rose up
threateningly.
"Do it, was Charlotte challenged him, her voice
dropping, but taking on a cutting edge.
"Just do it. But don't expect me to keep my mouth
shut about it. You might be able to bully
your family, but you can't bully me. I'll have you in
front of a judge before the blood even dries. Now
either get out of my office or swing that fist."
Ed stood still for a moment, his entire body trembling
with rage, and for a moment Charlotte thought she'd pushed
him too far. But then she realized that she didn't
care. Indeed, she found herself half hoping he
would
try to slap her around. Let him think about it in
jail for a while. As she watched him warily, he
seemed to regain control of himself.
"You can't talk to me that way," he rasped, but the
menace was gone from his voice. "I know what you think
of me-I know what everybody thinks of me in this
crummy town. But I can take care of myself, and I
can take care of my family. And ain't you or
anybody else gonna stop me. So you think about
that, Mrs. High-and-Mighty, "cause if that
girl gets my boy in any more trouble, I can tell
you there's gonna be hell to pay!" He turned around
and shambled out of the office, leaving the door open behind
him. Only when the outer door had slammed shut
did Patsy Malone appear nervously in
her office, her face pale.
"Are you all right?" the secretary asked. "I was just
about to call Gene Temple ton."
"I trust," Charlotte observed dryly, "that if
he'd actually hit me, you would have followed through on
that impulse."
"I ... well, I don't . . . well, of
course I would," Patsy floundered, and for the first time
since Harold Simms had been found in the gym the
day before, Charlotte Ambler found herself chuckling.
"Well, that's nice to know." She eyed Patsy
mischievously. "And can I also trust that you won't
say anything about that little scene?"
"Why . . . why, of course not!"
"Good," Charlotte replied, knowing as well as
Patsy did that by the end of lunch hour there wouldn't be
a person at the school who hadn't heard every
detail of what had just transpired. If nothing
else, the story should put an end to any further
discipline problems for the year. The way Patsy would
tell it, it would sound as if Charlotte had actually
given Ed Cavanaugh a thrashing. "Now perhaps we can
get on with the day, all right?"
The secretary's head bobbed, and she quietly
pulled the door closed, leaving Charlotte
alone in her office. Charlotte went over to the
window and saw Ed Cavanaugh's truck still sitting
in front of the school, and Ed himself still glaring at her.
But when she nodded to him, he started the engine,
slammed the truck into gear, and careened down the
street, his wheels shrieking in protest as they
skidded over the pavement. Only when the truck had
disappeared around the corner did Charlotte return
to her desk and lower herself tiredly into her chair. She
leaned back, removed her glasses, and closed her
eyes, rubbing at them for a moment. In her mind Ed
Cavanaugh's last words kept reechoing.
Hell to pay.
Didn't he realize that since Cassie Winslow
had come to False Harbor there had already been hell
to pay?
And unless Charlotte missed her guess, it was all
just beginning. Despite her words to the students that
morning, and despite what Paul Samuels had
told her, Charlotte Ambler was still not convinced that
Cassie had nothing to do with what had happened
to Harold Simms.
She recalled all too clearly that first meeting with
Cassie, when she'd instinctively sensed trouble.
And her first instincts, as always, were proving
to be correct.
Cassie Winslow was, indeed, proving to be
trouble.
"You can't just never go to school again."
"Why not?"
Eric and Cassie had been sitting on the beach,
staring out over the water, saying nothing. After leaving the
high school an hour ago, they'd cut over
Maple Street to Cape Drive, but instead of
walking along Cape until they came to the public
path, Cassie had insisted they go through someone's
yard. Eric thought about arguing, then realized that
Cassie was right-the more quickly they put the beach and
dunes between themselves and the village, the less chance there
was of someone spotting them and reporting them to his father.
And so they'd slipped through one of the beach-house
gates, ducked around the corner of the house itself, then
scrambled down a low bank to the beach. From there they'd
walked along the deserted expanse of sand, finally
flopping down to watch the sea and the birds.
"Because you just can't do that," Eric argued now. He
regarded Cassie carefully out of the corner of his
eye. "Besides, if you don't go back to school,
everyone's going to think you're afraid to."
Cassie was silent for a moment, and when she
finally spoke, there was a tremor in her voice.
"Maybe I
am
afraid to go back."
"Why?" Eric asked, his voice almost teasing. "You
didn't do anything, did you?"
"Maybe-maybe I did," Cassie whispered.
"Maybe we both did."
Eric hesitated, then shook his head. "That's
stupid."
"But what about yesterday?" Cassie asked. "What
I thought about really happened."
Eric reached down and scooped up a handful of sand,
then let it run slowly through his fingers. "Nobody
even knows what happened to old Simms. Not really.
And it doesn't matter what he said-you didn't
beat him up."
Cassie turned to face Eric. "But we wanted
something to happen to him, and it did!"
Eric shrugged. "So what? You didn't really do
anything, and it isn't your fault if old Simms
cracked up."
"But what if it is?" Cassie blurted out.
"Miranda said I had a gift, and what if that's
what she meant? That I can make things
happen just by thinking about them?"
Eric was silent, but his fist closed on the rest of the
sand, squeezing it hard for a moment. Then he threw it
down, stood up and started walking away.
"Eric?" Cassie called after him, scrambling
to her feet. "Are you mad at me, too, now?"
Eric stopped and turned around. He stared hard at
her, then said, "I don't know. I don't know what
you're talking about. But, you know, Cassie, it sounds
kind of crazy."
Cassie gasped, but Eric didn't seem to hear
her. "And maybe you feel like you can never go back
to school again, but I can. So I'm going for a walk and
think things over. Okay?"
Cassie helplessly watched him walk quickly
away, disappearing into the distance, his head down. She
wanted to follow him, wanted to try to talk to him some
more, try to
explain the confusion she was feeling. But she couldn't
bring herself to do it-the look in his eyes as he'd stared
at her a moment before, a look that resembled pure
hatred-stopped her. He didn't hate her, did
he? Eric was her only friend. If he started treating
her the way everyone else did-
She shuddered, and tried to close the thought out
of her mind. If Eric turned against her now, she
wouldn't have anyone left at all. But there was nothing
she could do. Nothing at all. Turning in the
opposite direction from where Eric had gone, she
headed toward Cranberry Point and the marsh.
For the first time in years Rosemary found herself really
looking at the marsh. How long, she wondered, had it
been since she'd last gone for a walk in it?
She remembered the first time she'd seen it, soon after
she'd met Keith and come to False Harbor. It
had been spring, and the day had been much like this
one-clear, with just a touch of crispness still lingering from the
winter. The wetlands had been full of geese that
day, and the air vibrant with their honkings and the quacking
of ducks. It had been a beautiful sight, bursting
with life, and she'd made Keith walk in it with her
for hours.
But that had been ten years ago, and as time had
passed, the marsh became just another familiar
fixture of False Harbor, until finally she'd
grown so used to it that she barely noticed it at
all.
Until now.
But as she looked at it today, it seemed to have changed.
A feeling of foreboding appeared to have
settled over it, and where once she had sensed new
life stirring within it, now she was most conscious of the
stifling odor of decay, as if deep within it, somewhere
below its shimmering waters, there was a rotten core
threatening to bubble to the surface.
But, of course, she was wrong-nothing in the marsh had
changed at all. It was her feelings toward it, for as
she stood at the edge of the park, gazing out over the
green expanse of grasses and quivering reeds, she
realized that in the last few days she'd come
to associate the marsh with the uneasy tensions that had
begun to wrap themselves around her like the coils of a
serpent.
And in the center of the marsh, rising like a boil on an
otherwise smooth skin, was the barren hummock that
sup ported Miranda Sikes's cabin, with its
half-starved trees reaching upward like the hands of a
corpse trying to claw its way out of the grave.
Stop it,
Rosemary commanded herself.
Just stop it. It's only a marsh, and an empty
shack. There's nothing to be frightened of at all.
Determinedly she pushed her way through the barrier of
tall weeds that separated the park from the wetlands, and
found one of the soggy trails that led out into the
bog itself.
She made her way slowly, for the path she had chosen
was narrow and nearly overgrown with rushes and
cattails. Every few yards, it seemed, the trail
split off and she had to make a decision about which
direction to take.
More than half the decisions appeared to be wrong, the
trail petering out entirely, the grasses closing in
around her, the earth giving way beneath her feet.
Twice she felt the deceptive firmness of quicksand
that seemed solid when she put her weight on it,
only to give way a second later, sucking at
her shoe like something alive. Both times she jerked
loose, her heart beating fast as panic welled up
inside her. But both times she forced the panic back
into its cage and backed away to find solid ground.
Several times, when she realized she'd made a
mistake and turned around to retrace her steps, she
saw a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye,
as if something had been following her on the trail and
darted off as she turned, to disappear into the reeds.
The third time it happened, she stood perfectly still,
only her eyes flicking over the marsh, searching for a
telltale movement that would expose the animal. But
the seconds crept by, and she saw
nothing. Her skin began to crawl. Though she could not
see them, she knew that there were eyes on her, watching
her from some hidden ambush, waiting for her.
Once again she had to force herself to go on, had to fight
back the urge to retreat to the park, with its secure
footing and protective groves of trees.
But the cabin was closer now, and she could see it
clearly.
And she could see the hawk, perched at the very peak of the
roof, stretching its wings restlessly, its head bobbing
back and forth as its red eyes fixed on her.
And then, when she was only a hundred yards from the
cabin, the bird rose into the air, its great white
wings lifting it onto the wind then locking into position
as it effortlessly soared toward her.
Rosemary stared at it, mesmerized, and in her
mind's eye she saw once again the deep slashes the
bird's talons had left in Lisa Chambers's
arm.
The hawk passed between Cassie and the sun, and its
shadow flashing over her face jerked Cassie out of
her silent reverie. She glanced up to find that she
had walked nearly the whole length of the beach. Only
a few yards ahead the concrete cylinder of the
Cranberry Point light rose up from the
end of the peninsula, and for a moment Cassie thought that was
what she'd seen. But then she spotted the pale
white form of the hawk circling high above the marsh.
As she watched, she thought he was searching for something, but
then she realized that he wasn't searching at all.
Whatever he was looking for, he'd already found it.
Frowning, she scanned the area of the marsh the bird was
hovering above. She saw nothing. Then, almost invisible
against the green expanse of the wetlands, she found the
hawk's target.
There was someone out there, staring fixedly up into the sky,
and Cassie realized that the reason she hadn't seen
the figure right away was because it was clad in a
jacket that was nearly the same color as the marsh
itself.
But who was it? She strained her eyes, but the distance was
too great.
Hien Cassie understood what was about to happen.
Whoever was out there was on his way to the cabin-her cabin-
and the hawk was preparing to attack. Cassie watched
in fascination. What should she do? Should she try to shout
a warning?
But why should she? Whoever it was had no right to go into her
cabin.
If something happened to a trespasser, it was
his own fault, wasn't it?
But what if she was wrong? What if the person was just
wandering, around and didn't realize he'd gone too
close?
She vacillated, part of her wanting to cry out to the
person or try to distract the hawk.
But another part of her wanted to watch, to see what
would happen. Her eyes fixed on the great bird,
Cassie almost unconsciously moved closer to the
marsh.
The hawk circled higher and its spirals grew ever
tighter. In another moment, Cassie knew, it would
draw its wings in and plunge into the streaking dive of
its attack.
Rosemary knew what was going to happen, and knew
she had to do something, but panic was coursing through her now,
setting her heart pounding and draining the strength from her
limbs. She tried to tear her eyes away from the
bird, certain that if she could break the creature's
hypnotic spell, she could bring herself back
to life. But it was as if she'd lost control of her
own will. Even as the bird suddenly folded its wings
tight against its body and began dropping out of the sky
toward her, she could do nothing but stare at it in
horrified fascination.
It grew larger and larger as it picked up speed, and
as the bird lunged toward her, time seemed to stand still,
each second becoming an eternity.
She could see its gaping mouth now, the pointed hook
of its beak hurtling toward her like the curved blade
of a miniature scythe, ready to tear into her flesh.
Her own mouth opened then, but her throat felt numb
and no scream came out.
And then it was on her, its legs outstretched, its
talons poised to slash into her. Still Rosemary
couldn't move. Her heartbeat was pounding in her head
and icy tentacles of fear held her firmly in their
grip. She could smell the bird, the rank odor of
its raw-meat diet emanating off its skin and
filling her nostrils with the putrid scent of rotting
flesh. At the last possible instant her arm came
up and she felt the bird's talons close down
on it, tearing through the thin material of her jacket
to slash deep into her flesh.
She ducked her head away, but even that movement
came too late, and she felt a searing flash of
pain as the razor-sharp beak sliced into her right
cheek.
Instantly she felt a hot gush of blood pour out
of the wound, and a moment later her mouth filled
with the salty taste of fresh blood.
The pain of the attack brought Rosemary back
to life, and a surge of adrenaline shot through her. With
her uninjured arm she swung wildly at the bird,
and suddenly its talons released her arm. It jerked
spasmodically as it tumbled to the ground, an angry
screech of frustration erupting from its throat. Then
it regained control of itself, its wings beating wildly
as it took to the air once more.
She felt
its
tail feathers brush against her face, then heard the
peculiar whumping sound of its wings as it pulled
away. A moment later it was gone, streaking away
low over the grasses, its wing tips barely clearing
the cattails and reeds.
Blood oozing from the cut on her face, her right hand
clutching at her damaged left arm, Rosemary
turned and fled through the marsh, ripping and tearing at the
weeds and vines that threatened to entangle her. At
last, her breath rasping in her lungs, she hurled
herself onto the firm ground of the park and sank sobbing
onto the lawn. For a long time she didn't move,
fighting the waves of pain that wracked her body.
Then, slowly, her pounding heartbeat began
to ease and her breathing returned to normal. At
last-she didn't know how much later-she sat up and
wiped the tears and blood away from her eyes. Her
vision slowly cleared, and she looked around.
A few yards away, sitting with his tail curled
around his legs, was Sumi.
Rosemary's eyes met the cat's, and burning
yellow eyes held hers for a moment. Then the cat
ducked his head, his tail twitched, and he darted
away into the marsh. Instinctively Rosemary knew
where he was going.
Had it been Sumi she'd seen in the marsh, following
her? But why?
And why had the hawk, after striking her down suddenly
abandoned its attack?
She struggled to her feet, every fiber of her body
aching with exhaustion. She had to get home, had
to lie down. But as she started out of the park, something
pulled at her, made her pause and turn back.
She saw Cassie standing on the porch of the cabin.
As Rosemary watched, she saw the gray cat dash
out of the marsh and up the gentle slope of the hummock.
As the hawk perched calmly on the rooftop, the cat
leaped into Cassie's arms.
16
Rosemary winced as the needle pierced her skin, and
her knuckles turned white as she gripped the arms
of the chair in Paul Samuels's office.
"Almost done," Samuels told her, his voice
soothing. "Just one more."
She felt the needle jab again, followed by the eerie
rasping sensation of the suture being drawn through her
skin. Her left eye followed the movement of
Samuels's deft fingers as he tied a knot then
covered the stitches with a bandage. "That's it," he
said, winking at her. "Want a lollipop?"
Rosemary managed a weak smile, and shook her
head. "What about a scar? Will there be one?"
Samuels raised his hands in a gesture of
incredulous dismay. "A
scar?
Would these fingers leave a
scar?"
"I don't know," Rosemary replied, managing
only the faintest hint of a smile, then instantly
wincing with pain. "That's why I'm asking."
The doctor shook his head. "Shouldn't. The cut
wasn't as bad as it looked, and in a couple of
weeks-maybe a month- you shouldn't even know it was
there. Actually, your arm was in worse shape
than your cheek, but at least you kept that damned
bird away from your eyes." His expression darkened
slightly. "Have you told Gene Templeton about
this?"
"That's where I'm going next," Rosemary
replied. She got out of the chair, took off the
smock that had covered her clothes, and began searching
in her purse for a comb. "Somehow it seemed more
important to get this mess cleaned up
 
I
first." Her eyes met the doctor's in the mirror
above his office sink. "But let me tell you, I can
understand now why Lisa Chambers was so upset last
week. I don't think I've ever been so frightened
in my life. And the worst of it was, I couldn't do
anything! I just stood there, Paul. I just stood there
and let it happen."
"Panic," the doctor told her. "It does that
sometimes. But it's something else too. There's an
instinct to freeze when you sense danger. But then at
the last second, when you know you can't hide, instinct
takes over. That's what saved your eyes," he
added pointedly. He moved to his desk and began
making some notations in Rosemary's file.
"I want you to go talk to Gene. If something isn't
done about that bird, it's going to do real damage
someday."
"Don't worry," Rosemary replied, her
voice grim. "If he won't do anything about it,
I'll have Keith go out and shoot
it
himself." She put her comb back in her purse, then
picked up the shredded remains of her poplin
jacket. "Anything else? Do I need any
antibiotics or anything?"
"I've got the prescription all ready."
Samuels handed her a slip of paper, then walked
with her out to the hospital's small waiting room.
Just as Rosemary was about to leave, he stopped her.
"What about Cassie?" he asked. "You said you saw
her out there. And there was a cat, too, wasn't there?"
Rosemary looked at the doctor blankly, then the
meaning of his words began to sink in. "Paul, are you
saying what I think you are?"
"I'm not saying anything," Samuels replied
neutrally. "I'm just asking a question."
"And I'll answer it," Rosemary told him.
"Yes, Cassie was out there, and yes, her cat was out
there. But the cat didn't attack me, and
I'm absolutely positive that Cassie
was
there. I didn't imagine seeing her. So if you're
wondering if I had the same kind of hysterical
attack that Harold Simms had, the answer
is
no. The hawk attacked me, Paul. That's all
that happened."
But as she left Samuels's office to walk the
two blocks
to
the town hall, she replayed the entire incident in
her mind. And she remembered Lisa Chambers's
insistence that Cassie had made the hawk attack
her. But it wasn't possible, was it?
Of course not.
Templeton listened to Rosemary's story
silently, taking a few notes in between munches on
his mid-morning doughnut. When she was finished, he
sighed heavily. "Well, it looks like it's time for
me to go hunting again, doesn't it?"
"Then you'll do it?"
"Ill try," he agreed. "But I'm not going
to promise you anything. I've gone after that bird
before, but it's never done me any good. It's
almost like it knows I'm coming and just takes off. And in the
meantime I'll post the marsh. At least maybe we
can keep people out of there for a while."
When Rosemary was gone, he left the police station
and drove home. Thirty minutes after that, carrying
his favorite hunting rifle-equipped with a
telescopic sight-he headed for the marsh.
It was almost noon, and the sun was high in the sky. The
last of the morning chill had left the air, but
Templeton kept his uniform jacket on. If the
hawk attacked him, at least he would have the
protection of the heavy gabardine covering his arms and
chest. He locked the squad car, and cradling the
gun in his left arm, started out toward Cranberry
Point. Before he started shooting, he'd damned
well better make sure the marsh was deserted.
There was no one on the beach, and only the constant
fluttering of the feeding birds disturbed the
tranquillity of the wetlands. Tightening his grip on
the gun, Templeton began making his way toward the
cabin.
Cassie sat in the rocking chair by the window, with
Sumi curled up in her lap, purring contentedly.
But Cassie herself was not content.
She was worried. Worried and frightened.
She had watched from the beach as Kiska attacked the
person in the marsh, and then, after the green-clad
figure had struggled to its feet and hobbled back
to the park, she had hurried out into the marsh herself.
She wasn't afraid of it anymore, wasn't
worried about getting lost in the tangled maze of
paths, or stumbling into one of the patches of quicksand that
dotted the bog where the peat had never built up. It
was almost as if there were some
kind of invisible map in her head, guiding her.
Today, in fact, she'd almost felt as if she were one
of the birds soaring above the reeds, and that she could look
down and pick the quickest, safest route from the beach to the
cabin. Finally she'd gotten to the cabin and was just about
to open the door and step inside, when she sensed something
coming toward her. She turned, and out of the marsh, darting
up the hill toward her, came Sumi. The cat had
hit the porch then bounded into her arms, nuzzling against
her cheek.
As the cat nuzzled her, her eyes were suddenly
drawn to the person in the park-the person wearing the
torn green jacket-and she suddenly knew who it
was.
Rosemary.
But how had she known? She watched the
figure carefully, squinting against the sun, but the
distance was too far. Even though she knew who it
was-
knew it
comshe couldn't distinguish her stepmother's features.
Finally, when Rosemary had limped out of the park,
clutching her injured arm with one hand and holding the other
to her bleeding face, Cassie had turned away and
gone into the cabin.
Immediately a sense of peace had come over her. She
settled herself into the chair by the window, rocking
gently, cuddling Sumi in her lap.
The cat had looked up at her, and their eyes met.
Then, as her fingers rubbed at the cat's fur, she
felt a tingling sensation on her skin and vague
images began to form in her mind.
She had a sense of being surrounded by something like
seaweed, and all around her there was nothing but a swirling
green cloud. She concentrated, and slowly the
flickering images began to come into focus.
Not seaweed. Grass.
The grasses of the marsh, but larger, towering over her
head, as they seemed to the night of her vision of
Miranda's death. She had the sensation of being in the
marsh herself, but not on any of the paths.
Instead she was close to the ground, threading her way
through the tangle, moving quickly and smoothly, almost as
if her feet weren't touching the soggy earth at all.
The tingling in her fingers grew stronger, and the vision in
her mind suddenly changed. She was out of the marsh
now, gliding over a thick carpet of coarse
grass, and around her immense trees, much larger
than she'd ever seen before, towered overhead. A little
bit ahead of her she saw a form lying on the ground
and heard the rasping sounds of labored breathing. But
there was something strange about the breathing, and as she
concentrated even harder, she realized that it sounded
amplified.
Indeed, everything was being amplified.
She could actually hear the sounds of the blades of
grass as they rubbed against each other beneath her, and a
few yards away she heard a soft rustling sound which
she instantly knew was a mouse searching in a
thicket for food.
Then the form lying on the grass moved and looked up.
It was Rosemary, her face bleeding from a deep
gash on her right cheek. Her left hand was still
clamped over the cuts on her right arm and tears were
flowing from her eyes.
Now Cassie understood what was happening.
I'm seeing it. I'm seeing it all through Sumi's
eyes, just as he saw it a few minutes ago.
. . .
Slowly the vision dissolved and her mind cleared.
Once again she was looking into Sumi's glowing golden
eyes, and as the tingling faded from her fingers, she felt
once more the soft warmth of his fur.
"You told me, didn't you?" she said softly.
"When you jumped up into my arms, that's the first thing you
did."
As if he understood her words, the cat began purring
agreeably, and nestled deeper into her lap. Then his
eyes closed, his ears flicked a couple of times,
and he went to sleep.
Ever since, Cassie had been sitting by the window,
trying to decide what it meant.
Maybe it wasn't Rosemary at all. Maybe
she had only imagined the whole thing. But she knew
she hadn't, knew that what she'd felt emanating from
the memory of the cat into her fingers and then up into her
own mind had been the truth.
So that was what Miranda had been talking about, that was the
gift she'd given her. She could communicate with
Sumi. She could see what the cat saw, and hear
what it heard.
Instantly she knew that the dream she'd had the night
Miranda died was no dream at all. Sumi had
actually seen Miranda die, and then come back home
and shown it to her. So there
had
been someone out there that night.
Someone who had killed Miranda.
But who? And why?
And then, unbidden, another memory came back
to her.
Eric staring at her on the beach.
In her mind she melded his image with the one she'd
seen in Sumi's memory, then rejected it.
It couldn't be right. It simply couldn't!
She squeezed her eyes shut and tried once again
to visualize the figure as it bent over Miranda,
but she could not make it out. Though she tried with every
ounce of concentration she could bring to bear, the face
eluded her as though her inner vision had been
blocked.
Tears flooding her eyes, she looked down at
Sumi once more. Could he do the same thing? Could he
see what she saw, and feel what she felt? Could
he really understand her?
Deep in her soul she felt that he could.
There was some kind of bond between them, and yesterday, when
she had imagined Sumi attacking Mr. Simms,
the cat had understood and carried out her wishes.
But she hadn't really meant to hurt Mr. Simms,
had she?
She searched in the deep recesses of her mind, and
after a while found a cold black place that was
filled with anger- and she knew that there, where all her
darkest demons dwelt, was a part of her that could
easily have killed Mr. Simms yesterday if it
had been given a chance.
But everyone had a place like that. It was where you hid
your worst hatreds away, concealing them from yourself as
well as everyone else, and you didn't do anything about
them. You put them away there, and kept them under
control, and after a while you forgot about them.
That was the part of herself she'd been exploring yesterday
when Sumi had attacked the teacher. But somehow the
cat had understood her anger and acted upon it.
Was that what Sumi was? Some kind of weapon her very
mind could use to strike back?
As if in answer to her unspoken question, the cat
stirred
in her lap and its pink tongue came out to lick
gently at her fingers.
TT-IEN what was Kiska, the ghostly white hawk
that perched constantly on the rooftop?
But she already knew the answer to that.
He was her guardian, there to protect her, to drive
off anyone or anything that threatened her.
But why had he attacked Rosemary? What had
Rosemary wanted? Perhaps she hadn't wanted
anything, and the bird would attack anyone unless
Cassie herself told him not to.
And she could have.
She'd sensed it while she was on the beach, known that
if she pointed up at the bird and told it to go
back to the rooftop, it would have obeyed her instantly.
But she hadn't.
Instead she'd let it attack.
But she hadn't known who it was, she told herself.
She hadn't known who it was or what the person
wanted. And besides, Kiska wasn't really her
bird. He just lived there, didn't he? It
wasn't her fault he'd attacked. And what if
she hadn't been there? Then there wouldn't have been
anybody to stop him.
But she
was
there, and she
hadn't
stopped him.
She shivered slightly. From now on, she knew, she
would have to be very careful. She couldn't allow herself ever
again to get as angry as she had been at Mr.
Simms, couldn't allow herself to imagine hurting
anyone else.
Slowly she began to understand Miranda's words.
"Don't let them hurt you. You must never let them
hurt you." She couldn't let anyone hurt her
anymore, because if she did, she might be tempted
to release the demons in that dark place in her mind,
and along with the demons, the animals that understood her
darkest fantasies. . . .
Something glinted in the sun beyond the window, and the flash of
light in her eye brought Cassie out of her reverie.
Turning, she looked out at the marsh and recognized
Gene Templeton making his way toward the cabin
through the reeds. With each step the sun flashed off the
reflective lenses of his sunglasses, and
Cassie blinked against the sudden glare. Cradling
Sumi in her right arm, she got out of the chair and went
closer to the window. She could see that the police
chief was carrying something, but for a second she didn't
realize what it was. Then she
recognized the object.
A rifle.
She gasped as she realized what it must mean, and
hurried to the front door. As she opened it she
heard a quick rustling of wings, and realized that Kiska
had already taken off from his perch. She stepped out onto
the front porch and looked up, shading her eyes
against the sun.
The bird was spiraling upward in what Cassie
knew was a first preparation for an attack.
Gene Templeton stopped short when the white
hawk suddenly lifted off the rooftop and raised the
rifle to his shoulder. He put his eye to the
telescopic sight and a moment later found his
target. But the bird was circling rapidly, and he
knew that until it reached altitude and started toward
him, he wouldn't be able to hold the gun on target
long enough to get a shot. Only when the bird chose a
direction and he could gauge its speed closely enough
to determine how far to lead it, could he risk taking a
shot, for he knew that if he missed on the first one,
he wouldn't get a second chance. His attention
riveted on the bird, he didn't see the cabin
door open and Cassie step out onto the low porch.
Cassie herself wasn't sure what to do.
Should she summon the bird back to the roof, or just
let him go? But what if he went after the
policeman? Her mind in turmoil, she watched
anxiously as the hawk reached the apex of its climb
and leveled off. And then she realized that he was going
to be all right.
Kiska knew what was going to happen and was flying the
other way. She let out a sigh of relief.
The target steady in the sight, Templeton
carefully lined up the cross hairs. In the
magnification of the lens the bird loomed large, its
wings beating steadily, the muscles of its back working
rhythmically. It was flying almost directly away from
him, and Templeton realized he needn't lead it
at all.
Simply line it up and squeeze the trigger.
Slowly, carefully, he steadied the gun and gently
began to apply pressure to the trigger.
A sharp report exploded from the barrel and the stock
of the gun recoiled into his shoulder. In the sky the
bird jerked
and a few feathers seemed to pop away from it.
Templeton quickly put his eye to the sight again and
found the target.
It was tumbling through the air now, a red stain
spreading through its feathers.
Then, as he watched the bird fall toward the ground,
a piercing scream rent the quiet that had followed the
gunshot.
Cassie, still standing on the porch, heard the gun's
report and saw Kiska suddenly tumble in the sky.
But the scream that erupted from her throat was not one of
fury, but of pain, for at the moment the bullet had
struck the white hawk, a searing pain had shot through
her back and into her chest. As Sumi yowled in sudden
alarm and leaped out of her arms, Cassie's knees
buckled and she sank down onto the porch, then
rolled off the single step and onto the ground itself. The
pain burned within her, and her hands clutched at her
breast as if attempting to close a wound.
Templeton, startled by the scream, let the rifle
drop away from his shoulder and looked at the cabin just
as Cassie collapsed to the ground.
"What the hell . . . ?" Templeton whispered
under his breath, already breaking into a lumbering run.
What had happened? He couldn't have shot her-he'd
only fired a single shell, and he'd seen the
bullet hit the bird. And even if he'd fired
twice, he couldn't have shot that wildly. He
couldn't have!
He burst out of the marsh and pounded up the low hill,
then dropped onto the ground next to the writhing
girl. Her face was twisted into a mask of pain and
low moans bubbled out of her lips.
"It's all right, Cassie," Templeton told
her. "It's all right. I'm here!"
Setting the rifle aside, he grasped her wrists
to pull her hands away from the wound she was clutching.
She fought against him, twisting away, trying to escape
his grip, but he was much too strong for her. At last
she let her arms relax slightly, and her hands
came away from her chest.
Nothing.
No blood, no hole where a bullet might have
passed through the man's white shirt she was wearing,
nothing at all.
Still whimpering, she rolled over and Templeton was
able to examine her back as well.
It, too, showed no signs of any kind of wound.
And yet there was no question the girl was in terrible pain,
for her eyes had glazed over with shock and she was still
moaning softly.
He ran his hands over her limbs, looking for
broken bones, but found none. Finally, leaving the
rifle where it lay, he picked her up and
started back through the marsh, toward the squad car.
Cassie lay in the hospital bed, staring out the
window at the setting sun. The pain still throbbed in her
chest, and she knew that no matter what the doctor
said, she wasn't imagining it.
"But something
must
have happened to her," she heard her father insisting through the
open door to the hall. "You heard what Gene said.
She was in shock, for Christ's sake!"
"I know what Gene said," Samuels replied
patiently, "but I also know that I've examined her
and I can't find anything wrong. Nothing at all.
No marks, no cuts, nothing. I've looked at
the X rays at least five times, and there's no
internal damage either. If you want to, we can go
over them again. The only thing I can tell you is that
she's not hurt."
"Then what happened?" Keith asked. "Gene
claims he shot the bird-though what the hell he was
doing out there with a gun when Cassie was out there, too,
is something that's beyond me-but he can't find the bird.
He says he saw it drop, and knows where it came
down. But it's not there. So how do we know he shot it
at all?"
Samuels shrugged, but when he spoke, his voice
clearly revealed that he was running out of patience.
"Fine. He didn't shoot it. Frankly, I
don't really give a damn about the hawk, but his not
finding it doesn't prove a thing either. By the time he
got back, a raccoon could have gotten it. But he
didn't shoot Cassie. You don't shoot someone
and not leave a wound. It's a physical
impossibility."
Keith's eyes narrowed angrily. "So you're
telling me Cassie's faking, is that it?"
The doctor licked his lips and shook his head.
"I'm not
telling you that at all. In fact I'm sure her
pain is quite real. But that doesn't mean a bullet
caused it."
"Then what did?" Keith asked, his voice icy.
"A hysterical response. She saw the bird
get shot, and she felt the pain herself."
"That's your answer to everything this week, isn't it?"
Keith asked, making no attempt to keep the
sarcasm from his voice. "Isn't that pretty much
what you had to say about Harold Simms?"
Samuels's eyes glinted darkly but he kept his
anger under control. "All I can do is
tell you my diagnosis," he said evenly. "If
you want a second opinion, I'll be more than
happy to refer you to someone. But frankly, I think
any other doctor will agree with me. There just aren't
any wounds." Noticing the open door to Cassie's
room, he reached out and closed it, then lowered his
voice. "If you want my opinion, Keith, I
think you might want to have her talk to a
psychiatrist. After everything she's been through in the
last couple of weeks, she's got to be in a lot
of emotional pain. What we're seeing today could be
symptomatic of that."
Keith's brows arched. "So we send her off
to Eastbury along with Simms, and don't deal with
it, right? Sorry, Paul, I don't work that way,
not with my own daughter." Before the doctor could say
anything else, Keith turned away and let himself
into Cassie's room, closing the door behind him.
"Hi, Punkin," he said gently, forcing a smile.
"How're you feeling?"
Cassie looked at him suspiciously. Why had
they closed the door a minute ago? What were they
saying that they didn't want her to hear? But she already
knew.
They were talking about whether she was crazy or
not. But she knew she wasn't.
But if they decided she was . . .
"I'm okay," she said softly, struggling not to let
the pain in her chest show on her face. "I just-I
don't know what happened, Daddy. But I'm all
right now. Really I am. Can- can I go home?"
Keith frowned. "Are you sure you feel well
enough?"
Cassie nodded. "It's almost gone," she said, though
the pain still felt like a hot poker had been stabbed
into her.
Then her eyes met her father's. "How's
Rosemary?"' asked. "Is she all right?"
Keith nodded. "Dr. Samuels says it's not
bad at all."
"I'm sorry," Cassie said. "If I'd known
it was her, I wouldn't have let Kiska do it."
"Let him do it? What do you mean?"
"I didn't know who it was," Cassie
explained. "If I'd known, I would have told him
to leave her alone. Really I would."
Keith grinned crookedly. "Honey, you can't tell
a hawk what to do. Not unless you've been training him
for years. And even then you can't always stop them from
attacking. It wasn't your fault,
Anyway, none of it matters anymore. The
hawk's dead."
Cassie shook her head. "Mr. Templeton
shot him, but he's not dead."
The grin faded from Keith's face and his eyes
darkened. "He isn't?" he asked. "How do you know
that?"
Cassie hesitated, then shrugged. "I just know,
that's all."
She wasn't about to tell her father that during the hours
she had spent in the hospital, she'd figured out
what was happening to her. It sounded too crazy.
But she knew that the pain in her chest wasn't her
pain at all.
It was Kiska's pain, and it was being transmitted
to her.
But it was all right, and she could bear it, for she knew
what the pain meant.
It meant that Kiska was alive somewhere. He was
injured, but he was alive.
If he was dead, she wouldn't still be feeling the pain,
for it would have died with him.
Now she had to conceal the pain until he got well
and came back to her.
17
For five days Cassie stayed in her room, lying
on her bed- fighting against the deep burning pain in
her chest. But each time Rosemary suggested that she
should see the doctor again, Cassie had shaken her
head.
"It's getting better," shed insisted. "And there
isn't anything he can do. I just have to get over it."
On Monday Rosemary went to Samuels herself, and
while he changed the bandages on her cheek and
forehead, she talked worriedly about her
stepdaughter. But to her surprise, the doctor
agreed with Cassie. "She's having an emotional
reaction," he told her. "The best thing you can do is
simply give her some time. If it weren't getting
better, I'd agree with you. In fact I'd insist
she see a psychiatrist. But if she says she's
feeling better, just leave her alone. Keep an
eye on her, but don't push her."
Samuels's advice seemed to work, and for the next
four days Cassie came downstairs each morning,
picking at her breakfast then insisting on doing the
dishes and cleaning up the kitchen before returning to her
room.
Then, on Friday morning, Cassie came down from
her room dressed for school, her face
pale but set in determination. "I'm going back
to school," she announced.
Keith's eyes clouded with doubt. "Are you sure
that's a good idea? Maybe you ought to wait until
Monday. Missing one more day isn't-"
"But I want to go back," Cassie insisted.
"I'm fine now,
and if I go today, at least I can get all the work
I missed and do it over the weekend."
She left the house right after breakfast and walked
slowly through the town, surprised by how quickly spring
had taken over. The morning was warm, and there was a
softness to the air. The trees, their leaves only
budding ten days ago, were bursting with a vibrant
green, and tulips were blooming everywhere, dotting the
village with bright patches of color. There was a
freshness and promise of new beginnings to everything which
imbued Cassie with a sense of well-being she had
never felt before.
The last vague twinges of pain in her chest left
her, and as she approached the school, even it seemed
to have changed. The chestnut trees surrounding the old
frame building were in full leaf, softening the lines
of the structure, and the lawn of the playing field had
taken on a brighter green than it had
displayed ten days ago.
But as she mounted the front steps, Cassie's good
feelings began to fade away. She passed through the
knots of chattering teenagers and conversations suddenly
stopped, voices dropping to whispers.
Her skin tingled with the now familiar sensation of eyes
watching her.
It doesn't matter, she told herself. None of it
matters, and this time I'm not going to run away.
Eric was right-I can't not ever go to school again. So
I'll ignore them, and after a while they'll forget
all about me.
Taking a deep breath, she quickly climbed the
stairs to the second floor, and long before the first
bell rang, she was already in her seat. Today, at
least, she wouldn't feel everyone staring at her as she
came in late.
The morning dragged by, and each time she had to change
classrooms, Cassie moved through the halls with the
strange detached air of a zombie. It was as if
there were some sort of force field around her, and wherever
she went, the crowds in the corridors seemed to part
for her, as if the other students were now afraid even
of brushing up against her. She did her best
to pretend she didn't notice, looking
straight ahead, her face an expressionless mask.
By the end of the third period the urge to run away was
upon her, but she refused to give in to it.
Don't let them hurt you,
she reminded herself over and over again. Slowly the
rhythm of the words became a silent chant, and
eventually she imagined that Miranda herself was with her,
whispering the words in her ear, giving her strength.
Maybe Miranda really is with me, Cassie thought
as the last bell of the morning rang and she started
slowly toward the cafeteria, willing her feet
to move even though every fiber of her being wanted to turn
and flee. After all, this is how Miranda had felt.
Every day of her life Miranda felt like this, Cassie
thought-no one speaking to her, no one even smiling at
her.
But staring at her.
Always staring at her.
The noise in the cafeteria seemed to dry up the
moment Cassie opened the door and stepped inside,
but she did her best to ignore it once more, moving
slowly down the line, pushing the plastic tray in
front of her, selecting food automatically,
without even realizing what she was putting on her
tray.
And all the time she could feel the eyes of the gathered
students boring into her back, watching her slow
progress toward the cashier.
Wordlessly she fished in her book bag for her
wallet and paid the cashier, who glanced up at her
for a moment, then looked again.
"Are you all right?" the woman asked tentatively.
Cassie nodded mutely, though she could feel a
clammy sheen of sweat on her forehead and her legs
were trembling. But the cashier wasn't satisfied.
"Maybe you ought to go to the office and lie down for a
few minutes," she said. "My goodness, you're so
pale you look like you've seen a ghost!"
Instantly the cafeteria erupted with laughter.
Cassie's eyes brimmed with tears as she tried
to pick up the tray, but her hands were shaking too
badly, and the glass overturned, splashing water
into the bowl of macaroni and cheese.
Then she heard a voice behind her.
Eric's voice.
"I'll take it," he said. "There's a table over
there by the window. Come on."
Relief flooding through her, Cassie let Eric
take the tray, then followed him as he walked
quickly through the tables filled with snickering
teenagers. One of them stuck a foot in Eric's
way, but he deftly stepped over it, throwing the boy
a dirty look as he passed. By the time they reached
the table, the last of the giggles had died away, but when
Cassie glanced around, she could see the kids
whispering among themselves.
Eric seemed to read her mind.
"If you let them get to you, they'll never quit,"
he said, setting Cassie's tray on the table.
He fished his sack lunch out of the depths of his book
bag, looked at the contents of the brown paper bag
sourly, then grinned crookedly at Cassie.
"Trade you a soggy sandwich for the macaroni and
cheese."
"It's soggy too," Cassie replied, her
voice quavering as she struggled to keep her emotions
in check.
"That's okay," Eric told her. "I'm just so
sick of tomato sandwiches, I could puke." He
held up the unappetizing mess of white bread,
limp lettuce, and thin slices of tomato, but
Cassie shook her head.
"Take the macaroni and cheese anyway," she said.
"I hate it, and I'm not very hungry."
"Then why'd you buy it?"
Cassie shrugged. "I had to buy something, didn't
I? Anyway, I wasn't really looking at the
food." She fell silent, but her eyes darted
around the room, and Eric nodded.
"Want to know what they've been saying?"
Cassie swallowed hard, trying to clear the lump that
had risen in her throat, but she nodded.
"Well, everybody has a slightly different
version, but the main idea is that you're crazy."
Cassie flinched but said nothing, and Eric managed
another grin. "But it's not so bad, really."
"Not so bad?" Cassie breathed. "You don't
know-they've been staring at me all morning, and
nobody will talk to me. It's-it's the same way
everybody treated Miranda."
Eric met her eyes. "I know," he said.
"They're treating me the same way."
Cassie stared back at him. "You? But-but-"
"It's because of Simms. Everyone's sure you did
something to him, and since I was with you, they think I must
have helped you."
"But we didn't do anything to him," Cassie
protested.
"No one cares what we say," Eric said, his
voice bitter. He leaned closer. "But
it isn't just that," he whispered. "I've been
spending a lot of time out in the marsh."
"The marsh?"
Eric nodded. "Everybody heard about what happened
out there. So I went out and looked for Kiska." He
glanced around quickly, and his voice dropped even
further. "Cassie, I found him."
Cassie gasped, then covered her mouth with her hand.
"Where is he?" she asked. "Is he all right?"
Eric nodded quickly. "He was almost dead when I found
him. He was about a quarter of a mile from the cabin.
There's a big bush out there with vines all over it, and
he was inside the bush. When I found him he couldn't
even walk, and for a minute I thought he was dead. There
was blood all over him. Anyway, I took a
cage out there and sort of bandaged him up, and I've
been going out there every day, taking him food."
"And he's really okay?" Cassie asked
anxiously.
"He's almost well again. He can stand up, and he
takes the food right out of my hand-"
"Monday," Cassie said softly, her eyes
suddenly boring into Eric. "He started standing up again
on Monday, didn't he?"
Eric looked at her quizzically.
"How'd you know that?"
"Because that's the day I got up," Cassie
replied, her voice taking on an edge of
excitement. "I knew I was feeling what Kiska
was feeling, and that proves it, doesn't it? I was
getting better, but I couldn't really get up
until Monday. And now I'm all right again."
Suddenly her eyes were sparkling. "And I bet that
means Kiska can fly now. Let's go out there. Right
after school, let's go let him out of the cage."
But Eric shook his head. "I can't. Not right after
school. I got back on the baseball team, and
I can't miss practice. And if anybody sees
you go out there ..." His voice trailed off, but
Cassie knew what he meant.
She glanced quickly around and saw Lisa Chambers
glaring at them. "Is that why they've started staring at
you too?" she asked. "Because someone saw you going out
there?"
Eric's gaze wavered for a split second, then he
nodded. "I-I always act like I'm going to the cabin,
but then I go down the hill on the other side of
it." Suddenly his eyes flashed with anger.
"Anyway, it doesn't matter. If they all
want to think I'm crazy, let them.
They're all just like my dad-it doesn't matter
what you do, it's always the wrong thing."
"But why didn't you tell them?" Cassie asked.
"All you were doing was taking care of Kiska-"
"Are you serious?" Eric demanded. "They would have
told, and then Templeton would have gone out and killed
him. Why do you think I left him there in the first
place?"
"But it's not fair," Cassie protested.
Eric's eyes darkened. "So who ever said anything was
supposed to be fair? Nobody was ever fair
to Miranda, either, and look what happened to her. But
it's not going to happen to us," he added, his voice
taking on a bitter edge. "I won't let it
happen to us."
Cassie looked at him, her eyes frightened almost as
much by his tone as his words. "But-but what can we do?"
she asked.
"There's some things," he said, and smiled. "For
starters we can let them all know they're not getting
to us. From now on we act like nothing's the matter at
all. If they want to stare, let them stare. If
they want to talk, let them talk. And tomorrow we'll
go
let
Kiska out of his cage. Okay?"
Cassie smiled gratefully. "Okay," she
agreed.
"Come on," Eric said. He shoved the remnants of
his lunch back in the bag and dropped the crumpled
bag on Cassie's tray. Then, with his book bag
in one hand and the tray in the other, he weaved his way
between the tables, Cassie right behind him. They were
halfway to the doors when Lisa Chambers's
voice stopped them.
"What are you doing, Eric?" she asked, her tone
saccharine sweet. "Playing nursemaid to the poor
little crazy girl?"
Cassie felt her face burn with humiliation, but
as she tried to hurry past the table, Eric dropped
his book bag and grasped her arm, stopping her.
"If that's what you want to think, Lisa, fine,"
he said. "But if you really want to know, it isn't that
at all."
Lisa blinked uncertainly. She'd expected
Eric to blush as
deeply as Cassie, and ignore her. Instead he
was looking right at her, his eyes mocking her.
"Actually I was inviting her to the dance tomorrow night.
See you there." He dropped Cassie's
arm, reached down and picked up the book bag, then
started once more toward the door, Cassie hurrying
after him.
Lisa sat still, a wave of cold anger washing over
her.
What was Eric doing?
Until today-without Cassie Winslow coming to school-
everything had been just as it always had been. Every day
Eric sat with her at lunch, and she waited for him
until baseball practice was over, then he
walked her home. He'd never even mentioned
Cassie Winslow.
And the day before yesterday he'd asked
her
to the dance.
Now she could feel her friends staring at her, and hear
Allayne Garvey snickering. She glared at
Allayne, daring her to say anything.
Allayne's snickering only grew into a laugh.
"Didn't you say he was all done with her?" she
asked, throwing Teri Bennett a knowing look. "I
thought he was taking
you
to the dance."
"He was," Lisa said stiffly, doing her
best to conceal both her anger and her disappointment.
"But I changed my mind. I broke the date
yesterday."
Allayne rolled her eyes. "Sure you did,"
she said. "That must have been while I was flying to the
moon, wasn't it? Come off it, Lisa-he dumped
you again. All she had to do was show up, and he went right
back to her." She winked at Teri. "And you can't
really blame him, can you? I mean, she
is
pretty."
Lisa's lips tightened and her eyes narrowed
to angry slits, but she said nothing. A cold knot
of hatred toward Cassie Winslow formed in her
belly like a lead weight. Somehow, she would get
even with Cassie.
She didn't know how, but she would find a way.
"What were you talking about?" Cassie asked. There were
still a few minutes before the lunch hour would end, and they
were sitting outside, their faces tipped up to the
sun. "You didn't ask me to a dance. What
dance?"
Eric glanced over at her, then closed his eyes
again. "The one tomorrow night. Don't you want to go?"
Cassie started to shake her head. It was
bad enough having everyone stare at her at school all
day long. But to have to spend an entire evening-
She couldn't stand it. Just the idea of it terrified
her. Then she remembered what Eric had told her
at lunch time, and Miranda's words. "All right,"
she said quietly. "I'll go."
Eric smiled at her. "I knew you would."
 
When Rosemary came downstairs Saturday
morning she found Keith already sitting at the
breakfast table, his marine charts and tide tables
spread out before him. That, together with the phone call he'd
gotten earlier, could mean only one thing.
"You have a charter?" she asked.
Keith nodded, not looking up. "Some guys from
Boston. They'll be here at noon."
"It-it's awfully short notice, isn't it?" she
asked.
Keith glanced up at her, the quaver in her voice
catching his attention. He shrugged. "That's the way this
business is. You take the jobs as they come, and if
you turn them down, they don't call again."
"But..." She fell silent. It wasn't the first
time this had happened, and it wouldn't be the last.
Under normal circumstances, it wouldn't have
bothered her. But the circumstances weren't normal.
Hadn't been normal since the day Cassie had
come to live with them. Now, for the first time, he was going
to leave her alone with this stranger she hardly knew,
and of whom she was beginning to be desperately afraid.
Cassie herself, her food untouched, was staring out the
window, a faraway look in her eyes as she gently
stroked Sumi's gray fur.
Jennifer, her eyes wary-as if she knew something
had
gone wrong in the house but wasn't sure what-"
poking nervously at her eggs.
"Hurry up and finish them," Rosemary said
automatically. "As soon as they're gone, you can go
outside and play."
Jennifer frowned. "I don't want to go outside.
There isn't anyone to play with."
Rosemary shot a glance at Keith, who had finally
pushed his charts aside and was looking at Jennifer
now. "Why don't you go to the park?" she heard him
ask. "There's always someone over there, isn't there?"
Jennifer nodded uncertainly. "But Wendy
Maynard always goes there, and she doesn't like me
anymore."
"She doesn't?" Keith asked.
Rosemary saw his eyes flick toward her then
return to his youngest daughter. "Why not?"
Jennifer opened her mouth to say something, glanced at
Cassie, and seemed to change her mind. "I
don't know," she said, but her eyes evaded her
father's. She slid off her chair. "May I be
excused, please?"
Keith hesitated, then nodded.
Now Cassie emerged from her reverie and smiled at
Jennifer. "What if I go with you?" she asked.
"Would that be fun?"
The little girl looked uncertain. "I-I don't
know."
"Come on," Cassie urged. "We can play on the
swings and do the teeter-totter, and anything else you
want." Jennifer still seemed unconvinced, and
Cassie turned anxiously to her father. "It's all
right, isn't it?"
Keith shrugged. "If you're sure you're up to it."
"I'm fine," Cassie said. And indeed, this morning
she was feeling even better than yesterday. There was
only a trace of the pain left in her chest, and on
her back, where she'd first felt the blinding stab of
agony when Kiska had been shot, there was only a
faint itching, like a scab that was about to fall
off.
"Great," Keith said. He swung Jennifer off
her feet as she tried to dart past him, and planted
a kiss on her cheek. "Aren't you going to say
good-bye to your old dad?"
was 'Bye," Jennifer replied, kissing him back.
He put her back down and she dashed out into the
morning sunshine. Grinning happily, Keith
turned to Cassie
once more. "Take good care of your sister while
I'm gone, okay?"
Cassie nodded, then she, too, disappeared out the
back door. When she was gone, the smile on
Keith's face faded and he turned to Rosemary.
"Now, what is all this?" he asked. "It's
obvious you don't want me to take this charter. And
I presume it has to do with Cassie. Right?"
Rosemary took a deep breath. "I just . . .
well, I just don't feel comfortable with her, that's
all."
Keith's eyes rolled impatiently. "For
God's sake, haven't we been through this before?
She's fine now."
"She's not fine!" Rosemary snapped. "She
wouldn't leave the house for over a week, and
when she came home yesterday, she didn't say a
word about school. All she did was go over to the
cemetery and sit by Miranda's grave. She sat
there for more than an hour, Keith. I watched her and
it was- Well, it was just weird. She had that awful
cat on her lap, and she was sitting on the grass
next to the grave, petting the cat and talking to herself.
Maybe you call that normal, but I don't!"
"Oh, for God's sake," Keith rasped.
"She's having a rough time, and except for Eric,
Miranda was the only person in town who was nice
to her. So is it a crime that she went to visit her
grave?"
"But it isn't just that," Rosemary pleaded.
"Then what is it?" Keith demanded.
Rosemary cast around in her mind for something concrete,
something Keith couldn't simply dismiss. "All right.
Before we came downstairs I told her she had
to clean her room this morning. Instead she's off
playing in the park with en.
"So? Maybe she forgot."
Now Rosemary's eyes flashed. "Or maybe she
was just playing us off against each other!"
"Make up your mind," Keith said, his voice
taking on a cutting edge of sarcasm.
"Is she crazy, or is she manipulative, or
is she both?" The sarcasm gave way to cold
anger. "Or are you just imagining things?" Turning his
back on her, Keith returned to his marine
charts.
When he started out of the house twenty minutes later,
the anger between them still hung heavy in the atmosphere.
Rosemary knew he wouldn't be back before he took
the boat out. "Keith?" she blurted. He turned
back, but his hand stayed on the half-open screen
door. As their eyes met, she could see that he was in
as much pain as she.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. She went to him and
slipped her arms around him, burying her face against
his chest. "We can't just leave it like this. Please?"
She felt him stiffen for a moment, but his arms went
around her and he held her close. "It's going to be
all right, baby," he whispered. "I'm sorry
too. But I just can't believe there's anything really
wrong with her."
Rosemary hesitated, then nodded, her head
pressed close to his chest. "When will you be back?"
"Tuesday, maybe Wednesday. They Weren't
sure." He held her away from him then. "And you can
always get me on the radio. You know that.
Okay?"
She hesitated, wanting to beg him not to go, to back
out of the charter just this once. But in the end she nodded
again. "I love you."
"I love you too."
And then he was gone, and Rosemary was alone.
Cassie was pushing Jennifer on one of the swings when
she first saw Lisa Chambers and Teri Bennett
walking along Oak Street. At first she thought they
were going to pass by without noticing her. But then Lisa
glanced in her direction and came to an abrupt
stop, putting out a hand to stop Teri as well. At
Cassie's feet Sumi opened his eyes and stood,
a soft mewing emerging from him as he pressed himself
against her legs and twined his tail around her calf.
"Would you look at that?" Cassie heard Lisa
say loudly to Teri, intending to be overheard. "Do
you believe Mrs. Winslow's letting her take
care of Jennifer? She must be as crazy as
Cassie is!"
Swallowing the sudden surge of anger that rose in
her, Cassie forgot the swing.
"Push me," Jennifer called out. "How come you
stopped?" Then, as the swing gradually came to a
stop, Jennifer saw the two girls standing
at the edge of the park, watching them. "Just pretend
they're not there," she told Cassie. "Maybe
they'll go away."
Instead, Lisa left the sidewalk and started across
the lawn toward them. When she was a few yards away
she stopped again, her lips twisted into a cruel
smile. "Didn't anyone tell you about
Cassie?" she asked, her eyes fixed on
Jennifer.
Jennifer got up from the swing and moved next
to Cassie. "Tell me what?" she asked, her
eyes narrowing suspiciously.
Lisa's eyes glinted maliciously. "That she's
a witch, just like Miranda was."
Jennifer gasped. "This-that's not true," she
stammered. But in her head she heard an echo of
Wendy Maynard's singsong chant after school
yesterday. "Cassie is a wi-itch. Cassie is
a wi-itch."
"How do you know?" Lisa taunted. "She has a
cat, doesn't she? Don't all witches have
cats?"
Cassie, her temples throbbing with anger, stepped
forward. "Stop it, Lisa," she said. "Why do you
want to scare her? She's only a little
girl."
"Why should I stop it?" Lisa sneered. "Maybe
it's true! Besides, what can you do about it? You don't
have Miranda's hawk anymore, do you? Mr.
Templeton shot it! So what are you going to do?"
Cassie's eyes narrowed and she reached down to pick
Sumi up. His body was tense, and the fur on his
hackles was standing up stiffly. His soft mewling had
turned into a hiss, and she could feel his claws
flexing.
"Do you want me to let Sumi go?" she asked.
"Is that what you want me to do?"
Lisa's twisted grin faded slightly. "You think
I'm afraid of a crummy cat?" she asked.
"Or are you going to put a hex on me?" Bolstered
by her own words, she grinned again and turned her
attention back to Jennifer. "That's what she did
to Mr. Simms, Jennifer. She put a hex on
him and made him go crazy. Is that what you want
her to do to you too? Make you as crazy as Mr.
Simms?"
Jennifer was trembling now. Suddenly all the
stories she'd heard about Miranda came back
to her. Instinctively she took a step away from
Cassie, and Lisa saw the movement.
"That's right. You'd better get away from her. If
I were you, I wouldn't even want to sleep in the
same house with
her. You don't know what she might do to you in the
middle of the night, do you?"
With that, Cassie's anger erupted. "Stop it!"
she shouted. "Stop it right now!"
"Why?" Lisa taunted. "What are you going to do
about it?"
Cassie froze, and Miranda's words echoed once
more in
her mind.
Don't let them hurt you.
But it was too late, and she ignored Miranda's
words, letting her anger run free.
"I'll kill you," she shouted, her eyes burning with
tears. "If you don't leave me alone, I'll
kill you!"
For a moment Lisa said nothing, but then her mouth opened
and an ugly peal of laughter burst from her throat.
"You can go to hell, Cassie Winslow," she shouted.
"In feet, why don't you? Nobody wants you
around here!" Still laughing, she turned back to Ten
Bennett. "Come on," she said. "Let's get out
of here before she cracks up completely."
Cassie stared after Lisa, fury churning inside
her. She could feel it coursing through her, making her
whole body shake.
Her limbs trembled with it, and after a moment she
felt Sumi begin trembling too. Suddenly the
cat leaped from her arms and streaked across the park after
Lisa.
No!
Cassie thought.
Stop!
Instantly the cat stopped running and turned back
to look at Cassie. Both the girl and the animal
stood frozen for a split second. Then the cat-as
if obeying some unspoken order-trotted back and
rubbed itself against Cassie's leg.
The tight knot of anger in Eric Cavanaugh's
belly hadn't relaxed in the slightest, despite
the three hours of hard work he'd put himself through
since the fight with his father that morning.
He still wasn't exactly sure what had triggered
Ed's explosion, unless it had been the mere sight of
Cassie Winslow coming out of the house next door.
"What you starin" at, boy?" his father had growled.
Eric looked up from his plate of greasy hominy
cakes- the breakfast his father insisted on every
Saturday morning, and which Eric and Laura did their
best to pretend they
liked, though the very sight of them made both of them
slightly nauseated. He shook his head. "I'm not
staring at anything-"
"Don't you lie to me, Mr. Smartmouth," Ed had
cut in, his eyes glittering dangerously.
"Don't you think I know what goes on in that head
of yours?"
Frowning in puzzlement, Eric had glanced out the
window just in time to see Cassie and Jennifer
disappearing around the corner onto Cambridge
Avenue. "I wasn't staring at anything, Dad,"
he insisted, though he knew that arguing with his father was
useless. Once Ed had made up his mind about
something, there was no changing it.
"You were starin' at
her!"
his father snapped, pushing his chair back and rising
to his feet so abruptly that the chair tipped over
and crashed to the floor. Eric flinched
involuntarily, and his father's mouth twisted into a
vicious smile of victory. "Thought you could fool
me, didn't you?"
"Leave him alone, Ed," Laura
pleaded, standing next to the sink. "Can't you just let him
finish his breakfast? He wasn't looking at
anyone!"
Ed's hangover-induced fury quickly shifted
focus, and he sneered at Laura. "How's
anybody "sposed to eat this slop?" he demanded.
"I thought you liked it-" Laura blurted, then
stopped herself. But it was too late.
Ed's hand snaked out to strike her across the face with enough
force to knock her off balance. She stumbled, then
fell to the floor, her head banging against the door
of the cupboard below the sink. "Don't you argue with
me, you worthless bitch," he stormed.
"Stop it, Dad!" Eric yelled. "She didn't
do anything to you, and neither did I. Why don't you just
go get drunk and leave us alone!"
Trembling, Ed faced his son, but this time Eric, who
was on his feet now, showed no fear. "Try it,
Dad," he said quietly. "Just go ahead and try
it. I'm done letting you beat up on me for things
I never did."
Ed's eyes flickered uncertainly. "You ain't
big enough to take your old man," he snarled, certain
that the words alone would be enough to cow Eric.
But Eric's jaw only tightened. "Try
it, Dad," he
challenged. "Just go ahead and try it. I'll kick
the shit out of you so fast you won't even remember
what happened."
For a moment Ed wavered, and Eric had been certain his
father was going to swing at him. If he did, Eric would
have to make up his mind what to do. Would he really
strike back at his own father? No, not yet. It
wasn't quite time. Not quite.
But instead of taking a swing at him, Ed had shambled
toward the door. "Some goddamn son you are," he
mumbled. "What kind of kid threatens his old
man?" Then he was gone, and both Eric and Laura
knew where he was going. He'd start out drinking on his
boat, then move to the Whaler's Inn. And when he was
drunk enough, he'd come home.
When they were alone, Eric had tried to help his mother,
but she'd shaken her head and waved him away. "Just
leave me alone," she said, her voice muffled.
"I'll be all right."
He'd gone outside then, and begun the weekly
routine of yardwork, but even the work hadn't helped.
His mind refused to concentrate on the job.
Instead he kept thinking about the rage growing within him.
It wasn't just his father anymore, he
knew. The anger was spilling over now, onto his mother
too. . . .
Before-when the rage had grown to the point where he thought
he might burst-he'd always gone to the marsh and talked
to Miranda.
Always-since he was ten years old, and Miranda ha
come home from the hospital-she'd been there for him.
He had been able to go out to her cabin and sit with
her-Sumi snuggled comfortably in his lap-and pour out
the rage. And no matter dishow bad it had been-how
filled with hatred he'd been-Miranda had always
listened to him, comforted him, and accepted him. She'd
been his friend, always there.
She had taught him how to control the rage, how
to use it, how to bury it so deep that no one else
even knew it was there.
She had taught him how to survive.
And then Cassie had come, and Miranda-the only
person who had ever been Eric's alone-had taken
her in too.
"She's just like you, Eric," Miranda had told him
on that last afternoon when he'd gone to visit her. "And
I've known
her just as long. I found her the same day I found
you, when you were both so young. And I won't
turn away from her. I won't, and you mustn't either.
She needs us, Eric. She needs both of us. his
That day his rage had turned for the first time on
Miranda. But he'd kept it under control, hidden
it
so deep that even she-who could see everything-hadn't
been able to see it. And then, late that night, he'd
gone back to the marsh.
But even after Miranda had died, even after he'd
finally given in to the rage within him, it hadn't
stopped.
Instead the fury only seemed to feed on itself, growing
ever stronger.
And then, the day Simms threw him off the baseball
team, Miranda's words came back to him. But
Miranda had been wrong. He suddenly understood that
it wasn't Cassie who needed him.
It was he who needed Cassie.
Needed her so that when he finally released all the
rage that had built up within him over the years, it
would be Cassie who took the blame.
And it would begin today, when they released Kiska.
He put the mower back in the garage and hung the
edging clippers on their nail in the wall. After he
closed the garage door, he crossed the
double driveway and knocked at the Winslows"
back door. A moment later Rosemary Winslow
stepped out into the service porch and held the screen
door open for him.
He composed his features into the friendly smile that had
long ago become the mask behind which he hid the
furies burning within him. "Is Cassie here?"
Rosemary frowned uncertainly. "I-well, yes,
she is. But I'm not sure she's feeling too
well. When she got back from the park, she went up
to her room, and she hasn't come down again."
"Oh," Eric said, feeling a twinge of
disappointment. "Well, when she comes back down,
would you tell her I was here?"
"Of course," Rosemary replied. She was about
to let the door swing shut on its spring when
Cassie suddenly called out from the kitchen.
"It's okay. I'm here."
Surprised, Rosemary turned to face Cassie.
When she'd come back from the park an hour ago, it was
obvious that something had gone wrong, but Cassie had
refused to tell her what. Instead shed disappeared up
the stairs, retreating once more into the solitude of
her room, shutting Rosemary out. Jennifer, though,
told her what had happened, and Rosemary
had been tempted to call Harriet Chambers.
Except that you didn't do that when two teenagers had
a spat, did you?
Had it been Jennifer and one of her friends, fine-the
two mothers could do their best to straighten it out. But when
the kids were Cassie's and Lisa's age, shouldn't
she stay out of it?
Now she felt foolish for even having thought of
calling Harriet, for obviously Cassie's anger
had passed. She was smiling at Eric now as if she
hadn't a care in the world.
"Hi," Cassie said to Eric. "You ready?"
Eric nodded. "I would have been here earlier, but-
well, you know."
Cassie's smile faded. "Your dad?"
Eric shrugged dismissively. "You know what he's
like. Come on."
As the two teenagers started out the back door,
Rosemary reached out and stopped Cassie. "What
about your room? Have you cleaned it?"
"I'll do it later," Cassie replied. She
started to move around Rosemary, but Rosemary
stepped sideways to block her path. "You got out
of it earlier by taking Jennifer to the park. Now, before
you do anything else, I want that room
cleaned."
Cassie's eyes darkened. "I'll do it later,"
she said again. "Besides, you're not my mother, and you can't
tell me what to do!"
While Rosemary stared after her in shocked silence,
Cassie disappeared out the back door, letting the
screen slam behind her.
For just a moment Rosemary considered going after her,
then abandoned the idea.
She was going to have at least four days alone with
Cassie. She didn't want to start them off with a
fight.
From the
Big Eds
pilothouse Ed Cavanaugh watched the
Morning Star I'll
move sedately out of the harbor as Keith Winslow
carefully maneuvered it past the channel markers.
From the provisions he'd watched Keith stowing
aboard, it looked like he was planning to be out quite a
while. That meant his wife would be alone in the house
with Jennifer.
Jennifer, and Cassie.
His mind darkened as he thought of the girl.
He'd seen her watching him. It had been
going on ever since Miranda had died, and gotten
worse in the last few days, after she'd locked herself
up in that room of hers.
Almost every day he'd seen her standing at her window,
looking down at him, accusing him, like maybe she
thought
he'd
killed Miranda.
But he hadn't done anything, no matter what the
girl thought. Not that he cared that Miranda was dead-in
fact he was glad. At least Eric wouldn't be
wasting any more time going out to that cabin of hers, listening
to whatever crap the crazy bitch had been telling him
all those years. And Eric thought he was so smart,
thought no one knew where he was going all those times when
he sneaked out of the house on weekends, leaving all
the work for him to do.
He should have stopped it years ago, Ed thought. Would
have, too, if there'd been any way he could have kept
his eye on the kid all the time. But there wasn't.
Once he'd even tried to go out to the cabin himself and
slap some sense into Miranda. Tell her to leave his
kid alone! And after he'd told her-
But he'd never even gotten close to the cabin. The
goddamn hawk had seen to that.
So when the old witch had finally gotten what was coming
to her, he hadn't shed any tears.
Except that now Cassie was picking up where
Miranda Sikes had left off. Now it was
Cassie who Eric was always talking to. And he
knew what Eric was telling her.
He was telling her the same things he'd told
Miranda- telling her what a jerk his old man
was!
And she was listening to Eric, too, just like Miranda had.
And why wouldn't she? He'd seen what the little tramp
was after right from the beginning, staring at the boy with
those big brown eyes and getting him into all sorts
of trouble, cutting school and being wise with his father.
Cassie Winslow and Miranda Sikes were two of a
kind. Well, he might not have been able to do anything
about Miranda, but he knew what he could do about
Cassie Winslow.
He already knew Rosemary Winslow didn't like
her. So tonight he'd go pay a little call on
Rosemary. With her smart-ass husband gone, she'd
pay attention to him. He'd tell her exactly
what Cassie was all about, and let her know what would
happen if she didn't see to it that Cassie stayed
away from Eric. If she wanted to live
with a nut in the house, that was fine with him. But she'd
damn well keep the kid away from his son.
And after they'd talked . . .
Ed's eyes glistened as he thought about what he might
do to Rosemary Winslow.
Hell, he thought, she probably wouldn't even
scream. She'd probably like it. She'd sure
given him the eye enough times.
He opened the little icebox next to the sinkful of
dirty dishes and fished around for a beer. When there
wasn't any, he slammed the icebox closed and
locked the
Big Ed.
The Whaler's Inn always had beer, and people to talk to.
Good people-people who liked him.
Not sluts like his wife, and Rosemary Winslow, and
Cassie.
Well, he'd show them. He'd show them all. And
he'd start tonight.
 
The hawk cocked his head, his pink eye fixing on
Cassie, the feathers on his neck ruffling
nervously.
The cage had been completely invisible as they
approached; indeed, Cassie hadn't even
been sure toward which bush Eric was leading her. To her
eye the entire area to the west of the hillock seemed
choked with vegetation, and the path Eric had followed had
been all but completely grown over with vines and
reeds.
But a few moments ago she'd felt a tingling
sensation come over her, almost as if there were unseen
eyes watching her. She'd paused, looking around, and
Eric had looked at her sharply. "You can feel
him, can't you?"
Cassie hesitated. "I-I can feel something,"
she said. "Are we close?"
Eric nodded. "Over there. The big bush, with the
clump of cattails growing out of it."
Cassie had scanned the area ahead, then spotted
the bush Eric was pointing at. She'd started toward
it, and the tingling sensation grew stronger. Finally, with
Eric behind her, she'd knelt down on the damp earth
and pushed her way through the dense foliage. The cage
was hidden among the branches, near the trunk of the
shrub.
Inside the cage, his talons wrapped around a
makeshift perch, Kiska had gazed warily at
her, soft clicking sounds emerging from his throat.
Eric crept up beside her, then fished in the
pocket of his
jacket. "Here," he breathed. "Give him this."
He put something in her hand.
Cassie glanced down, gasping as she recognized
the small shape of a dead mouse sitting in her right
palm. Her stomach recoiled and her hand jerked
reflexively, the mouse falling to the ground.
The hawk stretched up from the perch, its neck
extending as it reached for the small gray form.
Cassie looked fearfully at Eric. "What should
I do?"
"Pick it up," Eric told her. "Hold it on
your hand, but keep your hand flat. Then put your hand
in the cage. He'll take it right away."
Cassie swallowed hard, then gingerly picked up the
dead mouse and laid it in the palm of her hand.
Kiska clucked eagerly, his head bobbing and weaving
as he kept his eyes on the furry shape.
Cassie carefully opened the cage door just wide
enough to slip her hand inside. Kiska's head flashed
forward, and suddenly the mouse was in his beak.
Cassie quickly pulled her hand out of the cage and shut
the door. Then, as they watched, the bird began
eating the mouse.
He dropped it to the floor of the cage and
pounced on it, his talons puncturing the
creature's hide, sinking into its flesh as his curved
beak began tearing chunks of skin and meat from the
small skeleton. As soon as a piece came
loose, the bird jerked his head back, his tongue
stuffing the morsel back into his throat. Even before
the first piece was swallowed, he was tearing at the
corpse once more. In seconds the mouse had
disappeared, even its bones torn apart and forced down
the bird's gullet.
"Did you ever see anything like it?" Eric breathed, his
eyes still on Kiska, who was back on his perch now,
methodically preening his feathers with his beak.
Cassie, still fighting a wave of nausea, shook
her head. "You've really been doing this every day?" she
asked. "Where did you get the mice?"
Eric said nothing for a moment, then shrugged. "The
cellar of our house. Dad dumps everything down
there, and there's mice all over the place. I just
set some traps. A couple of days ago I had
three for him."
"But what are we going to do with him?" Cassie
asked. "We can't just keep him out here forever."
Eric glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "And
we can't just let him go, can we?"
"But he's okay now," Cassie said. "I know he
is."
"But what about Templeton?" Eric asked. "If
he sees him, he'll shoot him again."
Cassie fell silent, her eyes fixed on the
bird for several long seconds. Inside the cage
Kiska stopped preening his feathers, standing perfectly
still as he stared back at Cassie.
The soft cluckings in his throat died away.
Finally Cassie reached out once more and opened the
door of the cage. Immediately the hawk hopped from the
perch to the floor of the cage and extended his head through the
opening.
Slowly, warily, Cassie moved her hand down
until her wrist was just outside the door.
Kiska bounded onto her wrist, his talons closing
around her flesh as they had around the mouse's a few
minutes earlier. But the pressure was light, and the
needle-sharp points of his claws didn't pierce
her skin.
A
soft
sigh escaped her lips, and she smiled at Eric.
"It's all right," she said. "I can feel him, and
it's all right."
As if to prove her words, the hawk suddenly leaped
from her arm, his wings spreading as he beat his way through
the thick foliage and burst into the sky above the marsh.
Cassie and Eric pushed out of the tangled branches
of the bush and scrambled to their feet. Above them the
hawk was circling higher and higher, his wings moving
strongly as he searched for the wind. Then he found it and
his wings locked into position as he soared on the
breeze, his tail spread wide, a screech of
excitement bursting from his throat. A moment later
he dived, swooping low over the pine trees around the
cabin, flushing a flock of ravens from their nests.
Cawing loudly, the black birds fluttered into the
air, streaking after the hawk. He rose high again,
with the ravens chasing after him, then dived straight into the
flock. Frustrated and furious, the ravens tumbled
through the air then spread out, surrounding the hawk. One
by one they darted in at him, but each time he dived
away, gradually leading them out over the sea.
"What's happening?" Cassie asked. "What are
they doing?"
"He's playing with them," Eric told her. "First
he flushed them out to make them mad, and now he's
teasing them. Watch!"
The ravens tumbled around the hawk, rolling
in the air as they darted toward the bigger bird, then
dropping away before he could attack them. Finally he
wheeled over the sea, found the wind once more, and
sailed serenely back, ignoring the screaming ravens
as he dropped to the peak of the cabin roof.
For a few minutes the ravens circled him,
attempting to lure him back into the air, but he sat
calmly where he was, his beak once more methodically
combing through his feathers. Losing interest at last, the
ravens drifted back to their nests. Within a few
minutes the marsh was quiet again, only the soft
murmurings of the feeding ducks occasionally punctuating
the rhythmic washing of the surf beyond the dunes.
Feeling the warmth of the sun on their backs,
Cassie and Eric started walking slowly back
toward the cabin. A deep sense of peace settled
over Cassie, and once more she understood why
Miranda had been able to live here by herself, why she'd
loved the marsh so much. It was a universe sufficient
to itself, teeming with life and activity, but somehow set
apart from the rest of the world.
Then, a second later, the quiet that hung over the
marsh was shattered by a high-pitched screech as
Kiska leaped from the roof, climbing into the air.
"What is it?" Cassie gasped.
"What's wrong with him?"
Eric said nothing for a moment as he gazed into the sky,
one arm shielding his eyes from the sun. The bird
spiraled higher, then leveled off, soaring across the
marsh toward the park.
A moment later he disappeared from their view.
"Where's he going?" Cassie cried. "If anyone
sees him-"
Eric grabbed her hand. "Come on," he yelled.
"I think I know where he's gone. I'm sure of
it!" Pulling Cassie with him for the first few steps,
he began running through the twisted labyrinth of
trails. Cassie hurried after him, doing her best
to keep up, her feet slipping in the mud every few
steps. As Eric reached the edge of the marsh and paused
to catch his breath, she caught up.
"What is it?" she asked. "Eric, where are we
going?" "After Kiska," Eric gasped. "Will you
stop asking questions and just come on?"
"Look!" Eric shouted. He came to a sudden
stop, and Cassie had to throw herself to one side
to keep from crashing into him. She stumbled, then she
caught herself, regained her balance and followed
Eric's gaze.
They had come up Commonwealth Avenue, and the
square opened before them. But Eric wasn't looking
at the square. He was pointing off toward the
Congregational Church.
Cassie searched the sky for a moment, before finding what
she'd been looking for.
High up, almost out of sight, Kiska was circling in
an ever-tightening downward spiral. Slowly the
speck in the sky grew larger, and then Cassie
heard once more the feint sounds of his screams as he
cried out in preparation for an attack.
"But what is it?" she asked. "It's just the church-"
"Not the church!" Eric yelled. "The graveyard!
He's over the graveyard, Cassie!"
Her heart pounding anew, Cassie rushed around the
corner then across the street and into the square. The little
cemetery next to the church came into view, and she
could see clearly what Kiska had somehow known and
Eric had guessed.
In the graveyard, crouched in front of Miranda
Sikes's grave, was Lisa Chambers.
Around her were half a dozen of her friends. Cassie
recognized Jeff Maynard and Kevin Smythe,
along with Ten Bennett and Allayne Garvey. The
others were faces she'd seen before, but had no names for.
But she knew what they were doing, knew it just
as surely as had Kiska and Eric.
"No!" she screamed. "Don't do that!"
Lisa looked up, and when she saw Cassie and
Eric, a cold grin spread across her face. "I
can do what I want," she taunted. "There's nothing
you can do to stop me!"
"Yes there is!" Eric shouted from behind Cassie.
"Look!"
He pointed into the sky. Lisa and her friends looked
up, then froze where they were.
Kiska was streaking down, his high-pitched scream of
attack electrifying the air, his talons reaching
out.
Cassie gasped, staring at the strange
spectacle, knowing what would happen in just a few more
seconds.
And she wanted to let it happen, wanted to let
Kiska tear into Lisa the way he had torn into the
corpse of the mouse only a little while ago.
But once more Miranda's voice welled out of her
memory, speaking softly to her.
She tried not to listen, tried to shut out the words. But
she couldn't do it.
Miranda spoke, and she had to listen.
"No!" she screamed out loud. "Kiska,
don't!"
The hawk, already into his final dive as he prepared
to attack the crowd of terrified teenagers, whirled
in the air, flapped wildly for a moment until he
caught the wind, then reversed his course and began
climbing upward once more. A few seconds later
he leveled off and wheeled back toward the marsh.
Eric and Cassie watched until he'd disappeared,
then Eric's eyes narrowed. "You should have let him do
it," he said, his voice bitter.
Cassie shook her head. "I couldn't. Miranda-"
She broke off, but Eric looked at her, his eyes
penetrating.
"What?" he pressed. "What about Miranda?"
"She never wanted to hurt anybody," Cassie
said quietly. She started across the street to the
graveyard, where Lisa and her friends were now backing
away. As Cassie stepped through the gate into the
cemetery itself, they turned and fled. But it wasn't
until they were gone, and she and Eric were alone, that she
finished what she'd been saying. She looked down
at the defaced headstone that marked Miranda's
grave, and the shredded remains of the uprooted flowers
she'd planted there so short a time ago. "She never
wanted to hurt anyone," Cassie said
again. "And she doesn't want me to hurt anyone
either."
Eric's jaw tightened. "But she's dead! She
doesn't care what you do."
Once more Cassie shook her head. "But I
don't feel as though she's dead," she said
quietly. "I feel as though she's
still alive inside me, and sometimes I can . . .
well, I can almost hear her talking to me. And she
doesn't want me to hurt anybody."
"Even if they hurt you?" Eric challenged.
Cassie hesitated. "They-they can't hurt me,"
she faltered. "Not unless I let them."
"But they
are
hurting you," Eric insisted. "When Lisa does
something like this, it hurts you just as much as your mother hurt
you and my father hurts me." The bitterness in his
voice hardened into anger. "Just because they aren't beating
up on you doesn't mean they're not hurting you. And
they won't stop as long as they know they're
succeeding."
She knew he was right, knew that what Lisa and her
friends were doing stung just as much as any of the slaps
she'd ever received from her mother.
But how could she stop them?
Then, slowly, an idea began to take shape in her
mind.
Maybe, after all, there was a way. Maybe Eric
was right. If they thought they weren't hurting her at
all ...
Quickly, before she lost her nerve, she made up her
mind. And when she told Eric what she was going to do,
he nodded his agreement.
"It's perfect," he said. "It's just perfect."
Then they began repairing the damage Lisa had
done to Miranda's grave.
It was almost eight-thirty when Cassie and Eric
walked around the end of the school building and cut across
the playing field to the gymnasium entrance. The double
front doors to the gym stood open, light from the
foyer spilling out onto the front steps and the yard
beyond. A couple of kids were standing at the edge of the
lighted area, passing a cigarette back and forth between
them.
Cassie paused in the comforting shelter of the darkness,
then spoke quietly. "Maybe-maybe we shouldn't
go in at all."
"But we already decided," Eric replied. "Besides,
I can hardly wait to see their faces."
Cassie felt a knot of fear tighten in her
stomach as she
remembered the expression on her stepmother's face
when she'd come downstairs half an hour ago.
Rosemary had been sitting in the little den at the
front of the house. When Cassie stepped in from the
foyer, she'd glanced up from her knitting and gasped,
her eyes widening in shock. But before she could speak,
Cassie had hurried out the front door and down the
street, where Eric was waiting for her on the corner in
front of the church.
"Did she say anything?" he asked.
Cassie had shaken her head. "She didn't have a
chance." She'd chuckled. "For a second I thought
she was going to faint."
But now, as the throbbing rhythms of rock music
reverberated from the building and she thought of the crowd of
teenagers inside-all of them friends of Lisa
Chambers-she was beginning to lose her nerve.
As if sensing what was happening, Eric took her
arm. "Come on," he said. "You can't back out now."
His grip on her arm tightening, he led her out of the
shadows, and they hurried up the steps into the gym.
Charlotte Ambler stood at the door to the gym itself,
keeping a watchful eye on the crowd that
covered the dance floor. So far everything seemed to be
perfectly normal, and she was enjoying a brief
respite from the tension that had permeated the school almost
from the day Cassie Winslow had arrived. When she'd
heard the rumor that Eric Cavanaugh had broken his
date with Lisa Chambers for tonight and was planning
to bring Cassie Winslow to the dance, she'd had a
sinking feeling that something was going to go terribly wrong.
So she'd made sure she got to the gym and taken
up her station even before the doors had opened, hoping
her very presence could avert whatever trouble might be
brewing. During the last hour, with no sign of either
Eric or Cassie, she'd begun to let herself
relax. Apparently they weren't coming at all.
As the band wound up its first set of the night, the last
electronic waitings of the synthesizer fading away,
she sensed someone behind her and turned, prepared
to welcome the latest arrivals.
Turned and froze.
Standing perfectly still, her face an ashen white, her
eyes wide, stood Cassie Winslow.
Except that it wasn't Cassie.
It was Miranda Sikes.
The black skirt-the same black skirt Miranda
had worn every day of her life-fell from
Cassie's waist to the floor.
She wore Miranda's thick black woolen
sweater, and wrapped around her head in loose folds
that almost concealed her face, was Miranda's black
shawl.
She cradled Sumi in her left arm while the
fingers of her right hand slowly stroked his far.
The cat's eyes, large and golden, glowed
dangerously in the soft light from the gymnasium.
"C-Cassie-" Charlotte breathed. A wave of
dizziness swept over her, and she had to reach out to the
wall to steady herself.
"Cassie?" the eerie apparition said, her voice
echoing with the oddly detached quality of Miranda
Sikes. "I'm not Cassie. Cassie's gone.
I'm Miranda. I'm Miranda Sikes."
Moving slowly and deliberately, she walked past
Charlotte and paused in the doorway that led to the dance
floor.
It was only then that Charlotte saw Eric
Cavanaugh standing just inside the building, his face
pale, his eyes fixed on Cassie. Her heart
thumping erratically, Charlotte hurried over to him.
"What's going on, Eric?" she asked, her fear
giving way to sudden anger. "Is this some
kind of a joke?"
Eric only shook his head, pretending to be
puzzled. "I-I don't know," he stammered.
"When I picked her up, she was dressed that way,
and all the way over here she wouldn't say a word.
I-I tried to talk to her, but she wouldn't answer
me. I'm not even sure she heard me."
Charlotte closed her eyes for a moment in a vain
effort to shut out the strange image of Miranda that
Cassie had managed to create, shut out the reality
of what must have happened.
A hush fell over the crowd of teenagers inside the
gym as one by one they became aware of the dark figure
that stood framed in the doorway.
Cassie didn't move. She simply stayed where
she was, her fingers stroking Sumi, her
eyes-wide and unblinking-flicking over the crowd.
And then, across the room, she found what she was looking
for.
Lisa Chambers, her back toward Cassie, was
standing with Teri Bennett and Allayne Garvey
next to the punch bowl.
Her eyes fixed on Lisa, Cassie moved
slowly across the now silent room.
The crowd parted before her, watching her slow
progress. When she was ten feet from Lisa
Chambers, she stopped.
Lisa suddenly realized the room had grown totally
silent, and her skin began to crawl as she felt
eyes watching her.
She turned around.
The cup of punch in her hand crashed to the floor as
she stared at the black-clad figure that stood ten
feet away.
It was Cassie.
It
had
to be Cassie.
But somehow it wasn't.
It was Miranda, her empty eyes glaring
balefully.
She felt Teri and Allayne move away, and
suddenly she was standing alone, feeing the accusing eyes.
Icy fingers of panic began to close around her, and
her legs began to tremble.
The cat hissed dangerously, its fur rising up
to stand on end.
Then Cassie's hand came up, her forefinger pointing
directly at Lisa. "You," she breathed. "It was
you. ..."
Once again she moved forward, and as she came closer
to Lisa, the hand of fear squeezed tighter on the
other girl.
The cat's teeth were bared now, and its back had arched
as it once more spat out at Lisa. Then it crouched
down, its tail twitching as it prepared to spring from
Cassie's arm.
As Cassie took one more step, Lisa screamed and
twisted away from the approaching figure.
Stumbling, she lurched into the table. Its legs gave
way, and the table, with its punch bowl and cups, crashed
to the floor, Lisa sprawling on top of it. She
tried to scrabble away
across the floor, but the tablecloth entangled itself around
her and she flailed helplessly, still shrieking with fright.
Then, behind her, she heard a peal of laughter.
Whirling around, she stared up at Cassie, who was
smiling mockingly at her as she pulled the shawl off
her head.
"You said I was crazy, didn't you?" Cassie
asked. "Isn't that what you told everyone? Well,
I just decided to be what you said I was. How did
you like it?"
There was a moment of dead silence as everyone in the
room realized what had happened.
Then, from a few feet away, another laugh broke
out.
And another.
And another.
Lisa, her dress stained with punch, struggled
furiously to her feet. "It's not funny!" she
screamed, her voice trembling with fury and her
face contorted into a twisted grimace of rage.
"Look what she did to me!" She turned
to Allayne and Teri, but they, too, were laughing.
"She got you," Allayne told her, unable
to suppress her giggling. "She got all of us!"
As the laughter swept through the rest of the room, Eric
appeared at Cassie's side, his eyes
glittering. "Well?" he asked. "You didn't
answer Cassie's question. How did you like it?"
Still trembling with fury, Lisa glared at her
laughing classmates. "You did it," she spat at
Eric. "She couldn't have thought of anything like this. It was
you!" Her hand lashed out and she slapped Eric across the
cheek.
Instantly the humor disappeared from Eric's eyes,
replaced with a chilling cold. "You shouldn't have done
that," he said, his voice tight, anger boiling
inside him. "You shouldn't have done that at
all."
Lisa only slapped him again, her face scarlet
with fury. "I'll do anything I want!" she
screeched. "I'll get both of you for what you did!
You'll be sorry! You'll both be sorry!" Then,
tears of rage and humiliation streaming down her
cheeks, she shoved her way through the crowd and stormed
out into the night.
A moment later, as her classmates crowded around
her, Cassie realized that Sumi was gone.
"We've got to find him,"
she whispered to Eric as soon as she could get close
enough for him to hear her. "What if he finds Lisa?
What'Us he do to her?"
But as they made their way out of the gym, and Eric still
felt the sting of Lisa's slaps on his cheek, he
knew that he didn't care what the cat did
to Lisa.
In fact, if he had his way, Sumi would kill
Lisa Chambers.
 
Rosemary Winslow glanced at the clock for the fifth
time in fifteen minutes. She had promised herself not
to do any of what she thought of as "serious" worrying
until midnight, but it was becoming harder
to keep that promise as each minute dragged by.
What could Cassie have been thinking of? That moment still
burned in Rosemary's memory-that eerie moment of
certainty that she was actually seeing a ghost-when
Cassie had stood in the doorway, her face all
but lost in the shadows of Miranda's shawl. If her
intention had been to frighten Rosemary, she'd
certainly succeeded. But what would happen when she
got to the dance?
By the time Rosemary had recovered enough to go after
Cassie, the girl was gone, swallowed up into the
night. For a moment Rosemary had considered going after
her in the car, but then gave up the idea, certain that
even if she found Cassie, there would only be a
scene as she demanded that Cassie come home and
change her clothes and Cassie refused. So she'd
spent the evening with Jennifer, half expecting
Cassie to come home early in tears, humiliated
by the taunting of her classmates.
But Cassie had not come home.
Rosemary put Jennifer to bed at nine, and
settled down in the den with her knitting, deciding that
everything must have turned out all right after all. Then the
clock in the living room had struck eleven and her
worries returned. For the
last fifteen minutes she'd been pacing restlessly
through the house, wondering what to do.
The radio that could put her in instant contact with
Keith seemed to beckon to her, but so far she had
resisted its seduction. Still, she was standing at the den
door for the fourth time in the last hour, chewing at her
lower lip as she once more weighed the seriousness of the
situation, when the soft tapping at the back door
intruded on her consciousness. Had it not been for that,
she would have given in and called Keith, begging him
to come home. Of course, she would have had to call him
back when Cassie finally did come home-as
Rosemary was positive she sooner or later would-
and tell him that it had all been a false alarm.
She was thinking this as she abandoned the den and hurried
into the kitchen.
To Rosemary's surprise, Laura Cavanaugh
was standing on the back step, her face pale and
drawn in the light from the service porch. When she
opened the door and saw her neighbor more clearly,
Rosemary couldn't stifle a gasp.
Laura's eyes were puffy, each of them circled with a
dark ring of bruises. There was a cut on her left
cheek extending nearly to her ear, and her right cheek was
swollen, its edematous flesh mottled with
an ugly purplish color.
The two women stared at each other in silence for a
moment as tears welled in Laura's damaged
eyes. "I know how I look," she said
apologetically. "I suppose I shouldn't have come
over-"
Rosemary's hands rose in an instinctive gesture
of protest. "Not come over? Why on earth not?
Laura, what's happened? Did Ed-" She
broke off when she saw Jennifer, rubbing
sleepily at her eyes, standing in the kitchen door
and staring curiously at Laura.
"I couldn't sleep," the little girl said. "I thought
maybe Cassie was home."
"Go back up to your room, sweetheart. Mrs.
Cavanaugh and I are just going to have a little talk."
Jennifer hesitated, frowning, then decided that this was
not the time to argue with her mother. A moment later she was
gone, and Rosemary turned
her
attention back to Laura. "Did Ed do that to you?"
she asked, the hardness in her voice indicating that she
assumed he had.
Laura started to shake her head, but then, almost against
her will, nodded. "It's not too bad,
though-really. And it's not why I came. It's
Eric-he hasn't come home yet. I-well, I
was wondering if he was over here with Cassie." Her
eyes went to the ceiling, as if she might be able
to pierce the wood and plaster that separated the two
floors of the house. "I hate to be a bother, but
Ed could come home any minute, and if Eric's over
here, well ..." Her voice faltered, then she
fell silent, sinking helplessly onto one of the
straight-backed kitchen chairs.
"Have you called Gene Templeton?" Rosemary
asked. Without asking Laura if she wanted any,
she began preparing a pot of tea.
"Gene?" Laura echoed vaguely. "Why would I
call Gene? It's not like something's happened
to Eric-"
"I'm not talking about Eric!" Rosemary broke
in. "I'm talking about you. For heaven's sakes,
Laura, how long are you going to put up with this? You
can't just let Ed beat you up every time he gets mad!"
Laura shook her head helplessly. "He
doesn't-"
"Yes, he does!" Rosemary insisted. "My
God, Laura, it's not as if it was a secret.
Everyone in town knows what he does to you.
But if you won't stick up for yourself, what can anyone
do?"
Laura's hands went to her face, and she rocked
back and forth in her chair. Rosemary watched her
for a moment, wondering if she should go to Laura, put
her arms around her, try to comfort her. She knew,
though, that what Laura Cavanaugh truly needed was
not pity, but a discovery of the strength that would finally
allow her to walk out on Ed. And no amount of comforting
would give her that. Sighing heavily, Rosemary
poured hot water over three tea bags, let the
tea steep for a while, then poured a cup of the steaming
brew and set it in front of Laura Cavanaugh.
At last Laura seemed to regain control of herself.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I know you're right! But
it's Eric I'm worried about right now. He said he
was going
to
the dance with Cassie-"
"And Ed hates Cassie," Rosemary broke
in. "I know. But he's not here, and neither is she."
"But where are they?" Laura gasped. "If Ed comes
home-" Once again she fell silent, but this time her
eyes went fearfully to the kitchen window. Following
Laura's gaze, Rosemary saw Ed
Cavanaugh's white pickup truck weave down the
driveway, its brakes squealing as he slammed it
to a stop. Both women watched in silence as he
slid out of the truck and lumbered unsteadily toward the
back door of his house.
"Drunk, of course!" Rosemary said disgustedly as
he disappeared from their view. Then they heard him
roaring his wife's name, and his son's. A few
seconds later he reappeared at the back door
and Laura and Rosemary could see him staring
speculatively at the Winslows' house. The sharp
intake of Laura's breath rasped with unnatural
loudness as Ed started across the driveway separating the
two houses.
She lurched to her feet. "He can't find me here,"
she whispered. "If he does-"
But it was too late.
Ed Cavanaugh, his bloodshot eyes glowing with
malevolence, jerked the back door open without
knocking and was suddenly framed in the service-porch
door, his fleshy mouth twisted into a scornful
sneer.
"Mighta known you'd come sniveling over here." He
spat the words at Laura with a viciousness that made
her wince, then turned his attention
to Rosemary. "Where's Eric?" he demanded. "He
with that crazy brat of yours?"
Rosemary rose to her feet, her fear of his
drunkenness washed away by indignation. "Eric isn't
here, and neither is Cassie," she told him.
"They're still at the dance. And if you're still here in
two minutes, I'm going to call the police."
Ed regarded her with contemptuous eyes, then waved his
hand dismissively at his wife. "Get the fuck
outta here, Laur-me and the uppity lady here are
gonna have a little talk."
"Ed-" Laura began, but before she could speak another
word Ed raised his hand and, in what seemed
to Rosemary an almost idle gesture, spun
Laura around and shoved her out of the kitchen. Laura
hesitated only a fraction of a second before pushing
through the back door and hurrying into her own house, her
hands once more covering her face as she sobbed in pain
and humiliation. Only when the Cavanaughs' back
door had closed behind her did Rosemary finally
speak, and when she did, it was from the telephone.
"I'm calling Gene Templeton," she said.
"I'm going to tell him exactly what happened, and
I hope Laura will finally file some charges against
you."
But before she could finish dialing, Ed had crossed the
room, the bulk of his body pressing Rosemary
against the wall as he twisted the receiver out of her hand and
dropped it to dangle from its cord a few inches
above the floor.
"That what you gonna do, uppity lady?" he asked.
"Now why would you want to do a thing like that? I didn't
hurt her none. Fact is, she likes it. But now
she's gone, and ain't nobody home but you and me,
is there? Your snotty husband ain't coming home at
all, and his creepy kid's off gettin' my kid
into more trouble, ain't she? So what do you say you and I
get in a little trouble of our own?"
His face moved closer to hers, and Rosemary
suddenly realized what he intended to do. His mouth was
only a few inches from her own, and his sour breath
made her gorge rise. She tried to push him
away, but his weight seemed immovable. Then, from the
door to the dining room, she heard Jennifer's
voice.
"Mommy? Mommy, is he hurting you?"
Rosemary struggled, but Ed's hamlike hands had
closed on her wrist and he held her immobile
against the wall. She twisted her head to one side just
as his mouth was about to press against hers.
"Get out, Jenny!" she yelled. "Run across the
street and get help. Tell them to call the
police!"
"Goddamn you-" She heard Ed growl as his hands
tightened on her wrists like twin vises.
"Now,
Jen!" she yelled. She heard Jennifer yelp in
sudden fear, and out of the corner of her eye saw her
daughter dart away. Finally, summoning the last
reserves of her strength, she jerked her leg up,
plunging her knee into Ed Cavan-augh's groin.
A strangled howl burst from his throat, and his grip
was momentarily loosened by the searing pain that rose from his
groin to slash upward through his body. Rosemary
twisted away from him, shoving hard.
Losing his balance, Ed tumbled backward into the
kitchen
table then fell to the floor, his hands gripping his
crotch as he glared furiously up at Rosemary.
"Crazy," she heard him say as she dashed past
him, toward the back door and the safety outside.
"You're as crazy as the girl. All you hadda do was
be nice. ..."
A few minutes later, from the shelter of the
neighbors' house across the street,
Rosemary saw him stagger out the back door of her
house, pause for a moment as if making up his mind
what to do next, then get back into his truck.
Thirty seconds after Ed was gone, Gene
Templeton turned onto the block, the red
lights flashing on top of his car.
Ed drove blindly, fighting the nausea that roiled through
his body. The pain in his groin seemed untempered
by the alcohol in his blood; indeed, the two seemed
to combine into a raging fury that grew within him like a
separate being, driving him on, banishing the last
vestiges of reason from his mind.
He knew where he was going; knew where to look to find
the source of his fury.
And he knew what he would do when he got there.
Cassie Winslow was just like Miranda Sikes.
She'd put a spell on the boy, and if Ed
didn't do something about it, she'd put a spell on
everybody else too.
He decided she'd already put some kind of spell
on Rosemary Winslow. She must have, or
Rosemary wouldn't have done what she did. After
all, Rosemary wanted him as bad as he wanted
her, didn't she? Sure she did-he'd seen the
way she'd looked at him, seen the lust in
her eyes.
But today, when she finally could have had him, she'd kicked
him.
She'd actually tried to hurt him.
No woman had ever done that.
So Cassie must have done something to Rosemary.
Maybe he should go back and try to explain it all
to her.
That was it! That was where he'd gone wrong!
He'd gone over there to talk to Rosemary, but
Laura had been there and he hadn't had a chance
to explain things to Rosemary.
It was all Laura's fault! She'd spoiled it
for him, just like she'd always spoiled everything for him!
And now it was too late. Rosemary Winslow
wouldn't listen to him now. None of them would, not as long
as Cassie could keep working her witchcraft.
Witchcraft.
The word echoed in Eds fogged mind, but as he kept
driving, his eyes barely seeing into the darkness beyond the
windshield, he knew he'd stumbled on to the truth.
She was a witch, just as Miranda Sikes had been,
and she'd cast a spell over his son, just as Miranda
had!
Well, he'd fix that, as soon as he
found them.
He might not know much, he told himself, but he sure
as hell knew what to do with women.
 
It was Cassie's fault-all of it!
And Lisa was about to make her sorry.
She walked quickly along Oak Street, glancing
furtively to each side whenever she stepped into the
pools of illumination cast by the streetlamps. She
tried to tell herself that it didn't matter if anyone
saw her. It wasn't even midnight yet, and she
had a perfect right to be out walking.
Except that if anyone saw her, and remembered
seeing her...
She hadn't known what she was going to do when she'd
gotten home from the dance. Still furious, she'd
ripped off her ruined dress, changing into jeans and
one of her father's old sweaters, then stuffed the dress
into the trash barrel behind the garage. At least her
parents weren't home, so she didn't have to explain
to them what had happened. She'd turned on the
television set, but only sat staring unseeingly at
it, her fury steadily growing, focusing on
Cassie. There had to be a way to get even with her.
There had to be!
It was during the eleven o'clock news that the idea came
to her. She hadn't really been watching the television
until the screen glowed brightly with flickering reds and
oranges, catching her attention. With her anger still
burning, she listened to the report of a fire in
Boston.
A fire that had been set deliberately, with a
book of matches and a can of lighter fluid. . . .
Her father kept lighter fluid in his den, along with
all the
other junk he used to take care of the pipes her mother
hated so much but that he wouldn't give up.
By the time the news ended, she'd made up her mind,
and by eleven thirty-five she'd found what she needed
and slipped out of the house.
So far it had all been easy.
She came to the park and left the sidewalk, pushing
her way into a clump of lilac bushes that edged the
lawn. As the heavy foliage closed around her, she
breathed a sigh of relief and let herself relax.
Though clouds were scudding across the sky now, enough
moonlight filtered through the branches so she could see
where she was going, and it occurred to her she might not
need the flashlight in her pocket at all.
Lisa worked her way through the bushes slowly
and carefully, the anxiety she'd felt on the
sidewalk quickly transformed into a thrill of
excitement.
She came to the edge of the lilacs and paused Twenty
yards of open lawn separated her from the next
thicket.
Should she run, hoping to make it across the open space
before anyone could notice her, or should she simply
step out onto the lawn and not worry if anyone saw
her?
But why would she be alone in the park at night? The
sidewalk was one thing-she could be going anywhere. But the
park was something else again. She crouched in the thicket
for a few more seconds, then made up her mind.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped deliberately
out of the bushes and slowly sauntered across the grass,
doing her best to look as if she hadn't a care in the
world. Only when she was within a few yards of her
goal did she lose her nerve and break into a quick
trot. And then, once again, she was safe
from
any prying eyes. From here on it would be easy.
She moved more confidently now, pausing again only when
she came to the far side of the thicket. Parting the
leaves with her hands, she looked out over the
marsh.
The evening breeze had died away, and the only sound
Lisa could hear was the rhythmic pounding of the surf on
the beach. With the strange amplification of sound at
night, she could hear even the soft hiss of each dying
wave as it spent its energy on the sand, followed by a
short silence as the next wave built up for its
assault on the shore.
Over the marsh itself there was an eerie stillness that
almost made Lisa change her mind. Her confidence
ebbed away, and she shivered involuntarily at the
thought of going out into the bog alone. For the first time in
years she remembered the stories she'd heard when
she was little, about the ghosts that haunted both the marsh and the
cabin it surrounded. But they were only stories, and
Lisa knew there were no such things as ghosts.
Indeed, the only truly fearful things that had ever
been in the marsh were Miranda and her hawk, and now
Miranda was dead.
But what about the hawk? Where was it?
She lingered a few more moments, unwilling to take that
first step into the bog, and when she finally left the
shadowy security of the lilac thicket, she stayed
on the narrow path skirting the marsh, leading toward the
friendly familiarity of the beach and Cranberry
Point.
There was no hurry, she told herself. She had
plenty of time.
Her step quickened, and as she neared the beach, her cold
anger fed her confidence. It was going to be all right.
Already she could see the cabin-the cabin that Cassie
Winslow loved so much-burning brightly against the night
sky. By morning, only a heap of smoking ashes would
be left.
Inside the cabin a single oil lantern burned on
the table beneath the peak of the roof-its wick turned so low
that only a soft glow suffused the room, leaving the
corners in shadowy darkness. Eric had built a
fire in the stove, damping it down
so
that it was no more than slowly burning embers, the little
smoke that escaped up the chimney invisible against the
blackness of the night sky. The cabin was warm, and had
a cozy feeling to it that his own house had never had.
It seemed to welcome them, shielding them from the rest
of the world. And even with the lamplight and the fire, Eric
knew that from the outside the cabin would still appear to be
deserted. He grinned at Cassie. "How long do
you suppose we could stay here before anyone found us?"
"Sometimes I wish it could be forever,"
Cassie replied, scratching at Sumi's ears.
He was curled in her lap now, purring contentedly.
They'd found him outside the gym, skulking in the
darkness, but when Cassie had called to him,
instead of running to her and leaping into her arms, he'd
dashed the other way, then paused, his tail twitching
as he twisted his head around to look at them. For the
next thirty minutes he'd darted away, just out of
Cassie's reach, then waited, leading them on
until they realized where he was going.
"I wonder why he brought us out here?" Eric mused,
his eyes drifting from Cassie to the animal in her
lap. "It almost seems as if he knows something we
don't."
"Sometimes I think he does," Cassie replied.
She tried to explain to Eric the strange connection
she had with the cat, talking hesitantly at first,
afraid he might laugh at her.
But he didn't laugh.
Instead he listened to her intently, and when she was
done, asked her a question: "Is that the way it is with
Kiska too?"
Cassie nodded. "When Mr. Templeton shot
him, I could feel it. It sounds crazy, doesn't
it?"
Eric hadn't answered the question directly. Instead his
eyes had taken on a faraway look, as if he were
thinking about something else entirely. "Lots of things
are crazy," he'd said at last. Then, almost
reluctantly, he stood up. "I've got to go
home," he said.
"Why?" Cassie asked. "Your dad doesn't
want you around, and Rosemary doesn't want me
around. Why can't we just stay here?"
Eric hesitated only a split second. "I
can't. If I do, my dad'll find out and he'll
kill me." When Cassie didn't move, he
cocked his head uncertainly. "You coming with me?" he
asked.
Cassie hesitated. She knew she ought to go
home, knew that if she didn't, Rosemary would be
furious with her. But Rosemary, she was certain, was
furious with her already. And there was a warmth and comfort about
the cabin that made her feel closer than ever
to Miranda. She shook her head. "I'm staying
here." Her eyes met Eric's. "If Rosemary
asks you, don't tell her where I am. All
right?"
Eric shrugged. "I guess. You sure you'll be
okay?"
Cassie smiled at him reassuringly. "Of
course I will. This place feels like it's really
mine-it's the first place I've ever been where I
really feel I belong."
A moment later Eric was gone, and Cassie was
alone in the little cabin, with only Sumi for company.
Lisa froze.
Twenty yards away a dark figure had stepped out
of the marsh onto the dunes that formed Cranberry
Point. But that wasn't possible, was it? She'd
been watching the marsh so carefully, looking for any
signs of movement, and she could have sworn there were
none.
And yet someone was there, standing still, staring out over the
moonlit sea. Then the figure moved, and started
toward her.
She stepped back, pressing herself into the small
clump of shrubs that stood alone at the corner of the
parking lot which served both the park and the beach. If she
stood perfectly still, maybe the person would pass
by without seeing her.
As the figure grew closer, she knew who it
was.
Eric.
Her whole body tensed with anger. But what
was doing out here? Was Cassie with him? No-he was
alone.
Then she understood.
He'd been out in Miranda's cabin, and Cassie
must still be there.
She smiled darkly-that would make it even better.
She shrank deeper into the bushes, holding her
breath.
A twig snapped.
She saw Eric stop, saw him turn toward her.
But maybe it still wasn't too late. If she
held perfectly still-
"Who's there?"
Eric's voice was startlingly loud in the stillness of the
night. Despite herself, Lisa jumped slightly.
Instantly Eric's body shifted, and she knew
he'd seen her. There was only one thing left to do.
"It's me!" she exclaimed loudly, stepping out of the
bushes into the moonlight.
Eric stared at her. She'd changed her clothes, and
was dressed in jeans and a black sweater now, with a
scarf tied around her head. But why was she here? What
was she doing, sneaking around in the middle of the night?
The memory of her slaps stung sharply, and his
eyes' narrowed. "What are you doing out
here?"
"J-just taking a walk," Lisa replied, but the
hesitation in her voice told Eric there was more to it
than that. "You won't tell anyone you saw me, will
you?" Lisa asked anxiously.
"Not tell anyone?" Eric demanded. "Why shouldn't
I? And what the hell are you doing, hiding in the
bushes?"
"I-I didn't know who you were," Lisa
stammered. But almost against her will her hand closed on the
can of lighter fluid and the book of matches in her
pocket. Eric saw the movement.
"What have you got?" he demanded. "You
are
doing something, aren't you?"
"No!" Lisa said, too loudly. "I was just-I just
wanted to go for a walk," she said, her voice taking
on a belligerent tone. "Isn't that all right with
you? You don't own the beach, do you? Or is it only
you and Cassie who are allowed to come out here?"
Eric looked at her carefully. She
was
up to something-he was sure of it. But what? And why was
she dressed like Cassie? "What's in your
pocket, Lisa?" he asked. "What are
you going to do?"
"Nothing!" Lisa insisted, her temper once more
slipping away from her. She took a step backward
but missed her footing and stumbled in the sand.
Eric moved closer, grabbing at her arm. "You
tell me what you're doing!" he demanded. Lisa
struggled in his grip but couldn't wriggle free.
Then, from the road beyond the parking lot, Eric heard
something and looked up.
On Cape Drive he saw the familiar shape of
his father's pickup truck. It was weaving slightly,
and instantly Eric knew his father was drunk and looking
for him.
"Come on," he said to Lisa. "It's my dad."
Jerking roughly on her arm, he pulled her out into the
dunes and the beach beyond.
The marsh,
Ed Cavanaugh thought. That's where he'd found them
last time, and that's where he'd find them this time. He
pressed his foot down on the accelerator while
slamming the transmission into a lower gear. There was a
satisfying shriek as the tires spun wildly for a
second then caught, shooting the truck forward.
Ed's eyes fixed on the pavement ahead as he
raced past the summer houses that lined
Cape Drive. Just ahead was the expanse of tall
grass that marked the beginning of the marsh. Then, out in the
dunes that separated the marsh from the beach, he saw
two running figures-a boy and a girl-their hands
clasped together.
Eric and Cassie, he thought.
Ed's grip tightened on the steering wheel as his fury
grew. Ahead, on the left, he saw the parking
lot and veered the truck off the road. It wasn't
until he was nearly across the lot that he realized
he had no intention of stopping.
Tonight there would be no shouting from the cab of his truck.
Through a haze of alcohol he imagined he could see
them clearly now-see the grins on their faces.
Hell, he could even hear them, and knew what they were
laughing at.
They were laughing at him.
But they wouldn't laugh much longer. When he got done
with them, they'd never laugh at him again.
Cassie sat quietly, enjoying the solitude of the
cabin, feeling the peace that Miranda must have felt
here. Though there was no one else around, she didn't
feel alone. If she listened carefully, she could
hear the sounds of the sleeping birds murmuring in the
marsh, and the raccoons and other creatures as
they moved through the wetlands, searching for food.
Strangely, she felt less lonely now, with only
the birds and animals around her, than she ever had
before. And then-his back arching as an angry hiss
boiled out of his throat-Sumi leaped out of her lap
and darted over to the door. She looked at him
curiously, then understood.
Someone was out there.
Someone who meant her harm.
Tears of frustration flooded her eyes. Why
couldn't they just leave her alone? Why couldn't they just
let her be?
Without thinking, she went to the door and opened it a
few inches. "Go see, Sumi," she said softly.
"Go find out who .. . his
it is.
Like a ghost, his padded feet making no sound at
all, the cat disappeared into the night.
Eric jerked Lisa to a stop. Turning, his eyes
fixed on the track. It should have stopped in the parking
lot. But it hadn't. Instead it was still coming, jumping
slightly as its tires struck the low curbing that
separated the paved lot from the sand of the beach. Now it
was crossing the beach itself, slogging through the soft sand
toward the water. When it reached the
hard-packed wet sand near the water's edge and
turned toward them, he realized what was happening.
Lisa understood at the same moment. "He's coming
right at us," she gasped, her anger suddenly
forgotten. Now it was she who reached out to grasp
Eric's hand.
Eric cursed under his breath. His father really intended
to kill him this time! For an instant his body froze,
then he summoned all his energy. "Come on!" he
yelled. Jerking her hard, he leaped sideways out
of the truck's path. It swept past them-its horn
blaring, its tires spitting a stinging sleet of sand
into their faces. As they watched in growing fright, the
truck slowed then spun around to face them again.
"What are we going to do?" Lisa wailed. "What
does he want?"
But Eric was
too
terrified to answer. The truck was gathering speed
again, and he had to decide which way to go. Before he could
make up his mind, the issue was decided for him. The
truck bore down on them, and there was nothing Eric
could do but drag Lisa into the protection of the water
itself.
"He's drunk!" he yelled as he
stumbled into the roiling surf. "He wants to kill
us!"
Lisa's eyes widened, and she turned to stare at the
truck, which had passed them once more and was even now
circling around to try again.
"Get out of the water!" she heard Eric yelling.
"When he comes back, he'll try to push us in again
and hell swerve down the slope. But this time we'll
go the other way."
The truck was gathering speed now, and Lisa stared at
it in detached fascination. It bore down on her like
some kind of raging beast, but she couldn't move.
Instead she stood still, frozen like a rabbit in the
glare of the headlights.
She felt Eric yank on her arm, felt herself being
pulled
out of the path of the screaming juggernaut. Eric had been
right. At the last second the truck swerved down the
sloping beach, its left tires hitting the water.
As it passed, Lisa got a clear look into the
cab.
Behind the wheel, his face contorted into a twisted grin
and his eyes lit with a strangely glowing madness, she
saw Ed Cavanaugh. An icy chill of pure
terror sliced through her. Once again she
knew that Eric was right.
He meant to kill them.
She started screaming as Eric dragged her up the beach
toward the edge of the marsh.
Goddamn it,
Ed swore to himself. He should have had her that time, should have
felt the impact as the front fender crashed into her
body, slamming her down into the sand and crushing her under
the wheels.
But Eric had outsmarted him. Pulled her the wrong
way, so all he'd done was drive the nicking
truck into the water. He fought to control the slewing
tires, pulling the wheel hard to the right. But it was as
if the water itself was fighting him now, trying to pull
both the truck and him out to sea. Then, slowly, the
ocean seemed to release its grip and the truck
surged back onto the hard-packed sand. But the
windshield was covered with salt spray now, and he
could barely see out. Clutching the wheel with his right
hand, he began groping along the dash with his left.
At last the wipers came on and the windshield
cleared. He jerked the truck into another
U-turn, then he saw them racing across the beach,
toward the marsh. If they got in there, he'd never
catch them.
He slammed his foot onto the accelerator and the
truck lunged forward, hurtling across the wet sand.
He leaned on the horn and listened as its blaring
rose above the pounding of the surf behind him. The truck
slowed as it plowed into the soft sand above the tide line
and surged up the gentle slope of the dunes.
But it didn't slow enough to make any difference.
He'd cut them off this time and drive them back down
toward the water. He slammed the transmission into a
lower gear, and the extra power made the truck leap
forward.
As he shot past them he could see the terror in their
eyes. Even the blasting of the horn couldn't drown out
the girl's scream.
"He's going to kill us!" Lisa shrieked as the
truck shot past, only inches away. Once again
she'd seen Ed clearly, his greasy hair matted
against his forehead, his drunken eyes glazed over as
he stared drunkenly back at her.
And he was laughing.
Even over the awful cacophony of the racing engine and
blasting horn, she'd heard an unearthly laughter
pour from his throat.
"He's trying to push us back in the water," Eric
gasped. "Come on!"
Half dragging Lisa now, he lurched to his feet
and started once more toward the marsh. The truck was
only a few yards away, floundering in the sand as Ed
struggled to turn it toward them once again. Then the
lights swept around, blinding Eric for a moment, and
he tightened his grip on Lisa's hand.
"Run!" he yelled, but over the mass of sound that
seemed to roll over the beach, he could barely hear his
own voice.
Then he was over the dunes, and one of the paths into the
marsh opened before him. Hauling Lisa behind him, he
lurched into the reeds and stopped, gasping for breath.
Behind him Lisa collapsed to the ground, panting.
Sobs of fear wracked her body, and when she
looked up at Eric, her face was streaked with tears
and sand.
"What's he doing?" she wailed. "What's wrong
with him?"
"He's gone nuts," Eric replied, kneeling beside
her and straining to see out onto the dunes and the beach.
The headlights had destroyed his night vision, and
though he couldn't see the truck itself now, he could
see its twin beams of light and hear its engine
roaring like an infuriated animal that had momentarily
lost its prey. "We've got to get out of
here. If he finds us-"
"How?" Lisa demanded. "We should have stayed on the
beach! We can't get through here-we're trapped!"
She stared fearfully into the depths of the marsh,
remembering the maze of nearly invisible paths, some
of which led somewhere, some of which simply disappeared into the
reeds and the quicksand. Why had she ever come out here in the
first place? Why had she ever thought she could get all
the way out to
Miranda's house all by herself? "I didn't mean
it," she suddenly sobbed. "I shouldn't have come out here
at all! I didn't mean it! I swear I
didn't mean it!"
Eric turned to face her, his eyes suddenly
blazing. "Didn't mean what?" he demanded. "You
tell me what you were doing, damn it!"
"The cabin," Lisa wailed. "I was going to burn
it down! I was going to get even with Cassie
by burning the cabin!"
The anger inside of Eric suddenly boiled to the
surface. "You're just like him, aren't you?" he
grated through clenched teeth. "You think you can do
anything, and everybody's always going to let you get
away with it!"
"Stop it," Lisa whimpered. "I
didn't mean-"
"You didn't mean what? You didn't mean to do what
you just said you were going to do? You didn't mean to slap
me? What didn't you mean, Lisa? What!"
But Lisa didn't hear him, for the truck was moving
again, its headlights slowly sweeping the marsh, twin
eyes searching for them.
"Maybe-maybe he won't be able to see us,"
Lisa gasped. "Maybe if we just stay still-"
And then the lights were on her, and without thinking Lisa
stood up. She stood perfectly still, frozen in the
blinding glare.
Like a bug on a fucking pin,
Ed Cavanaugh crowed to
himself. There she stood, a scarf wrapped around her
head, her black sweater almost invisible against the
background of the night. But it was her, all right. He
could almost see those eyes of hers, those accusing
eyes-and he could almost taste the fear in her. But where
was Eric? But it no longer mattered, not really. He
could take care of Eric anytime.
But he might never get another shot at Cassie
as good as this one. He gunned the engine and popped the
clutch. The rear end of the truck dropped lower and the
wheels once more dug into the sand.
The sudden movement of the truck seemed to free
Lisa, and she screamed.
"Run! He's coming again.
Run!"
Without thinking, she
spun around and lurched off the path, into the reeds and
grasses that choked the marsh.
Water flooded into her shoes and she stumbled, then
caught herself and plunged on, no longer caring whether
she was on a path, caring only about hiding herself from
Eric's father and the truck. But the lights seemed
to stay on her no matter how she twisted and dodged.
It was almost as if they were playing with her.
Eric moved quickly down the path, his fury still growing.
Suddenly he hoped his father
would
find her. Let her find out what could really happen
to her! He didn't care anymore. He didn't
care about any of them! And then, a few steps ahead
of him, he saw a shape on the path-no more than a
small dark mass, crouching low to the ground.
And two yellow eyes, glowing brightly in the darkness.
Sumi.
Eric paused, staring at the cat.
Cassie's cat. Or so they all thought.
There was a reason why he was here, why he had stumbled
across him-he was sure of it.
As he looked into Sumi's glowing eyes, he knew
what the reason was.
He thought quickly, then knew what he had to do. He
crouched down and whispered soothingly to the cat.
Sumi's tail twitched, then he crept slowly
forward, into Eric's waiting hands.
Slowly, concentrating on the fury pent up inside
him- and on the sting of Lisa's slap-he began
stroking Sumi's soft fur.
Beneath his fingers he could feel the cat's body tense
up. It was working. It was all working.
The gray shape rose in front of Lisa like a
shadow out of the night, and her hands instinctively came
up to shield her face.
Too late.
With the speed of lightning Sumi's claws sank into the
flesh of Lisa's cheeks, and she screamed in sudden
pain. Stumbling, she lurched sideways, and
suddenly the grasses seemed to wrap themselves around
her.
But far worse than the slime and reeds of the marsh was
the creature tearing at her now.
Where had it come from?
Why was it attacking her?
She thrashed against it, trying to tear it away, but it
only clung closer, its claws sinking deeper and
deeper. A searing pain slashed through her as its jaws
closed on her cheek and ripped a piece of flesh
away.
She rolled violently, trying to escape the
animal's fury, and then the ground suddenly gave
way beneath her and she felt herself begin to sink through the
brackish water, into the sucking mixture of mud and
sand below.
She screamed again, flailing at the muck that held
her in its grasp, managing to knock the cat
aside. Sobbing, she struggled to her hands and knees,
but then the cat was on her again. She felt her right
leg plunge knee deep in the quicksand as the
animal's claws stripped the skin away from her
forehead. As she clawed at the cat with her hands, she
tried to jerk her leg free, but only felt her
left leg begin to sink too.
"No!" she screamed. Then: "Eric! Eric-help
me!" For a second nothing happened, but then she
heard the roar of the truck's engine once more.
Suddenly the lights were on her again, slicing through the
tangle of reeds which now seemed to threaten
her.
"Please," she sobbed. "Please, help me ...
please. . . ." But the marsh held her firmly in
its grip, and the cat's attack went relentlessly
on.
The harder she struggled, the deeper into the quicksand she
sank. Then, as the shallow layer of water above the
quicksand closed over her, the cat suddenly abandoned
her.
Swim.
The thought rose out of the depths of her subconscious,
and she began trying to fight the panic that had already
overwhelmed her. But it was too late, and as she
flailed her arms, the reeds and grasses only
wrapped themselves more tightly around her . . . until
she felt she could struggle no more. All she could do
was wait, whimpering and bleeding, to die.
Eric burst out of the marsh and paused to catch his breath.
His heart was pounding and he could feel the blood
throbbing through his veins with so much pressure it made his
head ache and his vision blur. But when he looked
back toward the beach, he could still see the lights of the
truck.
Only they were still now, reaching out into the marsh.
Had his father found Lisa yet? And if he
had, what had he found . . . his
He turned away and forced himself to run once more.
Then he found the house he was looking for, and pounded
up onto its front porch to pummel at the door
with his fists. After what seemed to be an eternity, the
door finally opened and Charlotte Ambler, clutching
at the bodice of her robe, stared out at him.
"It-it's Lisa," Eric gasped. "In the marsh.
He-he's trying to kill her, Mrs. Ambler."
Charlotte's eyes widened. "Kill her?" she
repeated. "Who, Eric? Who's trying to kill
Lisa?"
"My father," Eric rasped. "My father!"
Charlotte Ambler stared at Eric. What on earth
could he be talking about? After what had happened at the
dance-
Her mind reeling, she pulled Eric into her house.
A moment later she was calling the False Harbor
police department. It seemed as though it took forever
before a bored voice finally answered the phone.
Ed Cavanaugh sat in his truck, watching the girl
die. It seemed
to
take a long time, but it didn't matter. It was good
to see it happen, good to enjoy every moment of
it.
As she struggled, he began to feel the same
strange pleasure he always felt after he'd put
Laura in her place, or given Eric a whipping.
He left the truck and picked his way slowly into the
marsh, until at last he was standing in the muck only
a few feet from her. Now, out of her torn and
bleeding face, he could see her eyes watching him in
the glow of the headlights. There was terror in them, the
land of terror he had never seen in Laura's
eyes, or in Eric's, and he smiled as he watched
her writhing in the tangle of reeds and ooze. But
even through his drunkenness, he could sense that something
wasn't quite right.
It was her eyes. There was something about them that was wrong.
Maybe, he decided, it was just because she was dying.
Lisa looked up into the twisted face above her.
He wasn't going to help her, wasn't going
to release her from the grip of death.
He was smiling at her, smiling at her with an
expression she had never seen before.
He was going to watch her, and he was going to enjoy every
moment of her agony.
No,
she told herself.
No. I won't let him do that. I won't.
Making up her mind, she tensed her body for the final
effort, then lunged-
comdownward.
She twisted deeper into the muck, and felt
it
close over her head and begin to ooze up into her
nostrils.
She opened her mouth, but no scream emerged as the
thick sludge filled her mouth, then her throat.
Even as her body revolted, retching against the vile
invasion, she forced herself yet deeper, until she
felt the mud and sand close over her.
It wasn't right. She wasn't supposed to die
tonight. If anyone was supposed
to
die, it should have been Cassie. Bi she hadn't
even come out here to kill Cassie. Not really.
She was only going to burn the cabin.
That was all. Just burn the cabin down.
Then, as the oxygen slowly leeched out of her
bloodstream, a strange euphoria began
to overtake her.
In the final moments of her life, the fear and terror
drained out of Lisa Chambers, and she
felt a great calmness seize her spirit. Then the
blackness overcame her, and the last thing she saw, its
tail twitching as its eyes glowed a bright gold in
the yellow beam of a headlight, was the cat-Cassies
cat-watching. Watching, and remembering everything that
happened.
It knew, Lisa thought. It knew what I was going
to do.
Then it was over.
 
Gene Templeton stifled a yawn and tried
to ignore the weariness that was slowly infusing his body.
Twenty years ago he'd just be getting his second
wind along about now. But not anymore. He was just
too old. Still, a long night stretched ahead of
him. He glanced at the notes he'd taken while
Eric Cavanaugh repeated his story of what had
happened on the beach an hour before, then shifted his
attention to the boy himself. Eric's eyes betrayed his
nervousness, but he was much calmer than he'd been when
Templeton arrived. He sat stiffly on the edge
of the Victorian sofa in Charlotte Ambler's
living room, his mother beside him.
The bruises on Laura's face were still clearly
visible.
"Ed did that to you, didn't he," he stated, his
voice flat.
Laura stiffened, then shook her head. "I-I
fell," she murmured.
Fell. Did she really expect him to believe
her? She knew he'd just come from talking to Rosemary
Winslow. She'd seen him there before he'd picked her
up and brought her here. Well, he wasn't going
to argue with her right now. Sighing heavily, he turned
back to Eric, whose expression clearly indicated that
he wasn't sure the police chief believed his
story any more than he believed Laura's.
"You're sure it was your dad?" Templeton asked
once more.
Eric nodded his head obstinately. "I already told
you. I saw him, and so did Lisa. It was Dad,
all right."
Templeton flipped his notebook closed and
tucked it into
the inside pocket of his jacket. "Okay. I'll
go out to the beach and have a look around." He turned
to Charlotte Ambler, who had been sitting in
silence, carefully listening to every word Eric had
spoken. But so far she'd said nothing. "Can I use
your phone? Before I start combing the beach
I'd like to call Fred Chambers. Maybe
Lisa's already home."
Charlotte rose to her feet. "In the kitchen,"
she said, though there was a telephone sitting on the
table at Templeton's elbow. "It's more
private," she added. She led the police chief
into the kitchen and nodded to the wall phone next to the
sink. But instead of leaving him alone to make his
call, she stayed where she was, obviously thinking
about something. But only after Templeton finished
talking to Fred Chambers did she speak.
"She's not home, is she?" she asked softly.
He turned to the high school principal and shook his
head. "Something's on your mind, Charlotte. If it
has anything to do with this, you might as well tell me
now."
Charlotte Ambler took a deep breath. "I
keep wondering what Cassie was doing all that time.
I mean, I could hear Ed's horn blaring. I
didn't think much about it-it happens all the time when
the kids are out there. But if Cassie was in
Miranda's cabin, she must have heard it too.
Wouldn't she have come out to find out what was going on?"
"Same thing I've been thinking," Templeton
agreed. "And you can bet that that's where I'm
going first. If Lisa did go into the marsh, she'd
probably have tried to get to the cabin. With any
luck at all, that's where she is right now." He
shook his head. "I wish to Christ Laura had
filed charges against that son of a bitch years ago.
Something like this was bound to happen sooner or later."
"Laura should have left him," Charlotte agreed.
"She should have thrown him out."
"Well, the fact
is
she didn't, and it sure looks like he's gone around
the bend this time. I'll let you know what I find out
at the beach. If I find anything," he added
darkly.
A moment later he was gone, and a few minutes after
that Laura and Eric left too.
"Are you sure you want to go home?" Charlotte
asked them. "If Ed's there-"
"I can take care of him," Eric replied
quietly. "I told him
this morning I was through with him pushing me around. That's
why he came after me with the truck. But he can't bring
the truck in the house. We'll be all right."
After they were gone, Charlotte Ambler sat silently
in her living room, waiting.
While they'd been talking, a spring squall had
gathered, and now she heard the patter of rain begin on
the roof.
It struck her as an omen.
They're coming for
me, Cassie thought.
They're going to think I'm crazy, and take me
away. . . .
She knew Lisa was dead, had known it as soon as
Sumi came back and leaped into her arms.
She'd felt the familiar tingling sensation, and then the
images had begun to form.
And she'd watched Lisa the.
She'd stayed in the cabin for a while, but then, when she
saw the flashing light of the police car and watched it
speed down Oak Street and pull up in front of
one of the houses across from the park, she'd known what was
going to happen.
What if they found her here, sitting all by herself in
Miranda's house, with Miranda's cat curled up
on her lap? What if they made her tell them
what Sumi had shown her? They'd think she was
crazy. They'd think she'd killed Lisa herself, and
then they'd lock her up.
Panic began to build up in her, and she
quickly closed the damper on the old cast-iron
stove then put out the lamp. At last she left the
cabin, pushing her way through the marsh as fast as she
could.
If she got home soon enough-if they didn't
find her- she could say she'd left the cabin right after
Eric did. She wouldn't have to tell them what had
happened, or what she'd seen through Sumi's eyes.
It seemed to take forever, but finally she came to the
edge of the marsh and slipped into the thicket of bushes
on the fringe of the park. Unaware that she was retracing
the route Lisa Chambers had used earlier, she
forced herself through the lilacs, working her way toward
Oak Street. When she got there, she paused for a
moment, searching the street for cars. There were none.
Taking a deep breath, she bolted out of the bushes,
dashed across the street, and ran up
Cambridge to Alder. Only when she was within sight
of the house did she pause to catch her breath. Then,
as the rain started to fell, she dashed across the street
and down the driveway to the back door.
Rosemary was sitting at the kitchen table, her face
pale, a cup of tea clutched between her hands. When
Cassie came into the kitchen, she gasped
slightly, and rose to her feet. She
took a step toward the girl, but Cassie shrank
back.
In Cassie's arms Sumi hissed softly.
Rosemary hesitated, but then everything that had
happened that evening suddenly jelled into anger. "Where
have you been?" she demanded. "You walked out of here
wearing those-those
rags
comlooking like you'd lost your mind or something, and then
you're gone most of the night! Do you really think you can
just walk in and out of here like it's some kind of hotel?"
Cassie gasped, and her eyes widened fearfully.
"Eric and I-something happened at the dance, and we
left early. So we went out to Miranda's cabin.
..."
Rosemary glared at the girl furiously.
Mirandas cabin,
she thought dumbly. Everything I've been through, and she
went for a walk in the marsh. All the things I
imagined, all the things I was afraid of, and they were
out
hiking!
The last vestige of her self-control dissolved.
"How dare you? I don't know if Diana put up
with this kind of thing, but I can tell you that I
won't. I know you've been through a lot, and I know
your father thinks I'm too hard on you! But let me
tell you something, young lady-your father isn't here now,
and as long as you're in my house, you will obey my
rules!"
Cassie's eyes glistened with tears. "I didn't
do anything-" she began, but Rosemary cut her off.
"Didn't do anything? This afternoon you walked out of here
against my wishes, and were rude to me as well. And tonight
you promised to be home no later than eleven
o'clock. You didn't come back when you said you would, and you
didn't even bother to phone. Do you really think you can
just walk back in and not expect anything to happen?
I was about to call your father!"
Cassie felt a chill of fear. Rosemary was
going to call her father just because she'd stayed out too
late? But that didn't make any sense. She must
already know about Lisa. "You're
andbrvbar;
going to call Dad?" she asked, her voice
trembling slightly. "Which-why?"
Rosemary glared at her, about to lash out again, but then
checked her fury. It wasn't Cassie's
fault-not all of it. For a moment she was tempted
to tell Cassie what had happened with Ed
Cavanaugh, then changed her mind. There wasn't
any point, and besides, it was all over now. "It
doesn't matter," she said. "At least you're
home and you're all right."
But Cassie didn't hear her, for the panic she'd
felt in the cabin was flooding back over her now.
"You've been talking about me, haven't you?" she
demanded.
Rosemary gasped in surprise at the accusation.
"Cassie-"
"You have, haven't you?" Cassie insisted. Who was
it? What had they said? And why wouldn't Rosemary
tell her? "Was it that doctor? The one who thinks
I'm crazy?"
"Cassie ..." Rosemary said again. She took a
step toward her, and Cassie backed away. Her
eyes looked wild now, darting from one corner of the
room to another, as if she were searching for something she
expected to attack her at any moment.
"You're just like Lisa, aren't you?" she demanded, her
voice breaking as she choked back a sob. "She
hates me-she hates me, and she wanted to kill
me tonight! But it wasn't my fault! I didn't do
anything, but everybody hates me!" She spun around
and fled from the room, and a moment later
Rosemary could hear her feet pounding up the stairs.
Rosemary sat still for a moment, then forced her body
to relax. What had happened? What on earth had
gone wrong? She hadn't accused Cassie of
anything at all. She'd been angry, yes. But not
that angry.
And yet-
Cassie's words echoed in her mind.
I
didn't do anything, but everybody hates me.
. . .
But nobody hated her, not really. And to say that
Lisa Chambers wanted to kill her ... it sounded
. . .
She hesitated, then let herself formulate the word in
her mind.
It sounded paranoid.
Suddenly her fears-all of them-closed in on
Rosemary once again, and once again she felt the
urge to call Keith. He couldn't get home tonight,
but tomorrow . . .
told herself. You're upset, and you're not thinking
clearly, and you're overreacting to everything. Stop it!
Just stop it!
Doing her best to shut out everything that had
happened that day, she began going through the habitual
motions of closing up the house for the night. Not that there
was any point to locking up, she thought ruefully.
Deep in her gut she knew that the day was not yet
over, and that she would get no sleep tonight.
"We have to get rid of him, Mom," Eric said.
His voice was emotionless, but the cold hatred in his
eyes twisted at Laura's heart.
Not him, too,
she prayed silently.
Don't let him turn out like his father. Please!
"We can't," she whispered. "Please,
Eric-don't talk like that!"
"Why not!" Eric demanded. "He beat you up this
morning, and he hit you again tonight! For God's sake,
Mom. What are we supposed to do? Just wait around
until he actually kills one of us?"
Laura's eyes widened, and her hand dropped away
from the new bruise on her cheek. "Eric! He's
your father, and he loves you. You mustn't talk like that."
"Why not? And he doesn't love me, any more than
he loves you. For God's sake, Mom, he
tried to kill me tonight!"
"He was just angry," Laura tried to explain, but
the words sounded hollow even to herself. "You
shouldn't have gone off with Cassie like that. You know what
he told you, and you deliberately disobeyed him."
"So now it's my fault that he beats us up?"
Eric exploded. "You don't expect me to buy
that, do you? Now, are you going to tell me what
happened or not?"
"He-he found me over at the Winslows',"
Laura whispered. "I thought you and Cassie might
be there. And he found me there."
"He hit you just because you went over to the neighbors?"
Eric's rage drove the last vestiges of fear out
of his mind. "I'm gonna call Templeton again.
Maybe you won't tell him what happened, but I
bet Mrs. Winslow will." He reached for the phone, but
Laura put out a hand and stopped him.
"He was here," she whispered, her voice twisted with
the sobs she was struggling to control. "Rosemary
called him after . . . after . . ."
"After what?" Eric said tightly. His jaw was working,
and his voice was taut with fury. "Did he beat her
up too?"
Laura shook her head, and buried her face in her
hands. When she spoke, Eric could barely hear her.
He had to ask her to repeat her words. Finally she
dropped her hands from her face and stared at
her son expressionlessly. When she spoke again, her
voice was flat, as if the words no longer meant
anything to her. "She says your father tried to rape
her. And she says she's going to press charges against
him."
Eric stared at his mother speechlessly, then sank into a
chair. His mind was whirling, trying to sort it out. His
father must have gone crazy. Finally, after it had sunk
in, he looked at his mother with bleak eyes. "I
hope she does," lie said softly. "And I hope
they lock him up."
"Eric-" Laura tried to protest, but he only
shook his head.
"He was trying to kill us, Mom. I don't know
why he was pissed at Lisa, but-" He fell
silent as he realized the truth. "Oh, Jesus,"
he whispered, his face turning ashen.
"Eric?" Laura breathed. "What
is
it?"
"It wasn't Lisa at all. She was dressed like
Cassie. That's who he thought it was. He thought
Lisa was Cassie. And he wanted to kill her so
bad, he would have killed me too."
Laura clamped her hands over her ears,
trying to shut out what Eric was saying. "No," she
whimpered, rocking back and forth in her chair. "No,
it isn't true . . . none of it-"
"It is, Mom," Eric said softly. "And it's
only going to get worse." His voice hardened, and
his eyes flashed dangerously. "But he won't
hurt us anymore, Mom. I won't let him.
I'll kill him, Mom. If he tries to hurt
me again, I swear to God I'll kill him."
Gene Templeton got out of his car and started out
into the blackness over the beach and the marsh. He reached
back into the car, switched the headlights on, and twin
beams of light cut through the rain, casting an eerie
glow over the sand and the surf beyond. As far as he could
tell, there was no sign of the white pickup truck.
He started to slam the car
door, then thought again and switched on the flashing
lights on top. If Lisa Chambers was still out there
somewhere, there was no use letting her think Ed
Cavanaugh had come back again. Finally, flipping
on the powerful flashlight he always carried in the car,
he started through the rain toward the cabin where Miranda
Sikes had lived. With any luck at all he would
find Lisa Chambers there.
Twenty minutes later he was back.
The cabin had been empty, but the stove was still warm.
So at least part of Eric Cavanaugh's story had
been true. But what about the rest of it?
His bones beginning to ache, he began his search of the
beach. It was easy to find the tire tracks where the
truck had left the parking lot and started across the
sand, but the tracks quickly disappeared where the rising
tide and the pounding surf had washed the beach clean.
He began walking east toward Cranberry Point,
playing the light on the sand just above the surf line.
About a hundred yards up the beach he found what he
was looking for.
More tire tracks, this time leading toward the marsh.
He followed them across the beach and over the dunes,
then traced them as they led back and forth along the edge
of the wetlands. The truck seemed to have turned twice
then found what it was looking for. Though the rain,
increasing now, was quickly washing them away, there were still the
remnants of two short tire tracks
perpendicular to the tide line, where it appeared that the
truck had been parked for a while.
Cautiously, Gene Templeton approached the
marsh, searching with his light for a break in the reeds.
Three times he called out Lisa's name, but the rain
muffled his voice, and he could hear no
answer except for the flappings of a bird.
Finally he found a narrow path with two sets of
footprints still faintly visible in the packed mud and
sand. He followed them for a few yards and came to a
place where it looked as though someone had either knelt
or fallen. From there a single pair of footprints
continued along the path.
But off to the left some of the reeds had been broken and the
marsh grasses were bent.
Here, apparently, was where Lisa Chambers had
left the path. Templeton played his light out
into the marsh,
wondering vaguely whether he was hoping to get a
glimpse of her or not. If she was still here and had
neither seen him nor responded to his calls-
He abandoned the thought, knowing too well where it led.
The darkness was momentarily washed away by a sweep of
headlights, then by another set of beams.
Templeton turned and saw two cars turning off
Cape Drive into the parking lot. A moment later
they were joined by a third, then a fourth.
Great, he reflected sourly. Just what I need.
A search party that thinks it can comb a fucking swamp
in the middle of the fucking night. I'll wind up with
half the town caught in quicksand. He quickly
retraced his steps and started down the beach. By the time
he got back to the parking lot, Fred Chambers was
busy giving orders to three of his friends, all of
whom, the police chief noted silently, had kids
about the same age as Lisa. As he stepped into the
group, Chambers eyed him almost belligerently.
"Did you find her?" Lisa's father demanded.
"I just got here, Fred," Templeton replied.
"How come you're not home with Harriet?"
"You think I'm going to sit at home when my little
girl's missing? I'm not that kind of man, and you know
it!"
"I also know there isn't much any of us can do out here
right now," Templeton said. "I was just about to call
a couple of my boys to give me a hand, and I could
use some of the fire volunteers too." He nodded
toward Clyde Bennett, who was the unpd
assistant fire chief of the village. "You want
to take care of that for me?" Bennett's eyes
flicked toward Fred Chambers, then he nodded and
went to Templeton's car. A few seconds
later he spoke quickly but quietly into the
microphone of the car's radio. "As for the rest of
you," Templeton continued, "if you want to poke
around, I can't stop you. But I don't
want any of you going into the marsh. Not tonight. It's
too dangerous, and I can't worry about you guys and
Lisa too."
The two men he was speaking to said nothing. Both of them
seemed to be waiting for Fred Chambers to contradict
the police chief. But when he spoke, Chambers
didn't argue.
"What about Cavanaugh?" he asked instead. "Have you
picked him up yet?"
Templeton shook his head. "Nope. Right now
I'm a lot more interested in finding Lisa than I
am in finding Ed."
"But what if he's got her?" Chambers began.
Templeton cut him off. "If he does, then
we're too late already. I'm betting he was so
drunk he didn't even know what he was doing. And
if he was, Lisa probably got away from him,
which means she might still be out there somewhere. But I can't
find her if I have to stand here with you all night. Go
home, Fred. Go home and take care of
Harriet, and as soon as I know what's happening,
I'll let you know. Okay?"
For a moment Templeton thought the banker was going
to argue with him, but then he saw Chambers's shoulders
sag in resignation.
"Okay," Fred agreed, all the authority in his
voice suddenly gone. "It's just-Christ, Gene,
I just feel so helpless. And you know how I am.
..."
"I know," Templeton agreed.
Got to try to run everything, whether you know what you're
doing or not,
he said silently to himself. Then, aloud: "It'll be
okay, Fred. Well find her."
He led Chambers back to his car, still trying
to reassure him, and as his deputies and the members
of the fire department began to arrive, turned his
attention to organizing a search party. "I want you
to work in pairs," he told them. "It's dangerous
out there. So be careful. But we're going to search the
marsh foot by foot. Let's just hope she's out there
somewhere." Finally, as the men began moving carefully
over the treacherous paths of the marsh, he returned
to his own car.
It was time to find Ed Cavanaugh.
The bottle of bourbon on the greasy dinette table
was only one-fourth full, and the sink of the galley
held half-a-dozen empty beer bottles. But for
some reason the alcohol hadn't made Ed feel
any better. He reached down and fished in
the little refrigerator under his seat for another beer,
then cursed softly when he realized there wasn't
any more. Tipping the bottle of bourbon to his
lips, he poured a long slug into his mouth, then
slammed the bottle back onto the table as the fiery
liquid burned its way down his throat to his
stomach. Vaguely, he heard the topside hatch
open, and glanced up to see Gene Templeton standing
at the top of the companionway. "Well, look
who's here," he drawled, gesturing toward the empty
seat opposite him. "Pull up a bunk and have a
drink. I'm buyin'."
Templeton's eyes flicked over the cabin, and
he found himself almost relieved that there was no sign of
Lisa Chambers. "Thought you and I ought to have a little
chat, Ed," he said. He moved into the grubby
interior of the fishing boat, and wondered how even Ed
Cavanaugh could stand the mess. Everything in sight was
covered with grease, and the sole of the cabin was strewn
with a tangle of ropes, tools, floats, and odd
bits of net. Trying to ignore it, he slid into the
dinette opposite Cavanaugh and poured himself a
shot of whiskey he had no intention of drinking.
"Saw your truck up on the street," he said,
doing his best to sound casual. Ed was so
drunk, he might just be able to catch him completely
off guard. "Just thought I'd drop in and say
hello."
Cavanaugh's brows arched skeptically. "Well,
ain't you the sociable one," he grunted. "And why
shouldn't my truck be up there? It against the law
to park on the street now?"
"Just thought you might have let Eric have it tonight," he
offered. "It being Saturday night. Know what I
mean?" he added, forcing the kind of lewd wink
Cavanaugh was so good at.
Ed snickered drunkenly. "Little shit'll be lucky
if I even let "im live, after tonight." He
laughed mirthlessly. "An" I bet he's so
scared he never even says boo to me again."
"Scared?" Templeton asked. It was working.
Cavanaugh was going to admit to the whole thing. "How
come he should be scared?"
was "Cause of what I did," Ed told him, a
boozy cackle bubbling out of his throat. "Caught
him down on the beach with Cassie Winslow and scared
the piss out of both of them."
Now it was Templeton who frowned with puzzlement.
"What are you talking about, Ed? What did you do?"
Suddenly Cavanaugh's expression took
on a look of cunning. "Oh, no," he said. "I
know what you're trying to do. You're trying to pin it on
me, ain't you? But I didn't do
nothin". All I did was chase "em around,
till they ran into the marsh. An" I tried to save
her. I really did."
"Tried to save her?" Templeton echoed, a
tight knot of fear forming in his stomach. "Tried
to save who?"
Ed eyed him blearily. "Cassie," he mumbled.
"Ain't you listenin', Templeton? Goddamn
bitch went off the trail and got caught in the
quicksand. Tried to get to her, but jus' couldn't do it.
Jus' couldn't do it . . ." His voice faded
away. He reached for the bourbon bottle, but before he
could grasp it, Gene Templeton's hand closed
on his wrist.
"You've had enough, Ed," he said quietly. "In
feet you've had a lot more than enough. I'm taking
you in."
Ed's eyes opened in drunken surprise. "Me?
What for? What did I do?"
Templeton regarded the other man with a mixture of
pity and contempt. "You don't know, do you?" he
asked quietly. "You really don't know."
 
It's
not real. None of it is really happening at all.
It's all a bad dream, and I'm going to wake
up,
and
everything's going to be fine.
Even as the thoughts flitted through her mind, Rosemary
knew it wasn't a dream and that she wasn't going
to wake up. A numbness had settled over her, and
when her eyes wandered to the clock above the sink, she
could barely believe it was only a little after two
A.m. The weariness that suffused her mind and body
insisted that it must be close to dawn.
And at dawn, she was now certain, she would still be
numbly awake, still be dressed, still be sitting up
somewhere in the house, waiting.
Waiting for what?
For word that Lisa Chambers had been found? But all
of them knew, though
no one
had yet said it, that when Lisa was found she was going
to be-
She couldn't say it, couldn't deal with it.
Tiredly, she faced Gene Templeton,
knowing that whatever had to be said, had to be said by her.
Laura Cavanaugh seemed to have retreated into some
secret place inside herself, and Eric and Cassie
had sat listening impassively as Templeton
repeated what Ed Cavanaugh had told him.
Once or twice Eric shook his head as if to deny
his father's version of what had happened on the beach.
Cassie had revealed no reaction whatsoever, but
merely listened.in silence, her expression
completely impassive. As Rosemary had watched
the
girl, she had the strange feeling that Cassie already
knew what Ed had told the police chief.
"Then what are you going to do?" Rosemary asked.
"What is it you want us to do?"
Templeton shrugged, betraying his helplessness. "I
can keep Ed locked up for the rest of the night, but tomorrow,
I don't know. If Laura won't charge him-"
"But I'll bring charges," Rosemary insisted.
"For God's sake, Gene, he tried to rape
me!"
"Did he?" Templeton replied,
reluctantly assuming the role of devil's
advocate. "We went through this earlier, Rosemary.
There isn't a mark on you, and there are no
witnesses-"
"Jennifer saw-"
"We already know what Jennifer saw," Templeton
repeated for the third time. "She saw you on the
telephone, and Ed standing next to you. That's all.
If you had a bruise, a scratch, anything!-I
might have something to go on. As it is, though, if you
bring charges against him he'll just countersue. And when
I strip-searched him an hour ago, I found the
bruise he needs to back himself up, which you've already
admitted you gave him." His lips twisted into a
rueful grin. "The odds are, though, that he was too
drunk to remember exactly what happened. So there
we are-he swears he didn't see Lisa on the
beach at all, and right now he's absolutely
certain that Gassie is dead. He insists he saw
her go into the quicksand but couldn't get to her in time to save
her. Not that I can put much credence in anything Ed
says, given his condition."
"He didn't even try. He hates me, you
know." The words had come from Cassie.
Templeton studied Cassie carefully for a
moment. She was holding something back, he was almost
certain of it But what? And why would Ed Cavanaugh
hate her? But her eyes had taken on a
veiled look that told him she'd said all she was
going to.
Appalled by the realization of what she had said,
Cassie sat silently, hands tightly clasped in
front of her. She wanted to tell them she knew
exactly what had happened to Lisa, tell them that
Mr. Cavanaugh could have saved her, but instead he'd
stood there and watched her die. But what could she say
that would make them believe her? If she told them the
truth-that she'd seen the whole thing through Sumi's
eyes- they'd only think she was crazy. "He-he
wouldn't have tried," she stammered as her stepmother and the
police chief continued to stare at her. "If he
thought Lisa was me, he wouldn't have done anything.
He-he hates me. He didn't even want
Eric to talk to me anymore!"
"All right," Templeton said heavily, standing up
and pulling his raincoat on. "I'd better get out
to the marsh and see what's happened. Ed can sit in a
cell the rest of the night, and in the morning I'll
think of something to charge him with. I can try failure
to report evidence of a crime or something." He
turned to face Laura. "Unless you decide
to change your mind."
Laura looked up fearfully. "I
can't." Her voice was a whisper. "I just can't. You
have to understand. ..."
Templeton nodded wearily. He did, indeed,
understand, for the position Laura had taken tonight was no
different from what he'd seen again and again as a
policeman in Boston: women who were absolutely
certain that the only way to save themselves from worse
beatings was to keep silent about the ones they had already
suffered. And in a way they were right, for too many men
had come out of courtrooms swearing they had changed,
only to return to their wives with their hatreds festering
deeper than ever.
Some of those women, Templeton knew, had paid with
their lives for assuming the law could protect them.
Laura Cavanaugh had no intention of becoming one
of those.
"Okay," he said, his voice gentle. "Ill do
what I can to hold him, but I can't tell you he's
not going to do it again, Laura. You know he is."
Now it was Eric who broke his long silence. "He
won't," he said, his voice clear. "I told
Mom, and I'll tell you too. If he ever
tries to beat either one of us again, I'll kill him."
Templeton gazed silently at the boy. Something
in Eric, he realized, had changed. Always
before there had been a gentleness and kindness in Eric that
he'd always marveled at. By rights the boy should have been
silent and brooding, striking out at others in
retribution for the injustices he suffered at home.
In Templeton's experience, most boys Eric's
age and with Eric's background had long since shown
some rebellion.
But Eric never had. Always he'd seemed to rise
above his father's hatred, had appeared almost untouched
by it. But now there was a hardness in the boy's eyes, a
detached coldness. Eric's words had not been uttered
in momentary anger.
"That won't be an answer, Eric," he said
quietly. "In a few more years you'll be out of it.
If you can't stand it now, file charges against him
yourself, or take off. But don't even think about
killing him. He'd probably kill you first, but
even if he didn't, you'd never get away with it.
You're a good kid, Eric-you always have been. Don't
let him push you into destroying your own life."
Eric's lips tightened, and the expression in his eyes
didn't change. Finally, with nothing left to be said,
Templeton buttoned up his raincoat and
disappeared out into the night. When he was gone,
Rosemary looked nervously at Eric, but
he didn't seem aware of her gaze. His eyes were
fixed on Cassie with an intensity that made
Rosemary turn to look at her stepdaughter.
Cassie was returning Eric's steady gaze.
An icy chill passed through Rosemary's body.
They're hiding something,
she thought.
They know something that neither of them wants to talk about.
The rain finally stopped as dawn began to break, but still
the morning light came slowly. Leaden clouds
hung low over the sea, and the horizon seemed not
to exist at all. It was as if False Harbor, that
morning, had been suspended in both space and time.
Charlotte Ambler opened the drapes over the front
windows of her house and looked out into the gray
morning. A somnolent foreboding hung over the
village, and there was none of the usual Sunday
morning peacefulness that had always been her favorite
part of her week. On any other rainy Sunday
morning she would be lighting a fire in her
fireplace and curling up in her robe to slowly
peruse the thick weekend edition of the Boston
paper. But this morning was not like other Sunday
mornings.
She gazed out toward the marsh, where the tired
figures of the searchers were now clearly silhouetted
against the gun-metal sky. A knot of people had already
gathered in the
andbrvbar;
parking lot at the end of Oak Street, and as she
watched them quietly talking among themselves, she
realized that she was seeing a reflection of both the
best and the worst of village living.
In another place-a larger city-Lisa
Chambers's disappearance would have been noted in the
morning paper, and the search would have gone quietly on,
almost unnoticed. And for most people, life, too, would have
gone quietly on, essentially unchanged for the
absence of a single member of their society.
But in False Harbor there was no morning paper;
indeed, none was needed, for by now, Charlotte was quite
certain, there wasn't a soul in town who was unaware
of what had happened last night, at least in its
barest essentials. But in the realm of detail there
would be as many versions filtering from ear to ear as there were
mouths to speak them, and until the truth about what had
happened to Lisa was discovered, there would be scant
attention paid to any other subject.
She turned away from her front window and went to the
kitchen. Soon people would begin noticing that her
drapes were open and would start dropping by, some
looking for news, some only needing a respite from the
vigil by the beach. Her large percolator had just
begun
to
simmer when the doorbell rang for the first time. When
she opened the front door, she wasn't surprised
to see Gene Templeton standing on the front
porch, looking every bit as tired as she herself felt.
"Anything?" she asked.
Templeton shook his head. "Not yet."
"What about Ed Cavanaugh?"
Templeton shrugged. "I found him on his boat,
dead drunk. He-well, he claims there's a
body out there all right. But he says it's Cassie
Winslow's. He says he saw her in some quicksand but
couldn't get to her."
"Cassie?" Charlotte echoed. "But Eric said-"
"I know," Templeton interrupted. "And if there
is
a body out there, it isn't Cassie. She's at
home with Rosemary. Anyway, a little while ago
I got to thinking ..." He fell silent,
reluctant to reveal the thought that had been nibbling at
the edge of his mind for the last hour or so.
Charlotte frowned in puzzlement.
"I keep thinking about Simms," Templeton said
finally.
"Harold?" Charlotte breathed. "I-I'm
afraid I don't understand."
The police chief licked his lips nervously.
"Remember what happened that day? He'd been
riding Cassie pretty hard, and Eric too."
He paused. Then: "Lisa's been giving
Cassie a rough time, too, hasn't she?"
Charlotte's frown deepened as she grasped what
Temple-ton was suggesting. Before she could speak again,
a shout rose up from the marsh and both she and
Templeton turned to see one of the deputies
waving frantically. Templeton's stomach
knotted as he realized that the man was standing only a
few yards inside the marsh, very close to the place
where last night he'd seen the fading marks of tire
tracks on the beach. It was, he realized now,
almost as if they had been pointing at the spot where
Harve Lamont now stood.
Swearing softly, Templeton took the front
steps of Charlotte Ambler's house two at a time
and began loping back toward the marsh. Pausing only
to pull her mackintosh from the hook by the
front door, Charlotte followed as quickly as she
could.
"How'd you find her?" Templeton asked, his
voice low enough that only the heavyset deputy would be
able to hear him. Harve Lamont said nothing for a
moment. His eyes were still fixed on the specter of
Lisa Chambers's face, barely visible beneath the
thin layer of brackish water that covered the surface
of the marsh.
"The reeds," Harve finally managed to say. "I
couldn't really see her at all. But the reeds were
all broken here, and the grass was kind of squished
down. It looked to me as though there'd been some kind
of struggle or something. So I came out a little
closer, and there was just enough light, so . . . so-" His
voice cracked and he was unable to go on.
She was nearly buried in the mud, only her face
visible. Her mouth, wide open, seemed still to be
forming a silent scream, while her eyes stared
sightlessly up through the water. The lacerations that
covered her face had been washed clean, and the
damage that had been inflicted showed clearly
through the water. The skin on her forehead was all but
torn away, and a large chunk was missing from one of
her cheeks.
And everywhere-in every place in which her flesh was still
intact-there were deep parallel rows of cuts that
looked to Gene Templeton almost exactly like the
wounds that had covered Harold Simms's face.
Lisa's left arm was buried in the mud, but her
right, almost completely entangled in a matting of
swamp grass, was crossed over her body. From her
position Templeton was almost certain she had
continued struggling right up until the end, then-in a
last terrified grasp at survival-managed
to turn herself over. But it had already been too late.
Templeton nodded curtly, then signaled two
of the firemen to bring a stretcher. Clyde Bennett
and another man appeared with it. Behind them came two
other deputies carrying wide planks, which they
carefully laid on the surface of the marsh, one on
each side of the corpse.
It took the four men several minutes to work
Lisa's remains loose from the oozing sands. When
at last her stiffened body came free, there was an
ugly sucking noise as the marsh gave up its
prize. But then, as Templeton watched in a kind
of awe, the mud flowed swiftly together. In moments
only the broken reeds still testified to the fact that
only hours before a girl had died there.
In a strange cortege, Templeton led the four
men bearing Lisa Chambers's body slowly back
to the path and the beach beyond. Waiting for them at the point
where the reeds met the sand was Harriet Chambers, her
face ashen, her hands trembling.
She stared at the body for a few seconds, her
lips working to stifle the scream building in her
throat.
"No," she whispered at last, and then the word was
repeated, rising into a keening wail that sliced through the
quiet of the morning.
"Noooooo
. . ."
She was about to throw herself on her daughter's corpse
when Templeton slid a firm arm around her,
holding her back while he signaled to Fred
Chambers with his free hand. Instantly Fred was
next to his wife, supporting her while he glared
at the police chief over her shoulder.
"Well?" he demanded. "Are you satisfied now?
Now are you going to lock that drunken son of a bitch
up?"
Templeton stared at the man for a moment, then
decided it was useless to try to argue with him now. If
he wasn't in shock yet, he would be in
another few minutes, and though the police chief
felt pity for Lisa's distraught parents, he had
to attend to pressing matters. To his relief the
Chamberses' friends were already beginning to surround them
even as he stepped away to begin issuing orders to have
Lisa's body taken to the clinic, where it would be
examined by Paul Samuels.
Starting back toward the parking lot and his car,
Templeton saw Charlotte Ambler, who appeared
to have been frozen in her tracks by the sight of
Lisa's body. But as he came abreast of her,
she put out a hand and grasped his wrist.
"What does it mean?" she asked. "It-it is just like
Harold Simms. But what does it mean?"
Templeton shook his head grimly. "I don't
know yet," he said. "And I'm not going
to
even venture a guess until the doc's taken a
look at her."
He tried to move on, but Mrs. Ambler didn't
release her grip. Templeton felt her fingers
tighten on his arm.
"What if it is?" she pressed. "What if it
really is just like Harold?" Her eyes held
Templeton's. "Are you going to say she
did it to herself?"
Templeton's eyes flashed toward the group of
onlookers who were staring curiously at Charlotte
now, straining to hear her words. "I'm not saying
anything yet, Charlotte." He spoke quietly
but with an urgency he hoped she would understand. But
Charlotte seemed not to have heard him at all.
"What if Harold was right?" she went on. "What
if he really did see Cassie that day? And what
if Ed Cavanaugh really saw her last night?"
Templeton heard the faint gasp that passed over
the small crowd, immediately followed by a buzz of
whispering.
That does it, he thought. Within an hour the rumors
would be all over town.
Ed Cavanaugh woke up quickly: a sharp pain was
jabbing through his head, as if someone had shoved a
knitting needle into his ear then jerked it viciously
up and down. His eyes, still closed in a futile
effort to shut out the throbbing ache in his head, felt like
they had ground glass in them, and
his tongue-a thick slab in his dry mouth-had a sour
taste to it. His body felt clammy, and remnants
of the nausea that had first awakened him sometime before dawn
were still clawing at him, warning him that if he
moved too fast, he would find himself on his knees,
retching.
A siren sounded somewhere, exacerbating the agony
inside his skull, and he tried to raise his hands
to clamp them over his ears, but the movement was too much
for his polluted body to stand, and his stomach heaved in
protest. He dropped his hands back down and
concentrated on summoning the energy to bellow
to Laura for a cup of coffee.
Or maybe he should just go back to sleep for an
hour.
His fingers closed on the sheets, ready to pull the
covers up over his head. Dimly, he became
aware that something was wrong.
His hands, instead of clutching the sheets and soft
blankets of his own bed, had closed on some kind of
rough wool. He held still for a moment, trying to think
through the pain in his brain. Then he groaned and opened
his eyes a crack.
What he saw confirmed the vague memory he had
summoned from the depths of his consciousness.
Above the metal cot on which he lay, there was a
concrete wall, its gray paint chipped and etched with
obscenities. Halfway up the wall there was a
small window, covered on the outside with a
heavy grillwork of bars. He stared at the barred
window for a few seconds, numbly wondering if
perhaps he was only dreaming.
But he knew he wasn't.
Carefully twisting his neck, the throbbing in his head
building to a crescendo of pain at the movement, he
saw a toilet bolted to the opposite wall.
Another memory stirred, and he vaguely
recalled having rolled off the cot during the night
to lean over the toilet while the contents of his stomach
boiled up from his throat. The stench in the air told
him that when he'd finally returned to the makeshift
bed, he hadn't bothered to flush the toilet.
Slowly, almost tentatively, he reached out and
pressed the button that protruded from the wall next
to the toilet. Instantly the roar of water under
pressure filled the cell, then faded away as the
mess in the metal toilet bowl disappeared into the
sewers. Ed Cavanaugh groaned, turned his head
to
the wall and clamped his eyes closed again, as if the
action itself could change the reality around him. A moment
later, though, the clang of a heavy metal door
made him roll back and reopen his bloodshot
eyes.
Fuzzily, he recognized Gene Templeton
staring at him with a face of stone from outside the cell.
"Heard the toilet flush," Templeton said.
Ed managed a nod. "Sick," he muttered.
"Puked my guts out during the night."
"Tough," Templeton replied. "Wash up.
You're getting out of here."
Taking a deep breath, Ed heaved himself into a sitting
position and dropped his feet to the floor. His
shirt, smeared with his own vomit, clung to his
body like cellophane, and when he cradled his head
in his hands, the smell from his shirt assaulted his
nostrils with a force that once more threatened the stability
of his aching stomach. "What happened?" he asked.
"What am I doing here?"
Templeton regarded him silently for a moment.
"You don't remember?"
Cavanaugh hesitated, then slowly shook his head.
"I was on my boat," he finally managed. "I was
on my boat, and then . . . then ..." His voice
trailed off into silence as slowly, a piece at a
time, memories of the previous night trickled
back to him. "Fuckin' bitch wife didn't have the
guts to file any charges, did she?" he finally
asked, his lips twisting into an ugly grin.
Now it was Templeton who took a deep breath,
his hands unconsciously clenching into fists as he stared
with disgust at the man in the cell. "She not only
wouldn't charge you, she showed up an hour ago and put
up bail for the only charge I could dream up." His
lips tightened grimly. "I did my damnedest
to talk her out of it, but she's afraid of what you'd
do to her if she left you here. But sooner or later
you'll go too far, and when you do, it's going to be my
pleasure to ship you off to the slammer, Ed. Then
we'll all see how tough you are. The only thing those
guys hate more than a rapist is a guy who
slaps his wife and kid around. Now clean yourself up.
You're disgusting."
Templeton turned away, taking a malicious
pleasure in slamming the metal door as he left
the block of three small
cells. Returning to his desk in the corner of the
squad room, he dropped into his chair. His
stomach growled in protest against the fact that it was now
nine o'clock in the morning and he had missed-so far-two
complete meals, not to mention several snacks. He
picked up the phone to call Ellie, knowing his wife
would cheerfully bring an enormous breakfast to his
desk, then dropped the phone back on the
hook as he realized that he wasn't really
hungry, despite the fact he hadn't eaten
since noon the day before.
It was Paul Samuels's report on the manner
of Lisa Chambers's death that had cost him his
appetite. Not the fact of her death-Templeton
had long since learned to deal with death itself. But what
Samuels told him a few minutes ago had
left him feeling completely helpless.
As he'd feared, there was not a mark on Lisa that
Samuels could definitely identify as having been
made by human hands. She had died by strangulation,
but the doctor was certain that it had been mud in her
throat and trachea that had killed her, not some
external force closing around her neck. Nor were there
bruises on her flesh where hands might have clamped
on her, forcing her down into the mud.
"But she fought," the doctor had assured him as they
went over the report together. "Some kind of animal
attacked her, and she struggled to fight it off. I
found traces of fur under her fingernails, but it'll
have to be analyzed before I can tell you what it's from.
The main thing is, she fought hard, and if it was Ed
Cavanaugh she was fighting, hell have some marks to show
for it. But frankly, I don't think he
did it. As near as I can figure it, she was trying
to fight off whatever jumped her, but she stumbled into the
quicksand and lost her footing. And that was it."
There were a few cuts on her arms, but the ones that
weren't easily identifiable as having been made
by an animal's claws had the exact characteristics of the
lacerations made by two varieties of marsh grass.
In several of the cuts Samuels had discovered
minute traces of the grasses themselves.
"If she'd kept her head," Samuels had
finished, "she might have been all right. Whatever it was
probably abandoned the attack when she fell into the
quicksand, and she could have lain there all night. She'd have
been cold and
miserable, but she would have lived. Still, you can't blame
her for panicking, can you?"
Of course he couldn't. In fact, he couldn't
blame anyone yet. Despite all the talk and
speculation in the village there was no proof of
anything. In Templeton's gut, however, he was
now certain that in some way he didn't yet understand,
Cassie Winslow was involved.
Cassie's words from last night still haunted him.
He didn't even try.
Her face expressionless, her eyes fixed
as though she were staring into the distance, she had spoken in a
strange monotone-as though she were reliving something she
had already seen.
And then there were the eerie similarities between the wounds
on Lisa's face and the angry slashes that had
marked Harold Simms.
"What about a cat?" he'd asked Samuels just before
he left the clinic.
"It's possible," the doctor had replied. "But it
did a hell of a lot of damage. If it was a
cat, it sure was no ordinary house pet."
It all added up to zero: no evidence to charge Ed
Cavanaugh with Lisa Chambers's death, and no
satisfactory explanation for what had happened
to her.
And with Laura bailing Ed out of the single charge Gene
had been able to devise-obstructing justice by not
reporting the discovery of Lisa's
body-Templeton couldn't even keep the son of a
bitch off the streets for a few days.
His thoughts were interrupted by a banging on the steel
door to the cell block, and he got up to bring Ed
Cavanaugh into the squad room. Fleetingly he
wondered if he could get away with punching the smug
look off Cavanaugh's bloated face,
but knew he couldn't-bullies like Cavanaugh were the
loudest screamers when someone finally gave them what
they deserved. Instead he contented himself with telling
Cavanaugh exactly what he thought of him while
he unlocked the safe and retrieved the other man's
keys and wallet.
Not that it did much good.
"Aren't you gonna drive me home?" was all that
Cavanaugh said when Templeton's warnings were
over.
"Walk," Templeton growled. "The fresh air
won't kill
you. And if we all get lucky, you might just be
hung over enough to get hit by a truck. Now get out
of here."
When Cavanaugh was done, Templeton considered
going back to his desk, then gave it up. With a
nod to the deputy, he headed home. Maybe with a
little sleep-and a good meal-he could start to make sense
out of what was happening in False Harbor.
Chapter
 
Ed Cavanaugh let himself in through the back door.
Laura was standing at the kitchen sink, washing up the
dishes from the breakfast neither she nor Eric
had been able to eat. He said nothing, but stripped off
his soiled shirt, dumped it into the washing machine, then
slipped his arms around Laura's waist and gave her
a gentle squeeze. When she stiffened in his arms,
he felt a surge of anger, but quickly put it
down. He nuzzled her neck for a moment, then
pressed his mouth close to her ear.
Tsa sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry about
everything. I just-well, I guess I let things
get out of control last night."
Laura twisted away from him. Her voice was
cold. "Last night?" she repeated. "What
happened last night wasn't anything new, and you know
it! You don't expect me just to forget it, do you?"
When he replied, Ed's voice had taken on the
slight whine that had become familiar to Laura over
the years. "But you have to forgive me, honey. You're
all I've got. I just- well, sometimes I love
you so much that when I think about losing you I go all
to pieces. But last night was it. I promise you that
if you forgive me this time, it'll never happen again.
Never."
"Until you get drunk again," Laura blurted
out, then wished she could reclaim the words. But she'd
heard it all so often before. He'd drink,
then beat her, then-the next
morning-swear it was the last time. And always she wanted
to believe him. Wanted to hope.
As if he were reading her thoughts, Ed pulled her
closer and pressed her head against his chest. Though the
sour odor of vomit still clung faintly to him,
Laura could feel his heart beating, and the gentle
throbbing gave her a strange sense of security.
I don't understand, she thought. I don't understand how
he can still make me feel so safe sometimes.
"I had a long time to think about things in jail," Ed
said, stroking her head now. "Maybe that was what I
needed-for Gene to haul me in. And I want you
to know I don't hold it against him. I'm not holding
anything against anybody, sweetheart. Not against you,
or Eric, or even Rosemary Winslow. All we
have to do is start fresh. I'm going to stop drinking, and
start taking care of you and Eric. But I can only do
it if I know you still love me. You do, don't you?"
he added anxiously. "Isn't that why you bailed me
out?"
Laura felt herself weakening. He sounds as if he
means it this time, she found herself thinking. But then she
reminded herself that he'd always sounded as if he'd
meant it when he apologized. Not once
had it ever made a difference. "I bailed you out because
I didn't want Eric to have to face his friends knowing his
father was in jail." It was only half true, she
knew, but this time she wasn't just going to give in
to him.
Once again he seemed to read her thoughts.
"But this time it's really true. I swear it is. I
never landed in jail before, and it scared me, Laura.
It scared the shit out of me. I lay there all night
thinking about my life, and your life, and what I've
done to you, and I felt like a heel. If you left
me, I don't know what I'd do. I-I think I
might go crazy."
He was kissing her neck now, his lips working gently
over her skin. Despite herself, Laura felt the
first stirrings of excitement rising in her. Almost
involuntarily her arms slid around his neck and her
fingers ran through his hair. A moment later he
picked her up and carried her upstairs.
Eric was sitting at his desk when he heard his
bedroom door open, but he didn't turn around.
For half an hour he'd been trying not to hear the
sounds emanating from his parents' room, sounds he
hated to hear almost more than he
hated to hear the sounds of his father beating his
mother. How could she do it? How could she let him touch
her, after the things he'd done? When he first heard his
father coming up the stairs, he'd gotten his baseball
bat out of the closet and stood in the middle of the room
clutching the bat, waiting for Ed to open the door. But
instead his father had walked on by. In a few moments
Eric had understood what was happening.
He'd had a terrible urge to rush into his parents'
room and kill his father right then. Had his mother
screamed-just once-he knew he would have done it. But
she didn't scream, not at all. Instead he heard
only moans of pleasure, and his grip tightened on
the bat as his rage grew even wilder. But he
didn't lose control. When he became aware that
he had actually taken several steps toward the
door, and understood what he was about to do, he forced
himself to turn around and go to his desk, put the bat
on the floor next to his chair, and open one of his
textbooks. It was the wrong time; the wrong place.
Since then he'd been staring unseeingly at the same
page, battling to keep his emotions in check.
Now his father stood in the doorway to his room, and
Eric had to turn around and face him. Ed was clad
only in a pair of underwear. "I want
to apologize," he said, taking a
tentative step into the room. When he saw Eric
reach down and pick up the baseball bat, he
stopped where he was, a look of puzzlement coming
over him. "You don't want to do that, Eric," he
said softly. "You don't want to hurt the old
man. Hell, I told Templeton you didn't
have anything to do with what happened last night."
Eric said nothing.
"I didn't kill her," Ed went on, his
voice
taking on its whining edge once again. And he hadn't,
not really. Some of it had come back to him as he'd
walked home. He had a vague memory of being
on the beach, chasing Eric and Cassie in the truck.
He remembered Eric disappearing down one of the paths
in the marsh, but Cassie . . .
Cassie had not been able to get away from him.
Finally she'd stumbled into the quicksand. He'd watched
her die. But he hadn't killed her. If he had,
why would Templeton have let him out of jail? "I
didn't do it, son." He licked his lips
nervously and his mind raced as he saw the cold
fury in
Eric's eyes. "I'm sorry she's dead," he
lied. "But you can't hold it against me, can
you? Hell, you hardly even knew her. And you've still
got Lisa. ..."
Eric's eyes widened. He doesn't know, he
thought numbly. He doesn't even know who was out
there.
Then, as Eric watched his father with an almost detached
curiosity, he saw the blood drain from
Cavanaugh's face and a look of terror come
into his eyes.
"No," his father snorted.
"No . . ."
Eric realized that Ed was no longer looking at him.
His eyes, wide with shock now, were fastened on the
window. Eric's own eyes followed his father's gaze.
Then he understood.
Standing in her window, staring at Ed Cavanaugh with an
unblinking gaze, was Cassie Winslow.
"No," Ed Cavanaugh breathed once more as he
stared at the girl who should have been dead. "It can't be
her! She's dead, goddamn it! She's dead!"
Wildly he tore his eyes from Cassie and glared
furiously at Eric. "I saw it!" he managed
to say, his voice strangling now. "I tell you I
was there, and I saw her die!"
Eric shook his head, his lips curling into a
faint smile. "It wasn't Cassie, Dad,"
he said quietly. "It was Lisa. You killed
LisaI"
His face purpling with rage, Ed took another step
toward Eric, but Eric raised the bat.
"Don't touch me! Don't you come near me, or
I swear to God I'll kill you, even though you are
my father!"
Ed froze, staring at the bat and at Eric. Now his
voice turned venomous. "She's really got you,
doesn't she?" he snarled. "Just like Miranda.
She's got you the same way Miranda had you!" His
eyes sparkled malevolently. "Miranda should have
let you die out there, boy! She should have let both of
you die! Nobody ever wanted either one of you
anyway!" An evil laugh bubbled up from his
throat, and he lurched out of the room, his mind
suddenly consumed with a single thought.
A drink. He had to have a drink.
Eric didn't know how long he'd been lying on his
bed, didn't know whether he'd been sleeping or
awake. His father's words still echoed in his mind.
He knew they were true; had always known. . . .
He pulled himself upright, his body stiff, his mind
muddled. An image of his father seemed
burned into his memory, and he could still feel the
venomous look Ed had given him and recall the words
he'd uttered.
He stood silently for a moment, then crossed the
room to the window. When he looked out, Cassie was
still at her window.
But now she was staring at him.
He left his room and started toward the stairs,
pausing at the landing to listen to the house and sense the
atmosphere. He heard no sound, but neither did he
feel the tension that always hung in the air when his father was
at home. Slowly, almost against his own wishes, he
started down the stairs.
He found his mother in the parlor, sitting stiffly on
one of the wing-back chairs which were only used on
special occasions, her eyes fixed on some point
beyond the window. When he spoke to her, she didn't
seem to hear him, but finally, just as he was about to speak
again, she swung around
to
look at him. Her eyes, usually filled with fear,
had taken on a look of tired resignation, as if
she had finally faced herself and found herself wanting.
"I'll never get out," she said, and the emptiness in
her eyes was matched by her voice. "After
everything he's done, I forgave him. How could I have
done that, Eric? How could
Eric's eyes glittered with barely contained fury.
"What happened?" he demanded, his voice low but with
an edge so sharp it made Laura flinch. "He said
Miranda should have let us die. He said no one ever
wanted us. Tell me what happened, Mother. Tell
me what he was talking about!"
Laura gazed blankly at her son for a moment,
then seemed to focus.  "Miranda," she breathed,
nodding slowly. "But it was so long ago. So very long
ago. ..."
It had been a Saturday. One of those hot humid
Saturdays when the house was almost unbearable. Ed had
been on edge all day, and she'd done her best not
to do anything that might annoy him. After lunch, when
he suggested he take Eric to the beach, she was
relieved. It would give her a chance to catch up with the
laundry and the
thousand-and-One other things she somehow never quite found the
time to keep on top of. And so she'd packed a
change of clothes for Eric and sent them off. But a
couple of hours later, when she'd finished the
laundry, the heat had finally gotten to her.
She'd decided to join Ed and Eric at the
beach.
She knew where they always went-far out to Cranberry
Point, where the summer people never went. And it hadn't
taken long to find them.
Find Ed, at least.
He was lying on a blanket making love to Diana
Winslow, the two of them locked in a passionate
embrace. Then Ed must have sensed her presence, for
he looked up. As Laura stared at him,
speechless with shock and disappointment, she saw his
humiliation turn to rage.
And the children
-
Eric and Cassie
-
were gone.
She never remembered much about what happened in the
next half hour. All she'd known was that she had
to find Eric.
And she'd found him.
Found him in Miranda's house.
Miranda had smiled at her as she'd come through the
front door
-
a strange smile that chilled Laura's
heart.
"I found them," Miranda told her. "I found them
in the quicksand, and they're mine now. They belong to me."
Laura said nothing. Instead she snatched both of the
children up into her arms and fled from the cabin in the marsh,
rushing almost blindly through the bog until she was back
on the beach. And there she had found Ed and Diana,
waiting for her. She demanded to know how they could dare
behave as they had. Didn't they know the children could have
been killed in the marsh?
Neither of them had said a word, and as Laura watched
them, she slowly realized why they weren't speaking
to her.
They weren't speaking because they had nothing to say.
Consumed by their own desires, neither of them, neither
Eric's father nor Cassie's mother, had cared if the
children lived or died.
Laura never spoke of the incident afterward, never told
anyone what had happened that day on the beach. A
month later Diana had left False Harbor,
taking Cassie with her.
And being unable to face raising Eric alone-had
stayed with Ed.
After that day on the beach the bearings began. In his own
mind, Ed had blamed her. Blamed her-and
Eric too- for what she witnessed that day. Now,
brokenly, painfully tearing away the scars that had
hidden her wounds for years, she told Eric the whole
story. "That's why he hates us, Eric," she
finished, her voice barely audible. "He hates
us because of his own shame-shame for betraying me, shame
because he knows that you could have died and it would have been his
fault. He hates me because I
know,"
she finished, her voice cracking. "He must have thought
I'd leave him. But I couldn't-I just couldn't!"
Eric froze, staring at his mother, who finally turned
back once more to face him with beseeching eyes.
"You have to forgive me, Eric," she pleaded. "You have
to.
The room reeled, and a black abyss seemed
to yawn at Eric's feet. As his mind spun with his
effort to grasp what his mother had said, the memories
came flooding back to him.
He saw a face looming over a bed-his bed.
Eyes filled with hatred glared down at him from
above, and a horrible odor hung in the air. He
tried to roll away from it, but every time he tried
to squirm under the blankets, rough hands-hands so big
they could have crushed him-reached down to snatch
the blanket away. And there was a voice, and words
he'd never been able to remember before. Now they rang
clear in his memory.
"You're nothing," the voice had said. "You should be
dead now, you understand me? Nobody wants you, boy.
And I'm gonna make you wish you
had
died!"
After a while the voice had stopped, but the beatings
had started. And all his life, no matter what
he'd done, it had never been right, never been quite good
enough, never pleased his father.
And all because of something that had happened when he was
only two years old.
"Why?" He uttered the word as an almost formless
croak, but he could see that his mother understood.
"It was the shame," Laura said brokenly. "Can't
you see, Eric? It was the shame. He never got
over the shame. ..."
"Shame?" Eric repeated, the shattered fragments of
his life suddenly coalescing into a rage that
surpassed all the anger he had ever felt before.
"He wasn't ashamed of what he did! He was
ashamed that he got caught! But he's never been
ashamed of what he's done to us! And what
about you? Didn't you care what he was doing to me? I
figured out a long time ago you don't give a
damn what he does
to
you! But what about me? I didn't know what he'd
done. I was just a baby! How could you let him do that
to me?"
He was shouting now, and Laura cowered on the chair,
shrinking away from his words.
"How?" he screamed. "How could you let it
happen?"
Laura pushed herself to her feet and took a step
toward Eric, but he backed away.
"Don't touch me," he whispered. "Don't you ever
touch me again."
"No, Eric," Laura pleaded. "No. I love
you, Eric . . . I've always loved you. Please .
. . ?"
"Loved me?" Eric wailed. "If you loved me,
you wouldn't have let it happen!"
"I couldn't help it, Eric. I tried ... I
tried so hard-"
Eric's hand clenched into a fist and he drew his arm
back, ready to strike the pathetic figure before him.
Laura froze-like a rabbit trapped in the
glare of a headlight-waiting for the blow.
"Do it," she whispered. "You hurt so much, and you're
so angry. Do it, Eric."
Slowly, through an agonized exercise of sheer will,
Eric unclenched his fist and dropped his arm to his
side.
Something in his eyes changed, and Laura felt her
blood run cold. In that moment when Eric had
refused to strike her, she knew she had lost him
forever. "I didn't mean for it to happen," she said
quietly. "If I'd known what would happen- his
"But you did know, Mother," Eric said quietly. "You
knew right from the beginning. You knew what he did
to me. And you didn't do anything about it."
As he turned and walked out of the house, Laura
sank back into her chair.
He's gone,
she thought.
He's gone and he'll never be back.
She's dead,
Ed Cavanaugh thought. I
was there and saw her die, and if she hadn't died, I
would have killed her!
But she wasn't dead.
She had been standing there in her bedroom
window, staring at him as if she could see right into his
brain, and she'd been smiling at him.
She knew. She knew what he'd tried to do,
knew what he'd wanted to do. Somehow she had
tricked him.
He turned the key in the ignition of the
Big Ed,
then waited for the glow-plug indicator to go out. The
engine turned over slowly, started to die, then
caught. It coughed loudly, and a plume of black
exhaust belched up from the stern, filling the cabin with
choking fumes.
Ed stumbled toward a window, pushed it open, and
breathed deeply of the fresh air outside. Then,
while the engine warmed up, he took a swig from the
fresh bottle of bourbon sitting on the chart table
next to the helm, and went out to start casting off his
mooring lines.
He had to get away, had to think it all out.
The engine smoothed out to a steady rumble, and Ed cast
off the last line then stepped to the secondary helm
on the after deck of the trawler. He put the
transmission in reverse and began backing out of the
slip.
The bow of the Big
Ed
swung around, hitting the starboard side of the boat
next to it and scraping its entire length before clearing
the slip to drift out into the channel. Ignoring (lie
damage he'd done to the other boat, Ed went back
inside the cabin and slid onto the helmsman's
seat. Throwing the transmission into forward, he pushed
the big engine up a notch, then gulped another shot
of bourbon out of the bottle. Tending the wheel with one
hand, he maneuvered the trawler down the channel
toward the open sea. Not until he had passed
Cranberry Point did he begin to feel safe.
They couldn't get at him now.
Maybe he'd head toward Hyannis and spend a
day or two there. He had a lot of friends in
Hyannis, and most of them owed him a drink.
I have to
do
something, Laura Cavanaugh thought. I can't just
keep sitting here, waiting for something to happen. I have
to do something.
Outside, the light was beginning to fade as the sun
set, and it occurred to Laura that she hadn't moved
all day. She'd simply sat, her mind numb,
staring sightlessly out the window, waiting. . .
.
Waiting for what?
For Eric to come home?
But Eric wasn't coming home. Deep in her heart
she was certain that Eric would never come home again.
Ed, then.
Ed would come home. And then what would happen? Would
she tell him that Eric was gone and wouldn't be coming
back?
He would blame it on her, and then-
She couldn't go on with the thought, knowing too clearly where
it would lead.
She had to get out. If she was still there when Ed came
home, this time he would kill her.
She tried to move but couldn't, and a terrifying feeling
of being trapped swept over her. She wasn't going
to be able to get out of the house, wasn't even going
to be able to stand up. Her mind seemed to have lost
control over her muscles, and when she gave herself the
command to rise up from the chair, her legs refused
to respond. She waited a moment, forcing herself to be
calm, then tried again. At last, aching from the hours
of immobility, her legs reluctantly
responded, and she shakily got to her feet. She
left the living room, moving slowly down
the short hall to the kitchen, feeling the emptiness of the
house.
Neither of them is coming back.
The thought flashed through her mind, and though she tried
to reject it, there was a feeling of abandonment in the
house now, which told her with more certainty than any
words ever could have that she was never going to see either her
husband or her son again.
She moved through the kitchen unseeingly, then went out the
back door. Without thinking, she crossed the
driveway that separated her own house from the
Winslows' and knocked on the back door. After
what seemed a long time,
Rosemary Winslow, her eyes red, opened the door
and looked out at her. It was the look on
Rosemary's face that reminded Laura that she had
neither washed nor dressed since Ed had left so many
hours ago. As her right hand clutched at her worn
housecoat, her left ran spasmodically through her
hair in a futile attempt to put it in order.
"I'm sorry ..." she said. "I shouldn't have-"
But Rosemary pushed the door open wide.
"Laura? Laura, what is it? What's
happened?"
"They're gone," Laura said hollowly as
she allowed herself to be led down the hall to the living
room. "They're both gone."
Jennifer, who was sprawled on the floor with a book
open in front of her, looked curiously up at
Laura. "Who's gone?" she asked.
Laura's eyes fixed vacantly on Rosemary,
and when she replied, it was as if Rosemary herself had
asked the question. "Eric. And Ed. They both left,
Rosemary. They both left, and they aren't coming
back. What am I going to do?"
Rosemary glanced at Jennifer, and considered sending
her back up to her room, then rejected the idea.
"Come on," she said. "I'll fix you a cup of
coffee." But when they got back to the kitchen and she
fished in the cupboard above the counter for a mug,
Laura shook her head.
"A drink," she said quietly. "I haven't had
one in years- because of Ed, you know-but I really need
one." She sank down on one of the chairs at the
table, then immediately stood up again, moving restlessly
around the kitchen, finally leaning against the sink as she
tried to find the words to explain to Rosemary what had
happened.
All the years of lying for Ed, and covering up, and
finally I have to tell the truth, she thought.
I wonder if I even still know how.
Slowly, tears welling in her eyes, she began
telling Rosemary what had happened that morning.
 
Cassie moved slowly along the beach, oblivious
to the terns and gulls wheeling overhead and the sandpipers
skittering ahead of her as they searched the tidelands for
morsels of food. The storm had passed, and the sea
was calm now. Sumi padded along at Cassie's
feet, darting off every few seconds in pursuit of
one of the birds, only to be driven back by the
gently lapping surf.
She'd had another fight with Rosemary that morning,
and she knew she should go back home and apologize
to her.
Except that the Winslows' house wasn't home
anymore, and she knew that Rosemary didn't
want her there. Home was the cabin in the marsh now, the
cabin Miranda had lived in and that she knew
someday-somehow-she would live in too.
Last night, even after Eric left, it had felt
right to her.
Safe.
And then . . .
And then, what? She knew what had
happened in the marsh, knew that Sumi had attacked
Lisa. But why? She wasn't even angry at
Lisa anymore, and when she'd stopped Sumi in the
park yesterday morning, the cat had obeyed. But last
night Sumi had attacked.
There had to be a reason.
She turned away from the beach and started out into the marsh,
carefully avoiding the place where they'd found Lisa
early that morning. There were still a lot of people there,
talking among themselves. As Cassie passed, they
fell silent.
She could-feel them watching her.
Just as they had watched Miranda.
The hostility coming from them was almost palpable. Cassie
shuddered, then reached down and picked up Sumi,
cuddling the cat close. Why did they hate her so
much? She hadn't meant to hurt anyone, not really.
Except that she had. Deep inside, she had let
herself get angry with Mr. Simms, and with Lisa
Chambers.
She had let them hurt her, and she had struck out
at them. She mustn't do it again. Never again.
Except there was still Mr. Cavanaugh.
He wanted to kill her. Last night, in fact,
he thought he had killed her. She'd known
it when Sumi came back and crept into her arms,
and the images had come into her mind. She had seen
Eric's father standing above Lisa and felt the hatred
coming from him. But it wasn't Lisa he had hated.
It was her.
And then, this morning, when she'd seen him staring at her
from Eric's window, she'd felt it again, felt it
even more strongly than last night.
She came to the low rise on which the cabin stood, and
stepped into the circle of trees surrounding it. Almost
immediately a feeling of peace came over her. Then a
thought came into her mind, fully formed.
He can't get me here. As long as I stay here,
he can't get me.
Silently, cradling Sumi against her chest, she
went into the cabin.
Cassie didn't know how long she'd been alone in
Miranda's house before Eric arrived. She was sitting
in the rocking chair, her eyes closed, listening to the
calming sounds of the marsh. It was only when Sumi
stirred in her lap that she sensed his presence.
She opened her eyes to find him standing in the
doorway, watching her.
"I know what happened," Eric said. "And I know
why he hates you so much. You're part of it,
you see. You and your mother."
As Cassie listened, Eric began to tell her what
had happened that day so many years ago. The day they
had both met Miranda for the first time.
"Where are you going?" Rosemary demanded.
"I'm going to find Cassie!" Keith replied, his
voice trembling with rage. "I'm her father-what
else do you expect me to do?"
Rosemary felt a lump rise in her throat.
"I expect you to help me try to figure out
what's happening. Isn't that why you came back?
To help me?"
"I came back to help Cassie," Keith shot
back. He'd only been home for an hour, but after
listening to Rosemary's story, he wasn't sure
he should have come back at all. Four perfectly good
customers, and now they were all furious because he'd
insisted on rushing home when Rosemary had called
him on the radio that morning. And for what! Some
cockamamie story that Cassie had somehow managed
to kill Lisa Chambers last night.
"You mean you actually believe it?" he'd asked when
Rosemary had told him everything she knew about what
happened. "You really believe Cassie could have had
anything to do with any of this?"
"I only know what Gene Templeton told
me," Rosemary said miserably. "They found cat
hairs under Lisa's fingernails, and the cuts on her
face matched the ones on Harold Simms. That's
when I decided to call you. And if you'd seen her
last night when she went out-"
That was when Keith lost his temper. "So now the story
is that Cassie sent the cat to attack Harold
Simms and kill Lisa Chambers? For Christ's
sake, Rosemary! You're an intelligent
woman. How can you buy crap like that?"
"It's not
my
crap!" Rosemary shot back. "All I know is
what Paul Samuels said. Lisa Chambers is
dead, Keith, and it doesn't matter what you
think-everyone else in town already believes Cassie
had something to do with it!"
"So this whole town's gone nuts in the last two
days!"
"Maybe it has," Rosemary agreed, her voice
etched with acid. "But Lisa's still dead, and Ed
Cavanaugh was trying to kill Eric and Cassie!
Not just Eric! Cassie too! Why won't you
face the fact that ever since Cassie's
been here things have gone wrong, and somehow she's always
at the center of it?"
Keith had stood up from the table so abruptly that his
chair crashed over onto the floor. He snatched
his coat off the hook in the service porch and was
halfway out the door, his eyes blazing, when he
heard Jennifer's plaintive voice.
"Don't," the little girl said, her chin trembling as
she struggled against her own tears. "Please don't
yell at each other. Please?"
Keith's and Rosemary's eyes met.
"What are we doing?" Rosemary finally asked.
"Dear God, Keith, what are we doing to ourselves?"
Then, as Jennifer ran to her mother, Keith put his
arms around both of them.
"It's going to be all right," he told them.
"We'll be all right, and Cassie will be all right
too. We won't let anything happen to any of
us." He gave them a hug, then released them and
finished pulling his jacket on. When he spoke, his
voice was gentle. "I have to go see if I can find
her," he said, reaching out to touch Rosemary's cheek.
"I guess I'm just starting to understand what the last
couple of days have been like for you. But think what
they've been like for Cassie, darling. I
don't care what anyone else thinks. I don't
believe Cassie would willingly hurt anyone. I
just don't believe it." And then he was gone.
Keith paused at the foot of the low rise upon which
Miranda Sikes's cabin stood. Cassie was
there-he could sense it even before he saw the thin wisp
of smoke drifting up from the chimney.
And on the roof of the cabin, eyeing him warily, the
white hawk was perched, its feathers ruffling as it
moved restlessly from one foot to the other.
"Cassie?" Keith called. Then again,
"Cassie! It's your father!"
He took a single step forward, then froze as the
hawk launched itself from the rooftop, found the wind, and
began spiraling upward. From the cabin he heard a
single word.
"No!"
Instantly the hawk changed course, dropping out of the
air to settle back onto the peak of the roof.
Only when it had
landed did Keith shift his eyes from the bird to the
figure on the porch of the cabin.
It was Cassie, her brows knit into an uncertain
frown. She was watching him warily.
"It's me, Punkin," Keith said
quietly.
For a moment Cassie was silent, and when she spoke,
her voice was heavy with suspicion. "I didn't
do anything," she said. "I know what everybody
thinks, but I didn't do anything."
Keith felt his heart twist with pain. He wanted
to go to her, take her in his arms, hold her. "I
know," he said, the words quavering as he struggled
to hold his emotions in check. "That's why I came
out here. I came to help you, sweetheart." Almost
involuntarily his eyes flicked upward toward the
watchful hawk. "Can I come up there?"
Time seemed to stand still as Cassie watched her father, and
then she nodded.
Feeling the hawk's eyes on him every step of the way,
Keith climbed the hill and stepped into the cabin.
"I don't know what to say," Keith told his
daughter an hour later. He felt sick as all
the pieces of the puzzle finally began to come together.
No wonder Diana had been jealous of him: she'd
been certain he'd been doing the same things she'd
been doing. "I never knew any of it. If I'd
known, I never would have let your mother take you away."
"But why did she even want to?" Cassie
asked, her voice quavering. "If she
didn't care enough about me even to watch me on the
beach, why did she want to take me with her?"
Keith shook his head helplessly. "It wasn't you,
honey. It was never you. She just didn't want me
to have you. She knew how much I loved you. And she
knew how much it hurt me when she took you."
"And she never told you what happened?" Cassie
asked, her disbelief apparent. "She never told you
I almost drowned in the quicksand?"
"She couldn't," Keith replied bitterly. "She
knew if she did, I'd have wanted to know how you
got lost in the first place. And if I'd found
that
out, she never would have been able to take you away from
me." He turned to Eric, who was
sitting silently at the table. "I don't know what
to say
to
you either. All those years ..."
Eric spoke in a nearly toneless voice.
"Maybe Miranda shouldn't have saved us. Maybe she
should have just let us drown. Nobody cared. Nobody
at all."
"That's not true-" Keith started to protest, then
changed his mind. It was the children who had lived
through all those years, who had received the beatings, and who
had lived without love. How
could
they believe that anybody had cared?
"What was she like?" he asked softly. "What was
Miranda really like?"
"She was my friend," Cassie replied. Her eyes
filled with tears as she remembered those few hours
she'd spent with Miranda. "She listened to me. When
I talked to her, she knew exactly how I
felt. She knew how alone I was, and how
different I was, and how much-" Her voice
broke, but she forced herself to go on. "She knew how
much I hurt." She met her father's eyes. "She
wasn't crazy, Daddy. She wasn't crazy at
all. She just didn't have any friends, except
Sumi and Kiska. That's why she knew how I
felt. She always felt the same way. And she never
wanted to hurt anybody either. She told me that just
because people didn't understand me, it wasn't any reason
to hurt them."
In her lap Sumi meowed softly, and Cassie
gently scratched his ears. "That's why she gave me
Sumi," she went on. "She wanted me to have a friend
that really understood me.
Keith felt a chill as he remembered what
Rosemary had told him when he came home.
"Understands you," he said quietly. "You don't
really mean the cat understands what you say, do you?"
Cassie hesitated, then nodded. "He understands
what I'm feeling, and he does what I want him
to do. So does Kiska. That's why he didn't go
after you. I made him stop."
"But, honey, that's crazy," Keith began, then
wished he could take back the words when he saw the
pain in Cassie's eyes. "I'm sorry," he
said quickly. "It's just-well, people can't really do things
like that."
Cassie's eyes met his unwaveringly. "Most people
can't," she said. "But Miranda could, and I can too.
The animals were all she had, and she left them
to me." She swallowed
hard, then forced herself to go on. "That's what I did
to Mr. Simms. I-I sent Sumi after him. I
didn't really know I could, but..." She fell
silent, watching her father fearfully.
Keith said nothing for several long minutes. If it
was true, what did it mean? And was it really true?
He had to know. "Show me," he said at last.
Cassie blinked uncertainly.
"H-how?"
"Make him attack me. If you can make him
attack me, I'll believe you. Then we'll
figure out what to do."
Cassie glanced at Eric but said nothing. "I
don't want to hurt you," Cassie whispered,
looking back to her father.
"Make him attack me, then make him stop,"
Keith pressed. "If I'm going to help you, I
have to know what happened." His
Cassie stared at him for several seconds without
speaking. Then her eyes closed.
She can't do it, Keith thought. She thinks she can but-
In a sudden flash of movement Sumi hissed
angrily and tensed in Cassie's lap. As Keith
stared in shock, the cat hurled himself toward him. A
screech of fury roiled from his throat, and his lips
curled back from his fangs. Keith threw up his
hands to protect his face, but just before the cat struck
him, he heard once more the single word that Cassie
had spoken earlier on the porch. No!
Hie shriek of attack died in Sumi's throat,
and he dropped lightly into Keith's lap. His
tail twitched once or twice, then he licked
Keith's hand and settled down, purring
contentedly.
For a long time no one said anything. Then Cassie
broke the silence.
"I didn't kill Lisa, Daddy," she said
softly. "Really, I didn't."
Keith hesitated, then nodded. "I believe you,
Punkin," he said. "I believe you."
Eric said nothing at all.
Rosemary was playing Chinese checkers with Jennifer
on the floor of the den when the doorbell rang. She
was tempted not to answer it.
All day, as the rumors had spread through the
village, she'd seen a steady trickle of people
passing by the house-
people who didn't live in the neighborhood and
didn't ordinarily go for walks along Alder
Street. But today had been different, and finally
Jennifer, looking curiously out the window, had
asked what they were doing.
"They're just looking, honey," Rosemary had
assured her. "I guess they just don't have anything
better to do."
"Can I go out?" Jennifer had asked.
Rosemary shook her head, knowing all too well the
sort of things Jennifer was likely
to overhear on the streets that day. And so after Keith
left, she'd settled down with Jennifer in the den,
partly to keep the little girl entertained, but also, she
knew, to keep her own mind off everything that had
happened.
The bell rang again. "Aren't you going to answer
it?"
Jennifer asked.
Rosemary sighed, and got stiffly to her feet. But
when she opened the front door, she wished she'd
followed her first impulse to pretend that nobody was
home. Fred Chambers, his eyes red and puffy,
glared angrily at her.
"It's her fault!" he said, his voice trembling
with a mixture of grief and bitter fury. "Everything
was fine here until that crazy daughter of Keith's
showed up. And now look what's happened! My
daughter's dead, Rosemary! Do you understand that?
Dead! It wasn't Ed Cavanaugh at all. It
was Cassie! And she knew what she was doing too!
From the minute she showed up at that dance all dressed
up in Miranda's clothes, she knew what she was
doing! She's as crazy as Miranda was!"
Rosemary stared at Fred Chambers, her heart
pounding. "Stop it, Fred," she said,
struggling to keep her voice under control. "I know
what's happened, and I can't tell you how sorry
I am. But we don't know that Cassie had anything
to do with it. We don't know!" she repeated, her
voice taking on a note of desperation. "The cat
might have been anyone's," she added, though she knew
she didn't believe her own words.
"Bullshit!" Fred Chambers exploded. "You
think anyone's going to believe that? Ten Bennett
saw that cat go after Lisa just yesterday! And it went
after Harold Simms, too, didn't it? I
don't know what Lisa was doing out there, but we know it
was Cassie who killed her. She's doing something
to us, and we all know it! She tried to kill Harold
Simms, and
she
did
kill my daughter. And if Templeton won't do
something about it, the rest of us will! She's nuts!" He
backed away a couple of steps, then wheeled around
and charged off the porch. Halfway to the street he
spun around to face Rosemary once more. "She's
crazy, Rosemary! She's as crazy as Miranda
was! She's some kind of witch, and she ought to be
locked up!" A moment later he slammed
the door of his car and started the engine, his tires
screeching as he pressed his foot down on the
accelerator. Rosemary, breathing hard, waited
until the car had disappeared around the corner before she
finally closed the door and returned to the den.
Jennifer, her face ashen, sat silently on the
floor, staring at her.
"I don't like him," the little girl finally said. "I
don't like him saying bad things about Cassie." She
stood up and came to Rosemary, putting her arms
around her mother and burying her face in Rosemary's
skirt. "She wouldn't hurt anyone. I know she
wouldn't."
Rosemary reached down and stroked her daughter's
hair, wishing she could offer some words of comfort. But she
couldn't, for she knew that despite everything Keith
had said, her questions about Cassie were as great as ever, and
that deep in her soul she had no real argument with what
Fred Chambers had said.
But maybe-just maybe-when Keith brought Cassie
home, she would find out that she'd been wrong, that there
was a rational explanation for everything that had happened.
But the day turned into night, and Keith didn't come
home.
It wasn't the first time Laura
Cavanaugh had spent the night alone in the house,
but this time it was different. Always before, she'd spent the
evening comfortably, doing exactly as she pleased,
enjoying the brief respites from the constant tension of
her husband's drinking and violence. Even having
Eric gone for a night had never bothered her, for she'd
always known exactly where he was and when he'd be
back.
But tonight was different. Eric would not be back, and she
hadn't the slightest idea of where he was. For a
while she'd considered calling Gene Templeton,
but in the end
hadn't been able to. Though she'd poured the whole
story out to Rosemary Winslow, she was not yet ready
to face anyone else with it-and certainly not the
police chief. So she'd spent the evening drifting
nervously around the house, starting one task or
another, only to abandon it after a few minutes,
unable to concentrate. Finally at nine o'clock she'd
retreated to the bedroom-not the bedroom she had shared with
Ed, but the guest room, where the memories were
fewest.
She'd lain awake for hours, listening to the noises
of the house. Until tonight she'd always found the soft
creakings and groanings of its timbers
reassuring. But tonight they sounded different to her, almost
like living things going through some strange torture she
could neither comprehend nor alleviate. And then, when
finally she did drift into a fitful sleep,
nightmares plagued her and she tossed and turned,
twisting the sheets around her like a shroud.
Ed came to her dreams, but he had changed into the
devil incarnate, determined to punish her for sins
she could never hope to understand. And yet in the dreams
she accepted her guilt, for why else was she being
punished? And so she submitted willingly to the
devil's tortures and silently prayed for death
to rescue her from her agony.
Finally she thought death was near, and opened her eyes
to welcome it, only to find that blackness surrounded
her.
She lay still, waiting for the next sting of the whip or
burn of the coals the devil had placed against her
flesh, but it didn't come.
Slowly Laura realized that she had awakened and the
dream was over. But her body, clammy with sweat, still
shivered with the terror of the dream, and she tried to gather
a blanket around her.
As she reached for the blanket she saw the cat perched
on the sill of the open window, a dark
silhouette against the pale silver of the moonlit
night. Its eyes glowed a golden yellow in the
darkness, and Laura had an eerie sensation that it was
grinning at her, its lips curled back from teeth that
emerged as pointed fangs from bloody gums. She
gasped in sudden fear and drew back, clutching the
blanket defensively to her breast.
The cat leaped nimbly from the windowsill and
disappeared into a dark corner of the room. A moment
later its yellow eyes flashed out at her from the
shadows. Slowly the cat began to creep nearer. .
. .
The moon was beginning to drop toward the horizon when
Sumi silently slipped through the branches of the
tree then darted invisibly through the long shadows of the
night. In only a few seconds he was back in
the tree next to the Winslows" house and slithering
once more through a window. When he leaped onto the bed
and snuggled close to the warmth of the body beneath the
quilt, his claws were well-sheathed and he was nothing more
than a soft and comforting presence. Nothing was left of the
golden-eyed demon that had stared accusingly at
Laura Cavanaugh, silently demanding that she
obey his will.
"Did you do it, Sumi?" the sleepy
voice asked. "Did you do what I wanted you
to?"
As if in response, Sumi began to purr.
 
Jennifer stirred, rolled over, then opened her
eyes. The first light of dawn was glimmering
outside, and she started to get up when she realized that
something was wrong.
This wasn't her room.
And then, slowly, she remembered.
Sometime during the night her father had come in, gently
lifted her out of bed, and carried her into her parents'
bedroom. Then he'd tucked her in, kissed her,
and told her that Eric was going to be sleeping in her
room tonight.
Jennifer stayed awake as long as she could, trying
to hear everything that was being said downstairs, until at
last sleep overtook her.
But she was awake now, with her mother beside her and her father
on the other side of the bed. Being careful not to waken
her parents, she slipped out of the bed and crept out of the
room and down the hall to Cassie's room.
Opening the door, she silently slid inside, then
went over to Cassie's bed and gazed curiously at
her sleeping halfsister.
She puzzled over the words she'd heard Mr.
Chambers saying yesterday evening, and tried to make
sense out of them. But they still didn't seem right to her.
Cassie couldn't be a witch, could she? Witches,
if they were real at all-and most of her friends thought they
were- were old and ugly, with horrid, hooked noses
and deep wrinkles all over their faces.
Cassie wasn't like that at all.
In feet Cassie was the nicest person in the whole
world. She'd let Jen keep her newly decorated
room, and stuck up for her when her mother had gotten
mad at her, and hadn't even been angry when
Jennifer had followed her that day.
So Mr. Chambers must be wrong.
She poked at Cassie, but nothing happened. She
poked at her again, and Cassie rolled over,
stretched, then opened her eyes.
"Hi," Cassie said, then frowned uncertainly.
"What time is it?"
"Almost six," Jennifer pronounced, climbing
onto the bed and regarding Cassie with serious eyes.
"Can I tell you something without you thinking I'm a
tattletale?"
Cassie nodded solemnly. "What is it?"
"Mr. Chambers was here yesterday, and he
said something really bad about you."
Cassie's eyes darkened. "What did he say,
Jen?" she asked.
Jennifer hesitated, then looked away. "He-he
said you're a witch," she breathed. "He said you're
a witch and you're crazy, just like Miranda was, and you
ought to be locked up." She fell silent, then
finally managed to turn and face Cassie again.
"It's not true, is it?" she asked anxiously.
To her surprise, Cassie smiled gently at
her. "What do you think?"
"I-I don't know what to think," she said. Then:
"After he was gone, I asked Mom."
Cassie's eyes flickered with worry. "And what
did she say?"
Jennifer hesitated, and looked away. "She-she
didn't say anything," she replied quietly.
"But if it wasn't true, why would Mr. Chambers
say something like that? Grownups don't lie, do they?"
Cassie was silent for a few seconds, and when she
finally spoke, she sounded angry to Jennifer.
"Sometimes they do," she said. "And Mr. Chambers
did because he doesn't like me. In feet he hates
me, because of what happened to Lisa."
Jennifer blinked curiously. "But you
didn't do anything to Lisa, did you?"
"I-" Cassie began, then shook her head. "It
doesn't
matter, Jen. Why don't you just go back to bed?"
Turning away, Cassie pulled the covers up and
closed her eyes.
Jennifer slid off the bed, but then reached out to pat the
spot at the foot of the bed where Sumi always slept.
There was nothing there.
She felt again, then explored the rest of the bed with her
hands. "Cassie?" she asked a moment later.
"Huh?" Cassie mumbled.
"Where's Sumi? Why isn't he here?"
Cassie's eyes popped open and she sat up.
She quickly scanned the room.
The cat had been there last night. She was sure of
it. But this morning he was gone.
"G-go back to bed, Jen," Cassie said.
Jennifer hesitated, but something in Cassie's
eyes told her not to argue. She hurried out of the
room and a few seconds later was back in bed,
snuggled against the warmth of her mother. Soon her
breathing evened out into the gentle rhythms of sleep.
For Cassie the night's sleep was over.
It was already ten past seven, but neither
Cassie nor Eric had yet come downstairs.
Rosemary wondered if maybe she should simply
let them sleep in. Certainly they wouldn't be going
to school this morning, not after what they'd been through over
the weekend.
And what was today going to be like?
She shook her head as she tried to imagine Gene
Templeton's response to Cassie's version of
what had happened to both Lisa Chambers and
Harold Simms. Would he feel the same sense of
shocked incredulity she had experienced the previous
night when Keith had finally brought both Cassie and
Eric home from Miranda's cabin in the marsh?
"I was angry at them," Cassie had explained,
her blue eyes looking beseechingly at Rosemary.
"I was angry at them, and I wanted to hurt them.
But I didn't know what Sumi could do. I
didn't know!"
Rosemary had looked at her in confusion. "Sumi?
Cassie, what on earth are you talking about?"
"The cat," Keith explained, his voice tight.
"There
is
some kind of communication between Cassie and the cat. The
cat understands what's going on in her mind and
acts on it."
Slowly Cassie began to tell the story, and as
Rosemary listened, her shock grew with each passing
minute.
"Sumi went after Lisa because she was going to do something
to me," Cassie finished. "When he came back,
I saw what happened. It's like I can see whatever
he saw." She bit her lip, and her eyes
glistened with tears. "Mr. Cavanaugh didn't
kill her. But he didn't try to save her either.
He just stood there and watched her die."
It had gone on past midnight, and finally
Rosemary hadn't been able to deal with it anymore.
"I think we'd better call Gene
Templeton," she'd said.
But Keith had shaken his head. "Not tonight," he told
her. "We've all been through too much, and I
won't ask the kids to talk to Gene tonight."
Rosemary had stared at him. What was he saying?
were they all just supposed to go to bed?
"I told Eric he could stay here tonight," he went
on. "Tomorrow we'll talk to Gene and Paul
Samuels."
Rosemary wanted to argue, but her exhaustion had
finally overcome her. "All right," she'd
said at last. "I don't know what's happening
anymore. I don't know if I believe any of
it or not, but I just can't think anymore." Her
eyes had gone to Cassie. "I don't think you should
expect them to believe any of this," she said. "Even
if it's true-"
"Do you believe it?" Cassie had asked. Her
voice was low, but her eyes were gazing steadily at
Rosemary.
"I-I don't know," Rosemary had replied,
even though she was certain that whatever the truth was,
Cassie had not yet told all of it. To try
to blame
it
all on a cat. . . "And I'm not going to talk
about it anymore tonight."
Nor had she. When Keith had tried to discuss it with
her after they were in bed, she'd turned away from him and
said nothing. But for hours she'd lain awake,
puzzling over it.
Did Keith seriously believe that Gene
Templeton would accept Cassie's story? It was
impossible. The whole thing. And Gene wouldn't
accept it. There was no way he could. It was too
strange-too bizarre.
Keith sipped silently on his coffee, warily
watching his wife.
This morning Rosemary knew she could no longer put
off dealing with it. Sighing, she turned to Jennifer,
who was sitting at the table spooning sugar onto her
cereal. "See if you can hurry them up, will you,
honey?" she said to her daughter.
Jennifer slid off her chair, went to the bottom
of the stairs and yelled up to the second floor. When
she got no response, she sighed with all the
dramatic resignation an eight-year-old can
summon and started up the stairs.
"You don't believe Cassie, do you?" Keith
asked quietly when Jennifer was gone.
"I-I don't know," Rosemary faltered.
"If you'd been out there yesterday. If you'd seen-"
"No!" Rosemary burst out. Her eyes stung with
tears as she turned to face Keith. "I kept
waking up all night long thinking about that story of
Cassie's, and I just can't accept it! It's just
too-too bizarre!" She was about to say more, but
abruptly stopped herself as Jennifer reappeared in
the kitchen.
"They're not up there," Jennifer said. "They're
gone."
"Gone?" Rosemary echoed blankly. "What do you
mean, gone?"
"I looked in my room, and I looked in
Cassie's room, and-"
Rosemary brushed past her daughter and hurried up
the stairs. It wasn't possible. If they'd
gotten up, wouldn't she have heard them moving around?
She stopped in front of the closed door
to Jennifer's room and rapped loudly. "Eric?
Eric, are you awake?" There was no answer. After
rapping once more, Rosemary twisted the knob and
pushed the door open.
The room looked as it always did, with Jennifer's
toys strewn around the floor and a few of her clothes
piled on the chair. The bed, unmade, was empty,
and there was not a trace of Eric Cavanaugh anywhere
in the room.
Frowning, Rosemary pulled the door closed then
went to Cassie's room, where she repeated the
process.
Cassie's. room, too, was empty.
Methodically, knowing it was useless even before she
started, Rosemary searched the second floor, and
even went up to check the little attic tucked under the
roof. When she returned to the landing, Keith
was waiting for her, looking at her with questioning eyes.
She shook her head.
"They're not here," she whispered, her voice
trembling. "But where would they have gone? Why?" Her
voice began to rise, cracking dangerously as she
tried to stifle a sob. "We hear everything in this
house-everything! My God, you can't even breathe without
everyone hearing you. And they're gone, Keith! We
didn't hear them, we didn't see them. They
didn't even speak to us! Why? Why!" She felt
herself crumbling, and let her husband gather her
into his arms. "I don't understand it," she sobbed.
"I just don't understand any of it. ..."
"Shh," Keith soothed, stroking her hair and leading
her into their bedroom. He lowered her gently to the bed.
"Just take it easy," he told her. "I'll have a
look around. There's got to be some explanation. Just
take it easy. ..." Then, as Rosemary's
breathing began to return to normal, he, too,
searched the house.
It didn't take him long to figure out what had
happened. The window in Cassie's room was wide
open and the screen hung loose. Obviously both the
kids had gone out the window and down the tree
outside. Yet that didn't explain where
they might have gone, nor why they felt it necessary
to sneak out. He went back to the master bedroom and
found Rosemary sitting up, dabbing at her eyes
with a Kleenex.
"I'm all right," she said. "I just . . . fell
apart for a minute, I guess. But I'm all right
now." She listened in silence as he told her what
he thought had happened, then numbly followed him
back down to the kitchen, slowly and deliberately
pouring herself a fresh cup of coffee before she spoke
again. At last she turned to face her husband. "I
can't stand any more of this," she said quietly. "I know
you love Cassie, and I want to love her too.
But I can't keep on with this, Keith. How can I be
expected to believe what she says when none of it
makes sense to me, and she pulls stunts like this?
Whatever the truth of all this is, I will not let her
destroy my family. I-"
Keith's eyes widened in shock. "Destroy your-
Honey, all she's done is take off again!"
But Rosemary shook her head. "She didn't
take off, Keith. That's what she did yesterday,
after a fight. I saw her go. I heard her go. I
even knew why she went. But this morning she just
disappeared. Both of them did." Her
voice
began quavering again, and she could feel her
self-control slipping away once more. "I feel
like I'm going crazy, Keith. I don't know
what's happening, and I don't understand any of it, and
. . . and ..." Her eyes welled with tears, and she
cradled her head in her hands as her sobs once more
overtook her.
Keith watched helplessly, wishing he knew what
to say. But he didn't. All he could do was go out
once more and search for his daughter.
"I'm going out," he said tightly. "And when I
find her, this time I'll wait till I have her
home before I ask her what's going on. This time
we'll listen to her together."
Rosemary looked at him beseechingly. "Not now,"
she pleaded. "Not right now-please. Just stay with me
for a little while."
Keith hesitated, then nodded.
"Go
next door," he told Jennifer. "Get Mrs.
Cavanaugh and ask her to come over. Can you do that?"
Jennifer, her eyes wide as saucers, nodded and
started toward the door.
"No!" Rosemary suddenly screeched,
grabbing Jennifer by the shoulders and pulling her back.
"She's not going over there! If Ed came back-"
Keith took a deep breath and nodded. "All right.
I'll get Laura myself. Be right back."
He strode across the driveway and knocked loudly
at the back door of the Cavanaughs' house. When
there was no answer, he pulled the door open and went
inside. "Laura? Where are you?"
There was still no answer, and he moved quickly through the
kitchen and hall until he was at the bottom of the
stairs. Calling out once more, he started up.
He paused to listen when he reached the landing on the
second floor, and glanced around. Three bedrooms
and a bath opened off the landing. Two of the bedroom
doors stood open, as did the bathroom door.
The last door was almost closed, and as he approached
it, Keith felt an icy chill of foreboding.
Bracing himself, he pushed the door open with his left
foot.
Hanging from the tarnished brass chandelier above the
bed, a sheet knotted around her neck, was Laura
Cavanaugh. Her head was cocked at an
unnatural angle, and her legs hung down
nearly to the floor. Her face had turned a
mottled bluish black, and her tongue,
swollen and discolored, protruded from the rictus of
her lips.
Her cheeks-both of them-bore angry red claw
marks.
Keith felt his gorge rise and quickly turned his
face away, trying to block the hideous sight from his
memory, though he already knew he would remember it
as long as he lived. Gagging, and clutching a
handkerchief to his mouth in a futile effort to control
his retching, he bolted down the stairs and out of the
house. Falling to his knees, he vomited onto
the back lawn, his stomach contracting violently
long after it had emptied itself of its contents. At
last, panting and gasping for breath, Keith managed
to get to his feet and stagger back toward his own
house.
Rosemary looked up at him as he lurched through the
back door, and her face turned ashen as she saw
the look of horror in his eyes.
"Gene," Keith gasped. "Call Gene. It's
Laura ..." His voice trailed off, and he
moved through the kitchen to the little half bathroom tucked
under the stairs. As Rosemary fumbled with the
telephone she could hear Keith vomiting once more.
"Cut her down," Templeton said
grimly.
Photographs had already been taken, and one of his
deputies was dusting the room for fingerprints, but
Templeton didn't think it would make any
difference unless they turned up prints that didn't
belong to Ed, Laura, or Eric. Besides, from what
he'd seen, Gene was almost certain about what
happened.
It had to have been Ed.
He could almost picture it.
Ed drunk, coming home and starting one more fight with his
wife. Only this time the beating had gotten out of hand.
As he stared at the carnage that had been Laura's
face, Gene hoped she'd already lost consciousness by the
time Ed started cutting at her cheeks. If she
hadn't-
He winced just thinking about the pain she would have had
to endure, and put the thought out of his mind.
Had Ed hanged her before she was dead, or not until
he'd discovered he'd actually killed her this time?
Not that it made any difference, really, for whether
he'd beaten her to death, strangled her, or hanged
her, she was still dead, and Ed was still guilty of murder,
despite his drunken attempt to make it look as
if some kind of animal had attacked her.
But animals didn't hang people. If Laura
Cavanaugh weren't dead, Templeton would have found
the clumsy gesture almost laughable.
The medics cut the twisted sheet and gently lowered
Laura's corpse onto a stretcher, covered it,
and carried it out of the room. Glancing out the window,
Gene saw the knot of people gathered on the front
lawn of the Cavanaughs' house. More were drifting
down the sidewalk, and Gene could almost hear them
murmuring among themselves, passing the rumors from one
ear to the next.
"Go pick up Ed," Gene told the deputy who
had finished dusting the room. "Unless I miss my
guess, he's down on his boat, dead drunk."
The deputy-Tony Vittorio-frowned and shook his
head. "Don't think so, Gene. I saw the
Big Ed
goin' out yesterday morning, and it hasn't been
back. Slip was still empty when I came up this
morning."
"You sure?" Gene asked, though he already knew the
answer. Tony lived alone on a sailboat he
kept in the last slip of the marina, and made a few
extra dollars each month by keeping an eye on
things. His heart sank. If it hadn't
been Ed then-
Eric?
It was the only other possibility that came readily
to mind, but the very idea of it made Gene feel
sick. Still, he had to face up to it. "Okay," he
sighed. "Cruise around and see if you can spot
Eric anywhere, and see if you can get hold of Ed
on the radio. I'll go next door and talk
to Keith. They must have heard something."
And yet even as he crossed the driveway and let
himself into the Winslows' house, Gene had a sinking
feeling that no one in the house next door had heard
anything the night before.
 
Ed Cavanaugh woke up with his head throbbing and his
nostrils filled with the familiar odor of stale
vomit. For a moment he refused to open his eyes,
certain that if he did, he would once more see the
gray walls of the False Harbor jail closing in
on him. But then the gentle rocking of the boat
reassured him, and he let his right eye open a
crack to take in the familiar mess of the cabin of the
Big Ed.
Slowly, the previous night came back to him.
He'd sat in a bar in Hyannis,
putting away boilermakers until finally the
bartender had thrown him out. Then a couple of his
friends-whose names would come back to him in a
minute-helped him back to the boat, and they'd
polished off a fifth of bourbon that he'd found
tucked away down in the engine room just in case of
such an emergency as this. He could even remember when
he'd gotten sick, but hadn't bothered to go out on the
deck to throw up. After that. . .
He rolled over, pulling the greasy blanket up
over his head in a vain effort to shut out the sour
smell. No point getting up until his head
stopped pounding.
The radio suddenly came to life, and he heard an
urgent voice calling to him. He tried to ignore
it, but after a few minutes of silence it started in
again. Swearing under his breath, he kicked the blanket
aside and stumbled out of the bunk to scramble up the
companionway to the pilothouse. He fumbled with the
microphone for a moment, dropped it, then found the
transmit button.
"This is the
Big Ed."
The words were slurred, and his tongue felt thick and
cottony.
"That you, Ed?" the voice crackled back.
"Who wants to know?"
"This is Tony Vittorio, Ed. We got a
problem, and we need you back here as soon as you can
get here."
Ed frowned blearily. "What kinda problem? A
man's gotta earn a living, ya know. Can't do that
runnin' home all the time,"
There was a long silence this time, then the radio
crackled to life again. "It's Laura, Ed.
She's dead."
Cavanaugh stared at the radio dumbly. What the
hell was the deputy talking about? Dead? Laura
couldn't be dead- anyway, she hadn't been the last
time he'd seen her. His eyes narrowed
suspiciously. "Don't you bastards try to blame
it on me, Tony. I maybe hit her a few
times, but I never killed her."
In the police station Tony Vittorio felt a
knot of cold anger form in his belly. Didn't the
son of a bitch even care that his wife had died?
Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he pressed the
key on his own microphone. "We're not saying you
did, Ed. But we thought you ought to know. Where are you?"
"Hyannis. Been here all night, and I
can prove it."
"Great," Tony Vittorio replied, his eyes
rolling upward. "So when can you get back here?"
Ed shrugged in the pilothouse. "Three, maybe
four hours."
"You need any help?"
"What for?" Ed spat. "A little hangover never
kept me in port before."
"Yeah," Tony replied. "We'll look for you
around noon, then. But if you don't show up, we'll
come looking for you. Got that?"
"I got
it,"
Ed whined, and shoved the microphone back onto its
bracket without bothering to sign off. "And fuck you
too." Snotty bastard. Just like all the rest of
them. But this time they didn't have anything on him.
Anything at all.
His brain still throbbing, his mind still foggy, he started the
engine warming and put a pot of coffee on the
propane stove.
Numbly, his mind began to accept the fact that
Laura
was dead. A strange emotion began to seize him, and
at first he couldn't even identify it.
Then, dimly, he began to recognize it as
grief.
He'd never considered the possibility that Laura
might die, never even considered the idea that she
might leave him. But now she was gone. She was gone,
and he was alone.
What was he supposed to do now? Slowly his grief
began to dissolve into a more familiar emotion.
Anger.
"I want to go away," Rosemary said after
Templeton had left. He hadn't believed it,
hadn't believed any of it. And why should he? She
didn't believe it herself, not anymore. "I want
to take Jennifer and get away from here." She
watched Keith's face, looking for a reaction-any
kind of reaction-but for a long time there was none. Then,
finally, his head swung around and his haunted eyes
met her own.
"I can't go away," he said softly. "She's my
daughter, dishoney. I can't just abandon her."
Rosemary's knuckles whitened as she clenched her
hands into fists. "She's crazy! And if she's
responsible for what you saw next door, then
she's-she's some kind of monster!"
"Yesterday-"
"Things were different yesterday!" Rosemary flared.
"Yesterday I wanted to believe her. I didn't
want to believe she could have done all this. But this is
today, and Laura's dead, and . . . and ..." Her
voice trailed off, but she refused to give in to the
sobbing that threatened to overcome her.
"And you believe Cassie did it. Isn't that what
you're thinking?"
Rosemary shook her head violently, though his words
were true. "I don't know what I'm thinking. I'm
trying to be rational, and
it
isn't working. I just-Keith, I'm scared! I
keep telling myself that none of this is true, that there's
a reasonable explanation for what's happening. But I
can't. All I can think about is that something's going
to happen to you next. Or to Jennifer." She looked
at him with beseeching eyes. "Why can't we just go
away somewhere, and stay away until it's all
over?"
Keith's eyes flickered dully around the room.
"Just go away," he repeated, as if the words had no
meaning. But
then he shook his head. "I can't do that, Rosemary.
Whatever this is all about, it's partly my
fault. Whatever Cassie is-or isn't-she's
my daughter. I can't just walk away from that. I have
to stay. I have to."
Rosemary's jaw tightened, her lips thinned down
to an angry line, and her eyes flashed
dangerously. "All right!" she said, her voice
grating. "We'll stay. But for how long? How long
do you want us to stay, Keith? Until we're all
dead?"
Keith turned away and went to the window. Looking out
into the brightness of the spring morning, everything that had
happened seemed unreal. And yet the image of
Laura was too deeply burned in his memory
to deny.
Had Cassie truly been responsible for that? He
didn't want to believe it. And yet-
"I don't know," he said at last, his voice
barely audible. "Until I can help her, I
guess. Or at least until I can understand."
Cassie faced Eric across the small table in the
center of the cabin, her eyes empty, her mind
reeling, her body shivering with an unnatural
chill.
It wasn't warm and comforting here this morning; would never
be comforting again.
She knew what had happened now, knew it from the first
moment they had come into the cabin and Sumi leaped into her
arms, purring softly.
The images had come quickly, and she'd watched the
pictures in her mind with growing horror, watched
Eric's mother knot the sheet around her neck, watched
her step off the edge of the bed.
Watched as the cat left his telltale marks on
her cheeks then slipped back out the window.
She even heard Eric's voice, crooning to Sumi
as the cat slipped back into bed with him.
"Did you do it, Sumi? Did you do what I
wanted you to do?"
It hadn't been her-hadn't been her at all. From
the first moment-the first time they'd been here together-it had
been Eric.
It all made sense now.
The day Sumi had attacked Mr. Simms-
Eric
had been holding Sumi that day.
And after Kiska had been shot, Eric had known where
to find him.
It wasn't just to her that Miranda had given her
gift. It was to Eric too.
"It was you," Cassie whispered. "Right from
the beginning, it was you."
Eric nodded, a cold smile playing at the
corners of his mouth. His eyes, glittering an icy
blue in the morning light that filtered through the
scraggly trees outside, were fixed on her with an
odd detachment, almost as if he didn't see her.
All the sympathy she'd seen there-all the understanding
comwere gone.
"But they were our friends," she whispered bleakly.
"Miranda never wanted us to-"
"Miranda's dead!" Eric grated, his eyes narrowing
to slits. "It doesn't matter what she wanted
anymore! She's dead!"
As he spoke the words, Sumi squirmed in
Cassie's lap, and another image came into her
mind.
Once more she saw Miranda-the quicksand closing around
her-a shadowy figure looming over her. But this time
she could recognize the face. Eric's face.
"You killed her," she breathed. "You killed them
all." Her eyes, glistening with the pain she felt,
reached out to Eric, trying to touch him. "Your own mother,
Eric. You even killed your own mother. ..."
Eric's smile twisted into a knife slash of
scorn. "Sumi killed my mother, and
Sumi killed Lisa. And everyone knows that he
does everything
you
want him to do."
Cassie felt numb. He was right-she knew he was
right- and already, deep in her heart, she was beginning
to understand that there was nothing she could do about it.
"Why?" she asked. "Why did you do it, Eric?"
"They deserved it," Eric rasped. "They hurt
me, and so I killed them."
Cassie shook her head as if to dispel the nightmare
closing around her. "No. Miranda was your friend-she
never hurt you. She loved you."
"Until you came," Eric spat. "She was mine,
but you
took her away from me." His eyes were now glimmering
with the rage and hatred inside him. "She was just like all
the rest of them. She didn't love me-she didn't
want me. So I killed her. Just like I'm going
to kill my father!"
Cassie gasped. "No! Eric, you can't!"
Eric's eyes glowed with fury. "Why not? No
one's going to blame me. No one's even going to know
I did it. They're going to blame you, Cassie.
They're going to blame you for all of it."
"No!" Cassie shouted. "I won't let you!
I'll tell them the truth! Ill tell all of
them!"
"Tell them what?" Eric demanded. "You're
crazy, remember? No one's going to believe you.
You're like Miranda! You're nuts! The little kids
all think you're a witch!" An ugly cackle of
brittle laughter welled up in his throat.
"Didn't Miranda tell you what it was like, having
them point at you, and whisper about you, and run away from
you? That's what they're going to do to you, too,
Cassie. And you won't do anything about it. Youil
just let them hurt you." His voice dropped to a
bitter whisper. "But not me. I'm done letting people
hurt me. I'll kill them all, and they'll all
think it was you." His cold smile came back. "And
there's nothing you can do. about it, Cassie. You're like
Kiska and Sumi. You'll do whatever I want you
to do. You always have, and you always will."
Sumi stirred restlessly in Cassie's lap, then
his whole body stiffened.
Images began to flicker in Cassie's mind.
Images of herself, her face bleeding as Sumi's
claws dug deep into her flesh.
Eric.
He was reaching out to the cat with his mind, telling him
what to do.
She tried to fight it, tried to calm the cat, but it
did no good. He was stronger than she was:-too
strong.
And then she knew what she had to do.
Her hands closed around Sumi's neck and she began
to squeeze her fingers tight.
The cat started to struggle, lashing out with his feet, his
claws bared as he tried to twist free of her
grip.
She reached out with her mind, tried to soothe the
furious animal, tried to overpower the hatred flowing
out of Eric's mind and into the body of the cat.
Sumi's mouth opened and he spat at her, his
fangs dripping with saliva.
Cassie could feel herself losing the struggle with Eric
now, feel his mind overpowering hers. She squeezed
harder, her hands pressing tighter on the cat's
larynx. Once more he tried to twist away, but then,
slowly, his struggling eased. A minute later
Sumi lay still in her lap.
Cassie closed her eyes for a moment, fighting against
the tears that threatened to overwhelm her. Then, very
gently, she placed the cat in the center of the
table and forced herself to look into Eric's cold eyes.
"He's dead," she said. "He's dead, and he'll
never hurt anyone again."
But Eric only smiled once more. "I still have
Kiska." He rose to his feet, went to the
door, then raised his arm and pointed to the sky.
Instantly the pale white form of the hawk rose off
the cabin's roof and spiraled upward into the sky. As
it started out toward the sea, Eric turned back
to Cassie.
"He's going," he said. "He's going to kill my
father."
Cassie felt the blood drain from her face, and
tried to reach out to the bird.
But once again Eric's power overwhelmed her own, and the
great hawk flew on.
There was nothing more she could do. Eric was stronger than
she.
She felt her mind slipping, felt a strange
gray fog begin to close around her.
Sounds seemed to retreat into the distance, and her eyes
began to play tricks on her.
She tried to look at Eric, but he seemed to be a
long way away from her now, and as she watched, his
image faded away entirely.
She was alone now, and would always be alone.
But it didn't matter; not really. She'd always been
alone, except for those few short hours with
Miranda.
Now she would live alone, wanting nothing, needing
nothing, sitting by herself in the soft gray fog.
In the fog, where nothing-and no one-could ever hurt her
again.
Gentle swells rolled under the bow of the
Big Ed,
causing a barely perceptible pitch in the forty-foot
trawler. The sky had cleared, and a bright sun warmed
the cabin. Ed lounged in the pilots seat, using his
left foot to keep the boat on course while he
watched the shore of the cape move by at a steady
seven knots. Another hour and he'd be back in
False Harbor.
The flat sea and steady throbbing of the diesel engine
under the floorboards lulled him, and his mind began
to drift. The fog of the hangover was beginning to pass
now, and he'd taken a couple of aspirin against the
stabbing pain of his headache.
So Laura was gone.
It was something he'd never thought about, really, never
planned for. Even when shed threatened to leave
him, he'd never taken her seriously. If she was
going to do that, she'd have done it long ago. But she
never had, and over the years Ed had come to a dim
certainty that she never would. That was the thing about
Laura: she didn't have the guts to fight back, and
she didn't have the guts to leave. In fact, the way
he treated her had been her fault, really. After
all, if she let him beat up on her, why shouldn't
he?
But now she was gone.
Dead.
Of all the stupid things she could have done-
He checked himself. No point getting mad at her
now. And besides, what the hell did it really matter,
anyway? Whatever had happened, had happened. He
shouldn't even think about it, not yet. When he got
home and found out all the details, then he'd think
about it.
A flickering movement on the bow caught his eye, and
he swung his head idly around to look through the
salt-fogged windshield as a snow-white bird
hovered in the air for a moment, then settled onto the
railing around the foredeck. Ed's lips curled into a
cynical smile. "Nothin' today, was he said out
loud, though he knew that even if the gull
could hear him over the roar of the engine, his words would
mean nothing to it. "No nets, no fish, not even
any bait. You wasted your time."
He half expected the bird to take off then,
leaping into the air with a mad fluttering of its wings before
it caught the breeze, but it didn't. Instead it
stayed where it was, one of its reddish eyes staring at
him.
Staring at him almost as if it was accusing him of something.
But that was dumb. He hadn't done anything, and even
if he had, what the fuck could a stupid bird know
about it?
But as the bird continued to sit on the bow rail, its
eyes fixed on him, Ed began to feel nervous.
Why didn't it go away?
Finally, frowning, he opened the window and flung a
scrap of the doughnut-which had been too dry for him
to force down his throat this morning-at the bird.
The piece of pastry struck the bird on the right wing
then fell to the deck.
The bird made no move to go after it-didn't even
look at it. Instead its gaze as it stared through the
windshield at Ed seemed to intensify.
Ed's frown deepened.
He flipped on the autopilot and
adjusted its course, then picked up a wrench and
went out on deck. He started forward, the wrench
held loosely in his right hand.
He froze as he realized that the bird wasn't a
gull at all.
It was the ghostly white hawk that had perched on
Miranda Sikes's rooftop for all the years that he
could remember.
But it was dead. Gene Templeton had shot it.
And yet there it was, perched calmly on the rail of
his boat.
The hawk watched him, cocking its head slightly.
Ed tightened his grip on the wrench. He slowed his
pace, moving more carefully now, wanting to be sure
he was close enough to the bird to hit it with the first swing.
Before he came within range of the hawk, it leaped into the
air, its wings beating furiously. But instead of
flying away from the boat to hover mockingly just out of
reach, it came straight toward Ed.
Its beak opened and a shrill screech burst from its
throat, stabbing at Ed's aching head as if someone had
jammed an ice pick into his ear. As Ed swung
the wrench wildly, the bird's claws slashed at his
face, tearing open his right cheek.
Screaming in pain and fury, Ed hurled the
wrench at the bird, but with a quick flick of its wings it
rose out of the wrench's trajectory and the heavy
metal tool fell harmlessly into the sea.
The bird hovered then, and a strange cackling sound,
almost like laughter, rattled in its throat.
Suddenly, beneath Ed's feet, the boat pitched
violently.
Ed almost lost his balance, then grabbed for the railing
to steady himself.
The hawk dove, slashing at him again, and he felt
a hot jab of pain in his left cheek, then tasted
blood on his lips. Shielding himself with his left arm
and hanging on to the railing with his right hand, he started
back toward the cabin. The bird attacked once
more, its talons ripping across the back of his neck as
he ducked inside and slammed the door shut behind
him. By the time he got back to the pilot's seat, the
bird was once more perched on the bow pulpit, eyeing
him malevolently.
Though the sky was still clear, the wind had picked up,
and around him the swells were building, their crests
topped by frothing whitecaps. But there seemed to be
no specific direction from which the sudden squall was
coming, and now the boat began to roll in a sickening
counterpoint to its pitching. A faint
queasiness began to twist at Ed's guts.
As the boat swung wildly off course, Ed
grabbed the wheel with both hands and kicked the
autopilot off. Now, as the rudder seemed to fight
him and he had to struggle to bring the boat around, he
forgot the pain from the lacerations on his body. Spray
was coming over the bow, and he let go of the wheel with his right
hand to reach out and flick the windshield wiper on.
Almost as if it sensed his momentary distraction, the
boat slewed around, broaching on a swell, and
slid sickeningly into the trough. Twisting the wheel
violently, Ed forced the boat around to climb the
face of the next swell.
The hawk, its wings folded serenely, still clung to the
bow railing, riding the pitching and rolling of the waves
as if it were floating on the surface of the water.
Then, as Ed watched, it launched itself into the air
once more and hurtled toward the windshield.
He ducked reflexively away from the hawk's
threatening
claws, despite the fact that the heavy windshield
was protecting him from the creature's fury. But as the
bird bounced off the heavy glass then settled
once more on the bow, Ed's heart was pounding.
He reached for the radio.
Tony Vittorio recognized Ed Cavanaugh's
voice behind the interference on the radio, and reached out
to press the transmission switch on the radio that
sat on the duty officer's desk. "This is the
False Harbor Police Department, Ed. Do you
read me?"
A blast of static emerged from the radio, then once
again Tony heard Ed's voice. "Something crazy's
going on! I'm caught in a squall, and-and there's
a bird attacking me!"
Vittorio glanced out the window at the bright morning
sun. A maple tree, just beginning to leaf out, showed
no signs of anything more than a light breeze.
He pushed the switch again, his brows knitting into a
frown. "Say again, Ed?"
The message was repeated, but through the static Tony
could hear a note of panic coming into Cavanaugh's
voice. "I don't know what's going on, but I'm
starting to ship water!"
Vittorio picked up a pencil.
"Give
me your position, Ed."
On board the
Big Ed
Cavanaugh glanced up at the LORAN
suspended above the helm and read off the longitude and
latitude as quickly as he could. Outside, the bird
was on the windshield again, its flapping wings spreading
out over the glass until he could see nothing at
all of the sea ahead. To either side the waves continued
to grow-enormous gray mountains bearing down on him
from every direction. The boat was pitching and rolling
wildly now, and the compass was spinning on its axis,
giving him no clue at all as to the direction in which
he was headed. A huge wave towered over him for a
moment, then broke, water cascading over the
trawler with a force that made the hull groan in
protest. All the windows were covered for a moment, and
then the water fell away, washing over the gunnels
and draining off the decks.
But the hawk, apparently unaffected by the deluge,
still clung to the windshield. As Ed watched with
horrified eyes, it slammed its beak against the
glass and a crack appeared,
moving outward from the point of impact toward the
window's teak framing.
"I need help," Ed managed. "I need help,
and I need it quick." Then the trawler slewed abound,
and as the rudder twisted in the heaving waters, the wheel
was torn
from
Ed's grip. He dropped the microphone,
grasping the wheel with both hands once more, then shoved
forward on the throttle with his elbow.
The diesel roared louder, and Ed felt the trawler
surge forward through the sea.
"I don't get it," Tony Vittorio told the
off-duty officer he'd called in to relieve him
while he went out to look for Ed Cavanaugh.
"Sound's like Ed's drunk, but it also sounded like he's
scared. I'm going out to take a look." Twenty
minutes later he was on his way down the channel in
the runabout the marina owner kept on hand for use in
emergencies. As he carefully negotiated the
narrows near the Cranberry Poin light, he tried
to explain the situation to Bill Dawson, who had
been checking out the runabout when Vittorio had
appeared on the dock.
"Sounds nuts to me," Dawson grumbled as he
surveyed the nearly flat sea and the cloudless blue
sky above. "You as me, he was drunk again."
"Maybe so," Vittorio replied. "But I'd
hate to find
out
later he wasn't. You got binoculars
on this thing?"
"In the forepeak," Dawson said. He disappeared
for a moment, then emerged from the tiny double bunk beneath the
bow. As Tony brought the boat around to a westerly
heading, Dawson scanned the horizon with the
glasses. "Something up ahead," he said after a few
seconds had slipped by. "About two points off
the port bow."
Vittorio adjusted his heading slightly and shoved the
throttle to full open. The engine's pitch rose
slightly, and the runabout hurtled forward, cutting the
water at thirty knots. A rooster tail of
foaming spray rose up in their wake. The tiny
dot on the horizon quickly began taking shape, and
within five minutes was clearly identifiable as a
fishing trawler.
A fishing trawler that was violently pitching and
rolling in what was otherwise a calm sea.
Cavanaugh was steering blind. Somehow the hawk had
managed to spread itself across the full width of the
windshield, and its beak, bloodied now, was still
battering at the glass, which was covered with a spiderweb
of cracks. Bits of shattered glass were falling from
it, and one of them had lodged itself in the corner of
Ed's eye. Each time he rubbed at it, the
glass dug itself in deeper, until the eye began
to bleed and swelled shut.
For a brief second Ed considered opening one of the
side windows to poke his head out into the maelstrom that
surrounded him and try to get some glimpse of his
bearings.
Suddenly the boat pitched once more, and the sliding
door on the port side crashed open. Instantly
the hawk abandoned its attack on the windshield and
burst into the cabin itself. The second it was inside, the
boat yawed and the door slammed shut.
Abandoning the wheel, Ed threw his arms over his face
to try to protect himself from the bird's fury.
It did no good.
Its beak and talons nothing more than a flashing
blur, it tore at Ed's clothes, ripping them
away until it had exposed his bare skin. Now it
was his flesh the hawk attacked, and Ed began
screaming in agony as the sharp beak tore into him,
jerking bits of skin and muscle away. The violent
pitching of the boat increased, and Ed was hurled across the
beam, his head smashing into the bulkhead. He
crumpled to the floor for a moment, groaning, then
shrieked as the bird renewed its attack. He
rolled over, but once again the boat yawed,
and Ed's body slammed against a corner of the
dinette. He felt a rib crack, and a searing
pain slashed through his chest. Then the pain was forgotten as
the bird began stripping more flesh from his exposed arms
and back.
He tried to roll now, back and forth, frantically
seeking escape from the virago that swarmed over him,
but there was no escape.
His screams fading to whimpers, he finally could fight
no more, and lay still as the bird shredded his flesh. At
last the blessed relief of unconsciousness began
to overtake him, but at the last instant he opened his
good eye.
Just before the bird snatched his eyeball from its
socket, Ed thought he recognized a face looming
above him.
But it was impossible. It was all impossible. . .
.
And then the hawk's curved beak plunged into his
eye, and the world, with a last flash of searing white-hot
pain, went black.
"What the hell's going on?" Bill Dawson
asked as the runabout drew near the fishing trawler.
The trawler was still rolling gently, but the violent
pitching they had witnessed as they raced out from
the harbor had subsided. Still, the sea around the
trawler was as calm as it had been when they passed
Cranberry Point, and the sun still shone warmly from a
cloudless sky. And yet both of them were certain they
had seen the boat being tossed around as if it had been
caught in a hurricane. Now, with only five
yards separating the two vessels, Vittorio
slowly circled the trawler.
It was soaking wet, with water still dripping from the cabin
roof and running off the gunwales.
The windshield, though still in place, was shattered, and
had caved slightly inward. Scattered over its
surface was a random pattern of small holes, as
if someone had driven nails through it in a misguided
effort to gain entry to the boat.
At last Tony picked up the hailer Dawson
had brought from the forepeak and called out to the trawler.
There was no response.
Tony brought the runabout alongside the trawler, and
Dawson threw a line over its cleats. When two
lines had been made fast, both men climbed
aboard the
Big Ed.
While Vittorio checked the afterdeck, Dawson
moved forward, finally sliding open the port
door to the main cabin. A pure white hawk burst
out of the pilothouse, spiraled over the trawler for a
moment, then settled on the bow pulpit, its head
swiveling rapidly as it surveyed its surroundings.
When he'd recovered from the shock of the bird, Bill
Dawson stepped into the cabin and yelled for the police
officer.
The cabin walls were smeared with the bright crimson of
blood that hadn't yet dried, and on the floor,
sprawled on its back, was what remained of Ed
Cavanaugh's corpse.
The bones of his forearms and hands were completely
exposed, the flesh torn away and scattered around the
cabin. His chest, punctured and lacerated to little more
than a
reddish pulp, was covered only by a few remaining
shreds of the heavy flannel shirt he'd been wearing.
His face-what was left of it-" a grotesque
mask of terror, made even more hideous by the
remnants of his left eyeball, which hung from its
socket by a thread of torn tissue.
"Christ," Dawson breathed. "I never saw
nothin' like this."
"Neither did I," Vittorio agreed, his voice
grim as he fought the nausea rising in his
gorge. "Get a tow line hooked up while I
call in. If the radio still works," he added
darkly.
By the time they got back to False Harbor, a
small crowd had gathered on the dock. Tony
Vittorio was not the only person who had heard Ed
Cavanaugh's call for help, and several people had also
heard Tony's brief report to the duty officer.
As the runabout, laboring hard against the heavy load
of the fishing trawler, made its slow way up the
channel, a murmur of anticipation ran over the
forty-odd people who had been waiting since noon.
In the runabout Tony's expression was one of anger
mixed with resignation. "Wouldn't you think they had
better things to do?" he asked.
Bill Dawson shook his head. His haunted
eyes, still filled with the memory of what he'd seen in
the cabin aboard the Big
Ed,
scanned the crowd. "With what's been goin' on around
here, you got to expect it. They're scared, and you can
bet that after they get a look at Ed, they're
gonna be even more scared."
Tm not giving them a look at Ed," Tony
replied. "In feet if there were another
place to put in, I'd do it. When we're tied
up, make damned sure nobody gets aboard
Ed's boat. And I mean nobody." He pulled
back the throttle, gradually slowing the runabout, then
prepared to lash it alongside the trawler as inertia
brought it even with the smaller boat. Once they were
tied together he'd begin working both boats toward the
dock.
As the trawler closed, the white hawk that had ridden
silently on the bow throughout the long, slow cruise
eyed Tony malevolently one more time, then rose
into the air, found a thermal, and spiraled upward
above the trawler. At
last, with an eerie screeching that echoed over the
small harbor, it wheeled and soared off in the
direction of the marsh.
Every eye in the crowd on the wharf followed it, and every
person who saw it recognized it.
It was Miranda's hawk, going home to roost.
Gene Templeton and Keith Winslow approached
the cabin slowly. A curl of white smoke
drifted up from the chimney, dissipating quickly in the
clear spring air.
The hawk perched on the roof, its head swiveling
warily as it watched them come. But long before
they were close enough for Templeton to get a shot at
it, it lifted off, its wings beating powerfully, and
sailed off across Cranberry Point and out to sea.
They came to the bottom of the rise, where
Templeton paused. "You sure you want to come?"
he asked.
Keith nodded. "I have to," he said. "Whoever she
is- whatever she is, she's still my daughter. I've
loved her since the day she was born, and no matter
what she's done, I still love her."
Then, his lungs expanding as he drew in the fresh
sea air, he started up the gentle slope,
Templeton behind him.
No sound came from within the cabin. All the shutters
were closed, as was the door. If it hadn't been for the
smoke drifting from the chimney, it would have looked
completely deserted.
After pausing on the porch for a moment, Keith reached
out and pushed on the door.
It swung slowly open.
Keith stepped inside.
They sat at the table in the center of the room,
opposite each other.
Keith could see Eric's face clearly over
Cassie's shoulder.
andbrvbar;
His skin looked pale even in the dim light of the
cabin, and his blue eyes seemed to be fixed on
Cassie's face. But when Keith stepped across the
threshold, Eric's eyes moved slightly. Then
he swallowed.
"He's dead, isn't he?" he asked. "My
father's dead.
Keith hesitated, then nodded.
"She said he was," Eric said almost tonelessly.
"When
we came out here, she told me Kiska had gone
to kill my father."
"Why did you come out here?" Keith heard
Templeton ask.
Eric frowned slightly, as if he were thinking.
"Sumi," he said at last. "He wasn't in the
house this morning." He hesitated, then managed
an abashed smile. "We knew Mr. Winslow
wouldn't let us come back here, so we sneaked out."
"The cat," Templeton said. "Is he here?"
Eric nodded, and glanced down at the tabletop.
Keith took a step forward. Then he saw him.
In the middle of the table, his head twisted around in a
grotesquely unnatural position, was the
gray cat that had been Cassie's pet.
"She killed him," Eric said. His eyes met
Keith's and didn't waver. "When we came out
here, Sumi was in the cabin, and Cassie picked him
up. She held him for a while, and then she told me
what she saw." Eric's voice dropped to a
whisper. "She saw my mother hanging herself. Sumi was
there, and made her do it, and afterward-" He stopped
abruptly, shaking his head as if to rid himself of the
memory.
"Go on, son," Templeton said quietly.
"What else?"
"Sumi clawed my mother's face."
Why is Eric telling it? Keith thought. Why is
Cassie just sitting there, letting Eric tell it?
But even as the questions came into his mind, a cold
knot of fear closed on him as he began
to suspect the answer.
"She killed Sumi," Eric went on. "She said
there was no reason for my mother to die, but he killed
her anyway. She said she'd lost control of him, so
she killed him. She-she didn't want him to hurt
anyone else."
Keith swallowed, trying to clear the lump out of his
throat, but it did no good. Unable
to speak, he slowly moved around until he could see
Cassie's face.
Her eyes were wide and clear, and though they were staring
directly at him, he knew she didn't see
him.
Though the pain was finally gone from Cassie's eyes,
nothing had replaced it. All that remained was a
blank, empty void.
Her mouth hung slightly open, and the muscles in
her cheeks had gone slack.
At last, his hand trembling, he reached out to touch her
cheek. Her skin felt cool and slightly damp,
but she showed no reaction to his touch.
"She wanted to stop Kiska," Eric said. "She
wanted to, but she couldn't. . . . She couldn't.
..."
"It's all right, son," Templeton said gently,
laying his hand on the boy's shoulder. "It's over
now. It's all over."
A few minutes later Keith lifted Cassie out
of the chair and cradled her in his arms.
Her breathing was slow and steady, and he could even feel
her heart beating in her breast.
But she herself was gone.
He carried her out of the little cabin and back
through the marsh.
Templeton walked beside him, saying nothing.
Eric stayed in the cabin.
"I just want to be by myself for a little while," he said as
they left. "I'll be all right. I just-I just have
to get used to it, that's all."
Both Keith and the police chief had understood.
Templeton's car was in the parking lot by the beach, and
Keith gently eased his daughter into the back seat.
They drove across the parking lot toward Cape
Drive, but as Templeton paused before pulling out
onto the street itself, Cassie suddenly moved,
twisting in the seat to look back out over the marsh.
On the porch of the cabin, Eric was barely visible.
Cassie frowned, then slowly raised her hand and
pointed.
For a split second nothing happened. Then Kiska
spread his wings, found the wind, and rose into the sky.
He hovered for a moment, as if searching for his prey,
then closed his wings and dove downward.
Eric, relaxed in his moment of triumph and
Cassie's defeat, never saw him coming, never had a
chance to reach out with his own mind, never had a chance
to escape the bird's slashing talons.
Now it's over, Cassie thought silently
as she let herself drift back into the cool comfort of the
fog.
Now it's truly over.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JOHN SAUL is the author of twelve
previous novels which have been million-copy-plus
national paperback bestsellers:
Suffer the Children, Punish the Sinners, Cry for the
Strangers, Comes the Blind Fury, When the Wind
Blows, The God Project, Nathaniel,
Brainchild, Hellfire, The Unwanted, The
Unloved,
and
Creature. Second Child,
published in June 1990, has been a
New York Times
bestseller in hardcover. His latest novel is
Sleepwalk.
John SAUL lives in Seattle, Washington,
where he is at work on his next novel.
JOHN SAUL'S first novel of psychological
and supernatural suspense,
Suffer the Children,
became an
immediate phenomenon in 1977, leaping onto
national bestseller lists and selling more than one
million copies. Each year since has seen the
publication
of a new bestselling novel of horror-among them
The God Project, Nathaniel, Brainchild,
Hellfire,
The Unwanted, The Unloved, Creature,
and
Second
Child,
his latest, a
New York Times
hardcover
bestseller. Mr. SAUL lives in Seattle,
Washington, where
he is at work on his next novel.
Also available on audiocassette
Creature
comes to life on this 180-minute program,
read by Robert Englund (freddy
of Nightmare on Elm Street).