Comes the Blind Fury (37 page)

“Further,” Amanda said. “It was a little further.”

They took a few more steps, and then Amanda stopped, her brow creased, her expression uncertain.

“It’s not right, It’s all changed.” Then: “Over there.” She drew Michelle a few yards farther north and stopped near a large boulder that stood precariously balanced above the beach.

“Here,” Amanda breathed. “It was right here …”

Michelle looked down to the beach below. They were directly above the spot where only a month and a half ago she had picnicked with her friends. At least, they had been her friends at the time.

Now the beach was empty; the tide was out, and
the litter of rocks, worn smooth by centuries of flowing water, lay exposed to the threatening afternoon.

“Look,” Amanda whispered. She was pointing to the far edge of the beach, where the retreating sea had laid bare the shelf of tidepools. Michelle could make out two figures, indistinct in the rain.

One of them she recognized at once: Jeff Benson. And the other one—who was the other one? But suddenly she knew it didn’t matter.

Jeff was the one.

It was Jeff Amanda wanted.

Who did you kill today?

His words rang in her ears, and Michelle knew Amanda was listening to them, too.

“He’ll come this way,” Amanda purred. “When the tide comes in, he’ll come this way. And then.…” Her voice trailed off, but a smile wreathed her face. She kept one hand on Michelle’s arm, but with the other she reached out and touched the boulder.…

June was still sitting by the telephone when Cal and Josiah Carson arrived.

She heard them come through the front door, heard Cal calling to her.

“In here,” she replied. “I’m in here.”

Her voice was dull, and she was pale. He went to her, kneeling down by her chair.

“June, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“The studio—it’s in the studio.”

“What is? Has something happened? Where are the kids?”

June stared at him, her face uncomprehending. “The kids?” she echoed. Then it hit her. “Jenny! My God, I left Jenny in the studio!”

Her torpor was gone. She stood up, but a wave of dizziness struck her and she sank back into her chair. “Cal, I can’t do it—I can’t go out there. Please, go out there, and take Dr. Carson with you. Bring Jenny back with you.”

“You can’t go out there?” Cal asked. His expression reflected bewilderment. “Why not? What’s happened?”

“You’ll know. Just go out there, and look. You’ll see.” The two men started out of the room, but June stopped them. “And Cal? The picture—the picture on the easel: I didn’t paint it.”

Cal and Josiah exchanged an uncomprehending look, but when June said nothing else, they started for the studio.

They could hear Jenny crying before they were halfway there. Cal broke into a run. He dashed inside, glanced hurriedly around, but ignored everything except his daughter. Scooping the howling baby into his arms, he cradled her against his chest.

“It’s all right, princess,” he crooned, “Daddy’s here, and everything’s going to be fine.”

He rocked her gently for a moment, and her howling quieted. Only then did he look at the painting on the easel, the painting that June had made such a point of saying she hadn’t done.

He stared at it, frowning slightly. At first, it made no sense. And then he realized what it was—a woman, dying in the act of making love, her expression a combination of rapture and—and something else. But what was it?

“I don’t get it—” he began, his voice puzzled and uncertain. But then he saw the expression on Josiah Carson’s face, and his words faded in his throat.

Carson was staring at the picture, a look of comprehension slowly taking shape on his face.

“So that’s it,” he whispered. That’s what happened.”

Cal stared at the old doctor. “Joe, what is it? Are you all right?” He took a step toward Carson, but the old man waved him aside.

“She’s done it,” he said. “Amanda finally saw her mother, and she killed her. A hundred years later—she killed her. Now she’ll be free. Now we’ll all be free.” He turned to Cal. “It was right that you came here,” he said quietly. “You owed it to us. You killed Alan Hanley, so you owed it to us.”

Cal looked wildly from Josiah to the picture, then back to Josiah. “What the hell are you talking about?” he shouted. “What’s going on? What is it?”

“The picture,” Carson said softly. “It’s all in the picture.
That woman is Louise Carson.”

“I—I don’t understand—”

“I’m trying to tell you, Cal,” Carson said. His voice was reasonable, but a strange glint shone in his eyes. “That woman—it’s Louise Carson. She’s buried out in the cemetery. My God, Cal, June went into labor on her grave—don’t you remember?”

“But that’s not possible,” Cal said. “How would June know—” Then he remembered:
I didn’t paint it …

Cal moved closer to the painting, studying it carefully. The paint was fresh, barely dry. He stepped back again. Only then did he realize that the setting of the picture was the studio. It gave him an eerie feeling. His gaze left the canvas to sweep over the room. He was vaguely aware of Josiah Carson, behind him, muttering indistinctly.

“She’s here,” Carson whispered. “Don’t you understand, Cal? It’s Amanda. She’s using Michelle. She’s here. Can’t you feel it? She’s here!”

He began laughing then, softly at first, then louder and louder until Cal could stand it no longer.

“Stop that!”
he shouted.

It was as though a spell had been broken. Carson shook himself, then glanced once more at the picture. With an odd expression of victory on his face, he started for the door. “Come on,” he said. “We’d better get back to the house. I have a feeling things have just begun.”

Cal was about to follow him when he saw the stain on the floor. “Jesus,” he whispered.

It was as it had been the day they moved in. Reddish brown, thick, caked with dust, almost unidentifiable. But it had been cleaned up. He remembered it clearly, remembered June, on her hands and knees, chipping at it.

And now it was back.

Once more, he looked at the painting. The blood, dripping from Louise Carson’s wounded breast, gushing from her open throat.…

It was as if somehow the past, so clearly depicted on the canvas, was alive again in the studio.

Tim Hartwick and Corinne Hatcher arrived as Cal and Josiah Carson returned to the house. June, still pale, hadn’t moved from her chair in the living room. The group gathered around her.

“Did you see it?” June asked Cal. He nodded. “I didn’t paint it,” June repeated.

“Where did it come from?”

“The closet,” June said vacantly. “I found it in the
closet a week or so ago. It—it was only a sketch then. But today, when I went out there, it was on the easel.”

“What was?” Tim broke in. “What are you talking about?”

“A picture,” June said softly. “It’s in the studio. You might as well go look at it—it’s what I wanted you to see.”

Mystified, Tim and Corinne started out of the room, but paused as the telephone rang. Though June was closest to the phone, she made no move to pick it up, and it was Cal who finally answered.

“Hello?”

“Dr. Pendleton?” The voice at the other end was shaking.

“Yes.”

“This is Bertha Carstairs. I—I wonder, is Joe Carson there with you?”

Cal frowned slightly. “Yes, he is.” He looked questioningly at Carson, half-expecting him to refuse the call. But Carson seemed to be himself again, as if the strange scene in the studio had never happened. He took the phone.

“This is Dr. Carson.”

“It’s Bertha Carstairs, Joe. Something terrible has happened. Sally and Alison Adams just came in, and they told me that Annie Whitmore is in the playground. Joe—they think she’s dead.

“She’s under the swings. Sally said it looked as though she’d fallen off. Like it was an accident or something …”

Her voice trailed off, and Carson knew she was holding something back.

“What else, Bertha? There
is
something else, isn’t there?”

Bertha Carstairs hesitated, and when she spoke again, she sounded almost apologetic.

“I’m not sure,” she said slowly. “It might not be important—it might not mean anything at all—but, well.…” She paused a second, then her words came clearly over the line. “Joe, Sally saw Michelle Pendleton today. She was walking along the road, coming from town. And Sally said that last week Michelle and Annie were playing together quite a bit, and what with Susan Peterson, and Billy Evans—well, I don’t know. I hate to say it …” Again, Bertha’s voice faded away.

“I understand,” Carson said. “It’s all right, Bertha.”

He hung up the phone and turned to the four people who were watching him. “It’s Annie Whitmore,” he said. “Something’s happened to her.” He told them what Bertha Carstairs had said, leaving out nothing.

“Dear God,” June moaned when he was done. “Help Michelle. Please help her!” Then her eyes widened and she leaped to her feet.

“But where is she?” she cried. “If Sally saw her coming out this way, she must have been coming home.” Her eyes suddenly wild, she ran toward the hall. “Michelle? MICHELLE!”

They heard her repeat her daughter’s name as she ran up the stairs. Suddenly there was a silence, then they heard her coming back down again.

“She’s not here. Cal, she’s not here!”

“It’s all right,” Cal told her. “We’ll find her.”

“Lisa!” Tim’s voice was choked, but only Corinne knew what he meant.

“She was with Sally and Alison,” she said. “Uncle Joe, did Mrs. Carstairs say anything about Lisa?”

Josiah Carson shook his head. Tim grabbed the
phone. “What’s her number?” he demanded. “Quick, what’s the Carstairses’ number?”

Snatching the telephone from him, Corinne dialed. The phone rang once, twice, then twice again before Bertha Carstairs’s harried voice came on the line.

“Mrs. Carstairs? This is Corinne Hatcher. What about Lisa Hartwick? Was she with Sally and Alison? Did she come home with them?”

“Why, no,” Bertha said. “Just a minute—” There was a silence, then Bertha came back on the line.

“She stayed out at the Bensons’. She and Jeff were going down to the cove. I wish the kids wouldn’t play down there—the currents are so dangerous—”

But Corinne cut her off. “Never mind,” she said. “I’m out at the Pendletons’, and I’m sure we’ll find her.” She hung up the phone and turned to Tim.

“She’s out here somewhere. She and Jeff Benson were going down to the beach.”

“It’s that doll,” June suddenly screamed. “It’s that damned doll!” They stared at her, but only Josiah Carson understood what she was saying. “Don’t you see it?” she cried. “It all started with that damned doll!” Once again June rushed up the stairs and burst into Michelle’s room. She looked around frantically, searching for the doll.

Amanda!

It was all Amanda’s fault.

If she could just get rid of the doll!

And then she saw it, propped up on the window seat, its glass eyes staring emptily out toward Devil’s Passage. She crossed the room and picked it up. But as she was about to turn away from the window, a flicker of movement caught her eye.

She stared out, trying to see through the rain-blurred glass.

Out by the bluff, north, close to the cemetery.

It was Michelle.

Standing on the bluff, leaning against a boulder, staring down toward the beach.

But she wasn’t leaning against the boulder.

What was she doing?

She was pushing it.

“Oh, no,” June gasped. Grabbing the doll, she dashed out of the room.

“She’s outside,” she called. “Michelle’s outside! Cal, go get her. Please, go get her!”

The fog was gathering quickly around Michelle, and the beach had disappeared. All she was aware of was Amanda, standing close to her, touching her, whispering to her.

“They’re coming. I can see them, Michelle. I can see them! They’re coming closer … they’re almost there.… Now! Help me, Michelle. Help me!”

Michelle reached out, touched the rock. It seemed to vibrate under her fingers, as if it were alive.

“Harder,” Amanda hissed. “We have to push it harder, before it’s too late!”

Again, Michelle felt the rock move, then watched as it teetered. She wanted to pull away from it, but couldn’t. She felt it slip, lurch a little, then come free.…

It was a low sound, almost lost in the crashing of the surf, but Jeff heard it, and looked up.

Above him.

The sound had come from above him.

Then he saw it, plunging toward him.

He knew the rock was going to hit him, knew he had to move quickly, jump to the side—backward—anywhere. But he couldn’t move. His mouth quivered, and his stomach tightened. He was going to die—he knew it.

But he was frozen. Only at the last second did his muscles suddenly obey him. Too late.

The boulder, four feet across, hit him. He buckled to the ground, feeling the crushing weight of it, and he thought he could hear it, grinding him under its mass.

And he could hear something else, too. Laughter.

It floated over him as he died, and he wondered where it was coming from. It was a little girl, and she was laughing at him. But why? What had he done?

Then Jeff Benson died.

Michelle heard the laughter, too, and knew it was Amanda. Amanda was pleased with her, and that made her happy. But she wasn’t sure why Amanda was pleased.

The fog began to clear, and Michelle looked down. She could see the beach again.

There was a girl on the beach, standing still, staring at the fallen rock. It could have hit her, Michelle realized. But it hadn’t.

Then why was the girl screaming?

It was the boulder. Something was sticking out from under the boulder. But what was it?

The last traces of the fog drifted away, and Michelle could see clearly.

It was a leg. Someone’s leg was sticking out from under the rock.

And Amanda was laughing. Amanda was laughing, and saying something to her. She listened carefully, straining to hear Amanda’s words.

“It’s done,” Amanda was saying. “It’s done, all of it, and I can go now. Good-bye, Michelle.” She laughed once more, happily, and then the sound of her voice faded away.