Daughters of Eve (20 page)

He had taken her to the drive-in over at Adrian, and then, out of spite for Bambi, to "their place" at the creek. And it had happened—the thing he had wanted for so long. At first he could not believe that she wasn't going to stop him. Later he wondered if perhaps she did not fully understand how fast things were moving and what the ultimate end result would be. When it was over she had cried a little, but she hadn't meant it, because when he asked, "Can I see you again?" she immediately said, "Yes."

From then on he saw her several times a week. There were times when he felt a pinch of guilt about the situation, but then he would tell himself, what the hell, she didn't have to continue going out with him if she didn't want to. When she began to pressure him for a public relationship, he had known it was time to end it. He had told Niles and a few of his cronies what was happening, making a land of joke of it, but he certainly wasn't ready to start appearing at parties with a girl who almost matched him pound for pound.

At about that same time, Bambi was nominated for Homecoming Queen. A poster with her picture was up in the hall at school. Each time he passed it, he found himself turning to look at it. The eyes in the picture seemed to be waiting to catch his with a provocative, teasing glance that speeded his heartbeat.

He began to have dreams about how she would look that night, wearing a crown, smiling and nodding to a room of adoring subjects. As far as he knew, she had not been dating since their breakup, but if she were to start, that was sure to be the night. There wasn't a guy in Modesta who wouldn't give his eyeteeth to be her escort. Rumor had it that Craig Dieckhoner, the captain of the football team, was going to ask her. So was Brad Tully. So was Trevor Hatchell.

One day he waited after school and caught her by her locker. He said some more pretty words. He meant them all. He had been lonely. He did want to get things back the way they had been.

With Bambi in his life again there was, of course, no more place for Laura. He knew that if he broke the news in any formal way there would be tears and recriminations. Peter hated scenes. He could see no reason for putting himself and Laura through this one. It wasn't as though she had any real reason to expect anything of him other than what he had already given her. They'd shared an experience that had been pleasant for both of them. How many chances did a girl like Laura have to be romantically involved with someone like himself? A face-to-face breakup would be degrading for her and painful for him. It was far better, he decided, simply to stop seeing her and to let his absence speak for itself. That way she could invent her own explanations, kinder ones than he would be able to provide for her, and perhaps pretend that she was the one who had made the decision that the affair was over.

And now, ten days later, he still felt he had handled things in the best way possible. Laura had been angry, Niles said, but that was inevitable and could not have been avoided. At least she had had the gumption to send Niles sailing out the door when he made a pass at her. Peter respected her for that and had small sympathy for his brother who was a first-rate opportunist.

But what about Bambi? What was behind this note tonight? It was out of character. They had had a great time together Saturday and had sat parked in Bambi's driveway for a long time after the dance was over, talking and really communicating in a way they never had before. On Sunday her parents had invited him for dinner. The Ellises had always liked him and seemed happy to have him back on the scene. Monday Bambi had had a meeting of her club group, so he hadn't seen her then, and yesterday he had had basketball practice. When he stopped to think about it, she had acted a little funny in school that day, distant, as though she had something on her mind.

Might Laura have called her? But, no—as Niles said—why should she? The only reason would be to hurt him, and Laura was not a spiteful type person. Besides, to hurt him would be to hurt Bambi as well, and she and Bambi were friends.

Peter's mind had been working at such a fast clip he had hardly thought about where he was. The curve loomed ahead. His foot came down hard on the brake. He brought the car to a complete stop before twisting the wheel to the right so he could inch his way through the thicket of greenery onto the dirt trail that led to the creek. The wheels rotated slowly on the hard, dry earth, and branches were clutching fingers against the windshield. Then moonlight, silver and sparkling, struck his face, and he was in the clearing.

It was empty.

He was here, as summoned, but where in the world was Bambi? Was that a car parked far back from the stream in a pocket of shadows? Why would Bambi park there, so far over? Or was it a car? He turned the key in the ignition, shutting off the engine. The silence of the wooded creekside seemed to close in upon him. He pressed the switch to turn off the headlights and sat, quiet, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the pale world of darkness and moonlight.

In the brush to the left he caught a rustling movement. Bambi?

He strained to see, but the bushes were still again. What was it there, concealed by dry-leafed branches? A person? A girl? If it was Bambi, what was she doing crouched so low to the ground, making no effort to rise and come to greet him? Was something the matter? Could she be injured? Could someone, perhaps, have followed her as she drove out from town, a beautiful girl alone in a car, headed down a deserted road, a girl who turned onto a lonely trail, its entrance half concealed by foliage?

She had wanted him to meet her at seven-thirty. It was now almost eight. That meant she could have been here by herself for half an hour, defenseless against attack.

The thought made him sick to his stomach.

"Bambi?" he called out softly. "Is that you?"

He opened the car door. The hinges squeaked; the sound sliced through the heavy stillness like a shriek of warning. Peter stepped out onto a withered carpet of decaying leaves and into the dead, brown smell of winter before it was softened and purified by snow. The clearing had become an alien place, a hundred years from springtime, a million years from the time that the creek had been running full and wild and he had fallen suddenly, violently, in love.

"Bambi?"

Silence.

He took a step away from the car. Another.

"Bam?"

She had said she would be here, that it was "important." Where was she? What could have happened?

Peter began to shiver. It was cold, of course, but not so cold that he should be trembling like this. The wind moved the higher branches, and the shafts of moonlight danced and darted in dizzying patterns on the ground. Peter's pupils narrowed... widened... narrowed once more with the shifting light. His eyes could not seem to focus. Tree limbs twisted and tangled, throwing strange, writhing shadows.

She wasn't here. He was sure of that now. But something was, something that moved silently about him the way the wind moved above him. He could not see it or hear it, but he could feel its presence, and his heart began to pound as it had when he was a small child and woke in the night to find that the door to the lighted hallway had blown closed.

"Bambi?" He called the name one final time before turning back to the car.

Over in the shadows, something moved.

Peter stiffened, caught by the whisper of sound. And then he saw it, a human figure, black against the lighter darkness.

"Bam, is that you? What the hell do you mean by—"

He started toward her and then, in disbelief, felt the strap around his throat. It caught him so suddenly that his feet went out from under him and he fell backward, held momentarily suspended by the neck. Immediately something came tight around him, binding his arms to his sides, and hands were on him, dragging him to the ground.

Somewhere a voice cried, "Peter!" High and shrill, cutting through the night like the screech of an owl. "Peter! Peter! Peeeeeee-ter!" The voice was filled with hatred. The voice—no, not one voice: two, six, a dozen! A chorus of piercing voices cried out his name as the strap around his throat cut off his breathing and he sank, sick with terror, into the rotting leaves.

"Peeeeee-ter!"

He could not get air into his lungs; he could not move his limbs. The terrible fear froze him and deadened his senses. The silence was gone now, and the night was filled with voices—a chirp, a growl, a twitter—a burst of high-pitched laughter. How could he have thought that the clearing was empty! It was alive with frenzied movement, as the faceless shapes milled about him, crazed creatures from some evil other universe.

A blast of white light struck him full in the face, and he recoiled, blinded by the suddenness and the intensity of the glare. He tried to raise his hands to cover his eyes, but they were anchored to his sides. His head was being forced forward, and the pressure at his throat lessened, allowing a stream of icy air to enter his bursting lungs. His gratitude was so great that he felt hot tears welling behind his closed lids, and he dragged in breath after frantic breath, oblivious to the clicking sound at the back of his head.

Snip—snip—snip.

His breathing became more normal, and his brain began to clear. Cold metal brushed past his ear. Then a buzzing insect landed suddenly on his head began to track a jagged path back and forth across his scalp.

And then—he knew! Peter let out a horrified shout that emerged as a whimper. He began to throw his head back and forth from side to side, struggling and straining against his bonds. The contents of his stomach rose into his mouth and he gagged upon it as, in response to his flailing, the pressure at his throat grew tighter. The world began to spin about him, so that he was no longer sure about the reality of this dream.

Because it was a dream, wasn't it? What else could it be? Something Lice this could not be happening to Peter Grange!

CHAPTER 15

PETER! PEEEEEEE-TER!

No, I don't hear it. I will not let myself hear it

Tammy Carncross turned restlessly on her bed, pressing her head into her pillow in a vain attempt to shut out the voices.

I wasn't there, not really. Well, yes—yes, I was—but it wasn't because I wanted to be. It was the vote. The majority ruled. I had to go along with that, didn't I? But, I didn't do anything; I wasn't really part of it. I just stood in the background and watched what the others did.

Watched the hatred, so much hatred.

A series of pictures flickered relentlessly across the screen of her sleeping mind, of faces illuminated by moonlight or impaled for an instant by the flashlight beam. Familiar faces, gone suddenly strange, as though distorted by a fun-house mirror. Kelly, laughing. Had she really been laughing? Yes, she had. Bambi, self-contained, almost expressionless, standing a little apart from the others and staring down at the boy who lay thrashing on the ground. Jane, so earnest, that fine, soft hair a pale halo around her solemn face. It was Jane who had held his head. And the rest of them—they had all been there: Fran, Holly, Paula, Ann, even Ruth. Ruth had brought the razor, Peter's own razor.

"That's a very appropriate gesture," Irene had said.

The other faces faded before the strong image; there on Tammy's mind's screen there glowed the face of Irene Stark. How young she had looked, as young as any one of them, with her thick hair flying loose and her black eyes shining! She had seemed to be surrounded by an electric field of energy; an invisible current radiated from her in waves.

"Now!" she had whispered to them excitedly. "Now! Get him—now!" as the car had come crunching toward them through the night.

"For Laura—for our sister, Laura!"

But, it won't help Laura now!

"He must be punished! Peter must be punished! When people hurt our sisters, it is we who must punish them!"

It's horrible! I hate it! Please, Irene, stop them!

Why hadn't she shouted the words aloud? How could she have stood there, unmoving, conducting the whole exchange within her mind? But, she had. She had not opened her mouth, had not begun to make a move to stop them. Even when he screamed. When he realized what it was they were doing, he had screamed, a high, shrill bleat of horror, not the cry of a man, but the wail of a thing!

She could not hear that sound again, not even in memory. If she did, she would break apart. The part of the mind that protects the soul while the body is sleeping gave her a mighty wrench, and she came awake, sweating and shaking.

Thin, sweet sunlight was streaming through the bedroom window.

The room was oddly bright, as though lit by some ethereal source. The blue painted walls were like slabs of sky. Each object in the room stood out from its background, outlined in brilliance. The oval mirror over the dresser snatched at the sunbeams and sent them out in all directions in a blinding shower.

I must still be dreaming, Tammy told herself groggily. Then, as she lifted her head from the pillow, she saw that the branches of the trees outside her window were layered with snow.

"Was it snowing last night when you got home from the church?" Mrs. Underwood asked at breakfast.

"No," Holly said. "In fact, the sky was clear. There was lots of moonlight."

"How did the practice go?"

"What? Oh—fine. Just fine."

"How else would it go?" her father asked as he helped himself to the bacon. "She spends half her life banging away at that organ over at the church and the other half at the piano here. It would be a wonder if she wasn't able to hit the right notes by this time."