Nathaniel (37 page)

Janet sighed. “Okay. I’ll put on some coffee.” She hung up the phone, and turned to confront Michael. “You are in trouble, young man,” she told him. “You know better than to go out by yourself at night, and if you were trespassing on Mr. Findley’s property, you should know that he would have been perfectly within his rights to shoot you.” Then her worry overcame her anger. “My God, Michael, you could have been killed! Why did you do it?”

Suddenly Nathaniel’s warning voice sounded in his head.
“Not yet!”

“I—I don’t know,” Michael stammered.

Janet glared at him. “Well, you’d better figure it out,” she told him. “And whatever you have to say had better match pretty well with whatever Ryan and Eric have to say. Understand?”

Michael nodded; then, as Janet started toward the kitchen, he sank down to the floor and slipped his arms around Shadow. “I’m scared,” he whispered to the big dog. “What’ll they do when they find Grandpa?”

Shadow nuzzled at his master, and his tail thumped against the wall as he wagged it. Then, once more, Nathaniel’s voice came to him.
“It will be all right. In a little while, it will be all right.”

When the knock came at the front door, Janet hurried to answer it, opening the door wide in the expectation that the Simpsons and Ryan Shields would be on her porch.

Instead, it was Ben Findley.

His hooded eyes were glowering, and his threatening demeanor was made no less frightening by the shotgun in his left hand.

“Where’s that brat of yours, Mrs. Hall?” he demanded.

Janet ignored the question. “Was that you shooting just now?”

“That wasn’t no shotgun,” Findley growled. “That was a rifle. Is your kid here?”

“Of course he’s here,” Janet finally replied. Then her eyes narrowed. “I just talked to Ione Simpson,” she told him coldly. “Her husband thinks the shooting might have been you.”

Findley hesitated a moment, then nodded his head. “Can’t say as I blame him for that,” he said.

Janet was about to demand that the old man leave her property when a car turned into the driveway and the porch was suddenly flooded with the glare of headlights. A moment later, the Simpson family and Ryan Shields piled out of the car. But when they saw who was on the porch, their words of greeting died on their lips. It was Leif Simpson who finally broke the silence.

“What’re you doing over here, Findley?”

“Checkin’ up,” the old man replied, his voice sullen. “I came over to make sure her kid was here where he belongs.”

Leif’s eyes narrowed. “What made you think he might not be?”

Findley’s rheumy eyes shifted toward Janet, then went back to meet Leif’s steady gaze. “Why don’t you and I have a little talk, and let the ladies go inside?” he asked.

Leif nodded his agreement, and Janet held the door open while Ione, carrying Peggy, followed the two boys into the little house. Janet hesitated a moment, then closed the door, leaving the two men on the porch.

A few minutes later, Leif joined them in the kitchen. “You’d better call Buck,” he told Janet. “It seems Amos Hall was out here tonight, and Findley thinks it must have been him shooting. But he hasn’t seen Amos’s light for a while, and he and I are going to go down toward the river and have a look around.”

“Amos?” Janet repeated. “Why would Amos be out there? Where was he?” And then she remembered Ione’s words. “Potter’s Field?”

“That’s what Ben Findley says.”

“But—but why?”

“Don’t know,” Leif replied. “But he also said it might be a good idea if you got hold of a doctor.”

Janet made the calls, then joined Ione and the children at the table. “All right,” she said softly. “It’s time for you three to tell us what you were up to tonight.”

One by one, the three boys recounted the story of the evening.

Each of them told about sneaking out, and each of them told about making their way down the Halls’ pasture, across the field, and into the woods.

Each of them told about seeing the light in Potter’s Field.

Ryan and Eric talked about losing their nerve, and running pell mell back the way they had come, and bursting back into the Simpsons’ house, too frightened to worry about the noise they were making.

At last Janet turned to Michael. “What about you, Michael?” she asked. “Did you come home when you saw the light in the field?”

Michael shook his head. “I—I went into Mr. Findley’s barn,” he said softly.

Janet frowned. “Weren’t you frightened, too?”

Again Michael shook his head.

“But why not?”

Michael hesitated, and then he heard Nathaniel’s voice:

“Tell them. Tell them now.”

“Because of Nathaniel,” he breathed. “Nathaniel and I killed Grandpa.”

Janet stared at her son, his words battering at her mind. But Michael’s face was placid, and his eyes were calm.

“Nathaniel said we had to,” he went on. “Grandpa was going to kill us, Mom. He killed Daddy, and he was going to kill me, too.”

A wave of dizziness swept over Janet, and suddenly the lights in the room seemed to go out.

Janet opened her eyes and stared without comprehension at the unfamiliar face that loomed over her. But then, as she came totally awake, she remembered what had happened. She struggled to sit up, but the stranger put a restraining hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t,” he said. “Just lie there, and try to take it easy. You very nearly lost your baby a little while ago. You didn’t, but you’re not out of danger yet. I’m Dr. Marsden,” he added.

A small groan escaped Janet’s lips, and she sank heavily back onto her pillows. “Amos,” she whispered. “Did they find Amos?”

Marsden nodded. “He’s downstairs.” But then, as Janet sighed with relief, he went on: “They found him by the river, Mrs. Hall. I’m not sure exactly what happened, but your son couldn’t have had anything to do with it.”

Janet gazed at the doctor for a moment, then looked away, her eyes fixing on a point somewhere near the ceiling. “You mean he’s dead?” she asked, her voice hollow.

“It looks like a heart attack. His gun was right next to him, and one of his hands was still on the stock. He must have been shooting at something, but whatever it was, it doesn’t look like he hit it. Anyway, the men didn’t find anything out there except Mr. Hall. In the morning, they’ll look again.”

“But Michael said—”

“I know what the boy said,” Marsden interrupted. “Mrs. Simpson told me. But you heard the shots yourself, didn’t you? Wasn’t your son here at the time?”

“But you said they found him down by the river. That’s where Michael said—”

“That’s where the shots came from, Mrs. Hall. Now, I want you to rest. If I have to, I’ll give you something—”

“No! I don’t want anything, Dr.—” She struggled to remember his name, but couldn’t. “I’ll be all right. But I want to see Michael. Can I? Please?”

Marsden hesitated, then finally nodded. He left the room, and a minute later Michael appeared in the doorway. “Mom? Are you okay?”

Janet beckoned him over to the bed. “I’ll be all right,” she assured him. She reached out and took Michael’s hand. “Honey, what you said just before I fainted. About killing Grandpa?”

“Uh-huh,” Michael mumbled.

“What did you mean by that?”

“I already told you,” Michael replied. “It was me and Nathaniel. Nathaniel told me I should wish him dead, so I did. And he died.”

Janet fought the wave of dizziness that threatened to overwhelm her. “But that’s not possible,” she told him, her voice unsteady. “You can’t wish someone to death. You were here when Grandpa died. You were with me.”

Michael shook his head. “I was with Nathaniel,” he said. “I had to talk to him tonight. Grandpa wanted to hurt us. He wanted to kill us, just like he killed Daddy, and Aunt Laura’s babies.”

“No, Michael,” Janet wailed. “Grandpa didn’t do any of that.”

Michael’s face set stubbornly. “Yes he did,” he replied. “I saw him. Nathaniel showed me. And besides, the night Aunt Laura had her baby, I saw them. I saw them kill the baby, and then I saw them out in the field. They were burying Aunt Laura’s baby. I was with Nathaniel that night, and we both saw it.”

“But Michael, Grandpa was home that night, remember? When you came home, Grandpa was there.”

“I don’t care,” Michael said. “I know what I saw, and I’m not lying.”

Suddenly Janet wanted to shake Michael, as if somehow she might physically shake his impossible ideas out of his head. Where had they come from? What did they mean? Then her weakness overcame her, and she collapsed back onto the pillows. “Tomorrow,” was all she could say. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.…”

Michael got off the bed and started toward the door, but then turned back.

“Mom?”

Janet opened her eyes. Michael was studying her with an intensity so great she had to look away.

“Everything’s going to be all right now,” he said softly. “I don’t think I’m going to have my headaches anymore. I think they only came when Nathaniel was showing me things.” He paused for a moment, then went on. “We had to make him die, Mom. He was going to kill the baby. Even if he didn’t kill me, he would’ve killed the baby.”

Janet’s head turned, and she stared at Michael. “Stop it,” she whispered. “Just stop saying those things.” Her voice rose to the edge of hysteria. “They’re not true, Michael.
They’re not true!”

Michael returned her gaze, his face suddenly angry. Then he left her alone, closing the door behind him.

Anna Hall was dozing in her chair, her ever-present mending on her lap, her head lolling on her breast.

In the hall, the clock began to strike, and Anna came half awake, certain that Amos had finally come home.

“Amos? Is that you?”

There was no answer, but even as silence settled once more over the house, Anna had a strange sense that she was no longer alone.

She tried to clear the fogginess from her mind, and opened her sleepy eyes to peer around.

Then, at the window, she saw it.

A face, a face she recognized.

It was Mark’s face, but younger than he’d been the last time she saw him, almost as young as he’d been when he ran away so many years ago.

And yet it wasn’t Mark’s face. It was a face like Mark’s, but different.

Then she heard the voice.

“He’s dead, Mama. He’s dead.”

The words struck Anna almost like a blow. For a moment she wasn’t certain she’d heard them at all. There was a flat atonality about them that made her wonder if the face at the window had spoken the words, or if she’d only imagined them.

Then the voice came again.
“He’s dead, Mama. You must not be frightened anymore.”

Then the face disappeared from the window, and once more Anna felt the solitude of the house.

She sat for a long time, listening to the soft ticking of the clock, amplified by the night, trying to decide what had really happened to her. Had it been real, or had it only been a dream?

Then, as the hours wore on, a sense of peace slowly settled over her, a sense of peace she hadn’t felt in years, not since before the night so many years ago when she had given birth to her last child. Suddenly she smiled. That was who the face had reminded her of. The face at the window had looked like her last son, just as she’d always imagined he would look—if only he had lived.

And with the sense of peace came something else.

It was Amos of whom the boy had spoken. As the night wore on, and Anna waited, she became increasingly sure that Amos was not coming home that night, that he would never come home again.

At last, as the clock was striking two, she heard a car pull up the drive. She rolled herself over to the window and stared out into the night, squinting against the darkness as she tried to make out the face of her visitor.

And then, as the figure of a man emerged from the pickup truck in front of the house, Anna gasped.

It was Ben Findley.

Trembling, Anna slowly backed away from the window. Her eyes searched the room as if looking for a place to hide. But there was no place to hide, and in the end she let the chair drift to a stop in the center of the room. A moment later she heard the front door open, and then Ben Findley stood framed in the doorway, his gaunt figure looking like a ghost from the past

“Hello, Anna,” he said at last.

The seconds ticked by, and Anna felt the color draining from her face, felt her whole body, even the legs that had been lifeless so long, trembling.

“You,” she breathed at last.

Ben Findley nodded. His eyes left Anna for a moment and drifted slowly over the room. He nodded almost imperceptibly, then turned back to Anna. “Amos is dead, Anna. Leif Simpson and I found him down by the river.”

“The river?” Anna asked blankly, her mind reeling not only at the confirmation of her strange sense that her husband was dead, but at the presence of Ben Findley in her house. “What was he doing down at the river?”

Findley shrugged. “I called him today. I saw you and the boy this afternoon, and I told Amos I didn’t want anyone poking around that field.”

Anna’s eyes narrowed. “What happened, Ben. Did you kill him?”

Findley shook his head; then, without asking Anna’s permission, he came into the room and lowered himself onto the sofa. Slowly he told Anna what he and Leif Simpson had found. When he was done, Anna fell into a reflective silence for a few moments. Then her head came up, and her eyes roved to the window and the blackness of the night. “Perhaps it was the children,” she said in a voice that was only partially audible. “Perhaps the children finally got their revenge.” Suddenly she looked at Ben Findley. “Ben, do you believe in ghosts?”

Findley looked puzzled for a moment, then shook his head. “No, I don’t. Why?”

Anna shook her head, as if trying to clear her mind. “I don’t know. I just thought I saw one tonight, that’s all.” She paused, then went on. “I knew Amos was dead, Ben. I wasn’t waiting for him to come home. I was waiting for someone to come and tell me what I already knew.”

Findley’s body tensed, and his hooded eyes darkened. “How?” he asked. “How did you know?”

Anna shrugged. “I told you—a ghost.”