The Sitter (14 page)

31

C
lay is stocky, built like a bear. But Jackson pulled him easily, jerked him roughly across the street, then shoved him onto his back on the hood of his SUV.

“This is between me and her!” Clay shouted. “Hey, punk—this is between me and her.”

I could hear laughter up at the house. Music floated through the trees. It seemed a long way away.

“Let’s just end this!” I called. “Please—”

Jackson grabbed Clay roughly, stood him up, then shoved him to his car door. “Drive away, man. Get in there and drive away. I don’t want to hurt you. Just drive and don’t come back, hear?”

“This is between me and her,” Clay insisted.

But when Jackson let go of him, Clay stumbled into the SUV and climbed behind the wheel. Jackson stood beside the car, hands at his waist, breathing hard, until Clay started the engine.

Then Clay roared past him, nearly knocking Jackson over. Clay’s hand thrust out the window, flipping us the bird as he sped away. The car zigzagged wildly down the narrow street, nearly smashing parked cars on both sides.

I watched it until it disappeared around a curve. Then I ran to Jackson. “Are you okay? God, he’s such an obnoxious shit.”

Jackson wiped sweat off his face with his hand. He let out a long whoosh of air.

I kissed his cheek. “Have you been in a lot of fights or something?”

He snickered. “Sure I have. I’m a Comp Lit major, remember? We duked it out all the time over who’s tougher—Beowulf or the Golem of Prague.”

“No, but—”

“Yeah, sure. Walk across the Wesleyan campus. You wouldn’t
believe
the fistfights! Major brawls. Blood on the grass. It’s like a war zone. Take no prisoners. Really.”

He had me laughing. I could see he was upset. I held his arm, and it was trembling—but he was trying hard to make a joke of it.

We stopped in front of his Passat. “Who
is
that maniac, anyway?” he asked, his dark eyes probing mine. “You go with him?”

I sighed. I turned away from his stare. “I used to. I broke up with him over a month ago. But he doesn’t seem to get it.”

“Maybe he’ll get it now,” Jackson said.

“He—he used to be nice,” I said. Somehow I felt I had to explain. “I met him when I was temping at his office. He was okay for a while. But then he got into coke . . . and other stuff. I think it was pressure from his job. I don’t know. He changed. He’s not so nice anymore.”

Jackson opened the car door, and I slid inside. I hugged myself to stop shaking. It felt good to sit down.

Clay did it. The words forced their way into my mind: Clay did it. He cut off that poor woman’s hand.

He’s crazy.

What is he going to do next?

But if it was Clay, did the note in the gift box make sense?

“I’d give my right arm to see you dead. . . .”

Did Clay really want to see me dead because I had rejected him? Was he
that
crazy and strung out?

I slid down in the car seat, feeling more confused than ever. Jackson lowered himself behind the wheel. He squeezed my hand. “Good party, huh?”

I laughed. “You are Mr. Sunshine, aren’t you? Always look on the bright side.”

He started the car. “The bright side is that your friend Clay didn’t
waste
me. I was lucky he was so fucked up. I’m a bleeder, you know.”

We drove in silence for a few moments. I stared out at the passing trees, waiting for my breathing to return to normal, trying to stop the whirl of ugly thoughts.

Noyac Road curved and dipped. It was rutted and potholed, and so dark, Jackson clicked on the brights.

The houses were all dark, and we passed through thick woods, trees overhanging the road, blocking the faint light from the late-night sky so that I felt as if I was being pulled through a deep, winding tunnel.

“Man, it’s dark,” Jackson said, leaning over the wheel. “At least it isn’t foggy. One night a few weeks ago—” He stopped as bright, yellow light invaded the car. It spread over the windshield, light from behind us, the glass glowing, bright as sunlight.

Jackson squinted into the mirror. “Whoa. Some dude is on our tail with his brights on.”

I turned and saw the twin headlights approaching like two fireballs shooting toward us. “He’s going too fast!” I cried.

“Hey, what’s his problem?” Jackson grabbed the wheel with both hands as we felt a hard bump from behind. “The crazy bastard!”

Our car jolted off the road. Jackson struggled to hold on to the wheel. Before he could regain control, the car bumped us again—a hard crash of metal against metal that jolted us, tossed me forward and then back, sent us skidding, tires squealing.

“Whoa! Jesus! What the hell!” Jackson cried.

I turned and stared out the back. The driver was hidden behind the blazing light. But I could see that the car was tall, high off the road. An SUV.

The road curved. I bounced hard, my head hitting the low ceiling of the Passat. I turned again and squinted through the back window. I could see our pursuer’s car clearly as it came around the curve. Yes, an SUV. A black SUV.

“It’s Clay!” I gasped.

I heard the roar of his engine behind us. The yellow lights swept through our car again. Again, the clash of metal against metal, a hard, jarring thud as he bumped us hard.

Our car jumped, flew forward.

I braced myself, slamming both hands over the dashboard, as Jackson’s car skidded again.

“The bastard! The fucking bastard!” Jackson screamed. “He’s trying to kill us!”

Yes, he is. He’s a killer.

At that moment, I knew that Clay was a killer. And the accident flew back into my mind. . . .

Seven years ago . . .

I grabbed the wheel, and Will’s car went flying out of control.

Over the embankment, floating for a few fleeting seconds, floating in midair as if about to take off. And then sending Will and me plunging down . . . down . . . down into a darkness so deep . . .

For Will, the deepest darkness there is. For Will, darkness forever.

I started to scream.

My hands spread over the dashboard, my eyes gazing into the lights that swept over our windshield, my head tossed back, as if pulled by my ugly memories.

I screamed and screamed.

And the SUV slammed hard into us, a hard
crunch
of bumpers.

Our car leaped and spun off the road, and we went hurtling into the woods, hurtling into the deep, deep darkness, my screams echoing off the trees.

32

H
e—followed us. He tried to kill us!”

Abby turned in her chair and glanced up in shock as I burst into the living room. She dropped the book she’d been reading and jumped to her feet. “Oh, my God. What’s wrong?”

I was so frightened, my senses were on super alert. An adrenaline rush, I guess. I could see every detail with such clarity.

Abby was wearing a pale blue tank top over faded jeans. A necklace of coral beads lay on the low table next to the couch, crumpled beside a glass of red wine. Blinking hard, shaking her head, she hurried over to me. “Ellie, are you okay? Tell me—what happened?”

I sighed and dropped my bag to the floor. “Jackson and I—we were almost killed. Our car skidded—into the woods. We could have hit a tree. We could have—”

“Oh, my God. Ellie, you’re trembling.” She put an arm around my shoulder and led me to the couch. “Are you all right? Are you hurt? Sit down. Here. Have some of this.” She handed the glass of red wine to me. “Go ahead. Oh, my God. You’re white as a sheet.”

I took a long drink.

Abby sat down beside me. “What happened? You were in an accident?”

“No. It was Clay. My crazy ex-boyfriend. He—he bumped us off the road. He was trying to kill us! Luckily, our car came to a stop against some soft pine shrubs. Jackson drove me home and—”

“Jackson? Is that a guy you know?”

“I met him the other night. At a club. He was driving me home from the party. But then Clay came up behind us. He started bumping us, slamming into us—”

Abby grabbed the cordless phone off the coffee table. “We should call the police. Right away.”

“No. I—” I hesitated, my mind spinning. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to make Clay even angrier, even more dangerous. “I don’t really know if it was Clay,” I said.

Pretty lame, El.

I wasn’t sure what to do. I’d spent too much time talking to endless police officers. I just wanted Clay and the police—I wanted them all to go away, to disappear.

I emptied the wineglass. The red wine felt so soothing going down my throat. I felt my heartbeat slow to normal.

Abby filled my glass and poured another one for herself. “Well, I’m glad you’re okay, Ellie. It’s been one thing after another since you arrived, hasn’t it?” Her eyes were studying me intently.

I glanced down at my wineglass. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I’ve been such a problem. Maybe I should go.”

“No. Please.” She squeezed my hand. “We’ll get through all of this. Chip and I don’t want you to leave. It’s nearly July. It would be so hard to find a replacement now. Besides, the kids would be very upset if you left. Brandon, especially.”

I took a long sip of wine. I pictured the black SUV roaring behind us, slamming us, the clang of bumpers, and I heard my screams, my high, shrill screams as we slid out of control, into the woods, into darkness.

History repeating itself.

Again, I pictured Will—fair, blond Will. I’m sorry, Will. I grabbed the wheel, and we went flying.

Would I always picture Will?

Abby’s voice broke into my thoughts. “Well, I do have some good news for you, Ellie.”

Good news? I shook my head, brushing Will away.

“Your cousin called tonight. She found someone to drop off your cat. He’s going to bring it here tomorrow.”

“Oh, that’s great,” I said. “I haven’t seen Lucky for so long. I’ve missed him
so
much.”

Maybe Lucky will live up to his name.

I took a final sip of wine. Then I set the glass down and said good night to Abby. I thanked her for being so kind and so understanding.

“Get some sleep,” she said. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

The wine had calmed me, but I felt a little dizzy. I held on to the railing as I climbed the stairs to my room. Would I be able to sleep?

I tossed my clothes on the closet floor and pulled on a long cotton nightshirt. The bedroom window was open, and outside, the crickets were making a racket.

I crossed the room to the window, peered out into the backyard—and gasped.

At the top of the dune, a light flickered in the guest-house window. I blinked. Squinted hard through the line of pine trees.

Yes. I saw it again. A tiny red dot of light, like the tip of a cigarette, moving slowly.

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” I murmured, holding on to the curtains, gripping them tightly, holding on to something real—flimsy but real. A chill slid down my back.

“I don’t believe in ghosts. I’m not going out there again.”

I pulled the curtains over the window and climbed into bed.

I awoke to a dark and rainy morning. The curtains flew violently at the window. Rain had puddled on the windowsill and the floor in front of it.

At breakfast, Abby said, “I’ll take Heather this morning. Why don’t you drive Brandon to the Whaling Museum in Sag Harbor? I think he might like that. I don’t want him sitting home watching TV all day.”

So Brandon and I drove to the museum, the car splashing through deep puddles of rainwater, the sky dark as night. “The museum is very interesting,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “It’s all about the old whaling ships and sailors who used to hunt whales in the ocean here.”

Brandon’s expression didn’t change. He clicked on the radio and turned the volume up all the way.

The noise startled me, and I nearly swerved off the road. Music blasted through the car like an explosion. My hand fumbled for the knob. Finally, I clicked the radio off.

“Stop it, Brandon.” I tried to keep my voice low and calm, but I couldn’t hide my anger. “That wasn’t funny. You scared me.”

He tilted his head back and laughed.

To my thinking, he had become more hostile and angry since I had arrived. And I still hadn’t forgiven him for trying to drown his sister. For standing there so calmly and watching Heather sink below the waves.

Abby said Brandon’s shrink was dealing with it all, but I didn’t see any signs of progress. And I certainly didn’t see any signs that Brandon liked me or was the least bit attached to me, as Abby claimed.

I admit it. He was only four years old, and I was growing to hate him.

I parked the car at the curb in front of the Whaling Museum. It was a white, Colonial-style building behind a closely trimmed lawn and a white picket fence. I glanced around. We were on a residential block of sprawling old houses, well-maintained treasures that people probably kept in their family for generations.

I grabbed Brandon’s hand. Ducking our heads, we ran through the rain. I pulled open the door to the museum, and we darted inside.

I expected something out of the 1850s, dark and mildewy, with fishermens’ nets strung along the walls or over the ceiling. But the museum was bright and dry. We checked our rain ponchos. I paid the admission, and we began to wander around.

The building clearly had once been someone’s house. I tried to imagine what it would be like to live in such big rooms with the grand, high ceilings, the majestic staircase winding up to even more wonderful space.

To my surprise, Brandon seemed interested in the displays. He tugged me into the first room. Large black-and-white drawings of whaling ships on the walls. An enormous blowup of an old engraving of a whaler leaning over the side of his boat to heave a harpoon at a fleeing, monstrous whale.

And in the center of the room, a small wooden boat that appeared hand-carved. A sign explained that once the whale was spotted, whalers used this small, sleek boat for fast pursuit.

Brandon slid his hand along the side of the boat. Then he turned and ran into the next display room without waiting for me. I found him admiring a long harpoon mounted on the wall. He studied the sharp metal point. Then he reached up to grab the handle.

“Don’t even think about it,” I said. “Do you know how much that harpoon must weigh? A lot more than you do!”

He gazed at it for another long moment. Again, he tried to reach it, this time on tiptoe.

“No way, Brandon. What is your
problem
?” I pulled him away from the harpoon.

We discovered a movie about whales running in the next room, a dark room with rows of benches for viewing. Two little boys sat in the back watching intently as a whale lifted itself over the ocean surface. Brandon immediately took a seat at the front.

I had a sudden inspiration. “Do you want to stay and watch?” I asked from the doorway.

He nodded.

“Then I’ll be back in ten minutes,” I said. “Don’t go anywhere. Just watch.”

He nodded again, eyes on the leaping whale.

I walked back to the front desk and asked if the museum had a reference room. The woman pointed to the stairs. “Room 203. I think Gladys is up there, if she isn’t on her break. She’ll help you find things.”

Gladys turned out to be a trim, smartly dressed older woman with bobbed white hair and tight, smooth cheeks that suggested more than one face-lift. I told her I wanted to find information about a house built in the 1850s.

She tried to frown, but her face was too tight. “That would be hard,” she said. “We’ve just started to computerize. Everything’s just in card files and old scrapbooks. Maybe if you had a name? The owner of the house? I might be able to look up a name.”

I shut my eyes, trying to remember the name of the captain in Mrs. Bricker’s story. Halsey? No. Halley? “The name was Halley,” I said. “A whaling captain.” I spelled it for her.

“Are those Guess jeans?” she asked, staring at my legs. “Do Guess jeans fit that well?”

“Uh, actually, these are Old Navy,” I said.

She sniffed, no longer interested. “Halley,” she muttered. “Let me see.”

A few minutes later, she pulled some frayed, yellowed cards from a cabinet. She waved them triumphantly. “Thomas Halley?”

“Maybe. I—I don’t really know his first name.”

Gladys walked to a shelf at the back of the room, bent, and pulled out two bulging scrapbooks. “I think there might be some old clippings. Let’s check in these, dear.”

She spread the scrapbooks out on a long library table and, checking back at the little cards, sifted quickly through the pages. “Hmmm . . . Halley. That’s close to Halsey, isn’t it. Halsey is a big family name out here. Half the roads in the Hamptons are named Halsey this and Halsey that.”

I wondered how Brandon was doing downstairs. Was I leaving him alone for too long?

“Oh, my goodness!” Gladys declared. “There appears to be a scandal, dear.” She spun the old book around so I could see it.

The newspaper clippings were torn and brown with age. But the headline—
YOUNG VILLAGE MAN MURDERED IN WATERMILL COTTAGE
—was easy to read.

My heart started to pound. I suddenly felt light-headed. I pulled a metal chair out from the table and slumped into it. Then I let my eyes scan the old story.

Yes. Yes. It was all true.

Capt. Thomas Halley . . . His son Jeremiah . . . Jeremiah murdered the young man. . . . Heaved a whaling harpoon through his heart . . . Police find it mysterious. . . . How did the little boy lift such a heavy object? The father is a more likely suspect—but he wasn’t home at the time of the murder. . . . The nanny ran to the police constables. . . . The nanny and the deceased were rumored to be courting. . . .

My eyes stopped at the bottom of the clipping. My eyes scanned the words, and my mouth opened in a startled gasp:

The boy, Jeremiah Halley, has gone silent and will not answer questions.

Mrs. Bricker, your story was true.

“Is something wrong, dear?” Gladys stared at me from the other side of the table. “You’ve suddenly gone so pale.”

“No. I’m okay,” I said, shoving the book away. “Thank you so much. Thank you for your help. I—have a little boy downstairs. I’d better get back.”

I have a little, SILENT boy downstairs.

A boy who was fascinated by the big harpoon on the wall.

The museum was hot, but I suddenly felt so cold. A frightening cold, a chill from the distant past . . .

No!

I still don’t believe in ghosts, Mrs. Bricker.

Well . . .

. . . maybe just a little.

I found Brandon sitting like an angel, hands clasped in his lap, watching whales spout and leap on the little movie screen. He was scrunched down on the seat and had the sweetest smile on his face. He seemed so tiny and frail and harmless.

I wanted to run my hand through that curly black hair and tell him I was sorry about all the angry thoughts I’d had about him.

What’s troubling you, Brandon? What
is
it? Why don’t you tell me?

I’m sure it has nothing to do with Jeremiah Halley. It can’t have anything to do with Jeremiah Halley because he died over a hundred years ago.
And we don’t believe in ghosts, right?

The Whaling Museum is about two blocks from the town of Sag Harbor. We drove into town. The sky was starting to brighten, the rain having stopped, leaving the trees and houses glittery and dripping and shiny as new.

Abby asked me to pick up some things at the little IGA in town. Sag Harbor was crowded for a weekday, but I found a parking space in front of the old-fashioned looking five-and-dime, and pulled in.

I turned to Brandon. “Would you like to explore this old store before we pick up the groceries? It looks kinda cool.”

He thought about it for a long while, then nodded.

I turned off the ignition, tucked the car key into my bag, raised my eyes to the windshield—and saw Will walk out of the dime store.