The Third Eye (5 page)

“You made me go anyway. And she
was
there, and I hated that party.”

“That’s true,” her mother said. “But the girl wasn’t somebody you’d met before. She was a cousin, visiting from out of town. How could you have known she even existed, much less that she was a horrible child?”

“I don’t remember,” said Karen. “I must have overheard it. Maybe someone was talking about her. What are you trying to do, Mom, make me sound like a freak?”

“That’s exactly what I
don’t
want you to sound like,” her mother said. “That’s why I’m upset about what happened tonight. If it was bad after Mickey, this could be worse. Whoever was there at the Zenners’ is going to talk, and you can be sure the story is going to get better with every telling. That’s why it’s important for you to have an explanation to offer, something that will sound reasonable and put an end to the gossip.”

“Let people gossip!” Karen countered. “I couldn’t care less. It’s not as if I did something criminal.”

“Well,
I
care,” her mother said. “And Tim will care. It’s taken you long enough to get a social life. Do you want to lose it as the result of one evening? You’re the one who used the term
freak
. It’s a horrible word. I can’t believe a young man like Tim
would be very enthusiastic about having it used to describe his girlfriend.”

Karen closed her eyes and willed herself to some faraway place where the sound of her mother’s voice could not reach her. The things she was saying were terrible. They were also ridiculous. No one in his right mind would condemn somebody for having hunches.

“Go away,” she whispered. “Mom, please, go away.”

The silence that followed lasted for such a long time that Karen was actually beginning to wonder if she
had
gone, when her mother spoke again. This time her voice was softer.

“Karen,” Mrs. Connors said, “there is something I want you to think about. You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to, but you do have to consider it. It got bad, very bad for our family after the Mickey Duggin thing. There were notes in the mail. There were phone calls. There were odd people turning up on the doorstep, wanting a look at you. It was disturbing enough, even back when you were a five-year-old, that I swore to myself I would never let it happen again.”

“If it was that bad, you’d think that I’d remember,” Karen said without opening her eyes.

“It was bad enough,” her mother said, “ that we decided to leave the neighborhood. That’s when we moved here.”

Karen dreamed that night, and the dreams were
not pleasant. Even though she slept the next morning until noon and then fell into bed again immediately after dinner, she was still exhausted on Monday.

She sat through her first-period history class, struggling to focus her mind on the teacher’s lecture, only to find his words sliding away from her like the Jell-O between Stephanie Zenner’s chubby fingers. When the bell rang at the end of the period, she was startled to realize that an entire hour had gone by and she had no recollection of what material had been covered.

Tim was waiting in the hall to walk her to English.

“I tried to call you yesterday,” he said as he fell into step beside her. “You didn’t answer your cell, and when I called the home phone your mom said you were sleeping. Then I tried
last night, and your
dad
said you were sleeping. You must have really zonked out.”

“I was so tired I couldn’t think straight,” Karen told him. “I still am, actually. That thing with Bobby was a nightmare. When you think about what could have happened…”

“But it didn’t. The kid’s all right, and no one’s pressing charges.” Tim took her arm. “We came out lucky, so let’s put it behind us. To change the subject—did Lisa get a hold of you?”

“Lisa Honeycutt?” Karen said. “No. Why?”

“She’s chairman of the prom committee,” Tim said. “She asked me in homeroom this morning if I thought you’d like to be on it.”

“She did?” Karen exclaimed. “That’s a surprise. Lisa and I barely know each other. We had a couple of classes together last year, but I didn’t even think she knew my name.”

“Well, you’re wrong,” Tim said. “She does know it, and she knows that you and I are going out. She asked me to emcee on prom night, and I think she wants you to help decorate.”

“That would be fun,” Karen said.

At another time she would have been thrilled. It was tradition that the prom committee was composed of the most popular seniors, and she never imagined that she would ever be considered one of them. Today, however, it was as difficult to become excited by the idea of decorating the gym as it had been to get a grip on the history lecture. All she wanted was to go back home and sleep.

By lunchtime, Karen was relieved to find the dullness
lessening. Like someone recovering from a long and draining illness, she sat with Tim, nibbling halfheartedly at a sandwich and listening to the conversation going on around her.

Lisa waved from the far side of the crowded cafeteria and worked her way across the room to join them.

“I guess Tim’s told you that I’d like to have you on my committee,” she said with a smile. “The prom theme is The Secret Garden and we’re going to fix up the gym like a giant garden. We’re putting trellises covered in vines all around and creating paper flowers to hang from the ceiling.”

“That sounds great,” Karen told her. “I’d love to help.”

That evening, when she shared the news with her mother, Mrs. Connors was ecstatic.

“The prom committee!” she exclaimed. “That’s marvelous! I worked on the prom when I was in high school, and it was wonderful.” She paused, and then, lowering her voice, asked, “Did you tell Tim what I suggested you tell him?”

“I didn’t have to,” Karen said. “He didn’t ask me about it. He wants to forget the whole thing just like I do.”

“I hope it’s that easy,” Mrs. Connors said doubtfully.

“It will be,” Karen assured her.

Despite the certainty she put into her voice, she thought back upon their disturbing late-night conversation with discomfort. At the time she had wondered if her mom might, for some reason known only to herself, have been inventing the story of
Mickey Duggin. The name was not familiar, and Karen had no recollection of the incident her mother had recounted.

That night, however, she had dreamed about a blond boy of preschool age who was dressed in shorts and a red-and-white T-shirt. He was playing in a sandbox in a fenced yard, and while the boy was not familiar to her, the house behind him triggered something. Somehow, she knew that she herself had once lived in one section of it.

Karen played no active part in the dream, and the child did not seem aware of her presence. For some time he contented himself with running a toy dump truck back and forth through the sand. After a while he appeared to tire of that activity and climbed out of the box and went over to the gate. It was wooden, with the sort of latch that pops open if you give it a shake. Obviously familiar with the procedure, the boy set out to shake it loose. Then he gave the gate a forceful shove. When it swung open, he walked out of the yard.

She had dreamed this first on the night her mother had told her about Mickey. Then, the following night, she had dreamed it again. It was as though her mind were nagging at her,
Don’t you remember?

“No, I don’t,” Karen answered firmly. “I don’t remember a thing.”

On Monday night, she fell asleep with her thoughts determinedly focused on paper flowers and gardens, and, if she had dreams, she did not recall them in the morning. By Tuesday,
the dragging weariness had totally lifted and she was feeling like her old self.

The remainder of the week passed quickly. With only six weeks left before school let out for the summer, teachers were moving into the homestretch with their class assignments.

Term papers were being scheduled and final projects outlined. The prom committee held a meeting at Lisa’s house on Wednesday, and Karen was placed in charge of decorating the stage. Then, on Thursday, the school paper announced nominations for Senior Notables. While she was not at all surprised to find that Tim had been nominated for Best Looking, she was stunned to discover that the two of them were on the ballot for Cutest Couple.

“Why not?” Tim asked, amused at her amazement. “We’re a team, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” Karen conceded, “but still…”

Tim took such recognition for granted, but to her this was as much of a miracle as having been chosen for the prom committee. She was no longer “that quiet, blond girl—Karen Something-or-Other”; she was one half of an acknowledged “cute couple.” For the rest of that day, she floated in a state of euphoria.

On Friday evening, she and Tim went out with Lisa and her boyfriend, Gary. By the time Karen fell asleep that night, with the remembered pressure of Tim’s good-night kiss still warm upon her lips, the trauma of the previous weekend had been shoved to the back of her mind. Because of this, it was
especially startling on Saturday morning to be awakened by her mother’s urgent voice announcing, “Karen, there’s a police officer here to see you.”

“A police officer?” Karen repeated sleepily. “A police officer… to see
me
? What does he want?”

“I don’t know. He won’t tell me,” Mrs. Connors said. “Did something happen last night? You and Tim weren’t involved in an accident, were you?”

“No,” Karen told her. “We went bowling and then had something to eat, and then we came home. No accidents, no problems, nothing.”

“Well, you’d better get dressed and come downstairs,” her mother said. “Your father had an early golf game with a client this morning, so he’s not here to deal with the police officer who’s waiting downstairs.”

“You don’t think it could be about Bobby, do you?” Karen asked anxiously. “He was doing fine when I called last Sunday. His mother said he was outside playing.”

“I have no idea what might have happened,” her mother said. “Hurry up and get some clothes on, and we’ll find out.”

The jeans and shirt that she had worn the night before lay tossed across the back of a chair. Karen hastily pulled them on while her mother waited, and the two of them went downstairs together.

The uniformed man who awaited them in the living room was the same young officer who had been at the Zenners’. Even if she had not recognized him by the sandy hair and well-gnawed
fingernails, there was no way that she could ever have forgotten the vivid color of his eyes.

“Are you here about Bobby?” she asked him. “He’s still all right, isn’t he? Has something happened?”

“No, no, this is about something else entirely.” Officer Wilson looked as out of place in her parents’ formal living room as he had in the Zenners’ more casual one. Without a notebook to hold on to, he didn’t quite seem to know what to do with his hands. “As far as I know, the Zenner kid’s fine. His folks would have been back in touch with us if he wasn’t.”

“Please, let’s all sit down so we can talk more comfortably.” Mrs. Connors gestured them toward the sofa and took her own seat in a wing chair across from it.

To Karen, this seating arrangement seemed to place her mother suddenly in a position of regal authority, as though she had ascended a throne, while both her daughter and the police officer sank ineffectually down into the sofa cushions.

“What’s the reason for this visit, Officer Wilson?” Mrs. Connors asked once they were seated. “I assume you’re not planning to place us under arrest?”

“Nothing like that,” the young man assured her hastily. He paused, obviously uncertain about how to proceed. “I’m sure your daughter has filled you in on what happened last Saturday. You do know, don’t you, about how the kid she was babysitting got himself locked in the trunk of a car?”

“Of course,” Mrs. Connors said. “Karen told us all about it. That must have been a terrifying experience for poor little
Bobby. It’s a relief to know that he’s suffered no ill effects from it.”

“He would have, if he’d stayed in that trunk much longer. There was a tear in the fabric lining that let in some air, but it wasn’t enough. The boy was unconscious when we found him.” Officer Wilson turned to Karen. “How did you know he was in there?”

With effort, she avoided glancing at her mother.

“I heard Tim slam the trunk lid. When he appeared at the door like that, I suddenly realized—”

“I don’t buy that,” the police officer said quietly. “That afternoon, you told me Bobby was trapped. You said he wanted to come home, but he couldn’t. You knew it
then
.”

“That was just a guess,” said Karen.

“Do you ‘guess’ like that often?”

“Everybody occasionally makes lucky guesses,” Mrs. Connors said. “There’s certainly nothing all that strange about my daughter’s having done it once.”

Ignoring the comment, the police officer continued to address himself to Karen.

“I’m not just prying; there’s a reason I need to know this. How much control do you have over this guessing? Can you do it whenever you want to?”

“What do you want me to tell you, that I’ve got psychic powers or something?” Karen meant the question to be sarcastic, but it came out sounding defensive. She paused, and then her curiosity got the better of her. “Why are you interested?”

“There’s another kid missing.”

“There’s
another
—”

“Carla Sanchez, age eight. She disappeared last week.”

“It’s surprising that there’s been nothing about it on television,” Mrs. Connors said.

“It hasn’t had coverage. There was an article in the paper right after it happened, but it didn’t make the front page, and the networks didn’t pick up on it. The story doesn’t have as much news value because it looks like a custodial kidnapping. The parents are divorced. The dad was in town, and when he left, he apparently took Carla with him.”

“If the mother has custody, you’d think she could get her back,” Karen said. “Couldn’t she take it to court or something?”

“She could if she knew where to find them. Sanchez is a drifter. He’s never held a job for more than a few months at a time. It’s hard to trace somebody like that. The mother dotes on that little girl. She’s climbing the walls.”