The Unloved (19 page)

Panic starting to grow within her, she twisted the key once more.

The starter ground, but more weakly this time, and she realized the battery was wearing down. But the engine didn’t catch.

Frantically her eyes searched the dashboard, looking for some clue as to what was wrong. Then she saw it.

The gas gauge seemed to pop out at her, far larger than it really was, as if she were viewing it through a telescope.

Empty.

The needle, which should have been on the full mark, was resting all the way over on the opposite end.

But it was impossible. The car had been full only two days ago. She’d filled it herself, and it had hardly been driven since.

And then, slowly, the truth began to dawn on her.

Someone had drained the tank.

Drained it!

But it was impossible. It made no sense! Why?

The panic that had been growing inside her burst loose now, and she leaned on the horn, silently screaming for someone to hear it, for someone to come to her rescue. But she knew it was impossible. Even she could barely hear the faint sound of the horn above the screaming roar of the storm, and the rain and spray were so heavy now that she could see neither end of the causeway.

She tried to regain control of herself, tried to force herself to be calm.

It would pass. It was only a summer squall, though it seemed to carry the force of a hurricane with it. And when it passed, she would simply get out of the car and walk the rest of the way to the village.

But the storm wasn’t passing.

Instead its force continued to build. When she looked out to the south, the waves seemed mountainous.

And then, like a supernatural force, an enormous wave bore down on her, its swell rising ever higher until it crested, looming over the causeway for what seemed to be an eternity, then, finally, breaking.

It hit the car broadside, with the force of an oncoming locomotive.

The car shuddered, and Anne felt it slip sideways. For just an
instant
she thought it was going to hold, for there was the slightest hesitation before the inertia of the car finally gave way to the power of the wave.

And then, as if it had been seized by a huge hand, the car was picked up by the water and rolled.

A second wave, on the heels of the first, finished the job, rolling the car once more until it toppled over the edge and slid down the embankment.

Anne screamed as the car hit the water, and braced herself against the shock. Then the water closed over the automobile as it continued to roll, seized by the current and the storm-driven waves.

She had to get out, had to escape from the car before it filled with water.

She tried to shove the door open, but it was held tight by the weight of the water outside. She thought furiously now, and then knew what she had to do. Against every instinct in her mind and body, she had to roll the window down and let the water pour in until the pressure was equal. Only then would she be able to escape, either by forcing the door open or forcing herself through the open window.

Taking a deep breath, she began to crank the window.

Water gushed into the car, sluicing over her with what felt like the power of a firehose. She turned away from it, her breath coming in gasps now as she felt the water rising around her. The car seemed to be flooding much too quickly, far faster, indeed, than she’d thought possible.

Suddenly the car stopped rolling, and Anne realized it was lying on its side, the open window up. She still had a chance! And then, in front of her, the windshield shattered, caving in with a sudden rush as the sea began its final invasion of the automobile. Anne screamed once more, then gasped for a final breath before the last of the air was forced out of the car.

Now!

She had to get out now or it would be too late. She shoved at the door, and it moved slightly, then stuck.

The window!

She clawed at the open window, then shoved with her feet braced against the passenger door.

Up! She had to push straight up!

Her arms and head passed through the window, then her body. She twisted, trying to pull her legs after her.

She was going to make it. Only another second and she would be free.

And then she felt it happen: something wrapped itself around her ankle and jerked tight.

She knew what it was, knew instinctively, without even thinking about it.

The seat belt.

The wide strip of webbing that was meant to save her life. But it had turned on her now, twisting around her ankle, entangling her, holding her under the water’s surface.

Her breath was burning in her lungs, but she reached down, fumbling with the thick strap, trying to find enough slack to free her snared leg.

The pressure kept building in her lungs, and the current of the heaving sea battered at her, pulling her fingers—fingers that felt clumsy and useless—away from the stiff material. At last her body revolted and her lungs spewed out her breath, then drew in the first agonizing draft of saltwater.

She’d lost.

At the very last moment she’d lost, and now she was going to die.

Water filled her lungs, and her body quickly leeched the last of the oxygen out of her blood.

A strange euphoria began to come over her, and suddenly she began to think of the sea as a friend.

A gentle friend, in whose softly swaying arms she was going to be borne away.

Her panic drained away then and she let herself relax, giving herself up to her new, and final, friend.

The pain was burning furiously in Marguerite’s hip now, but she did her best to ignore it, leaning into the wind, shielding her eyes from the lashing rain as best she could. She was on the road, slogging through the mud that sucked at her feet and threatened to bog her down entirely, but she had to go on. And then, barely visible through the torrent, she could just make out another figure.

“Mary-Beth!” she shouted, her words instantly lost in the howling wind. “Mary-Beth, wait! Please wait!” Whimpering against the pain in her hip and the almost complete numbness in her lame leg, she redoubled her efforts, breaking into an awkward run as she tried to catch up to Mary-Beth Fletcher. When she was still ten yards away, she called out again. “Mary-Beth! Wait!”

Mary-Beth hesitated, then turned around, and a moment later Marguerite caught up with her. Gasping for breath, Marguerite put out a hand to steady herself, but Mary-Beth backed away, and Marguerite almost lost her balance. “Mary-Beth, please,” Marguerite gasped. “You can’t go home now—it’s too dangerous. Come back to the house.”

Mary-Beth hesitated. She knew she’d made a mistake almost as soon as she left the mansion, and the wind had nearly knocked her down. But she’d made up her mind and wasn’t going to change it. She just couldn’t bear to go back to the house now and see the other girls looking at her, teasing her about losing her nerve.

Especially Julie. Julie, who’d come out of nowhere and instantly made friends with all of Mary-Beth’s friends, danced better than Mary-Beth would ever be able to, and then taken
Kerry Sanders away from her too. No, she wasn’t about to go back to Sea Oaks now. Not ever. She glared at Marguerite, her eyes flashing with anger. “I’m not going back,” she shouted, her voice rising to carry above the storm. “Never! I hate you, and I hate Julie, and I’m leaving. And no one can stop me!” Once again Marguerite reached out to her, but Mary-Beth twisted away, clutching at the coat flapping around her legs. “I hate you,” Mary-Beth lashed out once more. “I hate all of you, and I never want to see any of you again!” Then she was gone, the storm closing around her.

Marguerite stood in the middle of the muddy road, stunned by the girl’s angry words, fiery pain throbbing in her hip, her heart pounding. Mary-Beth was leaving.

Leaving, and never coming back.

But she couldn’t—she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t just turn away from Marguerite. It wasn’t possible. There had to be a way to bring her back—there had to!

Once more she leaned into the storm, staggering against the wind now, pushing herself on. She had to get to Mary-Beth before she reached the causeway. If she didn’t—

She put the thought out of her mind, unable to accept the idea that one of her girls might, indeed, leave her forever.

Mary-Beth stared at the heaving sea. The waves were huge, surging over the causeway with a raw, terrifying power that made her cringe. She couldn’t possibly make it across. And the wind seemed to have risen even higher, threatening to lift her off her feet and hurl her into the churning sea.

A bolt of lightning flashed across the sky, and Mary-Beth screamed out loud as the crash of thunder rolled over her. She could feel its power against her chest, and clamped her hands over her ears until it had passed on, rumbling away, the sound lost in the screaming wind. She was crying now, wishing she’d never left the mansion, wishing she’d gone back with Marguerite when she had the chance. But it was too late now. She’d never be able to make it back to Sea Oaks—she was too tired from fighting the storm. She had
to find shelter, find someplace to wait until the storm eased up.

There was a stand of pines fifty yards away, bending in the wind, a high-pitched keening springing from the trees, storm-lashed needles. If she could just get there, get to one of the trees, get a little protection from the storm. Holding her arms up to deflect the rain, she lurched toward the trees one step at a time.

Then she was there, huddling against one of the tree trunks; even the slight protection it offered a welcome haven from the maelstrom. She leaned against the tree, exhausted, her breath coming in short gasps, her heart still pounding.

Sea spray was mixed with the rain here, and she could taste the sharp tang of salt on her tongue. But at least she was safe.

Another bolt of lightning rent the sky, and a sharp crack—louder than a rifle shot—sounded above her. The tree she was leaning against split along its full length, knocking Mary-Beth to the ground. Almost instantly mud oozed through her coat and clothes, and she felt its cold sliminess against her skin.

She was sobbing now, crying brokenly as she wriggled away from the split tree, then pulling herself up to lean against the trunk of another. It wasn’t just the storm that threatened her now. It was the woods too.

Around her she could hear branches breaking loose in the wind, crashing to the ground.

If one of them hit her—

She pulled herself to her feet. She had to get away, find someplace safe. Or someone—

Tripping, stumbling, she made her shambling way out of the stand of pines. Shreds of moss, ripped loose from the trees and driven by the storm, lashed her face, and once more she held her hands up in a futile effort to protect herself.

And then, with the instincts of a trapped animal, she sensed a presence nearby.

She stopped, listening carefully, but could hear nothing but the storm.

“H-Help!” she called out, her words sounding puny against
the raging of the wind and crashing of the surf. “Please—someone help me! Please!”

And then, emerging from the storm, she saw a figure approaching her. It was only a faint outline at first, but she began calling out once more. The figure seemed to hesitate a moment, then started once more toward her.

Mary-Beth fell to her knees, exhausted not only by her battle against the storm, but her fear, as well. But in a minute it would be over. Whoever was out there—whoever had come to rescue her—would be with her in a few more seconds, and she would be safe.

She gasped once more, struggling to control herself, to put down the last of the panic that had engulfed her only seconds ago. And then, finally, she looked up.

Looked up, ready to see a familiar face smiling down at her, ready to have the last of the terror fall away.

Looked up to see an enormous rock, held high by two trembling hands, descend down upon her, crashing into her face.

She never knew whether the last sound she heard was the sharp crack of a branch breaking above her head or the equally sharp crack of her own skull, splitting and caving in under the force of the stone as it smashed down upon her.

Julie flinched as yet another bolt of lightning slashed across the sky and the house trembled under the force of the thunder that followed immediately after. She tried not to show her fear as she gazed at Jennifer Mayhew, who seemed completely un worried by the fury of the storm. “Where are they?” she asked. “Shouldn’t they have been back by now?” Though it seemed to Julie as if an eternity had passed since her aunt, followed a few minutes later by her father, had gone out into the storm to search for Mary-Beth Fletcher, it had actually been no more than thirty minutes.

But Jennifer didn’t seem concerned. “They’re fine,” she said. “We get lots worse storms than this. Wait till later on, when the hurricanes come. That’s when it really gets scary.”

Tammy-Jo Aaronson rolled her eyes. “If it gets any worse than this, we’re going to blow right into the ocean,” she said. Nervously, she glanced into the shadowy corners of the dim living room. “I wish the lights would come back on. I hate it when this happens.”