by John Saul
"Some trash," Janet repeated softly. "It's the stuff from the attic, isn't it? Ione Simpson's stuff?" Laura hesitated, then nodded mutely, "Ione didn't want it back?"
Again the hesitation, longer this time, but finally Laura shook her head. "No… no, she didn't."
When she spoke once more, Janet was careful not to look at Laura. "I wish you'd called me—I could have used those things for my baby."
At last Laura faced Janet, and when Janet looked into her eyes, she saw a depth of pain there such as she'd never seen before. "Your baby?" Laura asked, her voice as hollow as her eyes. "Did you say your baby?"
Slowly, Janet nodded, and suddenly a bitter smile warped Laura's pretty features. "You really think you're going to have it? You really think they'll let you have it? Go away, Janet. Go away now, while you still can. If you want your baby go away now, before it's born. They'll kill it, Janet." Laura's voice began rising to that hysterical pitch Janet had heard once before, right after Laura had lost her baby. She reached out to place a calming hand on Laura's arm, but her sister-in-law shrank away from her.
"Who, Laura?" Janet asked. "Who will kill my baby?"
"Father," Laura whispered; then, again, "Father. He'll do it, Janet—he always does it." For a long time she stared into Janet's eyes, as if trying to see whether the other woman believed her, then finally broke her gaze, and glanced once more at the smoldering coals. "That's all that's left of her now. She's gone, Janet. Now, she's really gone."
"Who?" Janet asked. "Please, Laura, who's gone?"
"My little girl," Laura suddenly wailed. "My little girl, my Becky."
And as Laura collapsed sobbing into her arms, Janet once again remembered Michael's words. "I bet they killed her. I bet they buried her in Potter's Field."
"Come on, Laura," Janet said softly. "I'm taking you home with me. I'm taking you home, so we can talk."
"Is Father all right?" Laura suddenly asked. The two of them were sitting in Janet's living room, and Laura was sipping at the cup of tea Janet had fixed for her. It had taken nearly an hour for her to calm down, but now she seemed better.
"He'll be all right," Janet told her. "He claims Shadow attacked him, but nobody else agrees with him."
"I wanted to go out there, you know," Laura said as if she hadn't heard Janet's words. "When Mother called, I offered to go out and help her take care of him, but she wouldn't let me."
"I'm sure she was only thinking of you."
"No!" Once again Laura's voice rose. "They don't think of me," she said bitterly. "At least not Father. He—he thinks I'm crazy, you know."
"I'm sure he doesn't," Janet protested.
"But he does," Laura replied. "He thinks all women are weak, but especially me. And I suppose he's right. After Becky was born I fell apart."
Janet frowned, remembering the letter Laura had sent to Mark.
"Tell me what happened."
But Laura shook her head. "I can't talk about it. If I do, you'll think I'm crazy, too."
"I won't," Janet promised. "Laura, I need to know what's happened here, too. I need to know what happened to you, and to Mark. I don't care what you say, I promise you I won't think you're crazy."
Laura grinned crookedly. "That's what the doctors said, too. But when I told them what happened, they didn't believe me. For a while, I thought they did, but it was only an act. Pretty soon they started trying to convince me I was imagining things. So finally I agreed with them, and they let me go."
"Let you go?"
"I—I was in a hospital for a while. A mental hospital. I finally got out by telling them what they wanted to hear. Do you know how hard it is to do that, when you know all they want to hear is what makes sense, but the truth doesn't make sense? In order to prove you're sane, you have to lie. And that's crazy, isn't it?"
Janet ignored the question. "But why were you there? Because of Becky?"
Laura nodded. "I wouldn't admit she was dead. Even now, sometimes I think she's still alive. I wake up in the middle of the night, and I can almost hear her crying. Then I remember where she is, and I remember what happened. But I didn't used to. Sometimes I'd forget for days at a time. So they sent me away."
"Where is she, Laura?"
"Out there," Laura said. Her eyes drifted toward the window, but when Janet followed her gaze, she saw nothing but the fields: her own fields, the ripening crops beginning to tinge the prairie with a golden hue, and, further away, the overgrown expanse that was called Potter's Field. "Becky's buried out there?" Janet breathed. "But why? Why would she be buried out there?"
Laura shook her head. "I don't know," she whispered. "All I know is that's where they bury them. That's where they see Abby, you know. But it's not Abby, Janet. It's not Abby Randolph looking for her children. It's Father, or Dr. Potter, burying my children."
Janet shuddered, for Laura's words were too much like Michael's own. For a moment, she had an urge to flee, to take Michael and run away. But she knew she wouldn't— couldn't—until she learned the truth.
Michael, unaware of how long it had been since he'd come out of the storm cellar, stared at the river. It was much lower than it had been in the spring, and its water was getting clearer every day. As Michael watched, he thought he saw a small school of fish swimming against the current. He started walking upstream, toward the village, with Shadow next to him, though the dog stopped every few seconds to sniff at a bush, a small hole in the ground, or a rock. Then, after they'd gone some fifty yards, Shadow suddenly stiffened, and a low growl emerged from his throat. Michael stopped and stared curiously at the dog.
"What is it, boy?"
The dog stood perfectly still, one foreleg slightly raised, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere in the distance. Michael studied the woods, then shrugged and started forward again.
Again, Shadow growled, and Michael turned back to face him. "Come on, Shadow. There's nothing there," he said, his voice implying a certainty he didn't feel.
For a long moment, the dog remained frozen on point, but then slowly began to relax. His growling faded, and the fur on his neck settled back. Finally he went to Michael, sat down in front of him, and licked his hand. Michael patted him on the head. "See? I told you there was nothing there." But a second later, when he started forward once more, Shadow blocked his way. Michael paused, then started to step around the dog.
Shadow countered his move, then nudged at Michael, pushing him slightly backward.
"Stop that," Michael said, and once more tried to move around the dog. This time, a low growl rumbled up from Shadow's throat as once more he blocked Michael's way.
"What's wrong with you?" Michael complained. "Why can't we go this way?"
And then, from a few yards ahead and off to the right, he heard a twig break. Shadow whirled and once more went onto point, his growl turning into a snarl.
Michael peered into the shadows of the forest, but could see nothing. "Who's there?" he called. Then, when there was no reply, he called out again, "Is someone there?"
Another twig snapped, closer this time. Shadow's hackles rose, and his tail dropped slightly, curving close to the ground. Then his snarl escalated into a howl, and he leaped forward, charging into the woods. A moment later he was gone, though his baying filled the woods with an eerie din.
Michael hesitated only a moment, then spun around and ran back down the path, his feet pounding on the ground, the sound of Shadow's fury diminishing in the distance.
At last, out of breath, Michael came to a stop and sank down on the riverbank. From far away, he could still hear Shadow barking. Suddenly, the bark turned into an anguished yelp.
Then there was silence.
Ryan Shields and Eric Simpson saw Michael and came to a sudden halt. They were on their way to their favorite fishing hole, but now, as they watched Michael, they began to wonder if maybe they shouldn't change their minds. They glanced at each other uneasily; then, though neither of them spoke, each of them began scanning the area, looking for the big
dog that was always with Michael. Today, Shadow was nowhere to be seen.
"You wanta go somewhere else?" Ryan finally asked Eric, and Eric shrugged.
"I don't know. Maybe he's gone."
"Maybe he's hiding in the woods," Ryan countered.
"You scared of him?"
Ryan hesitated, but finally nodded. "He's always growling, and acting like he's gonna bite."
"But Michael says he never bit anyone."
"So what?" Ryan replied, his voice scornful. "Michael doesn't even know where he came from."
Eric frowned. "Are you mad at Michael?"
"I don't know. He's just sort of—well, he's sort of weird."
Eric nodded his agreement. "But my mom says I ought to be nice to him. Why don't we ask him if he wants to go fishing with us?"
Ryan was about to shake his head when he remembered his own mother's words earlier that day, so he shrugged, then called out to his cousin. Michael looked up, then waved.
"Whatcha doin'?" Eric asked as he flopped down on the riverbank next to Michael.
"Waiting for Shadow," Michael replied, but there was something in his voice that made both the other boys suspicious.
Ryan eyed his cousin. "Did he run away?" he finally asked.
"N-no," Michael stammered. Then he told them what had happened, and finished by asking, "You wanta help me look for him?"
The three boys started slowly back up the path that followed the riverbank, but a few minutes later, Eric suddenly stopped. Michael looked at him curiously. "It was further than this," he said.
"But this is where old man Findley's land starts," Eric replied. "What if he sees us out here?"
Michael's eyes narrowed. "I thought you said you weren't afraid of old man Findley."
Then, before Eric could reply, they heard the sound of an animal whimpering.
"Shadow?" Michael called. "Shadow, is that you?" From up ahead and off to the right in the forest, came an answering bark. Michael began running toward the sound. A second later the other two boys followed him.
Michael found the dog first. Shadow was lying at the base of a tree, his back curled protectively against a root, licking at his left forepaw. Michael knelt down and reached out to touch the injured leg. The dog stiffened for a moment, then seemed to relax under the boy's gentle fingers. But seconds later, when Eric and Ryan came into sight, his hackles rose, and he struggled to his feet, supporting himself on three legs.
"It's all right, boy," Michael whispered. "Lie down. It's all right."
The beginnings of a growl died in the dog's throat, and then he eased himself back down to the ground. Warily, Ryan and Eric approached.
"What's wrong with him?" Ryan asked.
"It's his leg," Michael explained. "Something's wrong with his leg."
"Is it cut?"
"I don't know. I don't think so—there isn't any blood."
Eric dropped down next to Michael, and reached out to touch the injured leg, but quickly pulled his hand back when Shadow bared his fangs.
"No, Shadow," Michael said to the dog. "It's all right. Eric won't hurt you." Then, keeping his hands on Shadow's head, he nodded to Eric. "Go ahead—he won't bite you."
Eric still looked uncertain. "How do you know?"
"I know, that's all," Michael told him.
Eric took the dog's leg in his hand, and though a low rumble came from Shadow, and his eyes fixed balefully on Eric's, he didn't move. Gingerly, the boy explored the injured leg, and though Shadow yelped twice, he made no move either to pull the leg away or to snap at Eric. Finally Eric released the leg and looked at Michael. "It's swollen, but there isn't any cut or anything. It's like maybe somebody hit him with a stick or something."
"Is it broken?" Michael asked, his voice anxious.
Eric shrugged. "I don't know."
"I bet it was old man Findley," Ryan said. "I bet he was coming after you with his gun, and Shadow went for him."
The three boys fell silent, staring at each other, and suddenly Michael felt a chill go up his spine as if someone were watching him from behind. His hands fell away from Shadow, and he scrambled to his feet just as Ben Findley stepped out from behind a tree ten yards away.
The old man glared at them for a moment, then his eyes came to rest on Michael. When he spoke, his voice was hard and angry. "You're damned lucky I didn't shoot him," he said. Only then did Michael see the shotgun that he held loosely in one hand.
At the sound of the old man's words, Shadow bared his fangs once more, snarled, and struggled to his feet.
"What'd you do to him?" Michael demanded. Findley grinned, exposing crooked teeth.
"Hit him," he said. "Hit him with the barrel of this here gun, just when he thought he was gonna get me. Now you three get the hell off my land, hear? Get off right now, and don't come back."
As he gazed at the old man, the familiar pain began in Michael's temples, and a thought drifted fleetingly through his mind. I could make him die… right now, I could make him die… And then, barely discernible in the far reaches of his mind, he heard Nathaniel's voice: "Not yet. Not now…"
"I—I didn't know this was your land," Michael stammered as his headache passed. "There wasn't any sign or anything."
Findley fixed him with a hard look, but then nodded. "That's why I didn't shoot the dog," he said. "If it'd been one of theirs," he went on, nodding toward Eric and Ryan, "I woulda shot it. They know where my land starts and where it stops. And now you know, too. So take the dog and get off. And don't come back."
Slowly the three boys began backing away. For a moment, Shadow held his ground, his yellow eyes flashing even in the filtered light of the woods, but then he, too, began backing off, his gait an awkward hobble as he held his left foreleg off the ground. As the three boys watched, Ben Findley moved deeper into the woods, disappearing almost as if he'd never been there.
"C-come on," Ryan whispered, breaking the sudden silence that hung over the forest. "Let's get out of here before he comes back."
As one, the three boys wheeled around and ran back the way they'd come, not stopping until they were well away from Ben Findley's land.
Limping clumsily and favoring his injured leg, Shadow struggled to keep up.
When they finally emerged from the woods at the foot of the Halls' small farm, Michael stopped to stare at the weed-choked acreage of Potter's Field. Eventually, though, his gaze shifted to Ben Findley's ancient barn.
"That's what he really wants us to stay away from," he whispered, his eyes narrowing angrily. "It's not the woods he cares about, it's the barn."
Ryan and Eric stared at him curiously. "How come? What's so special about the barn?" Ryan asked.
Michael turned to the other two boys, an odd smile coming over his face. "You really want to know?"
The boys hesitated, then nodded.
"Maybe I'll show you sometime," Michael said softly. "Maybe when Shadow's leg gets better, I'll show you."
CHAPTER TWENTY
As the summer wore on, the heat of the prairie filled Janet with a languor she was unused to. At first she attributed it only to the weather, but when she finally talked to a doctor in North Platte about it, she was told that she had to expect her body to concentrate most of its energy on the baby growing inside her and that the best thing she could do was listen to the messages her body was sending her, and take life as easy as possible. And for a while, she was able to relax.
The farm needed little attention, and Michael was more than able to feed their few chickens, tend the cow, and keep the barn in order. Janet concentrated on turning the third bedroom into a nursery, and discovered that even that was no trouble. Just as they had for the farm itself, now people dropped by with things they "thought the baby might be able to use."
For a while, Janet kept a watchful eye on Michael, but as July passed into August, and he complained less and less about his headaches, she began to feel that perhaps the worst was over. Even Laura seemed to have been calmed by the summer wea
ther.
Laura and Janet had grown closer. As Laura's strength returned to her, she began spending more and more time at the farm, helping Janet with her first experiments at canning, teaching her the little tricks that made running the farm easier. And she had an endless curiosity about Janet's life in New York.
At first, Janet assumed that Laura's primary interest was in her brother, that she wanted to know what Mark had been like in all the years of their estrangement. But as time went on, it became clearer that for Laura, talking to Janet was the closest she would ever come to the life she had always dreamed about, and when Janet described the rhythms of the city, told her about the galleries and museums, the shows and the parties, it was almost as if Laura was experiencing them herself.
It was on a day in late August, when the prairie was shimmering with heat and they were sitting on the front porch whiling away the afternoon by talking about all the things they should be doing—and would do, once the heat broke—that Janet finally asked Laura why she had stayed in Prairie Bend.
Laura smiled, a soft smile that reflected both sadness and longing. "By the time I knew what I wanted, it was too late," she said. "I was already married, and Ryan was born, and I just let myself drift along. For a while, I thought about taking Ryan and just leaving, but I always seemed to get pregnant just when I had my mind made up. When you're pregnant, you may feel like running away from home, but it just isn't practical, is it?"
Janet let one hand fall to the swelling in her torso, then brushed a damp strand of hair from her brow. "Not practical doesn't begin to express it. It's funny—when I was pregnant with Michael, I had so much energy I used to frighten Mark. He was always telling me to slow down— take it easier. He was sure I was going to lose the baby. But this time, it's all different. I don't even feel like getting up from this chair."
"You're not as young as you were then," Laura pointed out.
