by John Saul
“Here, everybody walks,” Elaine reminded her.
“Great,” Sharon groaned. “And how do you get everything home?”
“Ever heard of a shopping cart?” Elaine retorted. “You know, the little wire gizmos old ladies drag around? Well, prepare yourself to enter the world of old-lady dorn!” She laughed out loud at the horrified expression on Sharon’s face. “Don’t worry. I felt like an idiot the first time I did it, but now I’ve gotten so I like it. Of course,” she added, patting her ample thigh, “I ought to walk even more than I do, but I figure I should get full credit for making the effort. Come on.”
They crossed the parking lot, rounded the corner of the market, then came out into the tiny village itself. Although she’d been in the village almost every day this week, Sharon still gazed at it in wonder, for unlike the strip malls of San Marcos—where everyone seemed to be in a hurry to get somewhere else, moving quickly, oblivious to everything around them—here she saw small clusters of people, sitting on the wrought-iron-and-wood benches that had been placed on the boardwalk in front of almost every store, or chatting idly in the middle of the brick street itself. Practically everyone either waved or spoke to Elaine as the two women wandered among the shops, gazing into the windows. Sharon made a few purchases at the drugstore and stepped into what was labeled a hardware store, but actually seemed to have a little of everything, including books, clothes, and furniture—and where, at Elaine’s insistence, Sharon bought a collapsible shopping cart—then they went back to the Safeway.
At first it appeared to Sharon to be very much like any other supermarket she’d been in. But as she moved through the aisles, checking items off the long list she’d been building up all week, she noticed something strange.
In the bakery department, she searched in vain for a loaf of white sandwich bread. Finally deciding the store was out, she was about to settle for a loaf of whole wheat instead, when she realized that all the shelves were full, as if the department had just been stocked. Frowning, she asked Elaine if she’d seen any white bread.
Elaine shook her head. “There isn’t any around here. The store gets all their bread from a bakery in Grand Junction. Super sourdough and great seven-grain. But no white bread.”
“Swell,” Sharon commented. “I don’t suppose Mark will mind, but what am I going to tell Kelly? She loves peanut-butter-and-honey sandwiches on white bread, with no butter on the honey side, so by the time she eats it, the bread’s like eating honeycomb.”
“It does the same thing with whole wheat,” Elaine replied.
Sharon shook her head dolefully. “Obviously you’ve forgotten what nine-year-olds are like. Substitutions of what they like are ‘gross,’ and mothers who make substitutions obviously have no regard for their children’s health, because there’s no way the kid will eat it, even if he—or in this case, she—starves to death.” She took a deep breath, dropped a loaf of honey berry into her cart, then chuckled. “Well, at least she can’t give me the ‘everybody else has white bread’ line.”
They moved on through the store, and Sharon paused in front of a small display of soft drinks.
There was nothing there except mineral water, in an array of different natural flavors. She looked at it with disgust. “I hate this stuff,” she said. “Where’s the real pop?”
Elaine shook her head. “This is it. Anybody who wants anything else brings it in from outside. But nobody does. Mineral water’s good for you, and once you get used to it, you get so you like it.”
Sharon stared at her friend. Was she serious? She couldn’t be! This was a Safeway, wasn’t it?
As they kept moving through the aisles, Sharon noticed more and more discrepancies between this market and the ones she was used to.
The fresh-produce department was twice as large as any she’d seen before, and she had to admit that the fruits and vegetables were better than any she’d seen in California. The same for the meat department.
But in the frozen-food section, she found the supply limited to a few vegetables and a little premium-brand ice cream—the kind with no preservatives in it. She turned to face Elaine squarely, her expression quizzical. “What is this?” she asked. “A supermarket or a health-food store?”
“It’s a supermarket,” Elaine protested. “But they just don’t carry any junk food, that’s all.”
“Junk food!” Sharon protested. “They barely carry anything at all that my family likes! Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for fresh vegetables. But Kelly likes popsicles, and Mark is absolutely crazy about frozen fried chicken. And what are the kids supposed to do if Blake and I want to go out by ourselves? Where are the TV dinners?”
Elaine shook her head. “There aren’t any. Nobody in Silverdale buys any of that kind of thing, so why should the store stock it? Besides, look at our kids. Have you ever seen a healthier bunch? They’re big, and they’re strong, and they practically never get sick. If you ask me—”
Sharon felt a surge of exasperation. “If you ask me,” she interrupted, “you’re starting to sound just like all those health-food nuts we used to laugh at back home. And maybe if the store stocked what you call junk food, people might buy it! What kind of manager do they have here, anyway? Don’t all Safeways have to stock the same things?”
“Hey, it’s not my fault—” Elaine started to protest.
“I didn’t say it was,” Sharon snapped. “I know Jerry runs TarrenTech around here, but I wasn’t assuming he ran the Safeway, too!”
A strange look came into Elaine’s eyes, and for a moment Sharon had the bizarre notion that somehow she’d struck a nerve. Then she realized that Elaine wasn’t looking at her at all, but was staring past her at someone who had just turned into their aisle.
“Charlotte,” she heard Elaine gasp. “What happened? You look awful!” Elaine clapped a hand over her mouth as she heard the tactlessness of her own remark. “Oh, dear,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean—”
Sharon turned to see a small, blond woman, her hair drawn back in a ponytail to expose a face that would have been pretty if it didn’t look so tired. Her eyes were rimmed with red, the black circles under them only partly hidden by a thick layer of makeup, and her left arm was held immobile by a sling.
“Sharon, this is Charlotte LaConner,” she heard Elaine saying. “Sharon is Blake Tanner’s wife. You know, Jerry’s new number two?”
Charlotte managed a wan smile and extended her right hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said, the words coming automatically. Her eyes shifted back to Elaine. “And you don’t have to apologize,” she said. “I know how I look.”
“But what happened?” Elaine asked again.
Charlotte shook her head. “I—I’m not sure, really.” She looked sharply at Elaine. “Didn’t Linda tell you what happened last night?”
Elaine shook her head uncertainly. “Linda? What does she—”
“Apparently she broke up with Jeff after practice last night,” Charlotte went on. “Anyway, when he came home, he … well, he was pretty upset, and he gave me a shove.”
Elaine’s face turned slightly pale. “My God …” She glanced at Sharon. “Jeff’s big,” she said. “He’s the captain of the football team—”
“Not anymore!” Charlotte said with vehemence. “All week I’ve been telling Chuck I want Jeff off that team!” She was trembling now, and her eyes glistened with moisture. She glanced nervously around, and her voice dropped to an urgent whisper. “He was never like this Before,” she said. “Never! He was always such a sweet-tempered boy. Of course, Chuck still insists that it’s just hormones—that he’s just going through adolescence. But it’s not. It’s more than that, Elaine. It’s that damned game, and Phil Collins, too! He drives them so hard—always yelling at them that the only thing that counts is winning! He’s turned Jeff into a stranger, Elaine! A stranger, and a bully, and I don’t blame Linda for not wanting to go out with him anymore.”
“Charlotte—” Elaine began, but the oth
er woman shook her head bitterly, pressing her hand against her mouth as if to hold back her own angry words.
The tension was almost palpable, and Sharon Tanner quickly searched her mind for a way to break it. Then she remembered the words she’d exchanged with Elaine just before Charlotte had arrived. “Maybe it’s the food around here,” she suggested, struggling to keep her tone light. “Elaine was just telling me how big and healthy all the kids are. Maybe they’ve finally gotten too big.”
Charlotte shook her head. “It’s football,” she said bitterly. “That’s all anyone around here cares about, and the biggest mistake I ever made was letting Jeff get involved with it.”
“Now, come on, Charlotte,” Elaine soothed. “It’s not as bad as all that.”
“Isn’t it?” Charlotte asked, her voice bleak. She turned to Sharon Tanner. “I was wrong just now,” she said softly. “Letting Jeff get involved in football wasn’t my biggest mistake. My biggest mistake was coming to Silverdale at all!”
Then she turned and hurried away.
All afternoon Sharon heard Charlotte LaConner’s words echoing in her head.
“My biggest mistake was coming to Silverdale.…”
She would have dismissed the words, since the woman had been terribly upset, perhaps even in pain.
Still, even before she and Elaine had run into Charlotte in the market, Sharon had begun to have misgivings.
Although she couldn’t argue that the town wasn’t beautiful, perfectly planned, and perfectly built, there was still something wrong.
And that, she suddenly realized, was it.
It was too perfect, all of it.
The homes, the shops, the schools, even the food in the market.
Too perfect.
Jeff LaConner knew he’d fouled up at football practice that afternoon. His concentration had been way off, and even though Phil Collins had yelled at him, sent him on extra laps around the track, and finally benched him, it hadn’t helped. Now, in the locker room, he was staring curiously at the marks on his ankles. He hadn’t noticed them until the last period of the day, when he’d stripped down for his regular gym class. But once he’d seen them, he couldn’t get them out of his mind.
They were faded, barely visible now, as were the marks on his wrists. Four strange bands of reddened skin, almost as though they’d been bound up with adhesive tape the night before.
Adhesive tape, or something else.
At times throughout the day, his whole body would shudder. Strange flickers of images would come into his mind, then disappear before he could get a good look at them. But they were frightening images, and as the afternoon wore on, he’d finally begun to remember the nightmare he’d had the previous night.
The nightmare in which he’d been bound to a table, and someone—a man whose face he couldn’t remember at all—had been torturing him.
He stripped off his practice uniform, then went to the shower. There were a dozen other guys still there, but instead of joking with them as he usually did, Jeff only soaped his body down and stood for a long time under the hot needle spray, letting the water relax his sore muscles. Finally, when everyone else had left, he shut off the water, toweled himself dry, then dressed. Instead of leaving the locker room, however, he went to the coach’s office and knocked on the door.
“It’s unlocked,” Collins barked. Jeff let himself into the room, and Collins looked up at him from behind his desk, his expression souring. “I don’t want to hear any excuses,” he growled. “All I want is for you to keep your mind on the game.”
“I—I’m sorry,” Jeff stammered. “I just wanted to talk to you for a minute.”
Collins hesitated, then his shoulders hunched in a gesture of impatient resignation and he waved to the chair opposite him. “Okay, shoot. What’s on your mind?”
“These,” Jeff said, holding out his wrists so Collins could clearly see the marks on them. “They’re on my ankles, too.”
Collins shrugged. “So am I supposed to know where they came from?” he asked.
Jeff shook his head uncertainly. “I just—well, all day I’ve been having these funny feelings … like all of a sudden I get scared. And I had a nightmare last night,” he went on. He told Collins as much as he could remember of the dream. Then: “The thing is, could the dream have caused the marks? I mean, in the dream they had me strapped down to the table. And I was just thinking—”
“You mean maybe they’re psychosomatic?” Collins asked. Again he shrugged, his hands spreading wide on the desk. “You got me, Jeff. I don’t know anything about that sort of stuff. If you want, we can call Ames and ask him.” He reached for the phone, but Jeff shook his head.
“No,” he said. “That’s okay. I’ll be going out there tomorrow or the next day, and I can ask him then.”
Collins gazed at him speculatively for a moment, then nodded. “Okay,” he said. “But I want you to take it easy tonight, okay? No fights, and early to bed. I want you in prime shape for tomorrow’s game.”
Jeff stood up to go, then turned back. “What about my mom?” he asked. “What if she still wants me to quit the team?”
Collins’s eyes met Jeff’s steadily. “That’s not her decision, is it?” he asked. “Isn’t that pretty much up to you and your dad?”
Jeff hesitated, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess it is, isn’t it?”
When Jeff was gone, Collins sat quietly for a few minutes, thinking, then picked up the phone and dialed Dr. Martin Ames’s private number at the sports clinic.
“Marty?” he said when the doctor came on the line. “It’s Phil.” He hesitated a moment, wondering if there was really any reason for him to be calling the doctor. But those marks on Jeff’s ankles had certainly been real. “I was just wondering if there’s a reason why Jeff would have marks on his wrists and ankles today.”
There was a momentary silence, then Ames spoke, his voice tinged with condescension. “Are you asking exactly what we did to Jeff last night?”
Collins’s jaw tightened. “I’m just asking if there’s an explanation for the marks.”
Again there was a momentary silence, and when Ames spoke again, his tone was gentler. “Look, Phil, you know how Jeff was last night. You had to restrain him, and after you left, he had another attack. Nothing to worry about, but we had to restrain him, too, until we could get him calmed down. Sometimes the straps leave marks. What’s the big deal? Isn’t he all right today?”
“Seems okay,” Collins admitted. “But he had a nightmare—a really bad one. I guess I was wondering if the marks could have come from that.”
Now Ames chuckled. “You mean you were wondering if Jeff’s cracking up?”
Collins flinched, for that was exactly what he had been thinking. And yet when Ames actually spoke the words out loud, they sounded ridiculous. “I guess maybe I overreacted,” he replied.
Now Ames’s voice became reassuring. “No, you did the right thing. You know I always want to know what’s going on with the boys, no matter how insignificant it might seem. Not that bruises on Jeff’s arms and legs are insignificant,” he quickly added. “You did the right thing to call me. But it’s nothing to worry about. Okay?” When the coach made no reply for a moment, Ames spoke again, his voice carrying a harsh note of challenge. “I know what I’m doing, Collins,” he said.
Phil Collins’s lips compressed into a tight line. If the arrogant bastard was so sure of himself … He put the thought out of his mind. Ames, after all, had done more for the team than any other single individual, himself included. “Okay,” he said at last. “I just wanted you to know what’s happening, that’s all.”
“And I appreciate that,” Ames replied, friendly again. The conversation ended a moment later, but even after he’d hung up, Phil Collins still felt uneasy.
What if something really was wrong with Jeff?
What if Jeff LaConner was getting sick the way Randy Stevens had last year?
Just the
thought of it made Collins shudder.
9
The last days of Indian summer had faded away, and as September gave way to October, the aspens began to change color. Now Silverdale was ablaze with the brilliant reds and golds of autumn, and the mountain air had taken on a brisk snap, harbinger of the winter to come. Already some of the mountain peaks to the east of the little valley were brushed with snow, and the long evenings of summer were a thing of the past.
For the Tanners, Silverdale was finally beginning to feel like home, and they had fitted themselves comfortably into the pace of the little town. Kelly, her friends in San Marcos all but forgotten, was insisting that if her parents didn’t buy her skis immediately, it would be too late, her life ruined forever.
Blake, though still in the throes of sorting out the masses of detail his new job entailed, managed to come home by five-thirty or six every day, and he was never required to work on weekends. Indeed, the first time he tried to go to his office on a Saturday afternoon, he quickly discovered that working on weekends in Silverdale was impossible, for a security guard had stopped him just inside the front door, informing him that all the offices were locked up for the weekend. When he’d protested that he had work to do, the guard had shrugged impotently and suggested he call Jerry Harris. Jerry had laughed at him and told him to go home. “As far as I’m concerned,” he said, “there isn’t anything we’re doing out here that can’t wait until Monday. So enjoy your family while you can. The kids grow up too fast anyway.”
That afternoon they’d gone to the high school football game, and the following weekend they’d driven down to Durango to watch the Wolverines play there. To Blake’s surprise, Mark had actually shown some interest in the games, although at first he suspected that Mark’s major interest was in Linda Harris rather than the game itself. Yet, every Sunday afternoon, it had been Mark who insisted on spending a couple of hours on the high school practice field, working once more on his place kicking.
