by John Saul
Charles’s gaze followed his wife’s and he smiled, partly at the rainbow of color that danced on the dining room’s white ceiling, and partly at his wife’s pleasure at the effect she had created. So far, at least, it appeared the party was going to be a success. “There’s no point in just standing here,” he said, taking a step forward. “Let’s go inside.” He led Phyllis up the steps from the terrace, but suddenly felt her fingers tighten on his arm. He glanced at her questioningly.
“I keep having a funny feeling,” she said, hesitating once more on the front steps of the clubhouse itself. “I have this awful feeling that something is going to go wrong.”
Charles chuckled. “Of course you do,” he said. “But it’s just nerves. And besides, even if something isn’t perfect, there’s not much you can do about it now. And whatever happens, it can’t be as bad as the year Eleanor Stevens was chairman.”
Phyllis groaned. “Don’t remind me.”
“Of course I’m going to remind you,” Charles replied, his chuckle growing into a booming laugh. “What could be worse than having the whole refreshment table collapse? Especially when the whole staff had warned you it was going to happen? Eleanor didn’t have anyone to blame but herself, and I have to say the look on her face was worth the mess it made.”
Almost in spite of herself, Phyllis found herself laughing, too. She could still see Eleanor staring at the wreckage, then looking around for someone else to blame. But everywhere she looked, people seemed only to be gaping at each other’s ruined costumes, and then, out of the silence that had fallen over the room, Eleanor’s husband had finally spoken: “Is this your idea of crashing a party, dear?”
Eleanor, speechless for probably the first time in her life, had fled the room and not been seen for a week.
“You’re right,” Phyllis conceded. “Nothing could be worse than that.” With Charles beside her, she walked up the steps and into the clubhouse, handing her wrap to the coat-check girl. At last, feeling a final thrill of anticipation, she stepped through the doors into the ballroom.
Her eyes swept the room quickly, checking the decorations. Around the perimeter a series of tables had been set up, each of which held a perfect centerpiece of roses nested in Queen Anne’s lace surrounding three tall candles. Along the wall to her right were the tables of hors d’oeuvres, and even as she watched, a waiter expertly combined two half-filled plates of shrimp and replaced the empty one with a full one from the kitchen. Farther along was the bar, with another one serving only soft drinks opposite it. Outside on the terrace overlooking the sea there was another bar.
The room was already half filled, and Phyllis smiled as she watched the collection of costumed figures drift across the floor. There were angels and devils, three rabbits, several hoboes, and even a scarecrow, who, as Phyllis watched, lost a sheaf of straw from his left pant leg. In the center of the room, dancing with Brett Van Arsdale, she saw Teri, and once more her fingers tightened on Charles’s arm. “There she is,” she whispered. “I told you she’d be the most beautiful girl in the room.”
And indeed, as Charles watched his eldest daughter move gracefully to the rhythm of the slow waltz the band was playing, Phyllis was right. The pink dress that only a few hours ago had looked tired and worn-out now glittered brilliantly, the rhinestones covering the tulle catching every ray of light the chandeliers emitted, refracting them into a rainbow that seemed to shimmer around Teri, dancing attendance on her as she spun across the room.
Suddenly spying her father and stepmother, Teri stopped dancing and hurried across the floor, her eyes sparkling almost as brightly as her dress. “Isn’t it all beautiful, Daddy?” she asked. “Aren’t you proud of Phyllis?”
Charles’s smile broadened. “But none of it is as beautiful as you,” he replied, his eyes scanning the room once more. “Where’s your sister? I don’t know how much longer I can wait for the big surprise.”
Teri’s eyes lost some of their sparkle. “Sh-She isn’t here yet,” she stammered.
Phyllis’s smile faded away. “But didn’t Jeff come to pick her up with Brett?”
Teri’s mind raced. If Phyllis didn’t know that Jeff had tried to stand Melissa up … “He did,” she said, nothing in her voice betraying the lie. “But Melissa wasn’t ready. So we came ahead, and Jeff took Brett’s car back to get her.”
“Jeff?” Charles said, frowning. “But he’s not old enough to drive.”
Teri composed her features into a mask of concern. “He isn’t? I just—if I’d known—”
“But you didn’t,” Phyllis assured her. “And I’m sure it’ll be all right. It’s not even a mile to the house, and Jeff will be careful.” She turned to her husband. “And if he’s already gone, there isn’t much we can do about it now, is there? By now they’re probably on their way back.”
Charles’s frown deepened. “I think I’d better call—” he began.
But Phyllis took his hand and pulled him toward the dance floor. “I think you’d better dance with your wife,” she told him. “If they aren’t here within the next five or ten minutes, then we can start worrying.” She slipped herself into his arms, and after only a moment’s hesitation, Charles whirled her away into the crowd.
Five minutes later, as the last chords of the music died away and the babble of voices rose once more around her, Phyllis smiled at her husband. “I’ve done it,” she whispered softly enough so that only he could hear her words. “Did you hear? Even Eleanor Stevens said it’s the most beautiful midsummer ball we’ve ever had. And the August Moon Ball will be even better. I’ve been thinking about it, and I think this year we’ll forget all the fall colors. They’re such a cliché, and …” Her voice trailed off as she realized that around her the murmuring voices had died away. She glanced around, searching for whatever might have distracted the partygoers from their conversations, and for a moment saw nothing.
But then, realizing that everyone was facing the large double doors to the foyer, she turned around.
And gasped.
Standing in the doorway was a strange figure clad in white. Phyllis gazed blankly, her first impression being that it almost appeared to be a ghost out of the past. It was a girl wearing an old-fashioned white dress, with long blond hair dropping well below her shoulders, partially covering her face. But what little of the face showed was deathly pale and streaked with tears. And then, her breath catching in her throat, Phyllis recognized the dress.
She had seen it only a week ago, hanging on a mannequin in her own attic.
And now it was on her daughter, who stood absolutely still in the doorway, tears streaming down her face, staring at her.
Phyllis’s heart sank. She’d been right—everything had been too perfect, everything had been going too well. And she should have known from the moment it began what the source of her misgivings was.
Melissa.
Once more her daughter was going to humiliate her, and this time on the one night she’d hoped would be her moment of glory. Her hand tightened on her husband’s arm, and when she spoke, her voice was a barely audible hiss emerging from her clenched jaw. “Do something,” she demanded. “Can’t you—”
But it was too late. Melissa suddenly came alive, rushing through the mob of people who had been staring at her and who now drew back as she passed by as if they were afraid even of her touch. Ignoring her mother, Melissa threw herself into her father’s arms.
“Missy?” Charles asked. “Honey, what is it? What’s wrong?”
“A—A car,” Melissa stammered. She looked beseechingly up into her father’s face. “It went off the road, Papa,” she went on, her voice trembling as she tried to choke back her sobs. “It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t do anything—”
Her words were suddenly drowned out by a rising tide of voices, and then the crowd in the room began to move, surging toward the doors.
“What car?” Charles asked.
Melissa swallowed. “A black one,” she said. “Like Brett’s.”
Phyllis flinched at the words. “Brett’s?” she repeated. “But weren’t you—”
Charles cut her off. “Not now,” he said, his voice carrying an urgency that silenced his wife. “Let’s just find out what happened.” Holding Melissa’s hand tightly in his own, he turned away from Phyllis and pushed through the crowd toward the doors.
The scene above the rocky shore upon which Brett Van Arsdale’s ruined car lay had a surreal quality to it. Cars lined the road, their headlights on, and a grotesque ballet of strangely clad beings seemed to be under way as the guests from the ball, still in their costumes, moved from one spot to another, whispering the latest news from the beach to each other before moving on, weaving in and out of the odd spotlights created by the automobiles’ headlamps.
Melissa, her tears abated for the moment, pressed close to her father, holding on to his hand as his arm lay protectively around her shoulders. “Not Jeff,” she breathed. “It can’t be Jeff … It was Brett’s car …” Her voice trailed off as she tried to accept what had happened. But it wasn’t real—it couldn’t be. Jeff was the last person she’d want to hurt. Choking back the sob that formed in her throat, she huddled even closer to her father.
A spotlight had been brought from the clubhouse, connected by a series of long extension cords that wound down the driveway to the nearest electrical outlet. Its brilliant halogen bulb cast a powerful flood of white light down onto the beach below, where seven people were working frantically to cut Jeff Barnstable loose from the wreckage of the black Porsche.
“I’m going down there,” Charles said, withdrawing his hand from his daughter’s grasp.
“No,” Melissa protested. “Please? Don’t leave me alone!”
“But you’re not alone,” Charles replied. “Your mother’s here, and Teri. You’ll be fine.”
Before Melissa could say anything else, he hurried away and began working his way down the steep face of the cliff, following the same route the police and paramedics had taken only minutes before. At last he came to the rocky shelf at the base of the cliff and picked his way carefully through the maze of tide pools until he reached the wreckage. One of the policemen glanced up at him, nodding a greeting, and a moment later, when the light from above caught the man’s face, he recognized him. Tom Mallory had grown up in Secret Cove, joining the police department right out of high school. “What’s the situation?” Charles asked. “Is he going to make it?”
Mallory shook his head. “They’re still working, Mr. Holloway, but it doesn’t look good. His chest is pretty smashed up, and they think his back’s probably broken, too.”
Charles’s eyes drifted away from the cop. A man with an acetylene torch was crouched by the driver’s door, cutting away the crumpled metal as quickly as he could. The tide was rising, and as Charles watched, a wave broke offshore and a cascade of foaming water rushed toward him, churning around the rocks, momentarily engulfing the roof of the car in an inch or two of water.
His heart froze as he heard a muffled sound come from within the car itself. “Jesus,” he muttered. “He’s not conscious, is he?”
Mallory said, “We’re not sure. If he is, it’s just barely. He’s moaned a few times, but we don’t know if he’s heard anything we’ve said to him.” Then the cop’s voice turned grim. “But if they can’t get him out within the next few minutes, it’ll be too late—the tide’s coming in fast.”
“What about moving the car?” Charles asked.
“It’s already taken care of, Mr. Holloway. We’ve got a tow truck on the way, but we’re not sure it’ll do any good. What we need is a crane to lift the car straight up.”
“Then get one,” Charles said, unconsciously using a tone that told Mallory he expected his order to be obeyed instantly.
The police sergeant snorted impatiently. “You think we haven’t tried? But the nearest one is fifty miles away. It’s on its way, too, but by the time it gets here it’ll be too late. Either they get him out in the next ten minutes or …” He shrugged eloquently as his head shook in hopelessness.
A moment later one of the paramedics spoke sharply. “Sarge? He’s definitely awake now. I think he’s trying to say something.”
Mallory moved quickly to the side of the crumpled car, crouching low so his head was close to the window. Behind him, heedless of the water swirling around his feet, Charles Holloway hunkered down as well. “Jeff?” he said. “It’s me … it’s—”
Mallory silenced him with a look. “It’s gonna be okay, son,” he said, his voice low and calm, with no trace left of the tension that had been apparent only seconds ago when he’d been talking to Holloway. “We’re gonna get you out, Jeff. You just take it easy and we’ll have you out of here in just a few more minutes.”
Jeff’s eyes flickered, then opened, and even though the boy’s face was in deep shadow, Charles had an instant and unshakable impression that the boy already knew he was going to die. Jeff’s eyes moved, flicking toward him for a moment, returning immediately to the policeman.
Another wave crashed out to sea, and a moment later water once more flooded over the shelf of rocks. Charles felt a surge of helpless impotence as the water surged into the car, rising ominously, threatening to flood Jeff’s nose and mouth before suddenly peaking and ebbing away again. When the water had receded once more, Tom Mallory reached out and gently wiped Jeff’s face with a handkerchief.
As the boy’s eyes opened once more, his mouth began to work, too, and both Mallory and Charles Holloway leaned forward.
For a second there was only silence.
And then, as yet another wave broke, a single word drifted from Jeff Barnstable’s lips.
“D’Arcy …”
It came almost like a breath, and Charles thought—or imagined—that he saw Jeff shudder slightly.
The water suddenly rose around his feet once more, and this time it flooded into the car, rising quickly, submerging Jeff’s face completely. Charles found himself holding his own breath in sympathy for the boy, and braced himself for the spasm of coughing that was bound to rack Jeff’s broken body as soon as the water retreated.
But when it finally drained away, there was only silence in the car, and for several long seconds Charles found himself still holding his breath as he stared into Jeff’s empty eyes.
“He’s dead,” Tom Mallory said. He reached into the car and gently closed Jeff’s eyes. Finally, he straightened up, drawing Charles erect along with him. Issuing orders to stop cutting the smashed door, Mallory started slowly toward the base of the cliff. Just before he began climbing, though, he turned back to face Charles.
“Did you hear what he said?” he asked.
Charles hesitated, then reluctantly nodded. “D’Arcy.”
“D’Arcy,” Mallory repeated. “Any idea what he could have meant by that?”
Charles said nothing for a moment, but at last nodded once again. “I think I do,” he said. “I wish I didn’t, but I think I do.” Feeling numb, he followed the policeman back to the road where his family waited. His eyes went to Melissa, who stood where he had left her. “Come on, darling,” he said, putting his arms around her and holding her for a moment. “I’ll take you home.”
As he led Melissa away from the suddenly silent crowd, a scream pierced the silence of the night.
Paula Barnstable had just learned that her only son had died, and heard what his last word had been.
“D’Arcy.”
Teri MacIver, who had been silently watching and listening to everything that had happened since Melissa had appeared at the door to the ballroom less than an hour before, smiled softly to herself.
Jeff’s last word, she was certain, would be enough. For already she had seen how people were beginning to look at Melissa.
After all, everyone knew there was no such person as D’Arcy.
There was only Melissa Holloway.
And it would be Melissa they would blame for Jeff Barnstable’s death.
Teri’s smil
e broadened in the darkness of the night, but no one saw it.
Except that, oddly, Teri once more had that peculiar sensation that she was being watched.
She turned, and peered into the darkness around her.
There was no one there.
But still, the feeling of unseen eyes watching her, looking right inside her, persisted. A slight shiver ran through her as she finally hurried away from the bluff over the sea.
CHAPTER 21
“He thinks she’s crazy.”
Phyllis’s voice, crackling with a brittleness that clearly reflected the condition of her rapidly fraying nerves, broke the silence that had fallen over the Holloways’ library in the moments after Tom Mallory had left. It was past eleven now; the sergeant had been there for nearly an hour, going over Melissa’s fragmentary story again and again.
Phyllis had listened in silence, after objecting only a few minutes after Mallory had arrived that Melissa should say nothing until their lawyer could get there.
“I hardly think that’s necessary,” Charles had told her. “Aside from the fact that I happen to be a lawyer …”
“A corporate lawyer,” Phyllis interjected, but Charles ignored her interruption.
“… the fact of the matter is that Melissa wasn’t in the car. All Sergeant Mallory wants is for her to tell him what she saw.”
Melissa had done her best, but when she was done, no one knew much more than before. “All I remember is hearing a horn honking. I turned around, and then the car speeded up. It raced past me and went right through the rail.”
