The Fiend

by Margaret Millar

  “Were you expecting me, Mary Martha?”

  “Not really. Only my mother said I was to call you at exactly eleven o’clock and invite you to come over.”

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t ask her. You know what? I never stayed up until eleven o’clock before in my whole, entire life.”

  “Your mother must have had a reason, Mary Martha. Why didn’t you ask her?”

  “I couldn’t. She was nervous, she might have changed her mind about letting me stay up and play.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Sleeping. She had a bad pain so she took a bunch of pills and went to bed.”

  “When? When did she take them? What kind of pills?”

  The child started backing away from him, her eyes widening in sudden fear. “I didn’t do anything, I didn’t do a single thing!”

  “I’m not accusing you.”

  “You are so.”

  “No. Listen to me, Mary Martha.” He forced himself to speak softly, to smile. “I know you didn’t do anything. You’re a very good girl. Tell me, what were you playing when I arrived?”

  “Movie star.”

  “You were pretending to be a movie star?”

  “Oh no. I was her sister.”

  “Then who was the movie star?”

  “Nobody. Nobody real, I mean,” she added hastily. “I used to have lots of imaginary playmates when I was a child. Some­times I still do. You didn’t notice my new dress.”

  “Of course I noticed. It’s very pretty. Did your mother make it for you?”

  “Oh no. She bought it this afternoon. It cost an enormous amount of money.”

  “How much?”

  She hesitated. “Well, I’m not supposed to broadcast it but I guess it’s O.K., being as it’s only you. It cost nearly twenty dol­lars. But my mother says it’s worth every penny of it. She wanted me to have one real boughten dress in case a special oc­casion comes up and I meet Sheridan at it. Then he’ll realize how well she takes care of me and loves me.”

  In case I meet Sheridan. The words started a pulse beating in Mac’s temple like a drumming of danger. He knew what the special occasion would have to be, Kate had told him a dozen times: “He’ll see Mary Martha over my dead body and not before.”

  “Louise?” Charlie peered at her through the darkness, shield­ing his eyes with one hand as though from a midday sun. “No. You don’t look like Louise.”

  “It’s dark. You can’t see me very well.”

  “Yes, I can. I know who you are. You get off these tracks immediately or I’ll tell your parents, I’ll report you to the school principal.”

  “Charlie—”

  “Please,” he said. “Please go home, little girl.”

  “The little girls are all at home, Charlie. I’m here. Louise.”

  He sat down suddenly on the edge of one of the railroad ties, rubbing his eyes with his fists like a boy awakened from sleep. “How did you find me?”

  “Is that important?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right then. I could see you were troubled, and sometimes when you’re troubled you go down to the warehouse. You feel secure there, you know what’s expected of you and you do it. I saw you looking in the window of the office as if you wanted to be inside. I guess the library serves the same purpose for me. We’re not very brave or strong people, you and I, but we can’t give up now without a fight.”

  “I have nothing to fight for.”

  “You have life,” she said. “Life itself.”

  “Not for long.”

  “Charlie, please—”

  “Listen to me. I saw the child last night, I spoke to her. I don’t—I can’t swear what happened after that. I might have frightened her. Maybe she screamed and I tried to shut her up and I did.”

  “We’ll find out. In time you’ll remember everything. Don’t worry about it.”

  “It seemed so clear to me a couple of hours ago. I was the witness then. It felt so good being the witness, with the law on my side, and the people, the nice people. But of course that couldn’t last.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they’re not on my side and never will be. I can hear them, in my ears I can hear them yelling, get him, get him good, he killed her, kill him back.”

  She was silent. A long way off a train wailed its warning. She thought briefly of stepping into the middle of the tracks and standing there with Charlie until the train came. Then she reached down and took hold of his hand. “Come on, Charlie. We’re going home.”

  Even before Mac opened the door he could hear Kate’s trou­bled breathing. She was lying on her back on the bed, her eyes closed, her arms outstretched with the palms of her hands turned up as if she were begging for something. Her hair was carefully combed and she wore a silky blue dress Mac had never seen before. The new dress and the neatness of the room gave the scene an air of unreality as if Kate had intended at first only to play at suicide but had gone too far. On the bedside table were five empty bottles, which had contained pills, and a sealed en­velope. The envelope bore no name and Mac assumed the con­tents were meant for him since he was the one Mary Martha had been told to call at eleven o’clock.

  “Kate. Can you hear me, Kate? There’s an ambulance on the way. You’re going to be all right.” He pressed his face against one of her upturned palms. “Kate, my dearest, please be all right. Please don’t die. I love you, Kate.”

  She moved her head in protest and he couldn’t tell whether she was protesting the idea of being all right or the idea of his loving her.

  She let out a moan and some words he couldn’t understand.

  “Don’t try to talk, Kate. Save your strength.”

  “Sheridan’s—fault.”

  “Shush, dearest. Not now.”

  “Sheridan—”

  “I’ll look after everything, Kate. Don’t worry.”

  The ambulance came and went, its siren loud and alien in the quiet neighborhood. Mary Martha stood on the front porch and watched the flashing red lights dissolve into the fog. Then she followed Mac back into the house. She seemed more curious than frightened.

  “Why did my mother act so funny, Mac?”

  “She took too many pills.”

  “Why?”

  “We don’t know yet.”

  “Will she be gone one or two days?”

  “Maybe more than that. I’m not sure.”

  “Who will take care of me?”

  “I will.”

  She gave him the kind of long, appraising look that he’d seen Kate use on Sheridan. “You can’t. You’re only a man.”

  “There are different kinds of men,” Mac said, “just as there are different kinds of women.”

  “My mother doesn’t think so. She says men are all alike. They do bad things like Sheridan and Mr. Brant.”

  “Do you know what Mr. Brant did?”

  “Sort of, only I’m not supposed to talk about the Brants, ever. My mother and I made a solemn pact.”

  Mac nodded gravely. “As a lawyer, I naturally respect solemn pacts. As a student of history, though, I’m aware that some of them turn out badly and have to be broken.”

  “I’m sleepy. I’d better go to bed.”

  “All right. Get your pajamas on and I’ll bring you up some hot chocolate.”

  “I don’t like hot chocolate—I mean, I’m allergic to it. Any­way, we don’t have any.”

  “When someone gives me three reasons instead of one, I’m inclined not to believe any of them.”

  “I don’t care,” she said, but her eyes moved anxiously around the room. “I mean, it’s O.K. to tell a little lie now and then when you’re keeping a solemn and secret pact.”

 
“But it isn’t a secret any more. I know about it, and pretty soon Lieutenant Gallantyne will know and he’ll come here searching for Jessie. And I think he’ll find her.”

  “No. No, he won’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because.”

  “He’s a very good searcher.”

  “Jessie’s a very good hider.” She stopped, clapping both hands to her mouth as if to force the words back in. Then she began to cry, watching Mac carefully behind her tears to see if he was moved to pity. He wasn’t, so she wiped her eyes and said in a resentful voice, “Now you’ve spoiled everything. We were going to be sisters. We were going to get a college education and good jobs so we wouldn’t always be waiting for the support check in the mail. My mother said she would fix it so we would never have to depend on bad men like Sheridan and Mr. Brant.”

  “Your mother wasn’t making much sense when she said that, Mary Martha.”

  “It sounded sensible to me and Jessie.”

  “You’re nine years old.” So is Kate, he thought, picturing the three of them together the previous night: Jessie in a state of shock, Mary Martha hungry for companionship, and Kate carried away by her chance to strike back at the whole race of men. That first moment of decision, when Jessie had appeared at the house with her story about Virginia Arlington and her father, had probably been one of the high spots in Kate’s life. It was too high to last. Her misgivings must have grown during the night and day to such proportions that she couldn’t face the future.

  There was, in fact, no future. She had no money to run away with the two girls and she couldn’t have hidden Jessie for more than a few days. Even to her disturbed mind it must have been clear that when she was caught Sheridan would have enough evidence to prove her an unfit mother.

  The three conspirators, Kate, Mary Martha, Jessie, all inno­cent, all nine years old; yet Mac was reminded of the initial scene of the three witches in Macbeth—When shall we three meet again?—and he thought, with a terrible sorrow, Perhaps never, perhaps never again.

  He said, “You’d better go and tell Jessie I’m ready to take her home.”

  “She’s sleeping.”

  “Wake her up.”

  “She won’t want to go home.”

  “I’m pretty sure she will.”

  “You,” she said, “you spoil everything for my mother and me.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way. I would like to be your friend.”

  “Well, you can’t be, ever. You’re just a man.”

  When she had gone, he took out the letter he’d picked up from Kate’s bedside table before the ambulance attendants had arrived. She had written only one line: “You always wanted me dead, this ought to satisfy you.”

  He realized immediately that it was intended for Sheridan, not for him. She hadn’t even thought of him. First and last it was Sheridan.

  He stood for a long time with the piece of paper in his hand, listening to the old house creaking under the weight of the wind. Over and beyond the creaking he thought he heard the sound of Sheridan’s footsteps in the hall.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Margaret Millar (1915-1994) was the author of 27 books and a masterful pioneer of psychological mysteries and thrillers. Born in Kitchener, Ontario, she spent most of her life in Santa Barbara, California, with her husband Ken Millar, who is better known by the nom de plume of Ross MacDonald. Her 1956 novel Beast in View won the Edgar Allan Poe Award for Best Novel. In 1965 Millar was the recipient of the Los Angeles Times Woman of the Year Award and in 1983 the Mystery Writers of America awarded her the Grand Master Award for Lifetime Achievement. Millar’s cutting wit and superb plotting have left her an enduring legacy as one of the most important crime writers of both her own and subsequent generations.

  Keep reading for a sneak peek at Margaret Millar’s Beyond This Point Are Monsters

  CHAPTER ONE

  in devon’s dream they were searching the reservoir again for Robert. It was almost the way it had happened the first time, with the Mexican policeman, Valenzuela, shouting orders to his men, and the young divers standing around in rubber suits with aqualungs strapped to their backs.

  In the dream Devon watched, mute and helpless, from the ranch house. The real Devon had gone out to protest to Estivar, the foreman: “Why are they looking for him in there?”

  “They have to look every place, Mrs. Osborne.” “The water’s so dirty. Robert’s a very clean person.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “He would never have gone in such dirty water.”

  “He might not have had much to say about it, ma’am.”

  The water, used only for irrigation, was too murky for the divers to work, and in the end the police used a giant scoop and strainer. They spent hours dragging the bottom. All they found were rusting pieces of machinery and old tires and pieces of lumber and the muddy bones of a new­born baby. Finding the nameless, faceless child had upset the policeman, Valenzuela, more than finding a dozen Roberts. It was as if the Roberts of this world always did something to deserve their fate, however bloody or wet or feverish. But the child, the baby— “Goddam,” Valenzuela said, crossing himself, and took the little pile of bones away in a shoe box.

  She woke up to the sound of Dulzura knocking on the bedroom door.

  “Mrs. Osborne? You awake?” The door opened no more than a crack. “You better get up now. Breakfast is on the stove.”

  “It’s early,” Devon said. “Only six-thirty.”

  “But this is the day. Have you forgot?”

  “No.” Not very likely. She’d signed the petition herself while the lawyer watched, looking relieved that she’d finally consented.

  Dulzura’s small fat hand trembled on the door. “I’m scared. Everybody will be staring at me.”

  “You only have to tell the truth.”

  “How am I sure of the truth after all this time? And if I lie after swearing on the Bible, Estivar says they’ll put me in jail.”

  “He was joking.”

  “He didn’t laugh.”

  “They won’t put you in jail,” Devon said. “I’ll be ready for breakfast in ten minutes.”

  But she lay still, listening to Dulzura’s leaden step on the stairs and the grumbling of the wind as it went round and round the house trying to get in. The autumn night had been warm. Devon’s short brown hair was moist and her nightgown clung damply to her body, as though she herself had been fished out of the reservoir and stretched on the bed to dry, a half-drowned mermaid.

  Dulzura would tell the truth, of course, because it was too simple to distort: after dinner Robert had gone out to look for his dog and on the way he’d stopped in the kitchen to see Dulzura. He wished her a happy birthday, kidded her about getting to be a big girl and went out the back door toward the garage.

  Robert’s car was still there, the top down, the key in the ignition. Estivar said it was bad policy to leave the car like that, it was too much of a temptation to the Mexican mi­grant workers who came to harvest lemons in the spring and crate tomatoes in the summer and pick cantaloupe in the fall. Every group of migrants that had arrived and departed during the past year undoubtedly knew about the car, but no attempt had ever been made to steal it. Perhaps Estivar had warned them severely or perhaps they thought such a car would have a curse on it. Whatever the reason, it lay dead and undisturbed under its shroud of dust.

  The tides of migrants that came and went were gov­erned by the sun the way the ocean tides were governed by the moon. It was now October, the peak season of the year, and the bunkhouse was full. Devon had no personal connection with the migrant workers. They spoke no Eng­lish, and Estivar discouraged her from trying to communi­cate with them in her high school Spanish. She didn’t know their names or where they came from. Small and hungry, they moved across her fields like rodents
. “Must have been a couple of wetbacks,” one of the deputies said. “Must have robbed and killed him and buried him some place.” “We have no wetbacks here,” Estivar said sharply. Later Estivar told Devon that the deputy was a very igno­rant man because the term wetbacks, mojados, was appli­cable only in Texas where the U.S.-Mexican border was the Rio Grande River; here, in California, where the bor­der was marked by miles of barbed-wire fence, the illegal entrants were properly called alambres, wires.

  Devon got out of bed and went over to the window to pull aside the drapes. She had long since moved out of the bedroom she’d shared with Robert into the smallest room on the second floor of the ranch house. Small rooms were less lonely, easier to fill. This one, which faced south, had a sweeping view of the river valley, and in the distance the parched hills of Tijuana with its wooden shacks and its domed cathedral the same color as the mustard they sold for hot dogs at the race track and the bull ring. Tijuana looked best at night when it became a cluster of starry lights on the horizon, or at dawn when the cathedral dome turned pink and the shacks were still hidden by darkness.

  Through the open window Devon could hear the phone ringing in the kitchen below and Dulzura answer­ing it, her voice shrill as a parrot’s because telephones made her nervous. A minute later she was at the bedroom door again, breathing heavily from exertion and resent­ment.

  “It’s his mother, says it’s important.”

  “Tell her I’ll call her back.”

  “She don’t like to wait.”

  No, Devon thought, Robert’s mother didn’t like to wait. But she had waited, the same as the rest of them, for the sound of a doorbell, a phone, a car in the driveway, a step in the hall; she had waited for a letter, a telegram, a post­card, a message from a friend or a stranger.

  “Tell her I’ll call her back,” Devon said.