by Andre Norton
Holding her heavy purse against her Sue stumbled on. She had hurried so fast she was getting a pain in her side and she felt a little dizzy. Better slow up, she did not want to faint or something and fall down right on the street. Maybe she should sit down awhile. The library was closed today, she could sit on the steps at the side where the bushes were.
“Sue! Sue Patterson!”
The name was called so demandingly that it reached even through the fog of fear. She looked up dazedly.
Miss Carmichael stood on the steps, she must have been working alone today. She did sometimes when she got behind. Sue, ready to cry with frustration and fear, found she could not run as she longed to.
“Sue, this is luck, running into you today. There has to be a change in our plans for the Cape. We can't get the bus until—Sue! What is the matter, dear?”
There she stood, wearing one of her book-colored dresses which always seemed to fit in with the shelves and the volumes which were her usual background, her gray hair cut short in ragged little points about her face, looking at Sue like Mom did just before she began to fuss. Sue felt as if she were backed against a wall with no hope of escape. For the first time she thought she could easily hate Miss Carmichael.
“Leave me alone! Just—leave me alone!” Sue flailed out with one arm as if to beat off an expected attack.
“Sue, there must be something very wrong. You need help.”
“Just—leave me alone.” But Sue could not fight any longer, she felt so weak, so full of fear.
“Sue, come on in the library. You—you are ill.”
Sue was hardly aware of the words. In spite of herself she responded to the grasp on her arm which took her away from the walk into the dusky quiet of the big building closed for the weekend.
“Sit here. I will get you some water—”
Sue sat. She was in Miss Carmichael's office. It was stuffy with the smell she always associated with books. The library had always been an important part of her life since she had been old enough for Mom to bring her to pre-school story hour.
It was so quiet and then came the soft whirr of a fan. Miss Carmichael must have turned that on. Sue tried to think. She had to get away, only she was so sick she felt as if she could not stand up.
“Drink this, dear.” Miss Carmichael was back with a paper cup of water. Sue drank. She must get up, go— There was the bus—only now the walk to the station loomed in her mind as an endless journey.
Miss Carmichael sat down in her own chair behind the desk which was so covered with piles of papers, books and magazines that these formed a wall between them. Only Miss Carmichael's direct gaze, her obvious concern breached that wall.
“Can you talk about it, Sue?” She was not demanding an explanation, she was offering to listen. Sue understood that. But if Sue told her the truth—how quickly would Miss Carmichael change?
Words choked her, she felt so under pressure she had to talk. Well, why not say the truth? Learn right now what would happen to her when she told?
“I'm—I'm going crazy!” She blurted it out.
However there was no change in Miss Carmichael's expression. She did not look afraid, or lose that concern which reached Sue.
“Why do you think so, Sue?” Her composure had a calming effect. Sue straightened a little.
“Because—” Then, as if she could no longer contain her fear and misery, it all spilled out. The accident, the headaches, that terrible time in the park, and what she had seen when she picked up the harness.
“It's all wrong,” she almost wailed. “I never saw a cat the that way, I don't even know anyone who has a Siamese! So you see—I must be going crazy. And I've got to get away. Crazy people do terrible things. I might even—even try to hurt Jerry, or Mom, or Dad—”
“Sue,” Miss Carmichael's saying her name in that tone was like a quieting hand laid upon her lips. “Listen to me. You are not in the least insane.”
“But the cat—and being out of my body—and—”
“Listen to me carefully, Sue. Have you ever heard of psychometry?”
“You mean—like sending me to a psychologist? See, you do think I am crazy!”
“Not at all, my dear. Now try to use that good brain you do have and listen to me instead of your own fears. Over the past years men have begun to realize that there are indeed talents which can not be measured by the usual standards— paranormal gifts. Psychometry is one of these. Sometimes people are born with such talents. At other times these suddenly develop as the result of illness or injury. It is very true that we use only a small portion of our brains, as if sections are closed off from our control. Illness or injury apparently can break down the barriers between these closed sections. Can you understand me?”
Sue stared at her. “You mean—because I was hit on the head and then had all those headaches—that opened some part of my mind which didn't work before? But why me?”
For the first time Miss Carmichael smiled. “I imagine that particular question has been asked a good many times, Sue. And there is no answer one can give. But now I want you to know this—neither experience you have had (and that those were very frightening for you I can well understand) is unknown. The sensation of being out of the body, able to look down on one's self has been reported many times. And psychometry—the ‘reading’ of the past history of an object —is relatively common. What you must do is understand fully what has happened to you and learn how to use and control your talent.”
“But—how can I be sure—?”
“There are ways of making sure. For the moment you can take refuge in this thought—you are not alone, there are others with the same abilities. Now,” she opened the desk drawer, took out a booklet, and flipped over its pages. “There are tests for such talents. You must remember, Sue, that those who develop these gifts are not to use them foolishly, and, if they are not taught how to control them, they face many dangers. There are now foundations set up to study sensitives.”
“But—but people think that mind reading and all that stuff is just faking,” Sue protested. “They will still say I'm crazy.”
“If you talk about it with those wrongly educated, or ignorant, you may have that response, yes. But the first thing you must accept, Sue, is silence on your part, until you have the type of help you need to accustom you to this. Can you keep quiet?”
Sue licked her lips. “What about Mom, Dad, and Jerry? I could keep quiet with other people, but I don't know about them. Jerry knows already there is something wrong by the way I acted in the kitchen.”
“Yes,” Miss Carmichael had been running a finger tip down the page of the booklet, now she paused. “I can see your problem, Sue. I don't know how much your parents may be ready to accept this. That is why we may bring in an expert in the field—Dr. Muriel Evans.”
“A psychologist?” Sue flinched.
“A parapsychologist, Sue. She is the head of a research department at Stafford. I have met her once; she gave a lecture here at the library three months ago. I shall get in touch with her.”
“But—until then?”
“I can not say more, Sue, than to keep as quiet as you can. Do not experiment nor discuss the matter—just be assured that you are not losing your sanity.” Miss Carmichael paused. “There is something else, Sue. Now you are frightened, disturbed, as is only natural. But that feeling of strangeness will go. And—this is very important, my dear— do not allow yourself to misuse what has been given you.”
“Misuse?” Sue wanted nothing but to be rid of what Miss Carmichael seemed to think was a gift, but what she hated and feared.
“Misuse, yes. You—” Again Miss Carmichael hesitated. “Perhaps the simplest way I can warn you, Sue, is to say that such talents lay a heavy burden on those who possess them. Any advantage which comes from their use must be for the good of others, not for the selfish gain of one who has the gift. Think of that if you are tempted to put your ‘seeing’ to any test. Say to yourself, Sue, is this for real benef
it?”
“I won't use it at all” Sue returned quickly.
“You think that now. But conditions have a way of changing. Just think before you do, that is important.”
Sue gave a sigh. Perhaps it made sense to Miss Carmichael but—
Miss Carmichael stood up. “There have been books written about this, Sue. You haven't been a very steady patron of ours of late but your card is still in force. Suppose you read a little about other people who have had to learn to live with paranormal gifts.”
Books—Sue caught at that. “Oh, yes—” she was eager.
But as she neared home, the money-heavy purse against her hip and the two volumes Miss Carmichael had chosen for her under her arm, she began to feel apprehensive again. If Jerry had told Mom about what had happened— Well, she could say she was sick again. If Mom had not yet gone to her room, found that screen out— She had better hurry!
The screen was still loose. Maybe that meant her absence had not been discovered. Sue jerked it farther out, scrambled in and pulled it back into place. The books—she'd put them here in the case. And—
She had just dropped her purse on the tumbled bed when there came a knock at the door.
“Sue! Sue—are you ill? Sue!”
Mom! Sue straightened, to face her reflection in the mirror. She did not look any different. Was Miss Carmichael right about what had happened to her? But there was no reason for the librarian to lie, and she had even called Dr. Evans, made an appointment for Sue to meet with her in Miss Carmichae's house next Saturday. She would not have done that if she had just made up a story to keep Sue quiet.
“Sue!”
“Coming!” This would be the first test, seeing Mom, keeping quiet.
She opened the door. Mom was worried all right. Jerry hovered behind her, his face unusually sober.
“Sue, Jerry said you were—”
“Acting queerly?” Somehow Sue found the words. “I— well, Mom, I was awfully sick. I had to get to the bathroom.”
“But this about a cat being killed—”
“It was the harness, Mom. It made me remember something I saw, made me sick.”
“Miss Williams gave us that,” Mom said slowly. “Her cat that was killed last year wore it. But that was before she moved here. You could not have seen that happen, Sue.”
“No—I saw another cat.” Sue shivered, and she did not have to act that, remembering only too well what she had seen in that flash of what Miss Carmichael called psychome-try.
“I see.” But was Mom satisfied? “Sue, if you are ill I want you to get back into bed. And I am going to phone Dr. Wilson.”
“What about Mrs. Mason, Mom?” Jerry interrupted. “She said she was coming right over.”
“Mrs. Mason?” Sue faltered. Almost during the past hour she had been able to push JJ. to the far back of her mind. Why did his mother want to see her?
“She is quite upset. She seems to think you know something important about James.”
Mom was watching her closely. Something about J.J.? Did his mother know about the pill and want her to be a witness or something? Where was J.J.? All her early worries flooded back. Sue sat down on the edge of her bed.
“I haven't seen J.J. since Saturday. I don't know anything—”
“Sue,” Mom was standing right over her now, but she looked over her shoulder at Jerry. “You run along, young man, this is none of your concern.”
Sue cringed. Could she face Mom's questions? Could you tell just bits and pieces of the truth and make it sound as if it were the whole story?
Jerry closed the door unwillingly, Mom waiting until he had.
“Now, Sue,” she swung back, “just what is going on?”
“I don't know, honest, Mom. I haven't seen J.J. since Saturday.”
“Saturday,” Mom repeated slowly. “And what happened on Saturday, Sue? You've not been yourself all week. Did you think we didn't notice?”
“I was—sick—”
“Perhaps. And perhaps that sickness has a cause. What happened Saturday night? I want the truth, Sue.”
“I—JJ. and I had a fight—then we started home on the Honda. J.J.—he hit a dog in the road. I fell off the bike and, Mom, honestly I don't know what happened then for a while. J.J.—he was just—gone—”
“Sue!” Mom's hands were on her shoulders. “You were thrown off that machine! You were hurt and never said anything? Child, how could you be so dangerously foolish? I'll run you right over to the clinic now—phone Dr. Wilson to meet us there—”
“No! Please, Mom—I'm not hurt—you can see—”
“I can see nothing. But Dr. Wilson is going to see and you are going to have a complete checkup, X-rays if necessary. Oh, Sue, how could you not tell us about this? The consequences may be serious!”
Sue subsided numbly. There was no arguing with Mom now, she knew that. But if she did not tell the rest—the paranormal thing—they surely could not learn about it with X-rays and stuff. The tests Miss Carmichael had talked about were a lot different. She just had to keep quiet about that.
“No wonder Mrs. Mason wants to see you!” Mom came back from the telephone, indignation in her voice. “If you were hurt because of that machine of James's, it's partly his responsibility. Now come on, Sue, we'll go to the clinic. Dr. Wilson is going to meet us there, luckily I was able to catch him.”
“You're a very lucky young lady,” she heard some time later. “Bruises, a slight concussion, nothing worse. But you'd better stay off Hondas for a while.”
Sue drew a breath of relief. Dr. Wilson had poked and prodded and asked a lot of questions, ordered two X-rays. But he certainly did not ask the questions she could not answer. And Mom was relieved. So relieved that when they started back home she was sharp, talking about new rules about dates, which Sue only half listened to.
There was the Mason car in front of the house. It could be that Mom's guess was right, that J.J. had told about the spill and Mrs. Mason wanted to know if she were hurt.
Still there was something— Sue stirred restlessly, plucking at the clasp of her seat belt as they drove into the driveway. She was uneasy, as if she were sure trouble lay ahead.
Jerry lay in wait at the back door. “Mom—Mrs. Mason —she's—she's awfully queer. She's been crying and she said she just had to see Sue.”
“She'll see her all right,” Mom snapped. “She'll understand how lucky they are that Sue is not in a hospital because of that son of theirs! Come on, Sue.”
Mrs. Mason stood by the big front window looking out, but when they entered she turned quickly.
“Susan,” her eyes were all puffed and red, “Susan, where is James?”
Startled, Sue blurted out the only answer she knew. “I don't know—”
“When he left Sunday, it was very early, we thought he had gone up to the lake with Ralph Pinner, he'd talked about that. But Ralph came home last night and said James was never there. I—I went through his room—he took his camp money, and I found this lying on his desk!”
She thrust a twisted piece of paper at Sue, who smoothed it out to read:
“No use looking for me, I'm no good. I killed Sue. First the dog, then Sue. You'll find her on the woods road near Benny's.”
“What,” Mrs. Mason's voice scaled up as if she were so scared she was about to scream, “what does he mean? He talks about killing you. Is he—is he out of his mind? And where is he?”
“He—there was an accident when we were coming home,” Sue answered slowly. “J.J. hit a dog in the road— and I got thrown off the bike. He must have thought I got killed. When I knew where I was—he was gone—”
“But—but this is totally unlike J.J.” Mrs. Mason stared about her as if she could not understand anything any more. “J.J. is an excellent rider, he's never had an accident. And if you fell off—why in the world didn't he stay and help you? I don't understand this—any of it, Susan. Are you sure that is what happened? It doesn't sound like James at all!”
; J.J., the pill in the Coke. Sue bit her lip. No, it was not like the usual J.J.
“And where is he now? Do you have any idea where he might have gone, Susan?”
She was all ready to deny that—but—it was happening again, the tingling, the awareness. She wanted to run from their eyes. Mrs. Mason was staring at her so oddly, did she guess? But surely no one could unless she told. Was—this— could this psychometry thing tell them anything about J.J.? And if it did, did she have any right to keep quiet, to deny it?
What had Miss Carmichael said? That it must be used to help others, not herself. This was a test—of the helping part. But if she told what she saw and they asked her how she knew—? And she had no time to think about it either. Mrs. Mason was watching her as if she guessed Sue knew something. She would never believe it now if Sue said no.
“Let me think.” Maybe she could fake it, tell whatever she learned by holding this letter so Mrs. Mason would think she was remembering what J.J. might have told her. She closed her eyes—there was a picture forming.
JJ.—yes—though he was blurred and she could not see him too clearly. Trees, and some rocks—and water—like the shore of the lake. But Mrs. Mason said he had not been with Ralph. But that did not mean he could not be at the lake—hiding— Because that was what she felt—fear—the need to hide—
“There's—” Sue opened her eyes, ran tongue tip across her lips, gathering her courage, “there's a place up at the lake where there are two big rocks, and some pines, right down by the water—”
“The cove!” Mrs. Mason broke in. “Yes, I know it. And James liked to go there. But how do you know he's there? It's as if you saw him—”
Sue flinched from that guess, hoping that no one would believe that. “He talked about it once—that he liked to go there,” she improvised. “That's the only place I know of where he might be—”
