by John Saul
Eric froze, staring at his mother, who finally turned back once more to face him with beseeching eyes.
“You have to forgive me, Eric,” she pleaded. “You have to.”
The room reeled, and a black abyss seemed to yawn at Eric’s feet. As his mind spun with his effort to grasp what his mother had said, the memories came flooding back to him.
He saw a face looming over a bed—his bed. Eyes filled with hatred glared down at him from above, and a horrible odor hung in the air. He tried to roll away from it, but every time he tried to squirm under the blankets, rough hands—hands so big they could have crushed him—reached down to snatch the blanket away. And there was a voice, and words he’d never been able to remember before. Now they rang clear in his memory.
“You’re nothing,” the voice had said. “You should be dead now, you understand me? Nobody wants you, boy. And I’m gonna make you wish you had died!”
After a while the voice had stopped, but the beatings had started. And all his life, no matter what he’d done, it had never been right, never been quite good enough, never pleased his father.
And all because of something that had happened when he was only two years old.
“Why?” He uttered the word as an almost formless croak, but he could see that his mother understood.
“It was the shame,” Laura said brokenly. “Can’t you see, Eric? It was the shame. He never got over the shame.…”
“Shame?” Eric repeated, the shattered fragments of his life suddenly coalescing into a rage that surpassed all the anger he had ever felt before. “He wasn’t ashamed of what he did! He was ashamed that he got caught! But he’s never been ashamed of what he’s done to us! And what about you? Didn’t you care what he was doing to me? I figured out a long time ago you don’t give a damn what he does to you! But what about me? I didn’t know what he’d done. I was just a baby! How could you let him do that to me?”
He was shouting now, and Laura cowered on the chair, shrinking away from his words.
“How?” he screamed. “How could you let it happen?”
Laura pushed herself to her feet and took a step toward Eric, but he backed away.
“Don’t touch me,” he whispered. “Don’t you ever touch me again.”
“No, Eric,” Laura pleaded. “No. I love you, Eric … I’ve always loved you. Please …?”
“Loved me?” Eric wailed. “If you loved me, you wouldn’t have let it happen!”
“I couldn’t help it, Eric. I tried … I tried so hard—”
Eric’s hand clenched into a fist and he drew his arm back, ready to strike the pathetic figure before him. Laura froze—like a rabbit trapped in the glare of a headlight—waiting for the blow.
“Do it,” she whispered. “You hurt so much, and you’re so angry. Do it, Eric.”
Slowly, through an agonized exercise of sheer will, Eric unclenched his fist and dropped his arm to his side.
Something in his eyes changed, and Laura felt her blood run cold. In that moment when Eric had refused to strike her, she knew she had lost him forever. “I didn’t mean for it to happen,” she said quietly. “If I’d known what would happen—”
“But you did know, Mother,” Eric said quietly. “You knew right from the beginning. You knew what he did to me. And you didn’t do anything about it.”
As he turned and walked out of the house, Laura sank back into her chair.
He’s gone, she thought. He’s gone and he’ll never be back.
* * *
She’s dead, Ed Cavanaugh thought. I was there and saw her die, and if she hadn’t died, I would have killed her!
But she wasn’t dead.
She had been standing there in her bedroom window, staring at him as if she could see right into his brain, and she’d been smiling at him.
She knew. She knew what he’d tried to do, knew what he’d wanted to do. Somehow she had tricked him.
He turned the key in the ignition of the Big Ed, then waited for the glow-plug indicator to go out. The engine turned over slowly, started to die, then caught. It coughed loudly, and a plume of black exhaust belched up from the stern, filling the cabin with choking fumes.
Ed stumbled toward a window, pushed it open, and breathed deeply of the fresh air outside. Then, while the engine warmed up, he took a swig from the fresh bottle of bourbon sitting on the chart table next to the helm, and went out to start casting off his mooring lines.
He had to get away, had to think it all out.
The engine smoothed out to a steady rumble, and Ed cast off the last line then stepped to the secondary helm on the after deck of the trawler. He put the transmission in reverse and began backing out of the slip.
The bow of the Big Ed swung around, hitting the starboard side of the boat next to it and scraping its entire length before clearing the slip to drift out into the channel. Ignoring the damage he’d done to the other boat, Ed went back inside the cabin and slid onto the helmsman’s seat. Throwing the transmission into forward, he pushed the big engine up a notch, then gulped another shot of bourbon out of the bottle. Tending the wheel with one hand, he maneuvered the trawler down the channel toward the open sea. Not until he had passed Cranberry Point did he begin to feel safe.
They couldn’t get at him now.
Maybe he’d head toward Hyannis and spend a day or two there. He had a lot of friends in Hyannis, and most of them owed him a drink.
* * *
I have to do something, Laura Cavanaugh thought. I can’t just keep sitting here, waiting for something to happen. I have to do something.
Outside, the light was beginning to fade as the sun set, and it occurred to Laura that she hadn’t moved all day. She’d simply sat, her mind numb, staring sightlessly out the window, waiting.…
Waiting for what?
For Eric to come home?
But Eric wasn’t coming home. Deep in her heart she was certain that Eric would never come home again.
Ed, then.
Ed would come home. And then what would happen? Would she tell him that Eric was gone and wouldn’t be coming back?
He would blame it on her, and then—
She couldn’t go on with the thought, knowing too clearly where it would lead.
She had to get out. If she was still there when Ed came home, this time he would kill her.
She tried to move but couldn’t, and a terrifying feeling of being trapped swept over her. She wasn’t going to be able to get out of the house, wasn’t even going to be able to stand up. Her mind seemed to have lost control over her muscles, and when she gave herself the command to rise up from the chair, her legs refused to respond. She waited a moment, forcing herself to be calm, then tried again. At last, aching from the hours of immobility, her legs reluctantly responded, and she shakily got to her feet. She left the living room, moving slowly down the short hall to the kitchen, feeling the emptiness of the house.
Neither of them is coming back.
The thought flashed through her mind, and though she tried to reject it, there was a feeling of abandonment in the house now, which told her with more certainty than any words ever could have that she was never going to see either her husband or her son again.
She moved through the kitchen unseeingly, then went out the back door. Without thinking, she crossed the driveway that separated her own house from the Winslows’ and knocked on the back door. After what seemed a long time, Rosemary Winslow, her eyes red, opened the door and looked out at her. It was the look on Rosemary’s face that reminded Laura that she had neither washed nor dressed since Ed had left so many hours ago. As her right hand clutched at her worn housecoat, her left ran spasmodically through her hair in a futile attempt to put it in order.
“I’m sorry …” she said. “I shouldn’t have—”
But Rosemary pushed the door open wide. “Laura? Laura, what is it? What’s happened?”
“They’re gone,” Laura said hollowly as she allowed herself to be led down the hall to the
living room. “They’re both gone.”
Jennifer, who was sprawled on the floor with a book open in front of her, looked curiously up at Laura. “Who’s gone?” she asked.
Laura’s eyes fixed vacantly on Rosemary, and when she replied, it was as if Rosemary herself had asked the question. “Eric. And Ed. They both left, Rosemary. They both left, and they aren’t coming back. What am I going to do?”
Rosemary glanced at Jennifer, and considered sending her back up to her room, then rejected the idea. “Come on,” she said. “I’ll fix you a cup of coffee.” But when they got back to the kitchen and she fished in the cupboard above the counter for a mug, Laura shook her head.
“A drink,” she said quietly. “I haven’t had one in years—because of Ed, you know—but I really need one.” She sank down on one of the chairs at the table, then immediately stood up again, moving restlessly around the kitchen, finally leaning against the sink as she tried to find the words to explain to Rosemary what had happened.
All the years of lying for Ed, and covering up, and finally I have to tell the truth, she thought. I wonder if I even still know how.
Slowly, tears welling in her eyes, she began telling Rosemary what had happened that morning.
Chapter 25
Cassie moved slowly along the beach, oblivious to the terns and gulls wheeling overhead and the sandpipers skittering ahead of her as they searched the tidelands for morsels of food. The storm had passed, and the sea was calm now. Sumi padded along at Cassie’s feet, darting off every few seconds in pursuit of one of the birds, only to be driven back by the gently lapping surf.
She’d had another fight with Rosemary that morning, and she knew she should go back home and apologize to her.
Except that the Winslows’ house wasn’t home anymore, and she knew that Rosemary didn’t want her there. Home was the cabin in the marsh now, the cabin Miranda had lived in and that she knew someday—somehow—she would live in too.
Last night, even after Eric left, it had felt right to her.
Safe.
And then …
And then, what? She knew what had happened in the marsh, knew that Sumi had attacked Lisa. But why? She wasn’t even angry at Lisa anymore, and when she’d stopped Sumi in the park yesterday morning, the cat had obeyed. But last night Sumi had attacked.
There had to be a reason.
She turned away from the beach and started out into the marsh, carefully avoiding the place where they’d found Lisa early that morning. There were still a lot of people there, talking among themselves. As Cassie passed, they fell silent.
She could feel them watching her.
Just as they had watched Miranda.
The hostility coming from them was almost palpable. Cassie shuddered, then reached down and picked up Sumi, cuddling the cat close. Why did they hate her so much? She hadn’t meant to hurt anyone, not really.
Except that she had. Deep inside, she had let herself get angry with Mr. Simms, and with Lisa Chambers.
She had let them hurt her, and she had struck out at them. She mustn’t do it again. Never again.
Except there was still Mr. Cavanaugh.
He wanted to kill her. Last night, in fact, he thought he had killed her. She’d known it when Sumi came back and crept into her arms, and the images had come into her mind. She had seen Eric’s father standing above Lisa and felt the hatred coming from him. But it wasn’t Lisa he had hated.
It was her.
And then, this morning, when she’d seen him staring at her from Eric’s window, she’d felt it again, felt it even more strongly than last night.
She came to the low rise on which the cabin stood, and stepped into the circle of trees surrounding it. Almost immediately a feeling of peace came over her. Then a thought came into her mind, fully formed.
He can’t get me here. As long as I stay here, he can’t get me.
Silently, cradling Sumi against her chest, she went into the cabin.
Cassie didn’t know how long she’d been alone in Miranda’s house before Eric arrived. She was sitting in the rocking chair, her eyes closed, listening to the calming sounds of the marsh. It was only when Sumi stirred in her lap that she sensed his presence.
She opened her eyes to find him standing in the doorway, watching her.
“I know what happened,” Eric said. “And I know why he hates you so much. You’re part of it, you see. You and your mother.”
As Cassie listened, Eric began to tell her what had happened that day so many years ago. The day they had both met Miranda for the first time.
“Where are you going?” Rosemary demanded.
“I’m going to find Cassie!” Keith replied, his voice trembling with rage. “I’m her father—what else do you expect me to do?”
Rosemary felt a lump rise in her throat. “I expect you to help me try to figure out what’s happening. Isn’t that why you came back? To help me?”
“I came back to help Cassie,” Keith shot back. He’d only been home for an hour, but after listening to Rosemary’s story, he wasn’t sure he should have come back at all. Four perfectly good customers, and now they were all furious because he’d insisted on rushing home when Rosemary had called him on the radio that morning. And for what! Some cockamamie story that Cassie had somehow managed to kill Lisa Chambers last night.
“You mean you actually believe it?” he’d asked when Rosemary had told him everything she knew about what happened. “You really believe Cassie could have had anything to do with any of this?”
“I only know what Gene Templeton told me,” Rosemary said miserably. “They found cat hairs under Lisa’s fingernails, and the cuts on her face matched the ones on Harold Simms. That’s when I decided to call you. And if you’d seen her last night when she went out—”
That was when Keith lost his temper. “So now the story is that Cassie sent the cat to attack Harold Simms and kill Lisa Chambers? For Christ’s sake, Rosemary! You’re an intelligent woman. How can you buy crap like that?”
“It’s not my crap!” Rosemary shot back. “All I know is what Paul Samuels said. Lisa Chambers is dead, Keith, and it doesn’t matter what you think—everyone else in town already believes Cassie had something to do with it!”
“So this whole town’s gone nuts in the last two days!”
“Maybe it has,” Rosemary agreed, her voice etched with acid. “But Lisa’s still dead, and Ed Cavanaugh was trying to kill Eric and Cassie! Not just Eric! Cassie too! Why won’t you face the fact that ever since Cassie’s been here things have gone wrong, and somehow she’s always at the center of it?”
Keith had stood up from the table so abruptly that his chair crashed over onto the floor. He snatched his coat off the hook in the service porch and was halfway out the door, his eyes blazing, when he heard Jennifer’s plaintive voice.
“Don’t,” the little girl said, her chin trembling as she struggled against her own tears. “Please don’t yell at each other. Please?”
Keith’s and Rosemary’s eyes met.
“What are we doing?” Rosemary finally asked. “Dear God, Keith, what are we doing to ourselves?” Then, as Jennifer ran to her mother, Keith put his arms around both of them.
“It’s going to be all right,” he told them. “We’ll be all right, and Cassie will be all right too. We won’t let anything happen to any of us.” He gave them a hug, then released them and finished pulling his jacket on. When he spoke, his voice was gentle. “I have to go see if I can find her,” he said, reaching out to touch Rosemary’s cheek. “I guess I’m just starting to understand what the last couple of days have been like for you. But think what they’ve been like for Cassie, darling. I don’t care what anyone else thinks. I don’t believe Cassie would willingly hurt anyone. I just don’t believe it.” And then he was gone.
Keith paused at the foot of the low rise upon which Miranda Sikes’s cabin stood. Cassie was there—he could sense it even before he saw the thin wisp of smoke drifting up from the chimn
ey.
And on the roof of the cabin, eyeing him warily, the white hawk was perched, its feathers ruffling as it moved restlessly from one foot to the other.
“Cassie?” Keith called. Then again, “Cassie! It’s your father!”
He took a single step forward, then froze as the hawk launched itself from the rooftop, found the wind, and began spiraling upward. From the cabin he heard a single word.
“No!”
Instantly the hawk changed course, dropping out of the air to settle back onto the peak of the roof. Only when it had landed did Keith shift his eyes from the bird to the figure on the porch of the cabin.
It was Cassie, her brows knit into an uncertain frown. She was watching him warily.
“It’s me, Punkin,” Keith said quietly.
For a moment Cassie was silent, and when she spoke, her voice was heavy with suspicion. “I didn’t do anything,” she said. “I know what everybody thinks, but I didn’t do anything.”
Keith felt his heart twist with pain. He wanted to go to her, take her in his arms, hold her. “I know,” he said, the words quavering as he struggled to hold his emotions in check. “That’s why I came out here. I came to help you, sweetheart.” Almost involuntarily his eyes flicked upward toward the watchful hawk. “Can I come up there?”
Time seemed to stand still as Cassie watched her father, and then she nodded.
Feeling the hawk’s eyes on him every step of the way, Keith climbed the hill and stepped into the cabin.
“I don’t know what to say,” Keith told his daughter an hour later. He felt sick as all the pieces of the puzzle finally began to come together. No wonder Diana had been jealous of him: she’d been certain he’d been doing the same things she’d been doing. “I never knew any of it. If I’d known, I never would have let your mother take you away.”
