by John Saul
* * *
The house seemed to be closing in on Anne. All morning, from the moment she’d awakened from a restless sleep, she’d felt the pressure all around her. It wasn’t just Kevin, pressing her to make up her mind before she’d truly had a chance to think things through. It was the children too. She’d seen Julie’s face during that quick moment when she had appeared in the kitchen, then backed away. Julie’s eyes had rested on her for a moment, and Anne had been able to read the message all too clearly. “Why are you fighting with Dad?” Julie’s eyes had said. “Why can’t you do what the rest of us want to do?”
Then Jeff had come in, his face anxious, his eyes beseeching her. Just in time for him to hear her sounding like some kind of a shrew.
She’d almost given in then, almost agreed to Kevin’s plan, despite her grave misgivings. And she had agreed to let him take her through the house, listening carefully to his plans for converting the mansion into a small hotel.
But all she had seen in room after room was an unending amount of work that needed to be done, and an equally unending stream of bills that would have to be paid. And in the end where would they be? Trapped on a tiny island.
That’s when it had all closed in on her, and the huge rooms had become tiny, pressing in on her until she wanted to scream.
They were back in the library now, and Kevin was going over lists of figures he’d drawn up, estimating the cost of everything and trying to show her how it could all be paid for. But she couldn’t hear him anymore, and not because of the storm howling outside, the wind whipping through the pines and magnolias, threatening to rip them up by the roots and fling them across the lawn and into the sea beyond. Even the house was shaking every now and then as the gusts battered against it. But it wasn’t the storm that had made her deaf.
It was the house—closing in—and her own mind, screaming at her to get away, to think about it all somewhere else, someplace where she would be alone, where she couldn’t see and feel everyone’s eyes watching her, waiting for her to make up her mind. Then she remembered Marguerite’s words from last night: “… sometimes I’d take the car and go away for awhile. Just get off the island for a little while …”
“I’m leaving,” she said suddenly.
Kevin looked up at her, startled. “Leaving?” he echoed, his voice hollow. “But I thought—”
Anne shook her head. “Not permanently. But I have to get out of here. I have to get out of this house and off this island, and be by myself for a while.” Her eyes flooded with tears. “I don’t even feel like I can think anymore. I know what you want, and I know what the kids want, and Marguerite too! But I don’t know what I want, Kevin! And it seems like every minute that goes by, I hate it here even more. And I don’t even know why I hate it!” Her voice had taken on an hysterical edge, the words tumbling unbidden from her mouth. “I know it’s a wonderful house, and I know it could be made into a beautiful inn! And I know you could do it! But I feel like I’m completely out of control. It’s like your mother’s got you, even though she’s dead. She’s got you, and the kids, and Marguerite, and now she wants me too! I know it sounds insane, but that’s the way I feel! I feel like I’m going crazy, Kevin. I just have to get away. Now!”
Kevin reached out to take her by the arm, but she twisted away from him. “No!” she screamed. “Don’t try to stop me! Don’t even speak to me! Just let me go!”
Kevin stared at his wife. Her face was pale, her hands were trembling, and there was a wildness in her eyes he’d never seen before. He reached out to her again, but again she avoided his touch.
“Please,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Just let me go. Just let me get out of here for a few hours.” She turned away from him, hurrying out of the library. When he caught up with her, she was already in the foyer, struggling into a raincoat, searching in her purse for her car keys. She had the door halfway open when he reached out and pushed it closed.
“Not now,” he said. “Honey, you have to wait—the storm’s too bad. You won’t even be able to get across the causeway—”
Anne shook her head. “I have to,” she said. “I have to get out of here, and I have to get out now. If I can’t get off this island, I’m going to go nuts.” Her eyes locked on his. “I have to do this, Kevin. I’ll be back in a few hours, or I’ll call you. But I have to go now.” Pulling the door open, she clutched the raincoat around her and stepped out onto the veranda. The rain, driven by the screaming wind, lashed at her, but she ignored it, leaning into the storm and stumbling down the steps. A moment later she disappeared around the corner of the house, and a minute after that Kevin saw their station wagon, with Anne at the wheel, move quickly down the driveway toward the road. Helplessly he watched her go until the storm had swallowed up the car.
He was just closing the front door when the sky seemed to explode with lightning, instantly followed by a clap of thunder so loud it made the windows rattle. And as the thunder faded away, the lights suddenly went out, plunging the house into a darkness almost as deep as night.
Damn, Kevin cursed softly to himself. Pushing the door closed against the force of the storm, he started toward the stairs to the basement. Perhaps it wasn’t the electricity that was gone at all—perhaps it was only the main fuse to the house, overloaded by the bolt of lightning.
In the ballroom the music from the phonograph suddenly stopped. The bright lights of the chandeliers flickered once, then went out. The full fury of the storm was lashing at the house now, and one of the girls shrieked as the electricity gave out.
“It’s all right,” Marguerite said, her voice calm. “It’s just a storm, and we’ve all gotten through them before. I’m sure the lights will be on in a minute and we can go on with our class.”
“Why don’t we just quit now?” Mary-Beth Fletcher asked, her voice taking on a belligerent tone. “All we’ve done anyway is sit here and watch Julie dance. I don’t even know why we came today.”
The rest of the girls fell silent, all of them watching Marguerite, but after only a second’s hesitation she smiled at Mary-Beth. “I think maybe you’re right. Maybe we ought to quit for the day and go downstairs and see if Ruby has anything to eat. How does that sound?”
The tension caused by Mary-Beth’s words broke, and the girls began unlacing their toe shoes and drifting toward the door, groping their way through the darkness, toward the stairs. But when they finally got to the first floor and the rest of the girls started toward the kitchen, Mary-Beth stopped. “I’m going home,” she announced. “I’m not hungry, and I’m sick of watching Marguerite gush over Julie, and I’m sick of these stupid dance classes.”
Jennifer Mayhew glared at Mary-Beth. “Will you be quiet? Do you want Miss Marguerite to hear you?”
“Who cares?” Mary-Beth shot back. “She doesn’t care about us anymore. All she cares about is her Yankee-trash niece, and I’m so sick of her I could throw up! So I’m going home.”
“But you can’t,” Jenny protested. “You won’t be able to get across the causeway.”
“Well, I’d rather get washed off the causeway than stay here,” Mary-Beth replied. She began pulling on her raincoat as Marguerite started making her slow way down the stairs from the second-floor landing. By the time she got to the entry hall, Mary-Beth was ready to go.
Marguerite stared at her in surprise. “Mary-Beth? Where are you going?”
“Home,” Mary-Beth said, her eyes fixed on the floor. “I decided I’m going to quit dance class and I don’t want to stay here any longer. So I’m going home.”
Marguerite’s face clouded. “But—But I don’t understand. I thought you liked dancing—”
“Maybe I did,” Mary-Beth replied, her voice sullen now. “But I don’t anymore. And I don’t like Julie, either. So I better go.” She turned toward the door, but Marguerite stopped her.
“Mary-Beth, you can’t leave now. Not in this storm, and not like this.” Her voice took on a pleading note. “Please. Stay at
least until the storm passes. And let’s try to talk about this. You can’t leave this way. You just can’t.”
But Mary-Beth shook her head. “I’m not afraid of the storm, and I’m not going to change my mind,” she said, her voice rising in anger. “Why can’t you just let me go?” She turned, pulled open the front door, and strode out into the storm. Marguerite, stunned, watched her go, then, her hand unconsciously going to her right hip, which was suddenly burning with pain, went to the closet and pulled a mackintosh off one of the hooks.
Julie, who was still standing in the foyer, stared at her aunt. “Aunt Marguerite, what are you doing? You can’t go out there. Let me do it. Jenny and I can go after her.”
Marguerite shook her head. “I have to do it,” she said calmly. “I have to do what’s right.” She smiled at Julie, her hand already on the door, and at Jenny, who had just come in to the entry hall. “I won’t be more than a few minutes,” she promised. “I’ll just find her and bring her back.” A moment later Marguerite, too, disappeared into the storm.
Anne braked to a stop at the end of the causeway, peering intently through the windshield. She could see practically nothing, for even with the wipers on high, the rain was far too heavy for them to be effective. Finally she rolled down the window and leaned out, gazing ahead toward the narrow strip of roadway that led to the mainland.
The wind was shrieking up the coast from the south now, and a constant spray of saltwater, driven off the heaving sea, stung Anne’s face and clouded her vision. But the causeway still looked passable, though even as she watched a wave crested then splashed across the road. She closed the window and put the car in gear, then pressed on the accelerator, nosing the car out onto the narrow span.
She was a quarter of the way across when the engine started to cough. Quickly, she pressed the gas pedal to the floor. The car shook for a second, then the engine caught, hurtling the car forward into the cloud of spray.
And then, when she was halfway across, the engine coughed again, sputtered, and died. Anne slammed on the brakes, but their power had gone when the engine had stopped, and it took all her strength to bring the station wagon to a stop. Slamming the gear shift lever into park, she twisted the key, but nothing happened. Then she remembered, and quickly turned the key back then forward again.
The starter ground, but the engine refused to catch. She waited a moment, then tried again.
Still nothing.
The wind suddenly increased, and Anne felt the car sway slightly, and move an inch or two. A wave—larger than the rest—rose up from the south and smashed into the causeway, briefly flooding the road before washing on over to the north.
Anne twisted the key again. Once more the starter ground fruitlessly.
Without realizing quite what she was doing, Anne shoved the door open and made her way around to the front of the car, clinging to whatever handholds she could find. Fumbling, she reached for the catch that would release the hood. A moment later she was staring stupidly at the tangle of wires and hoses that ran around the engine like a maze.
None it it, she realized, meant anything to her. She had only a vague idea of how a car worked, much less of where to begin looking for the problem.
And then, as she stared blankly at the engine, another wave broke over the causeway, its force nearly knocking her from her feet. Gasping at the shock of it, Anne slammed the hood shut and made her way back to the driver’s door.
A third wave struck her as she reached the door, and both she and the interior of the car were soaking wet by the time she got in and managed to pull the door closed.
She sat for a moment, staring out through the windshield.
The storm was building fast now, and the waves were washing over the road one after the other, keeping it constantly flooded.
The car had to start—it had to! There was no way she could walk through the storm. If the wind didn’t blow her off the road, the waves would overwhelm her.
Panic starting to grow within her, she twisted the key once more.
The starter ground, but more weakly this time, and she realized the battery was wearing down. But the engine didn’t catch.
Frantically her eyes searched the dashboard, looking for some clue as to what was wrong. Then she saw it.
The gas gauge seemed to pop out at her, far larger than it really was, as if she were viewing it through a telescope.
Empty.
The needle, which should have been on the full mark, was resting all the way over on the opposite end.
But it was impossible. The car had been full only two days ago. She’d filled it herself, and it had hardly been driven since.
And then, slowly, the truth began to dawn on her.
Someone had drained the tank.
Drained it!
But it was impossible. It made no sense! Why?
The panic that had been growing inside her burst loose now, and she leaned on the horn, silently screaming for someone to hear it, for someone to come to her rescue. But she knew it was impossible. Even she could barely hear the faint sound of the horn above the screaming roar of the storm, and the rain and spray were so heavy now that she could see neither end of the causeway.
She tried to regain control of herself, tried to force herself to be calm.
It would pass. It was only a summer squall, though it seemed to carry the force of a hurricane with it. And when it passed, she would simply get out of the car and walk the rest of the way to the village.
But the storm wasn’t passing.
Instead its force continued to build. When she looked out to the south, the waves seemed mountainous.
And then, like a supernatural force, an enormous wave bore down on her, its swell rising ever higher until it crested, looming over the causeway for what seemed to be an eternity, then, finally, breaking.
It hit the car broadside, with the force of an oncoming locomotive.
The car shuddered, and Anne felt it slip sideways. For just an instant she thought it was going to hold, for there was the slightest hesitation before the inertia of the car finally gave way to the power of the wave.
And then, as if it had been seized by a huge hand, the car was picked up by the water and rolled.
A second wave, on the heels of the first, finished the job, rolling the car once more until it toppled over the edge and slid down the embankment.
Anne screamed as the car hit the water, and braced herself against the shock. Then the water closed over the automobile as it continued to roll, seized by the current and the storm-driven waves.
She had to get out, had to escape from the car before it filled with water.
She tried to shove the door open, but it was held tight by the weight of the water outside. She thought furiously now, and then knew what she had to do. Against every instinct in her mind and body, she had to roll the window down and let the water pour in until the pressure was equal. Only then would she be able to escape, either by forcing the door open or forcing herself through the open window.
Taking a deep breath, she began to crank the window.
Water gushed into the car, sluicing over her with what felt like the power of a firehose. She turned away from it, her breath coming in gasps now as she felt the water rising around her. The car seemed to be flooding much too quickly, far faster, indeed, than she’d thought possible.
Suddenly the car stopped rolling, and Anne realized it was lying on its side, the open window up. She still had a chance! And then, in front of her, the windshield shattered, caving in with a sudden rush as the sea began its final invasion of the automobile. Anne screamed once more, then gasped for a final breath before the last of the air was forced out of the car.
Now!
She had to get out now or it would be too late. She shoved at the door, and it moved slightly, then stuck.
The window!
She clawed at the open window, then shoved with her feet braced against the passenger door.
Up! She had to push stra
ight up!
Her arms and head passed through the window, then her body. She twisted, trying to pull her legs after her.
She was going to make it. Only another second and she would be free.
And then she felt it happen: something wrapped itself around her ankle and jerked tight.
She knew what it was, knew instinctively, without even thinking about it.
The seat belt.
The wide strip of webbing that was meant to save her life. But it had turned on her now, twisting around her ankle, entangling her, holding her under the water’s surface.
Her breath was burning in her lungs, but she reached down, fumbling with the thick strap, trying to find enough slack to free her snared leg.
The pressure kept building in her lungs, and the current of the heaving sea battered at her, pulling her fingers—fingers that felt clumsy and useless—away from the stiff material. At last her body revolted and her lungs spewed out her breath, then drew in the first agonizing draft of saltwater.
She’d lost.
At the very last moment she’d lost, and now she was going to die.
Water filled her lungs, and her body quickly leeched the last of the oxygen out of her blood.
A strange euphoria began to come over her, and suddenly she began to think of the sea as a friend.
A gentle friend, in whose softly swaying arms she was going to be borne away.
Her panic drained away then and she let herself relax, giving herself up to her new, and final, friend.
CHAPTER 11
The pain was burning furiously in Marguerite’s hip now, but she did her best to ignore it, leaning into the wind, shielding her eyes from the lashing rain as best she could. She was on the road, slogging through the mud that sucked at her feet and threatened to bog her down entirely, but she had to go on. And then, barely visible through the torrent, she could just make out another figure.
“Mary-Beth!” she shouted, her words instantly lost in the howling wind. “Mary-Beth, wait! Please wait!” Whimpering against the pain in her hip and the almost complete numbness in her lame leg, she redoubled her efforts, breaking into an awkward run as she tried to catch up to Mary-Beth Fletcher. When she was still ten yards away, she called out again. “Mary-Beth! Wait!”
