“I just stopped by to give him a gift … for all his help this summer.”
“What did you give him?” both girls said in unison, hanging on her every word.
“I can’t tell you … but it’s something he can remember me by until we can be together.”
“You’re still holding out hope, Bette? He’s going to be surrounded by all those college girls, and you’re just a lowly freshman in high school,” Joan said, and now it was Bette’s turn to take offense. Joan didn’t understand that when Bette Hastings put her mind to something, it was going to happen.
“Just for that, Joan, I’m not going to invite you to our wedding.”
“I wouldn’t be holding my breath on that one, Bette,” Liza said.
“I don’t know why it seems so absurd to you. That’s what people do when they’re in love!”
“The way he pushed you away when you kissed him, I’m not sure he knows he’s in love with you.”
“It’s just a matter of time before he figures it out. And when I’m out of college myself, he’ll only be twenty-eight. It’s only five years difference. Then we can get married and move to California.”
“California?”
“If I’m going to be an actress then I have to go to Hollywood. Actually, forget college—I might just drop out of school and move out there like Joe Jr. He just got a part in a western you know. He’s going to be a movie star!”
“I thought your parents were making you become a doctor. Isn’t that what all this tutoring has been about this summer?” Liza asked.
“I have to do what they want until I’m eighteen, and then I’m free to do whatever I please.”
“You sound like one of those feminists who are marching for peace, and think they should get paid as much as men,” Joan said with a snicker.
“For your information, President Kennedy just established the President’s Commission on the Status of Women, to help us be able to do whatever men do. If you spent more time paying attention in class, and less time dreaming about marrying my brother, you’d probably know that.”
“I’m not in love with Woodrow!” Joan defended.
“But you are with his bitchin’ ride,” Liza said with a laugh. Joan couldn’t argue with that one.
They began walking around the fair. It was Saturday, which was always the most crowded day of the weekend. Bette took notice of how perfect the sky looked, so blue, with only a couple of puffy clouds that looked like big cotton balls. She was feeling hopeful, filled with possibilities … until she saw the sign taped to a telephone pole. It was a “Missing” photo of Thomas Archibald, who had disappeared almost two years ago. The sign was like a black cloud darkening her day.
She stopped in her tracks and stared at it. “Are you okay, Bette?” Liza asked.
“It’s just all the rumors. I hope the boy is alright, I really do, but to say my family had something to do with it makes my heart hurt.”
“Those people are just jealous of what you have,” Joan said.
“Maybe if they worked harder, like your father, they would be the richest family in town,” Liza added.
“You should see how sad my father looks when he hears people say those mean things. He does so much for this town, and helping people—it’s not fair.”
“Most people in Rockfield don’t believe it. It’s just a few bad apples.”
Bette nodded her thanks for the support. “I just hate this damn curse, and wish it would go away.”
“You really believe in curses, Bette?” Joan asked.
“Of course I do. People just say it doesn’t exist because they want to think my father had something to do with it, instead of the curse. Is that what you believe, Joan?”
“I didn’t say that, Bette. There’s probably a logical explanation—an Indian curse seems like an old wives’ tale.”
“You believe in God, yet that is very illogical. There is probably more evidence that the curse exists.”
“I can’t believe you’re really comparing God to an Indian curse, Bette—I hope you don’t get struck down by lightning tonight,” Joan said.
“I just hope we’re not standing near her when it strikes,” Liza added with a laugh.
Chapter 70
As they continued to stroll around the fairgrounds, Bette spotted her brother, Woodrow, approaching them.
He had come to say goodbye, as he was returning to college the following morning, and had plans for later on that night. Liza complimented him on his Ivy League look, which included a boxy corduroy sack jacket, slim flood-length khakis, and penny loafers with white socks. She gushed that she thought he looked like Paul Newman, which he ate up, of course—there was no sound gentler on Woodrow’s ears than a compliment, Bette thought.
Joan, in contrast, remained silent, probably dreaming about his car—a convertible Cadillac Coupe de Ville that their father had surprised him with on his eighteenth birthday.
There would be no hugs or tears. Woodrow was the opposite of her other brother, Joe Jr., who would practically squish her to death with an embrace every time they were to be separated.
When Woodrow finished his farewell speech to Bette, he made his way to meet up with some school friends. And when he did, another person approached them, this time a female.
“Oh my gosh—Poca Dohasan is coming our way; she’s the coolest girl in high school. Don’t look!” Joan said.
Bette shook her head at Joan. “She’s coming to see me. We became friends this summer.”
This was too much for Joan to handle. “You’re friends with Poca Dohasan!?”
“I thought she would hate me, because of who I am, but we had much more in common than I would have thought.”
“And she can be our ticket to popularity at high school—get us into the most important parties,” Liza added.
“I thought you were forbidden to associate with the Samerauks?” Joan questioned.
“Like I said, President Kennedy is changing all that. One day you will be able to be friends with whomever you want. And nobody said a word when she and my brother were running around in secret, even though everyone knew. Why should I be different just because I’m a girl?”
“In other words, your parents have no idea you’re friends with her,” Joan said.
“Oh, Joan—will you stop being such a Nellie. I’m sure there’s a lot of things my parents have kept from me, so we’re even.”
“What’s the scoop on the parties?” Liza changed the subject.
“Supposedly there’s one tonight—a new spot, at that nature reserve they call The Natty. So play it cool when she gets here—don’t be a total basket-case, Joan.”
“You don’t have to worry about me—I can’t go to any party where there would be drinking or necking … my parents would kill me.”
“If your parents actually killed you every time you said they’d kill you, you’d be dead fifty times over,” Liza said with a chuckle.
Poca arrived, looking perfect in one of her typically tight, suede dresses with a fringed skirt. It was hard not to be intimidated by her, but Bette had grown comfortable in her company. She introduced Liza and Joan, and thankfully Joan didn’t drool on herself.
Poca didn’t appear to be her usual energetic self. “You seem a little bummed out,” Bette remarked.
She sighed. “I was having a gas, until I came across the sign about Archie. It hit me that it’s been almost two years, and how hopeless it seems.”
“You really loved him,” Bette said.
Poca nodded. “I think he was the last true gentleman.” Her look intensified, focused on Bette. “Can we talk for a minute … alone?”
Bette followed her to a private spot about twenty feet away. “Do you know how we were talking about the curse at the Fourth of July fireworks this summer? And how much we both hate it?” Poca began.
“It gets me totally ticked off just thinking about it.”
“Well, I think I might have found a way to get rid of it.”
<
br /> This piqued Bette’s interest. “How would you do that?”
“I’ll fill you in later, but right now I need to get out of this place, there’s too many reminders of Archie here. And I can’t go home—my father has been on my case all weekend to do my chores. Is there anywhere we can go?”
“My parents are in New York City this afternoon. We could go to my house.”
“What about Woodrow?”
“He should be out most of the night. He already said his goodbyes to me, because he wouldn’t have time later.”
They returned to Joan and Liza, and made small talk for a few minutes. Then Liza said, “Uh-oh, Bette—your mother is heading this way.”
“My mother?” Bette uttered with surprise. “She’s supposed to be in New York.”
She soon understood what she meant. Vivian Bardella was closing in. She had always thought of Vivian as a big sister, but lately, like Liza said, she’d been acting like an overprotective mother.
“I’ve been looking all over for you, Bette,” Vivian greeted her, not even acknowledging the others.
“I had to leave for a bit—I had a few errands to take care of.”
“And I see that involved a change of clothing. But I’m glad you’re dressed, because I was planning to surprise Woody with a formal dinner for his last night, and I was hoping you’d attend.”
Bette was young, but not as naïve as she used to be. Vivian knew that Woodrow had no interest in her dinner, and hoped the presence of his sister could guilt him into going. “I’m sorry, Vivian—I’ve already made plans with Poca.”
Vivian seethed. “I need to talk to you for a minute,” she ordered and dragged her off to the same spot where she had just spoken to Poca.
When Vivian began lecturing, Bette fought back, “It doesn’t matter if I’m there or not—Woodrow has made plans with his friends, and they want to sow their wild oats on their last night … not attend a formal dinner.”
“What does a girl your age know about wild oats?”
“I know a lot more than you give me credit for. I’m not a child anymore!”
“You were, up until you started associating with Poca. That girl is a bad penny, and will corrupt your mind. And I’m afraid if you don’t heed my warning, you’ll find out the hard way.”
“You’re just jealous that my brother prefers her to you.”
She regretted the words the moment they left her mouth. Vivian’s face turned blood red and she marched off.
Bette ran to catch up with her. “I’m sorry, Vivian—I was angry, and didn’t mean what I said. No reason to flip your wig.”
Vivian kept marching until she reached the area where Poca was standing—Liza and Joan had cut out, and were no longer present. Bette could tell she planned to give her a piece of her mind.
“You won’t be satisfied until you take down all the good people of this town,” she shouted at her, and then looked back to Bette. “I’d be careful if I were you—they’re still looking for the last person she went off with.”
Thomas Archibald was a low blow, and Poca looked ready to fight. But before anything could happen, a cheery photographer arrived with a Ricoh 35 camera. “Well, don’t you young ladies look lovely. Would you mind if I took a photo of you for the Rockfield Fair yearbook?”
They obliged, faking smiles for the camera. But once the photographer left, Vivian stormed off. This time Bette didn’t follow. That left just her and Poca, and they made their way to the parking lot, searching out Poca’s vehicle. “When did you get a motorcycle?” Bette asked, her dampened mood turning excited.
“It’s actually a Vespa scooter, but keep it down,” she put her index finger to her red lips. “I don’t have a license yet.”
Bette made a locking motion in front of her mouth. “You don’t have to worry about me. They call me The Vault—because if someone tells me their secrets, I lock them away forever.”
They drove to the Hastings estate. Bette enjoyed the ride, as she hung onto Poca, her wild curls blowing in the wind. Once inside the mansion, Poca explained that she had come across some old books in her father’s office, written by the Samerauk elders over a hundred years ago. She had studied them, and believed that she’d figured out how to reverse the curse. But it needed to include a member of the Hastings family, since they were the ones who had occupied the stolen land. Bette eagerly agreed to represent her family. She thought of the happy look on her father’s face when she told him the good news.
As night fell on Rockfield, both girls started to feel the nerves. What they were going to do had the potential to wake up the monsters. Fear and trepidation were rare emotions for Bette, and she very much didn’t like it.
Poca suggested a way that they could ease their nerves. She took out a pipe and lit it. Bette looked unsure.
“It’s peyote—it allows the mind to open, and when the mind is released, you no longer will be scared. It’s a Samerauk tradition.”
Bette had never done any type of drug, or consumed a sip of alcohol, but Poca was very convincing. And soon thereafter, Poca was lighting the pipe, and Bette was inhaling it. The first time she almost coughed up a lung, but she became more comfortable with each drag.
Bette didn’t get why it was such a big deal. She felt no effects, and her nervousness continued as they drove to the bridge. But as Poca blindfolded both of them, as part of the ritual, Bette started to feel very hazy. A few minutes later she became so dizzy she had to sit down on the ground.
Ready or not, it was time to get this show on the road. Poca sat next to Bette and began a combination of speaking and chanting, some of it in English, some in a dialect Bette didn’t understand. Bette was expecting thunder to boom, or lightning to shoot across the sky, but nothing happened. She still had a feeling that something big was going to take place any second, and her anxiety built.
Poca must have sensed the same thing because she took hold of Bette’s hand. But suddenly her chanting stopped, and her hand was gone. “Poca?” Bette called out, but received no reply.
Poca’s scream echoed all through Zycko Hill, shaking Bette to her core. She pulled off her blindfold to see Poca being dragged to the bridge by a faceless man in a bathrobe—just like the myth. The monsters were awake!
Bette tried to stand, but her world was spinning. She saw three of them, all carrying Poca. She must be seeing triple, she thought—so she ran toward the one in the middle. Her balance was off, and she fell to the ground.
The monster climbed the guardrail on the bridge, with Poca in his clutches. He looked like he planned to toss Poca off to the river below, just like the stories she’d heard about the curse. “No!” Bette called out.
With a defiant burst of energy, Bette pulled herself to her feet and ran toward the monster … but she was too late. Just as she started to climb the guardrail, Poca was sent overboard.
Bette kept after, mad as a hornet, and planning to push him off for what he did. But when she reached the top, her balance failed her again. The world spun out of control—she was going over, just like Poca.
She reached out and grabbed hold of the monster’s mask, which she pulled off. When she fell, she did so with knowledge of who it was. It couldn’t be, she thought, as she plummeted into the cold, dark water.
Chapter 71
Rockfield—present
Woodrow Hastings awoke, his face feeling like it was being stung by a swarm of bees.
He surveyed his surroundings, and it started to come back to him. He was stretched out on Poca’s bed, but it wasn’t exactly the way he’d fantasized—he was fully clothed and she was nowhere in sight.
He gingerly got to his feet, a throbbing in his head like he’d never felt before. He also heard sounds … but they weren’t from inside his head. They were coming from outside the house—the booming of thunder, and the relentless pounding of rain on the roof. It seemed that Rockfield’s long drought had finally ended.
He called out to Poca, getting no response. He then recalled
the other man he’d encountered last night, and wanted no part of finding him. His last memory was turning to see Jeff Carter … just in time to see his fist slam into his nose.
He walked to the bathroom, and inspected the damage in the mirror. His face looked as bad as it felt. The area around his nose was swollen, and both his eyes were black and blue. Just a touch made him scream out in agony. He vowed that Carter would pay for this.
First things first—he needed to get out of here. It was just past midnight. He had been out for hours. He first made sure that there were no signs he’d been inside the house, but found that someone had already done that for him. The place had been completely cleaned. He didn’t know what was going on, and his usual feeling of control had vanished.
He stepped outside into the pouring rain. He searched for his Rolls, but it was gone. He pulled out his phone and dialed Jill. He was about to demand that she pick him up, but she’d beaten him to it. “Great minds think alike,” said the sultry voice on the other end of the phone.
The headlights of a silver Maserati GranTurismo flashed on, about fifty feet away from him, and it pulled up to him like a cab.
He got into the car, and she rubbed her hands over his wet sleeve. “You poor baby—let’s get you home and get you out of those wet clothes … you’re shivering.”
She caught a look at his face, and her expression changed to horror. “What happened?”
“You should see the other guy,” he attempted to joke.
“Obviously you didn’t,” she snipped.
“Was your work in the city completed?”
She nodded.
“Good—now let’s get out of here before someone spots us here.”
Just as the words left his mouth, another pair of headlights came toward them. When the vehicle got closer, he realized that it was a police car. His stomach gripped.
“Let me take care of this,” he said and stepped out of the car.
Rich Tolland did the same. He had his gun drawn—this was no social call. He shined a flashlight in Woodrow’s direction. When he realized who it was, Rich lowered the gun, but not completely. He was on edge.
Psycho Hill (JP Warner Book 3) Page 28
