Mystery Stories

by Elizabeth Peters

  “I think that’s most of ’em,” he said finally. “You better wash it off now. You got some cloth or something?”

  “I guess I could tear up a shirt.”

  But her pack yielded nothing that would serve. The clothes were all knits, except for an extra pair of jeans. Rob exclaimed with admiration over the T-shirts.

  “Say, that’s pretty. ’Specially that one with the birds and flowers. You don’t wanna spoil that. Maybe I can find some old thing around here.”

  With the same light, almost furtive movements, he slipped out of the room.

  “Boy,” Angie said. “Boy, you really are a hypocrite, you know that?”

  Mary started. Crazy as it might sound, she had almost forgotten about Angie.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Always lecturing me about picking up men,” Angie said. “You practically fell all over him.”

  “You’re just mad because he didn’t look at you,” Mary said.

  “Ha!” Angie registered amused contempt. “I wouldn’t want him to look at me. He’s weird. Ugly. He talks funny—”

  “That’s the way they talk around here,” Mary said coldly. “You’re so ignorant, you think everybody but you talks funny. He’s nice. I like him.”

  “Mary.” Angie reached out her hand. Her face had lost its healthy color. Even in the firelight she looked pale. “Mary, he really is weird. There’s something funny about him.”

  “Funny, weird—is that all you can say? You shut up, do you hear me? I don’t want you hurting his feelings.”

  The warning was delivered just in time. Rob was back, carrying something. He held it out to Mary. It was an old calico shirt, faded so badly that the original print was almost gone.

  “It’s clean,” he said anxiously. “I washed it myself. It’s too small for me, anyways. You go on, tear it up.”

  Mary would have objected, but it was obvious that the garment was far too small for Rob. It must have been bought for him when he was thirteen or fourteen, before he had shot up to his present height.

  “You been carrying this around with you?” she asked as she began to tear the cloth. “I wouldn’t have bothered packing anything this old.”

  “No, it was upstairs,” Rob said calmly.

  Angie made a small sound, deep in her throat. Mary stared, a strip of cloth dangling from her fingers.

  “Upstairs? You mean, you—”

  “I useta live here,” Rob said. “I was away for a long time, but I come back. They—they was all gone when I come. Musta moved away. …” His forehead wrinkled; for a moment the dark eyes went blank, like those of a sleepwalker. Then he smiled. “Sure is nice to have company. It’s been lonesome.”

  That radiant smile dispelled Mary’s uneasiness. She started dabbing at her knee.

  “We ran away too,” she said. “But we aren’t going back.”

  “How come you run away?” Rob asked.

  “Well, see, our father died …” Mary began.

  She paused, waiting for the sympathetic comment that should have followed. She was a little taken aback when Rob nodded and said, “Mine too.”

  “Really?”

  “He was killed in the war.”

  “Vietnam? Ours died of a heart attack.” Mary realized it sounded kind of flat. A heart attack wasn’t nearly as romantic or tragic as death in battle. She went on, “Then mother got married again. We have a stepfather.”

  “Me too.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I guess they ain’t that scarce,” Rob said. “Stepfathers, I mean.”

  He smiled tentatively, to indicate he wasn’t making fun of her, just joking. Mary’s suspicions dissolved. He was right, stepfathers weren’t uncommon.

  “He was Pa’s friend, in the war,” Rob explained. “He brung Pa’s things home, after it was over. Then he just … stayed. Ma had to have a man around. Woman can’t run a farm by herself. I was too small to help.” He paused, scraping at a frayed spot on his faded pants. Then he asked, “Was he mean to you? Your stepfather?”

  “George? He was nice at first,” Mary said darkly. “To lull our suspicions. Lately he’s been on our backs all the time. Discipline, discipline, that’s all we heard. Last week was the last straw. He said Angie should be sent away to school. Some awful boarding school where they make you get up at seven o’clock and have room checks and study hall every night, and no dates unless the boy has a certified letter from the President of the United States. …”

  Rob was listening sympathetically, his flexible mouth reflecting her indignation; but somehow the description of the horrors of boarding school lacked drama, even to Mary. She added, with genuine distress, “We’ve always been together. You’d think that would make them happy, that we like each other. Most sisters fight all the time. We never … Well, we don’t fight much. But George said we weren’t good for each other. He said Angie depended on me too much, and I wasn’t making friends of my own because I was always with her. …” Rob was looking bewildered. Mary gave it up. “You wouldn’t understand,” she said. “I guess girls have different problems from boys. What was the matter with your stepfather?”

  “He useta lick me a lot. But it wasn’t that so much, it was—”

  Angie giggled.

  “Lick you?” she repeated.

  “Shut up,” Mary snapped.

  “You shouldn’t talk mean to your little sister,” Rob said reproachfully.

  It was Mary’s turn to laugh.

  “She’s not my little sister, she’s my big sister. But she doesn’t understand a lot of things. You mean, your stepfather actually hit you? You didn’t have to put up with that. There are laws.”

  “Laws?”

  “To protect kids from being beaten,” Mary said impatiently. “Even back here in the boonies you must have heard of them. If he really hurt you—”

  “Oh, he useta lay it on pretty good,” Rob said matter-of-factly. And then, before Mary had any inkling of what he meant to do, he swung around and flipped up his shirt.

  For a moment there was no sound in the room except the drip of rain and the crackle of the flames. Then Angie let out a gasp of hysterical laughter.

  They were old scars, long healed; but it was obvious that the ridged patterns were not the product of a single beating but of systematic, long-range abuse. The play of firelight and shadow on Rob’s back made them look even worse than they were.

  Rob let his shirt fall, and turned. At the sight of Mary’s face his mouth dropped miserably.

  “Say, I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. It don’t hurt, honest. I’d almost forgot about it till you started talking about—”

  “Forgot that?”

  “Well, it’s my head,” Rob said apologetically. “It got hurt. … I don’t remember so good since then. Seems like I forget a lot of things.”

  “Did your stepfather hit you on the head too?”

  “He didn’t much care where he hit me,” Rob said with a touch of wry humor. “He was usually likkered up when he done it.”

  “Let me see,” Mary said.

  “Not if it makes you feel bad.”

  “It won’t make me feel bad.” Mary could not have explained why she felt the need to see for herself. Her reasons had nothing in common with the ghoulish interest that had drawn Angie closer.

  “Okay,” Rob said obediently. He bowed his head and parted his untidy brown hair. The raised scar stood up like a ridge of splintered bone.

  Mary knew she mustn’t upset him by any further expressions of distress, but as he sat patiently awaiting her comment, his head bowed and his long, dirty fingers passive in his tumbled hair, her eyes filled with tears. She put out her hand.

  Suddenly Rob was on his feet, some distance away. His eyes were narrowed, and his thin chest rose and fell with his agitated breathing.

  “Don’t touch me,” he whispered. “You mustn’t touch me.”

  “I didn’t mean any harm,” Mary said. Two tears spilled over and left mu
ddy tracks through the grime on her cheeks. “I only wanted—”

  “I know.” The boy’s taut body relaxed. “I thank you. But you mustn’t …”

  Slowly, step by step, he began to back away.

  Mary rose to her knees, ignoring the pain.

  “Don’t go away!”

  “I’ll come right back.” He smiled at her but continued to retreat. He faded into the shadows in the open doorway.

  As soon as he was gone, Angie flung herself at her sister, her fingers clawing at Mary’s arm.

  “Let’s get out of here, Mary. Hurry. Quick, before he comes back—”

  “Are you crazy?” Mary tried to free her arm, but Angie hung on.

  “I’m not crazy, he is! Can’t you see he’s some kind of psycho? The way he talks … All that about forgetting things, and those awful scars … He’s a homicidal maniac, like on TV. He’ll kill us—”

  “No,” Mary said. “No, he wouldn’t hurt anybody.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know. Look, Angie, you stop that kind of talk. You haven’t got any sense about people. Some of the guys you used to go out with—”

  “Oh, so that’s it,” Angie said. “You think you’ve got yourself a boyfriend. First time anybody looks at you … That shows he’s crazy.” She tossed her head so that the long, shining locks flared out. “Just don’t try anything. Even if you think I’m asleep, you can’t get away with any funny business.”

  Mary stared at her sister. As the meaning of Angie’s speech penetrated, she felt a deep flush warm her face.

  “You’re disgusting, Angie, you know that?”

  Angie began to cry. “That’s an awful thing to say,” she sobbed. “I’m scared, and hungry, and cold, and all you can say—” The rest of the words were lost in gulping sobs.

  “All right, all right,” Mary said. “Stop bawling. We can’t leave here; it’s still raining, and it’s pitch-dark, and I don’t know where we are. I’ll sit up all night and protect you from that fierce, dangerous boy. Go to sleep and stop worrying.”

  It took the last of the hamburgers to stop Angie’s moans. When she had eaten it, she curled up by the fire, and after an interval her sobs smoothed out into soft snores. Mary didn’t feel sleepy. She looked at her sister’s huddled form and felt as if she were looking at a stranger.

  It wasn’t the first time Angie had made cracks about her not having boyfriends or dates, but never before had she expressed her malice so openly. And to suggest that Rob would … Mary felt her face get hot again, this time with anger. Nobody but a stupid fool could think of Rob that way. He was too pathetic. All he wanted was kindness and companionship, and some response to the gentleness that had miraculously survived the terrible treatment he had received.

  He had been gone a long time. Maybe he had gone for good. The idea left Mary feeling a little sick. Had their unthinking cruelty driven him out into the rain and darkness, away from even the poor refuge he had found? But when she looked at the doorway, he was there, watching her.

  “I thought you weren’t coming back,” she said.

  “I said I would.” Rob came forward, stepping softly. He jerked his head toward Angie. “She asleep?”

  “Yes.”

  “I tried to find some blankets, or something to keep you warm. I guess everything around here is just too old or too dirty. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s warm enough, with the fire.” Mary tossed another handful of wood on it. The flames leapt. “But thanks for trying. Where do you sleep?”

  “Upstairs. But I don’t sleep much.” Rob sat down a little distance from her. “If you want to go to sleep, I’ll sort of keep an eye on things.”

  “What’s there to watch out for?”

  “Well, there’s rats,” Rob said calmly. “They wouldn’t hurt you, but I know girls is scared of rats.”

  “Ugh.” Mary shivered. “I hate them.”

  “They ain’t so bad. They only bite people when they’re scared or hungry. Right smart animals, rats are. I had one for a pet oncet.”

  “Really? I knew a boy who had a pet rat. It was a white one.”

  “Mine was brown. I called him Horatius, after that fella in the poem.”

  Mary didn’t know what poem he was talking about, and she didn’t want to admit her ignorance, so she changed the subject.

  “What are you going to do, Rob? You can’t stay here.”

  “I have to.”

  “No, you don’t. You could—you could come with us.”

  “With you?”

  “Yes.” Mary felt herself blushing again. She lowered her eyes, cursing Angie; if Angie hadn’t put ideas into her head, she wouldn’t be embarrassed. Tracing patterns in the dust of the floor with her forefinger, she went on rapidly, “We’re going to get jobs. You could work too. We could have an apartment—maybe even a little house. …”

  “I sure would like to,” Rob said. “I’d like to be with you. I never knew a girl like you before. I didn’t know you, did I? Seems as if I did somehow. I forget so much. …”

  Mary looked up sharply. Her cheeks were still flaming; as her eyes met Rob’s she forgot to be self-conscious. He was speaking the simple, literal truth, as he felt it.

  “No,” she said, just as simply. “I never met you. But it’s funny, I feel that way too. As if we had known each other someplace … sometime. …”

  For a long, suspended moment, they looked at each other, not speaking, because there was no need to speak. Then Rob’s mobile, expressive face lengthened. He bowed his head.

  “No,” he muttered. “I can’t do it. I been telling you lies. Not lies, exactly, but not the truth, neither. I—I didn’t run away from here. I was took from here. It was some other place I run away from, some place a long, long ways from here.”

  Mary felt as if a giant hand had clamped over her ribs, squeezing the breath out of her lungs. She stared at Rob’s drooping head. His long, curved lashes cast delicate shadows across his bony cheeks.

  So Angie had been right—for once.

  Rob’s stumbling, reluctant confession was like the missing piece in a jigsaw puzzle. The pattern was clear now. But then, it had been pretty obvious all along. Angie had seen it, and she herself would have recognized it if she had not refused to do so.

  Rob was … different. Not crazy, not any of those ugly words Angie had used. He was sick; and no wonder, after what had been done to him. The place he had run away from was probably an institution, a kind of hospital. Some of those places were pretty bad; she had seen stories about them on TV. He must have been in—that place—for years, long enough for the house to fall into ruin after his family had moved away, abandoning him. But he had returned, like a sick animal, to the only place he knew, and his hurt mind couldn’t understand what had happened.

  Rob’s head sank lower, till she could see only a mop of tumbled brown hair. In a sudden, final flash of insight Mary knew that Angie had been wrong, after all—Angie and those others who had locked Rob up. Rob’s mind had been damaged, like his bruised body, but its essential quality had not been changed. He was still gentle, considerate of others, oddly innocent. He wouldn’t hurt anybody; he was too vulnerable himself.

  She wanted to touch him, to reassure him. But she remembered his reaction the first time she had reached out.

  “It’s okay,” she said softly. “I understand. It’s all right.”

  Rob looked up.

  “No,” he said. He spoke with difficulty. There were long pauses between phrases as he went on. “I guess it ain’t all right. It’s all wrong. I don’t suppose I can explain it. I don’t understand so good myself. But I understand better than I did. Having somebody to talk to—somebody like you, who listens, and don’t yell or get mad. … All I know is, I can’t come with you. I gotta go back there. It’s no good running away from things.”

  He saw her face change and was quick to reassure her. “Say, now, I didn’t mean you. You were right to run away when they treated you so bad. Guess
you wouldn’t do anything wrong, you’re too smart. But I’m kind of mixed up. Seems like I’m always doing the wrong thing; seems like running away was another wrong thing. It wasn’t a bad place, you know. They wanted to help me. If I go back and let them do what it was they wanted … Maybe later you and I could … You aren’t mad, are you? Mary?”

  It was the first time he had said her name. Mary couldn’t speak, but she shook her head and managed to shape a watery smile. Rob smiled back at her.

  “You look awful tired,” he said, with a new note of gentle authority in his voice. “You lay down and get some sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

  Suddenly she was tired—tired and strangely cold, as if she had worked hard through a long day and night of winter. She gathered up all the loose scraps that lay within reach, and heaped them on the fire. As it blazed up, she stretched out with her back to its warmth. She wanted to watch Rob; she was afraid he might try to sneak away while she slept. She was too tired to argue, but she hadn’t given up. In the morning, when she wasn’t so sleepy, she would try again to convince him.

  Maybe he needed help, but the place he had run away from couldn’t be the right place. George would find a place. George was a lawyer; he knew about things like that. George would help.

  She was too drowsy to realize that she had reached a decision until after it was irrevocably fixed in her mind. Yes, she would go home—crawl back in disgrace. It wouldn’t be pleasant. She’d be grounded for weeks; probably she would have to have boring sessions with a dumb psychologist or counselor. Mother would cry, and Angie… Angie would have to take care of herself. Anything, so long as Rob got the help he needed. Anything, so she didn’t lose him.

  He was still there. Her eyes closed and her breathing slowed. The last thing she saw before exhaustion claimed her was the play of firelight on Rob’s thin, thoughtful face.

  She awoke to a nightmare—a swirling, smoky blackness shot with tongues of flame; air she couldn’t breathe; and a hoarse, wordless shouting. The voice was unrecognizable; it might even have been her own. She knew she must be dreaming, because she couldn’t move. It was a relief when the blackness overcame the fiery light and swallowed her.