by John Saul
Michael trembled slightly, then nodded his head.
"I see," Anna breathed. She let her hands drop from Michael's shoulders and moved to the table, where she carefully lowered herself into a chair. "Sit down, Michael," she said softly. "Sit down and tell me what happened. Can you do that? Can you tell me all of it?"
Slowly, Michael recounted his story of the night before, and when he was done, Anna slumped tiredly in her chair. "You wished him dead," she whispered. "You and Nathaniel wished him dead."
She reached out then, reached out to comfort the sobbing boy who sat across from her, his head buried in his arms. At her touch, he looked up.
"I'm sorry, Grandma. I'm sorry!"
"Michael," Anna said almost fearfully. "There's something you haven't told me."
Slowly, Michael's sobbing subsided, and at last he looked up at his grandmother, his eyes red, his cheeks splotched with tears.
"Who is Nathaniel?" Anna asked. "You haven't told me who Nathaniel is." She hesitated, then asked the question she'd been dreading. "He's—he's a ghost, isn't he?"
Michael's eyes widened, and for a long moment he stared at his grandmother in silence. At last, he shook his head.
"No, Grandma," he said softly. "He's real."
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Ben Findley stared at the tray of food that still sat where he'd left it on the table in the little room beneath the barn.
It was untouched.
He hadn't really expected anything different, not since he'd come down here late last night to find the room empty. That, too, had not been unexpected, but still he'd gone over the barn carefully, inspecting everything. Everything had been as it should have been. The door to the tack room, as always, was barred from the outside. The planks that formed the siding of the barn were as solid as ever, despite their appearance from the outside. Upstairs in the loft, the door was still nailed shut.
Yet despite the fact that the security of the barn did not appear to have been breached, Nathaniel was gone. He was gone, and he had not come back.
Findley picked up the tray and, balancing it expertly on one hand, used the other to steady himself as he climbed the ladder out of the tiny cell. He left the barn, not bothering to lock it, and quickly crossed the yard.
Inside his house, he put the tray on the sink and stared idly at his little kitchen. A puddle of coffee had spread across the kitchen counter, and he automatically moved to wipe it up before the stain could penetrate the butcher-block top.
He and Nathaniel had made that top together, and he wasn't about to let it be ruined.
Impulsively, he decided to inspect the entire house, and he began moving slowly through its few rooms, examining everything, making sure everything was in the perfect condition he had always maintained.
The interior of the little house was in remarkable contrast to its ramshackle exterior. The hardwood floors gleamed under his feet, their mellow oaken planks polished to a soft glow. The walls were lined with leatherbound books, stored in cases he had built himself, all the joints carefully dovetailed so that as the years went by they would remain as true as they had been the day he and Nathaniel had put them together.
The furniture was sparse. Two chairs—one his, the other Nathaniel's, for the times, much more frequent than Charles Potter had ever suspected, when Findley had felt safe enough to have Nathaniel inside the house.
At times, Ben Findley had wondered if he'd begun taking a perverse pleasure in keeping the interior of the house in such perfect contrast to its exterior, but deep inside he knew he had not. It was just that he liked things to be right, and over the years he had come to want them to be as nice as possible for Nathaniel.
At first, of course, it had not been for Nathaniel at all.
It had been for Anna.
For a long time after that night when Nathaniel was born, Ben Findley had hoped that Anna Hall would finally leave Amos and come to live with him. Him, and Nathaniel.
He had fantasized in those years, picturing the light that would come into Anna's eyes when he told her that their son was alive. That fantasy had kept him going those first years, after Jenny had left him.
Even twenty years later, he could clearly remember that night. It was the night Nathaniel had been born, and Charles Potter had brought the baby to him, meeting him in the field, while a storm howled around them.
"Amos thinks he's dead," Potter had told him that night. "I made him think so, or he might have killed him. He knows the child's yours." He'd handed the blanket-wrapped infant to Ben. "Amos thinks I'm burying him. I'll stay here for a while, in case he's watching."
Ben had peeled a corner of the blanket back, and gazed down into the face of the son that Anna Hall had borne him, the son that his own wife had never been able to conceive. "What about Anna?" he'd asked, but Potter had shaken his head.
"I don't know. It was hard, and she thinks the baby's dead." Then he'd met Ben's eyes. "He's yours, Ben. Yours and Jenny's."
Except that Jenny hadn't wanted the child, wouldn't even look at it.
"Anna's?" she'd demanded. "You expect me to raise a child you had by Anna Hall? Never! Never, Ben!"
That night, she, like Mark Hall, had gone away.
Unlike Mark, she had never come back.
And so Ben had begun to raise the child himself, hoping, at first, that Anna Hall would one day recover from the child's birth and walk again.
He'd hidden the child, knowing that he had no reasonable explanation for its being there, and slowly, over the years, his life had changed.
For a long time, he'd whiled away the time by preparing the house for Anna, but when he'd finally come to accept that Anna was never coming, he hadn't stopped working on the interior of the house.
By then, he was doing it for Nathaniel.
Nathaniel became the sole focus of his life. Ben Findley became consumed with the need to provide whatever was necessary for the little boy who was growing up in his house.
What was needed for Nathaniel was isolation, for isolation meant safety. So Ben constructed his shield, and made himself into the town recluse, the rundown appearance of his farm discouraging most visitors, his surly facade—a facade that had finally become his true personality—repelling those few who braved the tangle of overgrowth of the yard to knock on the peeled and weathered boards of the front door.
It had worked. Years ago, people had stopped trying to be friendly toward him, and he had ended up being as trapped as Nathaniel within the limits that he had set for them.
The limits had been simple: No one must know, or even suspect, that Ben Findley was not living alone.
At first it had only been temporary. When Anna came, they would bring Nathaniel out in the open, and live as the family they were.
But Anna hadn't come.
Instead, she'd retreated to her wheelchair, and soon moved away from the little house where the two of them had loved. She had wiped Ben Findley from her life.
Ben had resented that, and he knew that there had been times when he'd taken Anna's rejection of him out on little Nathaniel. Sometimes, for no reason at all, he'd found himself punishing the child, beating him.
But as the years wore on, he'd come to care totally for the boy. And so he'd raised him, isolating himself along with Nathaniel. He'd done what he could to make Nathaniel's life comfortable, and if it wasn't enough, Ben was sorry.
He knew the boy was peculiar, but he also knew there was nothing he could do about it. Nathaniel's oddness, he was sure, was only a result of his isolation.
And he'd taught the boy, taught him everything he knew. What he did without in the way of human companionship, he tried to make up for with books. Ben clothed Nathaniel, making the boy's garments himself; buying clothes in Prairie Bend was out of the question, and doing it through the mails was equally risky. Catalogs would begin coming, catalogs of children's clothes and toys, and the woman at the post office would begin to wonder why Ben Findley was getting such things. And if she wonder
ed, she'd talk, and then she'd want to know. So he took no risks.
Still, Ben knew it hadn't worked. Nathaniel was different from other children, ill-equipped to deal with the world. There had been times when Nathaniel had seemed to drift off into a private world of his own, and Ben had been unable to reach him. It was as if he'd been listening to voices only he could hear. But it didn't happen often, and he always came out of it. And there had been the other times, the times when the children—what his cousin Amos had always called "Nathaniel's children"—had been born. Those nights, Ben had sometimes heard Nathaniel in the barn, moaning softly, almost as if he were in pain. Sometimes he'd tried to comfort the boy, but he'd never been able. Nathaniel had never even seemed aware of his presence.
By the mornings after those terrible nights, though, Nathaniel had always seemed to be all right, and Charles Potter—still the only other person who knew of Nathaniel's secret existence—had maintained that the odd spells meant nothing.
And then, last spring, Mark Hall had come home.
Ever since then, Nathaniel had been different.
He'd become odder, and seemed to disappear deeper into his private world every day.
He'd stopped speaking to Ben, preferring to spend his time alone in his room beneath the barn, lying on his cot, his eyes wide open but blank, staring at something Ben could never see.
His voice, never expressive, had taken on an atonality that sometimes frightened Ben, and when he looked at Ben now, it always seemed to be with anger.
And when he'd spoken, he'd said strange things.
"I know what happened," he told Ben once. "I can see it now, and I know what happened."
That was all he'd said, but in his words, and in his eyes, Ben had sensed danger.
Then, last night, Nathaniel had disappeared from the barn.
And Amos Hall had died.
It wasn't until dusk that Findley went back to the barn. He carried Nathaniel's dinner with him, not because he expected Nathaniel to be there to eat it, but because he had taken Nathaniel's dinner to the barn every night for so many years that when he'd fixed his own meal that evening, he'd automatically cooked for them both. He opened the barn door, slipped inside, and pulled the door closed behind him.
And then he felt it.
Nathaniel was there.
Nathaniel's presence was in the atmosphere of the barn, just as his absence had been palpable the night before.
Findley paused, then spoke softly into the gloom of the building. "Nathaniel?"
There was no answer. Ben started toward the tack room, but had taken only a few paces when suddenly he felt something behind him. He turned slowly, and stared at the glistening tines of a pitchfork hovering a few inches from his chest. Beyond the cold, glittering metal, his hands grasping the fork's handle, Nathaniel's eyes blazed at him, penetrating the deep shadows of the barn. The tray clattered to the floor. "Nathaniel—"
The finely honed points of the fork inched closer to his chest. "Where are they?" Nathaniel demanded.
Ben frowned. "What? Where are what, Nathaniel?"
"The children. The children in the field. Where are they?"
"Nathaniel—"
A single tine of the fork touched the skin of Ben Findley's throat, pierced it. A drop of blood began to form, then slowly ran down the inside of Ben's shirt.
"Tell me where they are. I have to find them."
"I don't know what you're talking about, Nathaniel," Ben said softly. "Now put down the fork, and tell me what you mean."
But it was too late. The look was in Nathaniel's eyes, the look Ben Findley had seen before, and he could almost imagine he heard the voices himself, the voices Nathaniel was listening to.
He's going to kill me, Findley thought. He killed Amos, and he killed Charles, and now he's going to kill me. Then another thought came to him: Why shouldn't he kill us? One way or another, all of us killed him.
He felt the tines of the fork pressing against his throat again, and began backing away. Behind him, he suddenly felt the wall of the barn, and there was nowhere else to go. He stopped, his eyes fixing on Nathaniel's.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, even as he knew it was too late. "I'm sorry I took your life away from you."
Nathaniel nodded, then hurled his weight against the pitchfork.
Ben opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out, as two of the tines plunged through his flesh, then on into the soft pine planks of the barn wall.
A stream of blood welled up from his torn throat, then overflowed and began pouring down the front of his shirt.
A few seconds later, his eyes rolled backward and his body went slack.
Nathaniel stared for a moment at the man who had raised him, and killed him, then went out into the gathering night.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Janet awoke with a start, her heart pounding. The dream had come again, the nightmare in which she stood helplessly by and watched as flames consumed the house she'd grown up in. Only this time, the dream was different. This time, as she cowered in the night, transfixed by the smoke and flames, it wasn't her brother who was calling to her.
This time, the voice she heard was Michael's, and the face she saw at the upstairs window was Mark's.
And in the background, barely audible, was another voice, a voice she recognized as that of her unborn child.
This time it wasn't her parents and her brother who were dying. This time it was her children and her husband.
She shook off the remnants of the dream and lay in the gloom, listening to the throbbing pulse of her heart, staring at the ceiling where strange shadows were cast by the soft glow of her nightlight. Inside her, she could feel the baby stirring—that was good, for as long as the baby moved it still lived, and for a while during the past twenty-four hours, she was sure she had lost it. Then, as her pulse slowly returned to normal, she shifted her attention, listening to the sounds of the house. Voices drifted up from downstairs. Though she couldn't make out the words, the murmuring itself was comforting to Janet.
She knew who was downstairs: her mother-in-law, her son. and Ione Simpson.
Earlier in the day, when she'd first mentioned that Ione had volunteered to stay with them and look after them, she had expected Anna to object. But she'd been wrong. Anna, without Amos and without her chair, had literally changed overnight.
"She has a level head," Anna had said of Ione. "And I don't feel like talking tonight. With Laura, I'd have to talk. But with lone, I can just sit and think. I need to think, Janet," she'd added in a tone that had almost frightened the younger woman. "I need to think about a lot of things." And then, sounding more like her usual self, she'd glanced pointedly at Janet's belly. "Aren't you supposed to be staying in bed?"
Janet nodded. "But I feel so useless up there. And the baby's all right. The doctor said—"
Anna's eyes flashed with sudden anger. "Doctors are fools! Never believe what they say. Never! I believed Charles Potter once."
The force of Anna's words struck Janet almost physically. She sank back against the cushions of the sofa. "Anna, what are you saying? He was your doctor for years—"
"Amos's. He was Amos's doctor, Janet. To me, he was—" Suddenly she fell silent, but Janet had the distinct feeling there was something the older woman wanted to talk about.
"He was what, Anna?"
Anna's eyes suddenly shifted away from Janet, and she appeared to be trying to come to a decision. Finally, her empty eyes met Janet's. "I don't know what he was," she said at last. "I don't know what's the truth, anymore, and I don't know who lied to me all my life. I don't know anything anymore, Janet. For twenty years, I sat in a wheelchair, but at least I thought I knew why I was there. I thought it was Amos's fault. I thought he'd done something to me when my last baby was born, thought somehow he or Charles Potter had hurt me when they killed my baby."
"Anna," Janet pleaded, "don't say that."
"Wait," Anna said quietly. "I'm not saying what I believe, Jane
t. I'm only telling you what I thought." Suddenly she seemed to straighten up. She took a deep breath. Then she said: "Ben Findley was the father of my last child."
Janet stared at her mother-in-law, unable to make any reply at all.
"It's true. Ben was different then. Not like he is now. In some ways he was very like Amos—like all that family— except there was nothing of Amos's cruelty about him. Amos was cruel. He beat the children, and he beat me. And he was absolutely convinced that some awful curse had been placed on his family. It all went back to Abby Randolph, and Nathaniel, and the child that survived."
"But you said—"
"I know what I said." Anna sighed, then went on talking. "I think Amos killed two of my children. I don't know anymore. Not after last night. But what's important is that I believed he did. That's one of the reasons I fell in love with Ben Findley. I blamed Amos for so much, and in Ben I found the parts of Amos I was attracted to, without the parts I hated. Can you understand that?" She paused, but Janet made no reply. "Anyway, I fell in love with him, and I got pregnant by him. And Amos knew." Slowly, her voice trembling with the pain she felt at reliving the story, Anna told Janet what had happened twenty years ago, when her last child had been born. "He had sworn he'd kill it," she finished. "He'd said he'd kill it, but then, when it came, he told me it was stillborn. He told me, and Charles Potter told me. But I didn't believe them. I believed they killed it, just as I believed Amos had killed my other children. I believed they killed it. And later on, I believed they killed Laura's children."
"But if that's what you believed—"
"Why did I stay? Because Amos was my punishment, and I deserved to be punished for my…" Her voice faltered. "For my sins. I stayed out of my own guilt, Janet. I hated Amos, but I stayed."
Janet felt sick. Sick and betrayed. "And you didn't warn me, either," she said, her voice suddenly bitter. Her eyes turned angry. "What about Michael? Did he beat Michael, too? And would you have stood by when my baby came, even though you thought Amos might kill it?"