by John Saul
“Come on,” Sharon replied. Several minutes later, bundled up in the parkas Sharon had purchased only a few days earlier, mother and daughter stepped out into the snowy evening. The flakes were large and fluffy, and as they started down the sidewalk, the cold air stung their cheeks and they were quickly enveloped in the gentle silence that always comes with the first snow of the year.
Kelly reached out and took her mother’s hand. “I love it here,” she said, gazing around in happy wonder. “Aren’t you glad we moved?”
Sharon said nothing for a moment, then the peacefulness of the snowfall overcame her as well.
“Yes,” she said. “I guess I am.”
Yet even as she said the words, she wondered.
Charlotte LaConner shivered as she gazed out at the snow slowly building on the front lawn. Under normal circumstances she would have been thrilled to see it, for it meant the skiing season was almost upon them, and that Christmas—always her favorite season—was just around the corner. Tonight, though, the whiteness outside only reflected the chill she was feeling in her own soul, and at last she turned away from the window to face her husband. Her eyes, she knew, had turned an angry bloodshot red, and her cheeks were still stained with tears.
“But it’s not right,” she pleaded once more. “I’m his mother, Chuck. Don’t I have a right to see him?”
Chuck LaConner, the memory of his son’s distorted features still etched deeply in his mind, forced himself to look directly at Charlotte as he once more repeated the story he and Ames had agreed upon late the night before. He rationalized to himself that at least she would be spared having to see what Jeff was turning into. Better she should live in ignorance than have that terrible image engraved on her heart forever. “It wouldn’t do you, or him, any good,” he said once more. “Char, he wouldn’t even recognize you.”
“But it’s not possible,” Charlotte whimpered, cowering away from his words as if she’d been struck. “I’m his mother, Chuck—he needs me!”
“He needs rest,” Chuck insisted. “Honey, I know it seems crazy, but sometimes these things happen. Jeff’s been under a lot of pressure lately—”
“And is that my fault?” Charlotte suddenly flared. “I wanted him to quit the team, remember?”
Chuck swore silently to himself. Remember? How could he forget? The argument had gone on almost every day since she’d gone to visit that boy in the hospital, and he still hadn’t been able to convince her that whatever had happened wasn’t Jeff’s fault. Then he realized that perhaps there was a way to turn her own words against her and once and for all put an end to this discussion. “Did it ever occur to you that your nagging might have contributed to what’s happened?” he asked, deliberately putting an icy edge on his words. As she recoiled, he repeated to himself yet again that all this was for her own good.
Charlotte dropped limply onto the sofa and stared at him bleakly. “Is that what he said?” she asked in a hollow voice. “That all this is my fault?”
Chuck licked nervously at his lips. “Perhaps not in so many words,” he temporized. “But what it comes down to is, for the moment the best thing we can do—both of us—is let the doctors take care of Jeff. And it’s not forever, honey,” he went on. “After a while, when he gets better …”
He let the words trail off. Part of his mind told him that he had just told his wife an outright lie; Jeff was never going to get better. But there was another part of him that wanted to believe that somehow Marty Ames would come up with a solution to the terrible thing that was happening to their son.
The important thing right now, though, was to keep Charlotte from finding out exactly how bad Jeff’s situation was. Of course, he would never forgive himself for what had happened, never forgive himself for enrolling Jeff in a medical program that carried any risks whatsoever, no matter how slight they might have been.
He’d lost his son. He’d understood that in the dark hours before dawn this morning, when Marty Ames had finally let him see Jeff. His first instinct had been to turn on Ames, to strike out at the man who had done this. But in the end, as always happened with him, reason had prevailed. He’d come to understand that in the final analysis it was he himself who was culpable, he who had made the final decision to allow Jeff to be treated with Ames’s experimental compounds.
He’d wanted it to work so badly, wanted so much for Jeff to be like all the other boys—especially like all the other boys in Silverdale—that he’d deliberately shut his mind to the possible side effects of Ames’s treatment.
And so he’d lost his only child.
And if Charlotte found out what he’d done, found out what had really happened to Jeff, he’d lose her, too.
But it didn’t have to be that way, he thought. If he could only convince her that Jeff’s problems weren’t physical at all, convince her that their son had simply suffered a mental breakdown and needed a period of rest, perhaps she would never have to know the truth.
Perhaps Ames would find a cure and Jeff would be fine.
Or perhaps …
He deliberately shut his mind to the other possibility, telling himself that it wouldn’t happen. It would be just as Jerry Harris had told him that afternoon.
“I don’t want you to worry about a thing,” Harris said after calling Chuck into his office. “I’ve talked to Marty Ames, and he thinks there’s a good chance of turning this around. And you can count on TarrenTech. Whatever Jeff needs, he’s going to get.” They’d talked for a while, and Harris assured him that no matter what happened, both Jeff and the LaConner family would be taken care of. “And after this is over,” Harris had said, “you can take Charlotte anywhere you want to go. I can’t imagine you’ll want to stay in Silverdale, not after this. But it’s a big world, and we’re a big company. And we take care of our own.”
Even through his grief and guilt, Chuck had understood the message perfectly. What had happened to Jeff was going to be swept under the carpet, and neither the situation—nor his part in it—were ever going to be made public.
For a moment he’d hated Jerry Harris, hated him as much as he’d ever hated anyone in his life. But then, once more, that pragmatic core deep within him—the cold, analytical aspect of his personality that had not only made him valuable to TarrenTech over the years, but had led him to weigh the odds for Jeff three years ago and then take what he had thought was an almost risk-free gamble with his own son’s life—came to the fore.
There was no point in hating Jerry. After all, hadn’t Jerry himself taken the same gamble with Robb’s life? And Tom Stevens, with Randy? And how many others?
They were the same, all of them. All of them had the same hopes and aspirations for their sons; the same ambitions for themselves. All of them had gambled.
Most of them had won.
Tom Stevens had lost.
Now he had lost.
But he didn’t have to lose everything. He still had his career, and he still had his wife. And he intended to lose neither of those, no matter what it took.
He went to Charlotte and slipped his arms around her. “He’ll get better,” he promised. “And as soon as he does, then I know he’ll want to see you. But for now we just have to let him be.” He hugged her close and felt her draw in a deep breath.
“I’ll try,” she promised. She gazed up at him, her eyes flooding with tears. “But I miss him, Chuck,” she went on, her voice bleak. “I miss him so much, and he’s only been gone one day.”
Chuck said nothing, suddenly unable to speak to her again or even look at her.
Mark closed the book he’d been reading and sprawled out on the bed, his eyes closed. He hadn’t been able to concentrate on his homework, and knew he’d have to read the same section over again tomorrow night.
But he didn’t care, for while his eyes had been scanning the pages, seeing the words but not really taking them in, his mind had been going back again and again over the events of last night and today.
He remembered the fi
ght—remembered every humiliating moment of it. He’d never had a chance, not from the very beginning, when Jeff had first tackled him. And when it was finally over and he was in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, he’d felt like he was going to die. Nor had he felt much better when he woke up this morning.
But now, after the hours at the sports clinic, he felt fine. Sure, he had a few marks on his face, but the pain was gone, and the wounds seemed to be healing rapidly.
He’d come to a decision sometime during the morning: never again would he allow himself to be beaten up the way Jeff LaConner had beaten him up. Even now the memory of it made him angry, and he clenched his right hand into a fist and punched his left palm with a sharp smack.
Startled by the sound, Chivas growled softly. Mark sat up and swung his feet off the bed.
“Things are going to change, boy,” he muttered to the big dog, and reached down to scratch the animal’s head. Chivas’s ears dropped back against his skull. He whined softly, then slithered away from Mark’s touch. Mark frowned, annoyed with the dog. But then, noticing the snow for the first time, he forgot his annoyance and went to the window to gaze out at the backyard.
The snow was nearly an inch deep on the roof of the rabbit hutch. Even from here Mark could see the little creatures huddling together in one corner of the cage. “Damn!” he muttered. “They’re going to freeze to death. Come on, Chivas.”
He left his bedroom and hurried down the stairs, Chivas trailing half-heartedly after him. It was only when he was at the hall closet, fishing his jacket out of the row of coats that hung there, that he noticed the hollow silence in the house. He called out, then shrugged indifferently when there was no answer. Putting on his jacket, he moved through the dining room and kitchen and opened the back door. Chivas barked happily, his mood suddenly changing as the blast of cold air from outside struck his nostrils. He bounded outside, coming to a sudden stop as his feet plunged into the icy chill of snow for the first time in his life.
The dog sniffed at the strange white stuff cautiously, then his tongue came out and licked tentatively at the wet, soft blanket that covered the yard. He took a step forward, hesitated, and with a leap, bounded out into the center of the yard, made three wide loops and rolled in the snow, working his shoulders deep into it. Regaining his feet, Chivas rushed toward Mark and dropped low to the ground, his tail wagging furiously. Mark grinned at him.
“You like this, huh?” he asked. “Well, let me take care of the rabbits, and then we’ll find your ball.”
Chivas, instantly understanding the reference to his favorite toy, hurtled out toward the back fence, snuffling wildly as he hunted for one of the well-chewed tennis balls he’d hidden in the yard.
Mark zipped his jacket up to his chin and walked quickly out to the rabbit hutch. The rabbits, still huddled together and shivering in the cold, seemed to be looking up at him expectantly.
“You guys getting a little cold?” he asked. “Well, we can fix that, can’t we. ’Course,” he added, glaring at the little creatures with mock severity, “you might have been warmer if you’d thought of going into your house.”
He opened the door of the large cage, reached inside and turned the switch that controlled the single bulb suspended from the roof of the little shelter in the far corner.
The light came on but the rabbits didn’t move.
“Come on,” Mark urged them. “Don’t be so dumb you stay out here and freeze to death!”
He reached toward them to herd them into the shelter. For a moment nothing happened. Then, before Mark could jerk his hand away, the big white male with black spots darted his head toward Mark’s hand and nipped his finger. Reflexively, Mark jerked his hand back and stuck his bleeding finger in his mouth. He sucked for a moment, then pulled the finger out and stared at it.
The cut was small but deep, and as he watched, it began to bleed profusely.
“Goddamn it!” he swore out loud, his eyes fixing on the rabbit as a surge of unreasonable fury overwhelmed him. “I’ll teach you!”
Reaching into the hutch, he seized the offending rabbit by the ears and dragged it away from its shivering companions. It squirmed in his hands, its hind legs kicking out as it tried to escape. But Mark was oblivious to the little animal’s struggles.
He stared at it for a moment, his eyes cold and dead, then he grasped it by the neck.
A high-pitched squeal erupted from the rabbit’s throat as Mark began to squeeze, the squeal cut off as Mark’s other hand released the rabbit’s ears and gave its head a sudden twist.
There was a soft cracking of bones. The rabbit went limp in Mark’s hands.
He gazed at the little animal blankly for a moment, as if he weren’t quite certain what he’d done.
Then, tossing it back into the hutch, he turned and started slowly back toward the house.
Chivas, a ball in his mouth, caught up with him at the back door and whined eagerly.
Mark ignored him.
16
Charlotte LaConner eyed the image in the mirror with lethargic disinterest. Could what she saw really be herself? But she knew the answer. The Charlotte LaConner she had grown up with—the gently smiling woman whose soft brown eyes had invariably gazed out at the world with calm acceptance—had disappeared almost completely over the past week. In her place was a pale ghost of her former self. The smile was gone, and around her lips a harsh picket fence of tiny lines had appeared. Her eyes, sunk deep from lack of sleep, flickered with suspicion, seeming even when at rest to be constantly moving, searching for some unseen enemy that must be lurking just out of sight, ready to spring out at her, to attack her if her vigilance flagged for even a moment.
The image in the mirror wore no makeup, its sallow complexion exposed for all the world to see, its stark features framed by a limp tangle of unwashed hair that bore a faintly oily sheen. But it didn’t matter what that image looked like, Charlotte realized, for no one had seen it. After all, she down. Now, as she turned away from the mirror and its strange reflection of a person she was quite certain she didn’t know, she felt herself moving with the slow rhythms of someone mired in a swamp. There were things she should be doing; she’d been keeping a mental list, adding items to it each day, as each day none of the previous items were checked off. The cleaning, for instance.
Newspapers were piled neatly by Chuck’s favorite chair, the stack growing as each day she reminded herself to take them out but didn’t. A thin layer of dust lay over the furniture, and wisps of lint had gathered in the corners. With a desperate effort, Charlotte tried to pull herself together to begin her chores, then sank down in front of the television, her hand automatically reaching for the remote control to flick it on. She sat still, her eyes fixed on the flickering image on the picture tube, but she didn’t quite comprehend what she was seeing; the thick cobwebs that had settled over her mind effectively blocked out the inane stimulus of the cartoon on the screen.
Chuck had been patient with her, silently accepting her excuses at the beginning of the week that the snow was keeping her from going out. But the snow had melted by Tuesday morning and still Charlotte remained closeted within the house, retreating deeper and deeper within herself, desolated by her sudden and complete isolation from her son.
She was dimly aware of the back door opening and closing. When Chuck came into the little den where she sat—perched rigidly on the edge of the chair, as if afraid she might collapse completely if she let herself relax at all—her eyes slowly left the television set and focused on her husband.
Chuck gazed at her worriedly. She looked worse today, worse even than when he’d left this morning for a quick meeting with Jerry Harris. She was barely even speaking to him now, and as he’d watched her sitting at the kitchen table earlier, slowly stirring a cup of coffee long after it had turned cold, he’d wondered if she was lost to him, too, as Jeff was lost. But now, after meeting with Jerry, he had a fragile ray of hope. “Honey?” he said softly. “How are you feeling?
”
Charlotte forced a wan smile. “There’s so much to do,” she replied, her eyes uncertainly scanning the room. “But I just can’t make myself do it.”
Chuck drew in his breath, then crossed to her, lowered himself to the arm of the chair and slipped an arm protectively around her. “You don’t have to,” he murmured. Her neck twisted and she gazed up into his eyes. “We’re going away, honey. I’ve been transferred.”
A look of confusion came into Charlotte’s eyes, as if she weren’t sure what the words meant. “T-Transferred? But we can’t go anywhere now—it’s the middle of the year. Jeff …” Her voice trailed off, as if the mere mention of their son’s name had reminded her that he was no longer going to school.
“It’s going to be all right,” Chuck assured her. “All the arrangements have been made. We’re going to Boston.”
It was where Charlotte had grown up, and he’d hoped that the prospect of moving back home would snap her out of the depression that had closed around her during the past week, but she only stared at him for a moment, then shook her head.
“But of course we can’t go.” She spoke the words hollowly, as if repeating something Chuck must already know.
“No, darling,” Chuck told her. “That’s what the meeting this morning with Jerry was about. It’s all set—we can leave any time. Even today, if you want to.”
At last his words seemed to penetrate her fog. She looked at him again, almost suspiciously, like a mouse sniffing around the cheese in a trap before trying to snatch it. Then her eyes cleared.
“But we can’t do that!” she exclaimed. She shook Chuck’s arm away and rose to her feet. “We can’t just pack up and go—what about Jeff? We have to make arrangements for him—find a hospital for him.…” Then, seeing the bleak emptiness in her husband’s eyes, the full truth of what he was saying sank into her. “Dear God!” she breathed. “You don’t mean for us to take him at all, do you? You think we’re just going to go away and leave him here—”