by John Saul
Alan Hanley died on the operating table.
And there had been no blood clot, no reason to operate.
The incident had shaken Cal badly, shaken him more than any other single event of his life.
It was not, he knew, the first time he had misdiagnosed something. Nearly all doctors misdiagnose now and then. But for Cal, Alan Hanley’s death was a turning point.
From that moment, he had never stopped wondering if he was going to make another mistake, and if another child was going to die because of him.
Everyone at the hospital told him he was taking it too seriously, but the child’s death continued to haunt him.
Finally he had taken a day off, and driven out to Paradise Point to talk to Josiah Carson about Alan Hanley.…
Josiah Carson greeted him coolly, and at first Cal thought he was wasting his time. Carson blamed him for Alan Hanley’s death; he could see it in the old man’s piercing blue eyes. But as they talked, something in Carson began to change. Cal was sure the old doctor was telling him things he had told no one else.
“Have you ever lived by yourself?” Carson suddenly asked him. But before he could make any reply, Carson began talking again. “I’ve been living alone for years, taking care of the people out here, and keeping pretty much to myself. I guess I should have kept it that way, kept on trying to do all the repairs to the house myself. But I’m getting old, and I thought … well, never mind what I thought.”
Cal shifted uncomfortably, and wondered what the old man was trying to tell him. “What happened that day?” he asked. “Before you brought Alan Hanley to Boston, I mean.”
“It’s hard to say,” Carson replied, his voice low. “I’d been having trouble with the roof, and some of the slates needed replacing. I was going to do it myself, but then I changed my mind. Thought maybe it would be better to get someone a little younger.” His voice faded to little more than a whisper. “But Alan was too young. I should have known—maybe I did know. He was only twelve.… Well, anyway, I let him go up there.”
“And what happened?”
Carson stared at him, his eyes empty, his face sagging with tiredness.
“What happened in the operating room?” he asked.
Cal squirmed. “I don’t know. Everything seemed to be going so well. And then he died. I don’t know what happened.”
Carson nodded. “And that’s what happened on the roof. I was watching him, and everything seemed to be going well. And then he fell.” There was a long silence, broken by Carson: “I wish you’d saved him.”
Again, Cal squirmed, but suddenly Carson smiled at him.
“It’s not your fault,” he said. “It’s not your fault, and it’s not my fault. But I suppose you could say that, together, it’s our fault. There’s a bond between us now, Dr. Pendleton. What do you suggest we do?”
Cal had no answers. Josiah Carson’s words had numbed him.
And then, as if understanding the problems that had been plaguing Cal since the day Alan Hanley had died, Josiah had made a suggestion. Perhaps Cal should consider giving up his practice in Boston.
“And do what?” Cal asked hollowly.
“Come out here. Take over a small, undemanding practice from a tired old doctor. Get away from the pressure of Boston General. You’re scared now, Dr. Pendleton—”
“My name’s Cal.”
“Cal, then. At any rate you’re scared. You made a mistake, and you think you’ll make more. And if you stay at Boston General, you will. The fear itself will force you to. But if you come out here, I can help you. And you can help me. I want out, Cal. I want out of my practice, and I want out of my house. And I want to sell it all to you. Believe me, I’ll make it worth your while.”
To Cal, it all made sense. A slow practice, in which not much happened.
And not much could go wrong.
Not much room to make mistakes.
Plenty of time to think about every case, and make sure he handled it right.
And no one around to realize that he no longer felt competent to be a doctor. No one except Josiah Carson, who understood him, and sympathized with him.
So they had come to Paradise Point, though initially June had been against it. Cal remembered her words when he had explained the idea to her.
“But why the house? I can understand why he wants to sell his practice, but why is he insisting we take the house, too? It’s too big for us—we don’t need all that room!”
“I don’t know,” Cal replied. “But he’s selling it to us cheap, and it’s a damned good deal. I think we should consider ourselves lucky.”
“But it doesn’t make any sense,” June complained, “In fact, it’s almost morbid. I’m sure he wants out of that house because of what happened to Alan Hanley. Why is he so anxious to have us in it? All it can do is constantly remind you of that boy, too. It’s crazy, Cal. He wants something from you. I don’t know what it is, but you mark my words. Something is going to happen.”
But so far, not much had happened.
A bad moment with Sally Carstairs, but he’d gotten through it.
And now, his daughter was starting to have nightmares.
CHAPTER 6
June stood at her easel, trying to concentrate on her work. It was difficult. It wasn’t the painting that was bothering her—indeed, she was pleased with what she had accomplished: a seascape was emerging, somewhat abstract, but nevertheless recognizable as the view from her studio. No, it wasn’t the work that was the problem.
The problem was Michelle, but she still hadn’t quite been able to put her finger on why she was worried. It wasn’t as if last night’s nightmare had been the first. Michelle certainly had had her normal share of bad dreams. But when Cal had come back to bed just before dawn, and told her about Michelle’s dream, she’d had an uneasy feeling. It had stayed with her even when she went back to sleep; it was still with her now.
With a sigh of frustration, June laid her brushes aside, and sank onto the stool, her favorite perch.
Her eyes wandered restlessly over the studio. She was pleased with what she had accomplished in so short a time—the last of the old debris was gone, the walls had been scrubbed and repainted, and the bright green trim had been restored to its original cheerfulness. Her supplies were stored away neatly under the countertop, and in the closet she had installed a rack to hold her canvases upright and separated. Now all she had to do was stop worrying and start painting.
She was about to make one more stab at it when there was a flicker of movement outside the single small window on the inland side of the building, then a light tap at the door.
“Hello?” The voice was a woman’s, tentative, almost timid, as if whoever had come to the door had nearly gone away again without announcing herself at all.
June started to get up to open the door, then changed her mind. “Come in,” she called. “It’s open.”
There was a slight pause, then the door opened and a small woman, her hair wrapped neatly in a bun and her dress covered with a flowered apron, stepped hesitantly into the studio.
“Oh, are you working?” the woman asked, starting to back out tibe door again. “I’m terribly sorry—I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“No, no,” June protested, getting to her feet “Please come in. I’m afraid I was really only daydreaming.”
A strange look crossed the woman’s face—was it disapproval?—then quickly disappeared. She advanced into the room a foot or two.
“I’m Constance Benson,” she said. “Jeff’s mother. From next door?”
“Of course!” June replied warmly. “I really should have come over to see you before, but I’m afraid I—” she broke off her sentence, glancing ruefully down at her pregnant midsection. “But that’s really no excuse, is it? I mean, I really should be walking huge numbers of miles every day, and instead I just sit here and daydream. Well, three more weeks and the baby should be here. Won’t you sit down?” She gestured toward a chaise longue that had
been rescued from the attic of the house, but Mrs. Benson made no move toward it. Instead, she gazed around the studio with unconcealed curiosity.
“You’ve certainly done wonders with this, haven’t you?” she observed.
“Mostly just cleaning, and a little paint,” June said. Then she saw Mrs. Benson staring at the floor. “And of course I still have to get that stain out,” she added, half-apologetically.
“Don’t count on it,” Constance Benson told her. “You wouldn’t be the first that’s tried, and you wouldn’t be the last that’ll fail, either.”
“I beg your pardon?” June said blankly.
“That stain’ll be there as long as this building is here,” Mrs. Benson said emphatically.
“But it’s mostly gone already,” June protested. “My husband chipped most of it off, and it seems to be scrubbing up fairly well.”
Constance Benson shook her head doubtfully. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe now that there’s no Carsons here.…” Her voice trailed off, but the frown on her face remained.
“I don’t understand,” June said lamely. “What is the stain? Is it blood?”
“Maybe,” Constance Benson replied. “Don’t think anyone can say for sure, not after all these years. But if anybody knows, Doc Carson would be the one to ask.”
“I see,” June said, not really seeing at all. “I suppose I should ask him, then, shouldn’t I?”
“Actually, it’s those girls I came to see you about,” Mrs. Benson announced. Her eyes were now firmly fixed on June. There was something almost accusatory in them, and June wondered if Michelle and Sally had somehow offended Constance Benson.
“You mean Michelle and Sally Carstairs?” At the expression of concern on June’s face, Mrs. Benson smiled slightly, the first warmth she had displayed since coming into the studio. Her face was suddenly almost pretty.
“Oh, don’t worry,” she said hurriedly. “They haven’t done anything wrong. I just wanted to warn you.”
“Warn me?” June repeated, now totally baffled.
“It’s the cemetery,” Constance said. “The old Carson cemetery, between here and my house?”
June nodded.
“I saw the girls playing there yesterday afternoon. Such pretty girls, both of them.”
“Thank you.”
“I was just about to go out and talk to them myself when they left, so I decided not to bother with it until this morning.”
“Bother with what?” June wished she’d get to the point.
“It isn’t safe for children to play there,” Constance said, “Not safe at all.”
June stared at Mrs. Benson. This, she decided, was just a bit too much. Apparently, Constance Benson was the local busybody. It must make life hard for Jeff. She could imagine Constance coming up with an objection to everything Jeff might want to do. For her own part, she could simply ignore the woman. “Well, I’ll admit, I don’t think playing in a cemetery is the most cheerful thing in the world,” she said, “but it couldn’t be particularly dangerous …”
“Oh, it’s not the cemetery,” Constance said too quickly. “It’s the land the cemetery’s on. It’s not stable.”
“But it’s granite, isn’t it?” June’s voice was smooth, giving no hint that she’d picked up on the other woman’s apparent fear. “Just like this?”
“Well, I suppose so,” Constance said uncertainly. “I don’t know much about things like that. But that part of the bluff is going to wash into the sea one of these days, and I wouldn’t want any kids to be there when it happens.”
June’s voice was cool. “I see. Well, I’ll certainly tell the girls not to play there anymore. Would you like a cup of coffee? There’s some on the stove.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.” Constance glanced at a watch strapped firmly to her left wrist. “I’ve got to be getting back to my kitchen. Canning, you know.” The way she said it gave June the distinct impression that Constance Benson was quite sure June didn’t know, but should.
“Well, do come back again, when you have more time,” June said weakly. “Or maybe I could drop in on you.”
“Now that might be nice.” By then the two women were standing at the open door to the studio, and Constance was staring at the house. “Pretty house, isn’t it?” she said. Before June could reply, she added, “But I’ve never really liked it. No, I never have.” Then, without saying good-bye, she began walking purposefully along the path toward her own home.
June waited for a moment, watching her, then slowly closed the door. She had a distinct feeling that she was done painting for the day.
The noon sun was warm, and Michelle sat in the shade of a large maple, eating her lunch with Sally, Jeff, Susan, and a few of her other classmates. Though Michelle was trying hard to make friends with Susan, Susan was having none of it. She ignored Michelle completely, and when she spoke to Sally, it was usually to criticize her. But Sally, with her sunny disposition, seemed unaffected by Susan’s apparent grudge.
“We ought to have a picnic,” Sally was saying. “Summer’s almost gone, and in another month it will be too late.”
“It’s already too late.” Susan Peterson’s voice had a superior sound to it that annoyed Michelle, but everyone else seemed to ignore it. “My mother says that once Labor Day’s past, you don’t have picnics anymore.”
“But the weather’s still nice,” Sally said. “Why don’t we have one this weekend?”
“Where?” Jeff asked. If it was going to be on the beach, he’d be sure to be there. It was as if Michelle had heard his thought.
“How about the cove between Jeff’s house and mine?” she said. “It’s rocky, but there’s never anyone there, and it’s so pretty. Besides, if it rains, we’ll be close to home so we can go inside.”
“You mean below the graveyard?” Sally asked. “That would be creepy. There’s a ghost out there.”
“There isn’t either,” Jeff objected.
“Maybe there is,” Michelle interjected. Suddenly she was the center of attention; even Susan Peterson turned to look at her curiously. “I dreamed about the ghost last night,” she went on, launching into a vivid description of her strange vision. In the brightness of the day her terror had left her, and she wanted to share her dream with her new friends. Caught up in the tale, she didn’t notice the others’ silent exchange of glances. When she was finished, no one spoke. Jeff Benson concentrated on his sandwich, but the rest of the children were still staring at Michelle. Suddenly she felt worried, and wondered if she should have even mentioned the nightmare.
“Well, it was only a dream,” she said, as the silence lengthened.
“Are you sure?” Sally asked her. “Are you sure you weren’t awake the whole time?”
“Well, of course I wasn’t,” Michelle said. “It was a dream.” She noticed that some of the girls were exchanging suspicious glances. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Susan Peterson said casually. “Except that when Amanda Carson fell off the cliff, she was wearing a black dress and a black bonnet, just like the girl you dreamed about last night.”
“How do you know?” Michelle demanded.
“Everybody knows,” Susan said complacently. “She always wore black, every day of her life. My grandmother told me, and her mother told her. And my great-grandmother knew Amanda Carson,” Susan said triumphantly. Her eyes challenged Michelle. Once again a silence fell over the group. Was Susan telling her the truth, or were they all teasing her? Michelle looked from one face to another, trying to see what each of them was thinking. Only Sally met her eyes, and she merely shrugged when Michelle looked to her for help. Jeff Benson continued eating his sandwich, and carefully avoided Michelle’s gaze.
“It was a dream!” Michelle exclaimed, gathering her things together, and getting to her feet. “It was only a dream, and if I’d known you were going to make such a big deal about it, I’d never have mentioned it!”
Before any of them could make a reply, Michelle s
talked away. Across the playground, she could see a group of younger children playing jump rope. A moment later she had joined them.
“I wonder what’s wrong with her?” Susan Peterson said when she was sure Michelle was out of earshot. Now her friends were staring at her.
“What do you mean, ‘what’s wrong with her?” Sally Carstairs asked. “Nothing’s wrong with her!”
“Really?” Susan said, sounding annoyed at the contradiction. “She tattled on you yesterday, didn’t she? Why do you think Miss Hatcher changed the seating around? It was because Michelle told her what you did yesterday morning.”
“So what?” Sally countered. “She just didn’t want you to be mad at her, that’s all.”
“I think she’s sneaky,” Susan said. “And I don’t think we should have anything to do with her.”
“That’s mean.”
“No, it’s not There’s something really strange about her.”
“What?”
Susan’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Well, I saw her with her parents the other day, and they’re both blond. And everybody knows blonds can’t have a dark-haired baby.”
“Big deal,” Sally said. “If you want to know, she’s adopted. She told me so herself. What’s so strange about that?”
Susan’s eyes narrowed. “Well, that settles it.”
“Settles what?” Sally asked.
“Settles her, of course. I mean, nobody knows where she really came from, and my mother says if you don’t know anything about somebody’s family, you don’t know anything about the person.”
“I know her family,” Sally pointed out. “Her mother’s very nice, and her father treated my arm, along with Uncle Joe.”
“I mean her real family,” Susan said, looking at Sally contemptuously. “Dr. Pendleton isn’t her father. Her father could be anybody!”
“Well, I like her,” Sally insisted. Susan glowered at her.
“You would—your father’s only a janitor.” Susan Peterson’s father owned the Paradise Point Bank, and Susan never let her friends forget it.
Hurt by Susan’s meanness, Sally Carstairs lapsed into silence. It wasn’t fair of Susan to dislike Michelle just because she was adopted, but Sally wasn’t sure what she should say. After all, she’d known Susan Peterson all her life, and she’d only just met Michelle Pendleton. Well, Sally decided, I won’t say anything. But I won’t stop being Michelle’s friend, either.