He got to his feet and walked slowly, quietly, down the hall to the bathroom. Rachel had been asleep when he’d arrived home and he saw no point in disturbing her, especially now, when it seemed she might have to take over for him.
His medical bag was downstairs, but the bathroom cabinet was usually well-stocked and he carefully closed the door before turning on the light and checking it.
What he saw in the mirror stopped him.
His face had a grayish cast to it, sickly and drawn, and the whites of his eyes were streaked with thin red lines. Deep furrows were etched across his forehead and along both side of his nose. The overall effect was one of advanced degeneration.
He turned his head slowly, watching the face in the mirror, his face.
When he reached to open the cabinet, finally, his hand was shaking.
After he had taken two tablets of penicillin, he went back to his room, feeling with every step a shock of pain in his arm. It was a relief to lie back down, holding his arm cradled across his chest, and close his eyes against the images which taunted him.
He had seen that face before, years past, in the person of a Michael Harilty.
It was not a time that he liked to remember, having made a fool of himself by falling in love with his brother’s new wife and having declared the same. With Kathleen’s gentle rejection still smarting, he’d taken off and had accepted a position at a small private hospital which treated wealthy alcoholics.
Harilty was the wealthiest and the nastiest, a man who had devoted his entire life to the indulgences of the flesh. He was a big man, six foot four and at least two hundred and fifty pounds. It was never clear whether he was in the hospital to dry out or to get in shape for another fling at debauchery. Nathan was inclined to believe the latter.
As the junior doctor on staff, Nathan was assigned the patients that no one else wanted. The others had tried to treat Harilty in view of his potential gratitude, but within the course of a week they’d retreated. Nathan was not to be allowed that luxury; it was him or no one.
It didn’t take long to discover what had discouraged the others; Michael Harilty was determined that whoever put him through the hell of detoxification was going to suffer a similar fate by whatever means necessary.
In Nathan’s case, it took the form of constant verbal baiting, testing his professional composure, challenging his competence and in fact, daring him to care. Under the watchful eyes of the administration, Harilty unleashed a constant stream of abuse.
Kathleen, unknowingly, had provided Nathan with the answer. He was so absorbed in his psychic wounds, losing her to Joshua, that nothing could reach him. He was able to take the barrage because the insults were nothing more than what he was doing to himself.
Harilty was released within three months and they heard nothing more from him until one day Nathan got a call from the San Pedro police, asking him if he knew a “Big Mike.”
When he went to the small jail, there was Harilty, looking as if he had aged twenty years in the space of six months. He was drinking again, without restraint, and when Nathan examined his abdomen, he found the liver to be enlarged and hardened, in advanced stages of cirrhosis.
They took him back to the hospital but it was clear there was no drying out to be done. He lingered for a month and died, and it was his face, gray and haggard, that Nathan saw in his own. The unmistakable look of death.
He shook his head, annoyed with the memory. Fears of death were common in the still hours of the night. A poem of Rachel’s—he knew it by heart:
At two in the morning,
I’m afraid to close my eyes,
A shadow in the corner,
Waiting.
The rhythm in my wrist
is keeping quarter-time,
no fever now, (the body cools),
In no acute distress.
But symptoms, I have read,
precede the exquisite blade.
And if I close my eyes . . .
It was a long time before he closed his eyes to sleep.
SEVENTY-FIVE
Jon waited in the kitchen while Mrs. Boone went to wake up Celia. It was almost eight a.m. and they had yet to find a single child who could remember Billy Mitchell being among the group as they walked home.
Their questions were hampered by the fact that many of the children who would normally be enrolled in the summer school had been pulled out after the events of the past week. Those who were still going were not able to give the full names of their classmates, and no one answered at the Frey residence, so it had largely become a matter of knocking on doors and asking.
Celia Boone entered the kitchen, her face flushed from sleep, rubbing at her eyes.
“You said I didn’t have to go today,” the child whined and then she looked at Jon. A slow look took in the uniform and the gun and her face screwed up into tears. “I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it!” She flung herself at her mother’s legs.
Mrs. Boone smiled, embarrassed. “I’m afraid her father has told her that a policeman would come get her if she misbehaved.”
Jon came over and knelt down beside the sobbing child.
“I’m sure you didn’t do anything bad,” he said and was rewarded with a baleful look. He had to repress a smile; somewhere inside, Celia Boone was hiding a misdeed.
“I just came to ask you a few questions about Billy Mitchell. Do you know Billy?”
A cautious nod.
“Did you see him in school yesterday?”
“Yes,” she said in a quivering voice.
“Now this is very important; did you walk home, even part of the way with him?”
“He’s a boy.” Her five year old face exuded disdain.
“But did you see him while you were walking home?”
She shook her head no.
Jon looked at Mrs. Boone and back at the child, trying to gauge the best way to approach Celia’s literal young mind.
“Okay, you didn’t walk home with him, and you didn’t see him along the way. Do you know who he usually walks with?”
“Jeffy Thomas.”
“Did you see Jeffy yesterday?”
“Yes.” She made a face. “He can burp whenever he wants to.”
“Did you see Jeffy on the way home?”
Again she nodded.
“Was Billy with him?”
“No.”
“Celia, honey,” Mrs. Boone interrupted, “you’re sure that you’re thinking about yesterday?” She looked at Jon. “Sometimes she gets a little confused.”
“It was yesterday,” the little girl said and she frowned with concentration.
“Just one more question. When did you last see Billy?”
Her face cleared. “When I went to sleep.”
“I’m sorry, when was that?”
“At school. The little kids take a nap. Billy and Jeffy were throwing things . . . and Mrs. Frey told us to go to sleep, and when I woke up, Billy was gone.”
Jon radioed to dispatch, asking Earl to meet him at the church. He backed out of the Boone driveway, his mind going over the implications of what Celia had said.
If the child disappeared during school hours, why hadn’t Amanda Frey reported it? It was common knowledge that she was in poor health and worked too hard, but was it possible to forget the number of children she’d put down for a nap in the span of an hour?
He exceeded the speed limit on the way over.
SEVENTY-SIX
“Shouldn’t we wait for the other kids?” Debbie Sykes asked, allowing Mrs. Frey to assist her in putting on her sweater.
“You’re the only one coming today.”
“Why?” Little blue eyes peered at her.
“Because of Billy Mitchell.” Amanda went to the closet to get her cloth coat.
“But they’ll find him, won’t they? I know they’re looking for him, ‘cause my dad’s helping them.”
“I’m sure he’ll turn up.” She ushered the child toward the back door.
Debbie hung back, her eyes wide and fearful. “I don’t want to go out there.”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“Something got Billy . . .”
“I won’t let anything hurt you, and we’re not going far.” She avoided meeting the child’s questioning look.
“Where are we going?”
“Why, we’re going to help them look for Billy. In the woods.”
Debbie looked around the kitchen, which was filled with morning sunshine. “We’ll be coming back?”
“Of course,” Amanda said, opening the door.
SEVENTY-SEVEN
Jon parked the Bronco on the far side of the church where it would not be visible from the house and waited for Earl. He studied the house, looking for signs of movement behind the starched curtains, finding none.
As soon as Earl arrived they went up to the porch, standing on either side of the door.
“Sure you don’t want me to go round the back?”
Jon shook his head. He pushed the buzzer and heard the bell ring in the recesses of the house. After a minute he lifted the heavy brass knocker and pounded.
A sleepy-eyed Reverend Frey opened the door a minute later, dressed in pajamas and a robe.
“My goodness,” the Reverend said, looking at their serious faces. “What is it?”
“I’d like to speak to your wife,” Jon said.
“Well, come in.” He watched them closely as they passed into the hall and through to the living room. “I must have overslept,” he muttered and left them waiting while he searched.
When he returned his expression was perplexed. “This is very strange; she’s not in the house.” He ran a hand through rumpled hair.
“May we look?”
“By all means.” Martin Frey slumped into a chair and watched with amazement as they proceeded to do so. Jon followed the phone cord along the baseboard, finally looking up.
“The line’s been cut.” Then they were out of the room and searching the dining room and kitchen.
Martin followed behind and stood in the doorway as they checked the pantry and closets until finally the sheriff attempted to open the basement door.
“Do you have a key to this?”
“Well, yes . . .” He crossed to a cabinet and swung it open. There, on the inside of the door, were several keys hung on hooks and clearly labeled. He took down the key to the basement and handed it to Jon.
There was a great deal of blood coagulating on the basement floor and the three men stood, silent, taking it in.
“What does this mean?” Martin asked, looking from one to the other. A look of comprehension came into his eyes. “This is something to do with that boy . . .”
Jon stepped around the puddle of blood and looked around the badly lit room. He took his flashlight and pointed it into the dark corners.
A deep freezer took up most of the space along the west wall and Jon moved in that direction, exchanging a troubled glance with Earl.
Martin caught it. “What?” He looked from the pool of blood at his feet to Jon to the freezer.
Jon stood in front of the freezer and took a deep breath. He lifted the lid.
He let it close almost immediately and turned to face the others. “I’m afraid we found Billy Mitchell.”
“My God,” Martin Frey said, over and over.
Jon nodded to Earl who went out to use the radio to inform dispatch.
“Do you have any idea where she might be?”
“No . . . no . . . how could she . . . do that?”
Jon shook his head.
“My God, that little child . . .”
“We’ve got to find her, Reverend.”
Martin Frey leaned back in the chair, eyes closed tightly, his hands reaching up, entreating his God. “This can’t be happening . . .”
Earl burst through the door. “Jean . . . sent Debbie to school this morning. She must be . . .”
“Damn!” They were gone in an instant.
Martin Frey got up, took the rifle he had never shot a deer with, and followed them out the door.
SEVENTY-EIGHT
“Nathan, why didn’t you tell me about this?” She looked at the angry red swelling on his arm.
“I’m telling you now,” he pointed out and closed his eyes, wincing as her fingers prodded his flesh. “It hurts a little,” he admitted.
“A lot—it’s necrotic in places.”
“Just excise the dead tissue and I’ll take some more antibiotics; I’ll be fine.”
“You think you’re going to work?” Her look was incredulous.
“I’m getting close to something with the organism. I don’t want to lose any time.”
“Would you rather lose your arm? If that infection continues to spread . . .”
“Look at you,” he retaliated. “Yesterday you couldn’t hold your head up and now you’re proclaiming a miracle cure.”
“But I stayed home. And so will you.” She stood and walked to the phone, picking it up and dialing.
“Now who are you calling?”
“Joyce. Maybe you’ll listen to her.”
She found him in his room, dressing slowly and with obvious difficulty, having only limited use of his left arm. She watched in silence for a moment before coming into the room and positioning herself in front of him.
“She’s on her way.”
“What?”
“She told me to tell you that doctors make the worst patients . . .”
“Nurses are always telling me that, and it won’t work. It’s out and out intimidation.”
“Which everyone knows is a doctor’s best weapon.” She looked at him sternly. “You look like hell.”
He sighed. “I feel like it too. All right, I’ll stay home, but only until the swelling goes down.”
“Good.” She kissed his forehead. “And don’t worry; if anything comes up, I’ll give you a call.”
“Thanks for coming right over,” Rachel said as she let Joyce in.
“Is he cooperating?” Joyce removed her cape, revealing a uniform. Catching Rachel’s glance she added: “I thought he might take me more seriously if I dressed the part.”
“Could be. He’s not thrilled about staying home but I’m pretty sure he’s feeling worse than he’ll admit.”
“Considering what’s been happening, I would think being holed up at home would be the best place to be.”
“Why, what’s happened?”
“They found Billy Mitchell’s body in a freezer at Reverend Frey’s home.”
“Oh no! Who do they think . . .”
“Amanda Frey. Now she’s disappeared with the little Sykes girl . . .”
“That sweet quiet woman?”
“They’re scouring the woods for her. I just hope they find them before something happens to the little girl.”
She pulled up in front of the hospital and parked, making sure to lock her car door. Whatever was happening to Amanda Frey, it was obvious that the woman could not be responsible for the other killings. With the woods once again crawling with searchers, there was no telling who might be flushed out of hiding.
In the emergency room, Emma Sutter tried to calm an incoherent Jean Sykes.
“Don’t worry,” Emma said, “they’ll find her, she’ll be all right.”
“She’s just a baby,” the woman moaned. “Not my baby, don’t let her hurt my baby . . .”
“Ssh,” Emma hushed her, stroking her hair and rocking gently. “Everything will be all right.”
SEVENTY-NINE
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Jon stood along the side of the road, high-powered rifle in hand.
Martin Frey nodded. “I am responsible for Amanda.”
“I don’t know about that but I want you to know what might happen out there.”
Groups of men were gathering nearby, all carrying weapons, grim-faced and silent. One was Billy Mitchell’s father.
“Thank you, Sheriff, I know.”
<
br /> “Do you?” Jon regarded him skeptically. “I want to make sure you understand, the little girl is our first priority. If Mrs. Frey refuses to surrender the child, we might have to use . . . force.”
“I understand, but please, please, let me try to talk to her. I know she’ll listen to me.”
“I can’t promise anything.” He looked at the others. “All right, let’s go.”
They moved through the underbrush and fanned out.
Jon positioned himself to the left of Mitchell, keeping a watch out for signs of cracking. The man was too much in control; his face expressionless, his eyes empty of anger. It wouldn’t take much to put him over the line.
It might just take the sight of Amanda Frey.
He couldn’t take a chance on Mitchell flipping out; a wild shot could hit the girl or start a barrage of fire from the others. He was ready, if necessary, to take Mitchell out.
Frey was another matter.
The minister was probably suffering from the delusion that his wife was going to be receptive to his forgiveness, that a blessing would redeem her. That the Bible could reclaim her soul.
After looking at Billy Mitchell, Jon doubted that she had one.
Amanda Frey could feel them breathing down her neck and she hurried forward, pulling the child behind her. She could feel the burning in her lungs as she gasped for air but she dare not stop.
Debbie had stopped fussing and now followed meekly, white with shock. Amanda had shown her the knife, the edge still smeared with blood. She didn’t tell the child what the knife meant, just held it inches from her face and twisted it slowly, letting the light catch the blade. The child was not dumb.
She was not familiar with this part of the woods; it was farther than she’d ever gone before. She was not sure she could find her way back but somehow she thought she would not be going back.
A place to rest, but where? She now had a piercing pain in her side, like she used to get when she was a child and had run too far too fast.
The Taint Page 20