“I’ll say he’s real,” Gert said, folding her arms across her chest. “I saw the two of them walking together. And I’ve seen him before, too. He’s a very real boy.”
Jessie looked up at her.
“A very real, and a very disturbed, boy, I’d say,” Gert told her. “If he was trying to coax your daughter into jumping into this hay, then I suspect he wanted to kill her.”
Jessie looked back at Abby. Suddenly she pulled her close in an embrace, and began to cry.
THIRTY-NINE
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Aunt Paulette asked.
“Want me to spend the night?”
“No, I’ll be fine,” Jessie assured her. “Abby’s sound asleep now.”
She embraced her aunt, then gave her a little wave as she left through the back door and headed across the yard to her cottage. Jessie sighed and shut the door tight, double-locking it. Not for the first time, she wished the security alarm they’d ordered would arrive soon. Because the house was so old, they needed something custom-made. Until then, just a few extra locks from the hardware store would have to do.
What a night. She was still shaking. If Abby had fallen from that beam . . .
She wouldn’t think about it. Abby was safe. She was upstairs, sleeping peacefully.
Still, Jessie planned to sleep in Abby’s room tonight. She couldn’t bear to have her daughter out of her sight for long.
She’d contemplated calling the police, but then decided against it. If Aaron was a real kid, as Mrs. Gorin had convinced them all he was, then surely he had skedaddled as soon as he’d heard Jessie’s voice in the barn, knowing he’d get in major trouble for bringing Abby out there. What would calling the police accomplish? Rather, Jessie decided, she’d speak with Abby’s teacher tomorrow. Aaron was in Abby’s class, after all. They’d figure out exactly what had happened—and what to do about it—then.
Suddenly feeling utterly exhausted, Jessie was about to head up the stairs when she heard a soft rapping on the front door. She peered through the window and saw Bryan standing on the steps, his hands behind his back.
She opened the door a crack.
“Jessie,” Bryan said, looking concerned. “Did you find Abby?”
She looked at him strangely. “Abby’s asleep,” she replied. “How did you know we were looking for her?”
“I was taking a walk earlier, and heard you shouting, so I’ve been out looking for her myself. Oh, thank God she’s okay.”
“Yes, we found her. She was out at the barn. . . .”
“I’m so glad you found her. That old barn is dangerous.”
Jessie nodded. “I appreciate you going looking for her.”
“Of course.” Bryan smiled awkwardly. “Jessie, could I come in for just a second? I . . . I want to apologize.”
“Apologize for what?”
“For what I said at the picnic. Please? Just for a moment ?”
“Okay, but just for a moment. I’m very tired.”
Jessie stepped aside to let Bryan in.
“Here,” he said, once he was inside, handing her a rose. “A peace offering.”
Jessie took it, holding it in her left hand, but said nothing.
“I removed all the thorns,” Bryan told her. “Because that’s what you’ve always been to me . . . a rose without any thorns.”
“Bryan, please.”
He drew close to her, and Jessie could smell the whiskey on his breath. “Ever since you’ve moved back here, Jessie,” he said, his words slightly slurred, “you’ve been all that I can think about. . . .”
“I thought you came here to apologize,” she said.
He took her by the shoulders. “We’re meant to be together, Jessie. Can’t you see?”
He leaned in to kiss her. Jessie slapped him with her right hand.
“Get out!” she screamed.
He wouldn’t let go of her shoulders. He gripped her tighter, and tried to force her down onto the couch.
Jessie kneed him in the groin. Bryan yelled out and let her go.
“Get out of here, you filthy pig,” Jessie seethed. “What did I ever see in you?”
“That’s what I always wondered.”
She looked up. This was a new voice.
Todd stood in the doorway. He had witnessed what had just happened. He let himself into the house and walked over to Bryan, grabbing him by the throat.
“It’s okay, Todd,” Jessie said. “Just get him out of here.”
“Let me hit him just once,” Todd said. “I’ll say I was defending you.”
“I defended myself just fine,” Jessie said.
Bryan wriggled out of Todd’s grip. “Fuck you both. I just came up because I was concerned about Abby.”
“Don’t you dare try to frame this as concern for Abby,” Jessie told him. “Just get out of my house and never come up here again. Never speak to me again!”
Bryan grumbled and headed out the front door, cursing and swearing as he staggered down the hill.
“Did he hurt you?” Todd asked.
“No.” Jessie covered her face with her hands. “What made you come up here?”
“Monica and I had just gotten home, and I saw that weasel walking up to the house. I figured I should find out what he was up to.”
“Oh. Todd . . .” Jessie fell into his arms.
He held her tight.
“Why did he say he was concerned about Abby?” Todd asked.
“She wandered off tonight. . . . We were all looking for her . . . but she’s okay now. Oh, Todd, it’s been a long, long night.”
She looked up at him. Their eyes held.
Then Jessie pulled away.
“Please,” she said. “Go home.”
“But . . .”
“Please, Todd, go home to Monica.”
He said nothing. Then he turned and left.
Jessie locked the door and turned out the light. She was walking across the floor when she spotted the rose Bryan had brought. It had fallen to the ground and gotten trampled underfoot. Jessie bent down and picked it up.
Opening the back door, she tossed it outside onto the ground.
FORTY
Paulette saw the man stagger through the dark toward Jessie’s house. He moved as if he were Frankenstein’s monster, lumbering among the shadows, arms stretched out in front of him. Paulette knew the man would kill Jessie if he reached her, and Abby too.
She had to save them.
But she couldn’t move. Her legs seemed made of lead. She couldn’t lift them. They seemed cemented to the floor. All Paulette could do was stand at the window of her cottage and watch the man get closer and closer to Jessie’s house. It was a dark night, but she could see that he was tall, and dark, and very, very evil.
She tried banging on her window, hoping to make enough noise that the man might get scared away. He stopped his approach for a moment, and turned to look in Paulette’s direction. But then he seemed to realize there was nothing she could do to stop him, so he continued on his way, his arms outstretched, his mouth frothing.
Oh, why can’t I move? Paulette thought. Why can’t I rush out and save them?
Because you’re dreaming, she answered herself.
And with that thought, Paulette’s eyes popped open.
She sat up in bed. Her clock told it was 9:05. The sun was streaming in through her windows and the birds were chattering. She had slept later than usual. All that traipsing through the woods and the barn last night had tired her out.
That dream . . .
Paulette got out of bed and shook a couple of herbal remedies from a bottle into her hand. That dream had been so upsetting it had left her with a headache. Swallowing the remedies with water, Paulette realized it wasn’t just a dream.
It was a vision.
She’d had dreams like that before. Psychic dreams. The night her sister died, in fact. She’d dreamed that Caroline had been calling to Paulette, but Paulette couldn’t find her. She’d woken up an
d run over to her house, to find that Caroline had just passed.
And two nights before Millie Manning died, Paulette had dreamed of a woman falling from a cliff. . . . She hadn’t known who. If she had, she might have been able to warn poor Millie to stay away from heights.
She hoped she wouldn’t be so late in getting to Jessie.
Paulette dressed quickly. There had been another psychic dream, too, once. She had dreamed that Howard, the only man she had ever loved, had taken her to see the Fourth of July fireworks. It hadn’t been Fourth of July; it had been November, but such details didn’t matter in dreams. Howard had also been far, far away from Paulette at the time. He’d been in Vietnam. He’d left just the week before, and asked Paulette if she’d wait for him. Paulette had promised she would. Then she’d had the dream about the Fourth of July fireworks, and nothing had been the same after that.
In her dream, Paulette and Howard were sitting on a blanket watching the pyrotechnics explode in the sky. They were so beautiful. If Paulette had ever wondered if she dreamed in color or not, this dream proved she certainly did. Reds and greens and golds and purples all shooting through the night sky. How she and Howard had cheered in her dream. But then a stray spark had floated down from the sky and landed on Howard. As Paulette watched, the man she loved—the man she planned to marry—suddenly blew up into a million sparks of light, as beautiful and as colorful as the fireworks in the sky.
In the morning, Paulette had waited. She had sensed bad news was coming. Indeed, less than twenty-four hours later, Howard’s father called her to tell her that the helicopter Howard had been riding in had been shot down over a rice field. It had exploded into a raging fireball. Paulette knew that the blaze, while horrific, had nonetheless possessed a certain terrible beauty. She had seen it in her dream.
There would never be another man for Paulette. She had told Howard she would wait for him, and so wait she would.
But she had no time to wait if she wanted to save Jessie and Abby.
Paulette threw on an old house dress and a pair of slippers and rushed out across the grass to Jessie’s house. She expected she’d find her niece hunched over her laptop computer at the kitchen table.
“Jessie!” she called, hurrying up the walk to the back door.
But there was no sign of life in the house. Paulette’s heart skipped a beat. Was she too late? Had the tall, dark man have gotten here already?
“Jessie!” Paulette shouted through the screen of the kitchen window.
Still no sound, no movement from the house. The curtains just swayed gently in the morning breeze.
Then she noticed Jessie’s car wasn’t in the driveway.
Of course, Paulette remembered. She was going in to speak with Abby’s teacher this morning. That’s where she is.
She breathed a long sigh of relief. But she knew the danger was still out there. That dream had been a warning. Someone was coming, someone dangerous, and he threatened both Jessie and Abby.
Paulette had learned to trust her dreams.
Turning to head back to her cottage, Paulette dropped her eyes to the ground. There, at her feet, was a smashed, broken rose, its petals splayed and browned. She picked it up. For some reason the rose terrified her.
It was, Paulette decided, an omen.
FORTY-ONE
Mrs. Theresa Whitman was a woman of indeterminate age. She might have been as young as forty or as old as sixty. She greeted Jessie at the door of her office with a smile and a firm handshake, her small brown eyes peering out from behind narrow frameless glasses.
“Hello, Ms. Clarkson. It’s nice to see you again,” the teacher said.
“Thank you for taking the time to meet with me,” Jessie replied.
“No problem at all. The children are coloring at the moment, watched over by my able assistant. Your message sounded urgent, so of course I’d make the time.” She gestured for Jessie to come in and sit down. “May I get you a cup of coffee?”
“No, thank you.” Jessie sat in one of the two chairs positioned in front of Mrs. Whitman’s desk. The teacher poured herself some coffee, then settled down to look over at Jessie kindly.
“I’m aware that this has not been an easy few weeks for Abby,” Mrs. Whitman said. “She’s a delightful girl, well-behaved, and obviously very bright.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Jessie said. “Is she ever trouble in class?”
“Never. Always cooperative, always pleasant.”
Jessie smiled. “She’s that way at home, too,” she told the teacher.
“Then what’s the problem, my dear?”
“I wanted to make you aware of something that happened last night. Abby went to bed at her usual time, and I was downstairs working in the kitchen. At one point, I heard something . . . and when I checked, I saw the front door was ajar. Naturally, given everything that has happened, I was concerned.”
“Of course you were.”
“So I went upstairs to check on Abby. She wasn’t in her bed. I looked all over for her and she wasn’t in the house. I became hysterical.”
“Oh, my dear, where had she gone?”
“Her little friend, Aaron, had come by. She told me later that he’d called to her through the window, and that she snuck downstairs to meet him outside. She told me he encouraged her to do this. I’m not blaming him for my daughter’s misbehavior, but Abby has never acted out like this before.”
The teacher had set her mug of coffee down on the desk and was cupping it with her hands as she listened intently. “Where did the children go?”
“To an old, dilapidated barn in the middle of the woods on our property. Abby said Aaron called it his secret place. Clearly he’s been playing there on his own. Well, he enticed her to climb a ladder and walk across a beam with the purpose of jumping into a haystack. That’s where I found her, up on the beam. I had to gently coax her down.”
“Oh, my!”
Jessie could feel the terror of last night returning as she told the story. “Even worse than that, if Abby had made the jump, there were old lawn mower blades under the hay. She could have been impaled!”
Mrs. Whitman’s face had turned white.
“I don’t know how Aaron escaped harm, but miraculously, he did so. Abby said he had jumped first, and he wasn’t hurt.”
“Do you think he was . . . intentionally trying to hurt her?”
Jessie sighed. “I can’t imagine a five-year-old boy wanting to do such a thing. I think he just managed, by sheer luck, to avoid the blades. But who knows if Abby would have been as lucky?”
“Thank God you got to her in time,” Mrs. Whitman said.
“Yes. Thank God.”
“Did you speak with the boy’s parents?”
“No.” Jessie leaned forward across the teacher’s desk. “That’s why I’m here. Abby didn’t know Aaron’s last name, or where he lived, so I thought I should come to you.”
“Me?” Mrs. Whitman looked perplexed. “Why me?”
“Because you can tell me that information. Has he been a problem for you in any way in class?”
Mrs. Whitman’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, Ms. Clarkson, but there’s no boy named Aaron in the kindergarten class.”
“But . . .” Jessie was at a loss for words for a couple of seconds. “But Abby says she sits with him every day. That he’s her friend. She’s been so much happier coming home from school since making friends with Aaron.”
Behind her glasses, Mrs. Whitman’s eyes looked as if they might cry. “Oh, dear, Ms. Clarkson, I’m so sorry to have to tell you that, despite my best efforts to encourage greater fraternization among the students, Abby still tends to be a loner. Unless I deliberately sit her with others, she usually ends up sitting by herself.”
Jessie blinked, unable to respond.
Mrs. Whitman hesitated, then continued. “But I must say . . . I often see her laughing and chatting . . . with an imaginary friend.”
Jessie’s blood suddenly ran cold.
“No,” Jessie said, her mind reeling. But suddenly she looked across at the teacher intently. “But Mrs. Gorin did! She said she saw Abby and a little boy earlier that night, walking toward the barn. She said she’d seen the little boy before, too. She figured he lived in the new houses on the other side of the woods at the end of Hickory Dell.”
Mrs. Whitman made a face. “Do you mean Gert Gorin?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Ms. Clarkson, I’ve known Gert all my life. I wouldn’t put an awful lot of stock in what she says she sees. She’s always showing up at town council meetings claiming to have spotted bears or bobcats, and arguing for the town to bring in hunters. Or she’s thinking someone is having an affair with someone else. She’s really a . . . well, as my mother used to say, a busybody.”
“I know that,” Jessie said. “But why would she make something like this up?”
“Maybe she doesn’t make it up. Maybe she’s just a bit . . . overimaginative.”
Jessie sighed. “But Abby was so clear about Aaron sitting with her at snack time, and helping her carry her books. . . .”
Mrs. Whitman smiled. “I’ll tell you what. Come with me. We’ll go into class, and ask Abby to point out her friend to us.”
“Good idea.”
They both stood.
“Maybe she’s gotten his name wrong,” Jessie suggested as they left Mrs. Whitman’s office and headed down the hall to the classroom. “Maybe it’s a boy with a different name.”
“Maybe,” Mrs. Whitman said, though she didn’t sound convinced.
The classroom, when they entered, smelled of chalk and crayons. The walls were covered with photos of flowers, kittens, puppies, and waterfalls. At the front of the room, above the blackboard, the alphabet was inscribed in big, red letters. About twenty children sat at tiny desks, coloring a line drawing of a robin on a tree branch. A few of them looked up when Jessie and Mrs. Whitman entered, but most remained intent on their work. The young teacher’s assistant, an Asian girl with long black hair, gave Mrs. Whitman a smile.
Jessie spotted Abby off to the side, at a desk beneath the photo of a kitten. She looked up and spotted her mother. “Hi, Mommy,” she said, a broad smile filling her face.
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