by John Saul
Rosemary shook her head doggedly, determined that this time she wouldn’t be swayed by Keith’s stubbornness. “You weren’t here,” she insisted. “If you’d heard her, you’d be worried too! I know you would!”
Keith took a final swallow of his coffee, then drained the rest into the sink. “All right, so she said she wished something would happen to Simms. Why the hell wouldn’t she? He’s always been a mean little wimp, and I don’t blame her for wishing him the worst.” He set the cup on the drain-board, placing it with the overly careful precision that was a certain clue to his growing impatience. “If he’d treated me the way he did the kids, I’d want to kill him too.” He turned to face Rosemary once more, and his voice took on a patronizing tone that made her simmer with anger. “But wanting to do something and actually doing it are two different things. If Templeton accepted her story, I don’t see why you can’t.” The patronizing tone gave way to a sarcastic edge. “Don’t you think I’ve noticed how you’re always watching her, as if you’re just waiting to catch her in a lie, or make a mistake? My God, Rosemary, even when she does something nice you’ve acted like she’s trying to get something for herself!”
“That’s not true!” Rosemary breathed, her heart pounding with indignation. And yet, deep inside, she knew that there was some truth to Keith’s words.
All those strange feelings she’d had about Cassie, which she’d tried to keep to herself. Apparently she hadn’t been successful.
“All right,” she admitted, sagging into one of the kitchen chairs. “I have been suspicious. There’s just something about her, Keith. I keep getting the feeling that she’s hiding something from us.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Keith snapped. “She’s a perfectly normal fifteen-year-old, and when she came here we were perfect strangers to her. Even me, when you get down to it. What did you expect? That she’d open up to us the first minute she was here?”
Rosemary studied Keith beseechingly, trying to find the love that she’d always seen in his eyes. Right now there was none. Only a coldness that made her want to shiver. “But after all that’s happened …” she began again, struggling to keep her voice steady.
“Nothing’s happened, Rosemary,” Keith broke in. He was wiping the cup with a dish towel, then abruptly slammed it down on the counter with such force that it shattered. Keith ignored the fragments of broken china. “All you’re doing is giving in to a whole lot of unfounded gossip.”
It was too much, and Rosemary’s temper suddenly snapped. “I don’t believe it!” she said, angrily snatching up the pieces of the smashed cup, punctuating her words by hurling them into the trash basket in the corner. “Is Miranda being dead nothing but unfounded gossip? What about Harold Simms? Is what happened to him nothing but unfounded gossip too? Isn’t he really in the hospital at all, Keith?”
“You know that’s not what I meant,” Keith replied, his voice icy. “Of course those things happened. What I’m telling you—and what seems quite obvious to me—is that Cassie didn’t have anything to do with them!”
“Then why was she out there?” Rosemary flared. “Why is it that when Miranda died, and when Harold Simms was attacked, Cassie was out there in the marsh, doing … God only knows what?”
A heavy silence fell over the kitchen as Keith and Rosemary faced each other. Finally Keith shook his head. His anger seemed to dissipate visibly, to be replaced by a melancholy sadness. “Listen to us,” he whispered. “Will you just listen to us? What are you trying to say? That Cassie’s some kind of witch?”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Rosemary wailed. “Of course not!”
But it was too late. Snatching his coat from the hook by the door, Keith slammed out the back door. A second later Rosemary heard the sound of his car starting, and then he was gone. But when she was alone, it wasn’t Keith’s words that stuck in her mind, it was her own.
What had Cassie been doing in the marsh? But it wasn’t the marsh. It was the cabin in the marsh, the run-down shack that had stood out there, housing generation after generation of Sikes women, apparently each of them as strange as the one who had come before.
Coming to a quick decision, Rosemary abandoned the remains of the morning’s breakfast and put on her own jacket. Locking the back door behind her, she hurried down the driveway then cut across the lawn toward Cambridge Street, at the foot of which lay the park, and beyond it, the marsh surrounding Miranda Sikes’s cabin. It was time she herself had a look at the place that seemed to have such a fascination for her stepdaughter.
Just as she turned the corner onto Cambridge Street, a gray shadow slipped out the open window of Cassie’s room and dropped nimbly through the tree to the ground.
Crouching low, Sumi began stalking after Rosemary.
Laura Cavanaugh glanced at the clock over the kitchen sink and wondered if she should go upstairs and waken Ed. She didn’t want to, yet at the same time she was almost afraid not to. But it didn’t matter, really—whatever she did would be wrong. If she woke him, he’d be mad at her for not letting him sleep, and if she didn’t wake him, he’d be furious at her for letting him oversleep. She decided to compromise—ten more minutes wouldn’t matter anyway, and it was nice to have the house quiet, at least for a little while. Except that at times like this morning, even the quiet had a tension to it, like the eye of a hurricane; a moment of calm, but with storm clouds pressing in from every direction.
She filled Ed’s thermos with coffee, then clamped it into the top of his lunch pail. There were already three sandwiches and an apple in the pail. After hesitating a moment, she added a can of beer—Ed would take beer on the boat with him anyway, and if she left it out of his pail, he would only accuse her of implying that he drank too much. She was just closing the lunch bucket when she heard him lumbering down the stairs. Then he was in the kitchen, smiling at her.
I don’t believe it, she thought. Last night he whipped Eric and slapped me around the bedroom, and this morning he acts as though nothing happened.
“What’s for breakfast, doll face?” he asked, sliding into the breakfast nook and pulling the sports page out of the pile of newspapers Eric had left on the table.
Laura looked at him uncertainly. “I—I thought you’d just take a Danish and eat it on the boat,” she said. “It’s already after nine, and if you’re not out by nine-thirty, the tide will be too low, won’t it?”
The smile faded from Ed’s face and his eyes flashed dangerously. “What the hell does the tide matter?”
Laura searched her memory for anything he might have said last night about not working today, but there was nothing. “I thought … I thought—”
“I thought!” Ed mimicked. “Jesus, Laura, can’t you let me do the thinking around here? I told you last night I wasn’t going out today. Can’t you remember the simplest goddamned thing?” Tossing the paper aside, he went to the refrigerator, jerked it open, and fished around on the bottom shelf for a beer. Twisting the cap off, he tossed it into the sink then tipped the bottle and drained half of it in one long swig. Wiping his lips with his forearm, he shook his head. “I’m goin’ down to the high school to talk to that snotty principal about Eric. I’m gonna see to it she puts him back on the baseball team.”
Laura shuddered, remembering the last time Ed had gone to talk to Mrs. Ambler. He’d stopped off at the Whaler’s Inn on the way, and by the time he’d gotten to the school, he’d been so drunk he’d barely been able to stand up. Mrs. Ambler had listened to him for only two minutes before calling up Gene Templeton and having Ed escorted out of the building. Gene had taken Ed down to the police station and put him in the town’s single jail cell for the rest of the morning, then sent him home. “Maybe it would be better if—”
Ed’s jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed. “Better if what?” he demanded, his voice dropping to the snarl that was always a warning of impending violence. But it didn’t matter. This time Laura was determined to try to stop her husband.
“Better if you just le
t everything alone for once,” she said. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough? Don’t you think I know what you did to Eric in the guest room last night? You’re sick, Ed. You don’t need to go talk to Mrs. Ambler about Eric—you need to go talk to a doctor about yourself!”
Ed’s eyes glowed with a manic rage, and Laura knew she’d gone too far. She started to back away, but Ed came after her, his fingers already working spasmodically. He reached out and grabbed her hair with his left hand, jerking her head back as he slapped her across the cheek with his free hand. “I’m sick?” he demanded. “Me? Who the hell are you to be talking? Who the hell do you think keeps this family together? You think I like sacrificing my life for the likes of you? I shoulda gotten rid of you a long time ago!” He slapped her again, then hurled her across the room. Her hip smashed into the counter and she yelped with pain, then sank to the floor, sobbing. “It’s all your fault,” Ed told her, moving across the room. He drew his foot back and kicked her viciously in the ribs.
“No!” Laura screamed. “Ed, I didn’t do anything—I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
“Sorry?” Ed mocked. “You’re sorry?”
“But it isn’t my fault!” Laura wailed. “I’ve never done anything to you! I’ve never done—”
“Shut up!” Ed roared. “Goddamn it, woman, will you just shut up?”
His foot swung back once more, but this time Laura rolled away, scrambling to her feet and managing to bolt out the back door. Ed started after her, but by the time he got outside, she was already up the driveway and limping across the street. He watched her go, then shook his head in disgust.
He’d have one more beer, then head for the school. Let Laura go hide out with the people across the street—he’d deal with her tonight.
Chapter 15
Charlotte Ambler wondered if she should signal Patsy Malone to call Gene Templeton, or try to handle the situation herself. But, of course, it was too late now. If she was going to call the police chief, she should have done it thirty minutes ago, when she’d first seen Ed Cavanaugh sitting in his truck, drinking from a bottle of whiskey he hadn’t even tried to hide in a brown paper bag, and glowering darkly in the direction of her office. When she’d first noticed him, she’d stood at her window staring back, putting him on notice that he’d been seen. Usually that was enough, and after sulking in his truck for a few minutes, he would drive away, presumably to the Whaler’s Inn, where, Charlotte knew, he would sit at the bar and brag to whoever would listen about how he’d “set that uppity Ambler woman straight on a few things.” All of which was fine with her. If he wanted to puff himself up that way, it wasn’t any skin off her nose. The one time she had actually called the police, Ed had bided his time through the day, then taken his rage out on his wife and son that evening. When Eric had shown up with bruises on his face the next day, Charlotte had tried to convince him that he should report what had happened to the police, but Eric had refused, insisting that nothing had happened—he’d simply tripped and fallen down the stairs that morning.
Strange, she reflected cynically to herself as she watched Ed climb out of his truck and shamble up the steps of the school, how the drunken fools like Ed Cavanaugh never trip and break their necks. She heard him lumber into the outer office, and went back to her desk. When he pushed her own door open a moment later, she was staring at him calmly and coldly. “I don’t believe we have an appointment, Mr. Cavanaugh,” she began, but he only sneered at her.
“I don’t need an appointment where my boy is concerned,” he said, advancing across the room to lean over Charlotte’s desk. The reek of his breath made the principal lean back, but her eyes never left his.
“Eric’s situation will be dealt with in a—”
“Don’t give me that pious bullshit, lady.” His eyes had narrowed to slits, and his jaw was clenched tight. “None of what’s happened is his fault anyway. It’s all that trashy Winslow girl. If it wasn’t for her, none of this would have happened!”
Charlotte decided there was no point in arguing—Ed was far too drunk for that. “I’m sure you’re right—” she began, but once more Ed cut her off, this time with his fist pounding on her desk.
“And don’t you patronize me!” Ed roared. “I already took care of Eric for cutting school and getting himself dumped from the baseball team. All I want from you is your word that you’ll see to it he gets back on the team! And I want you to keep him away from that girl too!”
Suddenly Charlotte Ambler had had enough. The strain of the last fifteen hours suddenly telescoped, and her temper snapped. She rose to her feet. Though her height was no match for Ed’s, the fury in her eyes seemed to cut through his alcoholic haze. “Is it!” she spat. “Is that what you want? Well, let me tell you what I want! I want you to get, out of my office and off my campus. I want you to stop drinking, and stop beating your wife and son! I want you to start being a decent husband and father! And then, when I get what I want, perhaps I’ll be willing to listen to what you want! But until that happens, keep in mind where you are, and who you are, and who I am! Now get out of this office, and if you have anything further to say, put it in writing and send it to the school board. If you can write!”
Ed’s face turned ashen and his fist rose up threateningly.
“Do it,” Charlotte challenged him, her voice dropping, but taking on a cutting edge. “Just do it. But don’t expect me to keep my mouth shut about it. You might be able to bully your family, but you can’t bully me. I’ll have you in front of a judge before the blood even dries. Now either get out of my office or swing that fist.”
Ed stood still for a moment, his entire body trembling with rage, and for a moment Charlotte thought she’d pushed him too far. But then she realized that she didn’t care. Indeed, she found herself half hoping he would try to slap her around. Let him think about it in jail for a while. As she watched him warily, he seemed to regain control of himself.
“You can’t talk to me that way,” he rasped, but the menace was gone from his voice. “I know what you think of me—I know what everybody thinks of me in this crummy town. But I can take care of myself, and I can take care of my family. And ain’t you or anybody else gonna stop me. So you think about that, Mrs. High-and-Mighty, ’cause if that girl gets my boy in any more trouble, I can tell you there’s gonna be hell to pay!” He turned around and shambled out of the office, leaving the door open behind him. Only when the outer door had slammed shut did Patsy Malone appear nervously in her office, her face pale.
“Are you all right?” the secretary asked. “I was just about to call Gene Templeton.”
“I trust,” Charlotte observed dryly, “that if he’d actually hit me, you would have followed through on that impulse.”
“I … well, I don’t … well, of course I would,” Patsy floundered, and for the first time since Harold Simms had been found in the gym the day before, Charlotte Ambler found herself chuckling.
“Well, that’s nice to know.” She eyed Patsy mischievously. “And can I also trust that you won’t say anything about that little scene?”
“Why … why, of course not!”
“Good,” Charlotte replied, knowing as well as Patsy did that by the end of lunch hour there wouldn’t be a person at the school who hadn’t heard every detail of what had just transpired. If nothing else, the story should put an end to any further discipline problems for the year. The way Patsy would tell it, it would sound as if Charlotte had actually given Ed Cavanaugh a thrashing. “Now perhaps we can get on with the day, all right?”
The secretary’s head bobbed, and she quietly pulled the door closed, leaving Charlotte alone in her office. Charlotte went over to the window and saw Ed Cavanaugh’s truck still sitting in front of the school, and Ed himself still glaring at her. But when she nodded to him, he started the engine, slammed the truck into gear, and careened down the street, his wheels shrieking in protest as they skidded over the pavement. Only when the truck had disappeared around the corner did Charlotte ret
urn to her desk and lower herself tiredly into her chair. She leaned back, removed her glasses, and closed her eyes, rubbing at them for a moment. In her mind Ed Cavanaugh’s last words kept re-echoing.
Hell to pay.
Didn’t he realize that since Cassie Winslow had come to False Harbor there had already been hell to pay?
And unless Charlotte missed her guess, it was all just beginning. Despite her words to the students that morning, and despite what Paul Samuels had told her, Charlotte Ambler was still not convinced that Cassie had nothing to do with what had happened to Harold Simms.
She recalled all too clearly that first meeting with Cassie, when she’d instinctively sensed trouble. And her first instincts, as always, were proving to be correct.
Cassie Winslow was, indeed, proving to be trouble.
“You can’t just never go to school again.”
“Why not?”
Eric and Cassie had been sitting on the beach, staring out over the water, saying nothing. After leaving the high school an hour ago, they’d cut over Maple Street to Cape Drive, but instead of walking along Cape until they came to the public path, Cassie had insisted they go through someone’s yard. Eric thought about arguing, then realized that Cassie was right—the more quickly they put the beach and dunes between themselves and the village, the less chance there was of someone spotting them and reporting them to his father. And so they’d slipped through one of the beach-house gates, ducked around the corner of the house itself, then scrambled down a low bank to the beach. From there they’d walked along the deserted expanse of sand, finally flopping down to watch the sea and the birds.
“Because you just can’t do that,” Eric argued now. He regarded Cassie carefully out of the corner of his eye. “Besides, if you don’t go back to school, everyone’s going to think you’re afraid to.”