by John Saul
Cassie was silent for a moment, and when she finally spoke, there was a tremor in her voice. “Maybe I am afraid to go back.”
“Why?” Eric asked, his voice almost teasing. “You didn’t do anything, did you?”
“Maybe—maybe I did,” Cassie whispered. “Maybe we both did.”
Eric hesitated, then shook his head. “That’s stupid.”
“But what about yesterday?” Cassie asked. “What I thought about really happened.”
Eric reached down and scooped up a handful of sand, then let it run slowly through his fingers. “Nobody even knows what happened to old Simms. Not really. And it doesn’t matter what he said—you didn’t beat him up.”
Cassie turned to face Eric. “But we wanted something to happen to him, and it did!”
Eric shrugged. “So what? You didn’t really do anything, and it isn’t your fault if old Simms cracked up.”
“But what if it is?” Cassie blurted out. “Miranda said I had a gift, and what if that’s what she meant? That I can make things happen just by thinking about them?”
Eric was silent, but his fist closed on the rest of the sand, squeezing it hard for a moment. Then he threw it down, stood up and started walking away.
“Eric?” Cassie called after him, scrambling to her feet. “Are you mad at me, too, now?”
Eric stopped and turned around. He stared hard at her, then said, “I don’t know. I don’t know what you’re talking about. But, you know, Cassie, it sounds kind of crazy.”
Cassie gasped, but Eric didn’t seem to hear her. “And maybe you feel like you can never go back to school again, but I can. So I’m going for a walk and think things over. Okay?”
Cassie helplessly watched him walk quickly away, disappearing into the distance, his head down. She wanted to follow him, wanted to try to talk to him some more, try to explain the confusion she was feeling. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it—the look in his eyes as he’d stared at her a moment before, a look that resembled pure hatred—stopped her. He didn’t hate her, did he? Eric was her only friend. If he started treating her the way everyone else did—
She shuddered, and tried to close the thought out of her mind. If Eric turned against her now, she wouldn’t have anyone left at all. But there was nothing she could do. Nothing at all. Turning in the opposite direction from where Eric had gone, she headed toward Cranberry Point and the marsh.
For the first time in years Rosemary found herself really looking at the marsh. How long, she wondered, had it been since she’d last gone for a walk in it?
She remembered the first time she’d seen it, soon after she’d met Keith and come to False Harbor. It had been spring, and the day had been much like this one—clear, with just a touch of crispness still lingering from the winter. The wetlands had been full of geese that day, and the air vibrant with their honkings and the quacking of ducks. It had been a beautiful sight, bursting with life, and she’d made Keith walk in it with her for hours.
But that had been ten years ago, and as time had passed, the marsh became just another familiar fixture of False Harbor, until finally she’d grown so used to it that she barely noticed it at all.
Until now.
But as she looked at it today, it seemed to have changed. A feeling of foreboding appeared to have settled over it, and where once she had sensed new life stirring within it, now she was most conscious of the stifling odor of decay, as if deep within it, somewhere below its shimmering waters, there was a rotten core threatening to bubble to the surface.
But, of course, she was wrong—nothing in the marsh had changed at all. It was her feelings toward it, for as she stood at the edge of the park, gazing out over the green expanse of grasses and quivering reeds, she realized that in the last few days she’d come to associate the marsh with the uneasy tensions that had begun to wrap themselves around her like the coils of a serpent.
And in the center of the marsh, rising like a boil on an otherwise smooth skin, was the barren hummock that supported Miranda Sikes’s cabin, with its half-starved trees reaching upward like the hands of a corpse trying to claw its way out of the grave.
Stop it, Rosemary commanded herself. Just stop it. It’s only a marsh, and an empty shack. There’s nothing to be frightened of at all.
Determinedly she pushed her way through the barrier of tall weeds that separated the park from the wetlands, and found one of the soggy trails that led out into the bog itself.
She made her way slowly, for the path she had chosen was narrow and nearly overgrown with rushes and cattails. Every few yards, it seemed, the trail split off and she had to make a decision about which direction to take.
More than half the decisions appeared to be wrong, the trail petering out entirely, the grasses closing in around her, the earth giving way beneath her feet.
Twice she felt the deceptive firmness of quicksand that seemed solid when she put her weight on it, only to give way a second later, sucking at her shoe like something alive. Both times she jerked loose, her heart beating fast as panic welled up inside her. But both times she forced the panic back into its cage and backed away to find solid ground.
Several times, when she realized she’d made a mistake and turned around to retrace her steps, she saw a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye, as if something had been following her on the trail and darted off as she turned, to disappear into the reeds.
The third time it happened, she stood perfectly still, only her eyes flicking over the marsh, searching for a telltale movement that would expose the animal. But the seconds crept by, and she saw nothing. Her skin began to crawl. Though she could not see them, she knew that there were eyes on her, watching her from some hidden ambush, waiting for her.
Once again she had to force herself to go on, had to fight back the urge to retreat to the park, with its secure footing and protective groves of trees.
But the cabin was closer now, and she could see it clearly.
And she could see the hawk, perched at the very peak of the roof, stretching its wings restlessly, its head bobbing back and forth as its red eyes fixed on her.
And then, when she was only a hundred yards from the cabin, the bird rose into the air, its great white wings lifting it onto the wind then locking into position as it effortlessly soared toward her.
Rosemary stared at it, mesmerized, and in her mind’s eye she saw once again the deep slashes the bird’s talons had left in Lisa Chambers’s arm.
The hawk passed between Cassie and the sun, and its shadow flashing over her face jerked Cassie out of her silent reverie. She glanced up to find that she had walked nearly the whole length of the beach. Only a few yards ahead the concrete cylinder of the Cranberry Point light rose up from the end of the peninsula, and for a moment Cassie thought that was what she’d seen. But then she spotted the pale white form of the hawk circling high above the marsh.
As she watched, she thought he was searching for something, but then she realized that he wasn’t searching at all. Whatever he was looking for, he’d already found it.
Frowning, she scanned the area of the marsh the bird was hovering above. She saw nothing. Then, almost invisible against the green expanse of the wetlands, she found the hawk’s target.
There was someone out there, staring fixedly up into the sky, and Cassie realized that the reason she hadn’t seen the figure right away was because it was clad in a jacket that was nearly the same color as the marsh itself.
But who was it? She strained her eyes, but the distance was too great.
Then Cassie understood what was about to happen. Whoever was out there was on his way to the cabin—her cabin—and the hawk was preparing to attack. Cassie watched in fascination. What should she do? Should she try to shout a warning?
But why should she? Whoever it was had no right to go into her cabin.
If something happened to a trespasser, it was his own fault, wasn’t it?
But what if she was wrong? What if the person was just
wandering around and didn’t realize he’d gone too close?
She vacillated, part of her wanting to cry out to the person or try to distract the hawk.
But another part of her wanted to watch, to see what would happen. Her eyes fixed on the great bird, Cassie almost unconsciously moved closer to the marsh.
The hawk circled higher and its spirals grew ever tighter. In another moment, Cassie knew, it would draw its wings in and plunge into the streaking dive of its attack.
Rosemary knew what was going to happen, and knew she had to do something, but panic was coursing through her now, setting her heart pounding and draining the strength from her limbs. She tried to tear her eyes away from the bird, certain that if she could break the creature’s hypnotic spell, she could bring herself back to life. But it was as if she’d lost control of her own will. Even as the bird suddenly folded its wings tight against its body and began dropping out of the sky toward her, she could do nothing but stare at it in horrified fascination.
It grew larger and larger as it picked up speed, and as the bird lunged toward her, time seemed to stand still, each second becoming an eternity.
She could see its gaping mouth now, the pointed hook of its beak hurtling toward her like the curved blade of a miniature scythe, ready to tear into her flesh. Her own mouth opened then, but her throat felt numb and no scream came out.
And then it was on her, its legs outstretched, its talons poised to slash into her. Still Rosemary couldn’t move. Her heartbeat was pounding in her head and icy tentacles of fear held her firmly in their grip. She could smell the bird, the rank odor of its raw-meat diet emanating off its skin and filling her nostrils with the putrid scent of rotting flesh. At the last possible instant her arm came up and she felt the bird’s talons close down on it, tearing through the thin material of her jacket to slash deep into her flesh.
She ducked her head away, but even that movement came too late, and she felt a searing flash of pain as the razor-sharp beak sliced into her right cheek.
Instantly she felt a hot gush of blood pour out of the wound, and a moment later her mouth filled with the salty taste of fresh blood.
The pain of the attack brought Rosemary back to life, and a surge of adrenaline shot through her. With her uninjured arm she swung wildly at the bird, and suddenly its talons released her arm. It jerked spasmodically as it tumbled to the ground, an angry screech of frustration erupting from its throat. Then it regained control of itself, its wings beating wildly as it took to the air once more.
She felt its tail feathers brush against her face, then heard the peculiar whumping sound of its wings as it pulled away. A moment later it was gone, streaking away low over the grasses, its wing tips barely clearing the cattails and reeds.
Blood oozing from the cut on her face, her right hand clutching at her damaged left arm, Rosemary turned and fled through the marsh, ripping and tearing at the weeds and vines that threatened to entangle her. At last, her breath rasping in her lungs, she hurled herself onto the firm ground of the park and sank sobbing onto the lawn. For a long time she didn’t move, fighting the waves of pain that wracked her body. Then, slowly, her pounding heartbeat began to ease and her breathing returned to normal. At last—she didn’t know how much later—she sat up and wiped the tears and blood away from her eyes. Her vision slowly cleared, and she looked around.
A few yards away, sitting with his tail curled around his legs, was Sumi.
Rosemary’s eyes met the cat’s, and burning yellow eyes held hers for a moment. Then the cat ducked his head, his tail twitched, and he darted away into the marsh. Instinctively Rosemary knew where he was going.
Had it been Sumi she’d seen in the marsh, following her? But why?
And why had the hawk, after striking her down suddenly abandoned its attack?
She struggled to her feet, every fiber of her body aching with exhaustion. She had to get home, had to lie down. But as she started out of the park, something pulled at her, made her pause and turn back.
She saw Cassie standing on the porch of the cabin. As Rosemary watched, she saw the gray cat dash out of the marsh and up the gentle slope of the hummock.
As the hawk perched calmly on the rooftop, the cat leaped into Cassie’s arms.
Chapter 16
Rosemary winced as the needle pierced her skin, and her knuckles turned white as she gripped the arms of the chair in Paul Samuels’s office.
“Almost done,” Samuels told her, his voice soothing. “Just one more.”
She felt the needle jab again, followed by the eerie rasping sensation of the suture being drawn through her skin. Her left eye followed the movement of Samuels’s deft fingers as he tied a knot then covered the stitches with a bandage. “That’s it,” he said, winking at her. “Want a lollipop?”
Rosemary managed a weak smile, and shook her head. “What about a scar? Will there be one?”
Samuels raised his hands in a gesture of incredulous dismay. “A scar? Would these fingers leave a scar?”
“I don’t know,” Rosemary replied, managing only the faintest hint of a smile, then instantly wincing with pain. “That’s why I’m asking.”
The doctor shook his head. “Shouldn’t. The cut wasn’t as bad as it looked, and in a couple of weeks—maybe a month—you shouldn’t even know it was there. Actually, your arm was in worse shape than your cheek, but at least you kept that damned bird away from your eyes.” His expression darkened slightly. “Have you told Gene Templeton about this?”
“That’s where I’m going next,” Rosemary replied. She got out of the chair, took off the smock that had covered her clothes, and began searching in her purse for a comb. “Somehow it seemed more important to get this mess cleaned up first.” Her eyes met the doctor’s in the mirror above his office sink. “But let me tell you, I can understand now why Lisa Chambers was so upset last week. I don’t think I’ve ever been so frightened in my life. And the worst of it was, I couldn’t do anything! I just stood there, Paul. I just stood there and let it happen.”
“Panic,” the doctor told her. “It does that sometimes. But it’s something else too. There’s an instinct to freeze when you sense danger. But then at the last second, when you know you can’t hide, instinct takes over. That’s what saved your eyes,” he added pointedly. He moved to his desk and began making some notations in Rosemary’s file. “I want you to go talk to Gene. If something isn’t done about that bird, it’s going to do real damage someday.”
“Don’t worry,” Rosemary replied, her voice grim. “If he won’t do anything about it, I’ll have Keith go out and shoot it himself.” She put her comb back in her purse, then picked up the shredded remains of her poplin jacket. “Anything else? Do I need any antibiotics or anything?”
“I’ve got the prescription all ready.” Samuels handed her a slip of paper, then walked with her out to the hospital’s small waiting room. Just as Rosemary was about to leave, he stopped her. “What about Cassie?” he asked. “You said you saw her out there. And there was a cat, too, wasn’t there?”
Rosemary looked at the doctor blankly, then the meaning of his words began to sink in. “Paul, are you saying what I think you are?”
“I’m not saying anything,” Samuels replied neutrally. “I’m just asking a question.”
“And I’ll answer it,” Rosemary told him. “Yes, Cassie was out there, and yes, her cat was out there. But the cat didn’t attack me, and I’m absolutely positive that Cassie was there. I didn’t imagine seeing her. So if you’re wondering if I had the same kind of hysterical attack that Harold Simms had, the answer is no. The hawk attacked me, Paul. That’s all that happened.”
But as she left Samuels’s office to walk the two blocks to the town hall, she replayed the entire incident in her mind. And she remembered Lisa Chambers’s insistence that Cassie had made the hawk attack her. But it wasn’t possible, was it?
Of course not.
* * *
Templeton listened to Rosemary’s stor
y silently, taking a few notes in between munches on his mid-morning doughnut. When she was finished, he sighed heavily. “Well, it looks like it’s time for me to go hunting again, doesn’t it?”
“Then you’ll do it?”
“I’ll try,” he agreed. “But I’m not going to promise you anything. I’ve gone after that bird before, but it’s never done me any good. It’s almost like it knows I’m coming and just takes off. And in the meantime I’ll post the marsh. At least maybe we can keep people out of there for a while.”
When Rosemary was gone, he left the police station and drove home. Thirty minutes after that, carrying his favorite hunting rifle—equipped with a telescopic sight—he headed for the marsh.
It was almost noon, and the sun was high in the sky. The last of the morning chill had left the air, but Templeton kept his uniform jacket on. If the hawk attacked him, at least he would have the protection of the heavy gabardine covering his arms and chest. He locked the squad car, and cradling the gun in his left arm, started out toward Cranberry Point. Before he started shooting, he’d damned well better make sure the marsh was deserted.
There was no one on the beach, and only the constant fluttering of the feeding birds disturbed the tranquillity of the wetlands. Tightening his grip on the gun, Templeton began making his way toward the cabin.
Cassie sat in the rocking chair by the window, with Sumi curled up in her lap, purring contentedly. But Cassie herself was not content.
She was worried. Worried and frightened.
She had watched from the beach as Kiska attacked the person in the marsh, and then, after the green-clad figure had struggled to its feet and hobbled back to the park, she had hurried out into the marsh herself.
She wasn’t afraid of it anymore, wasn’t worried about getting lost in the tangled maze of paths, or stumbling into one of the patches of quicksand that dotted the bog where the peat had never built up. It was almost as if there were some kind of invisible map in her head, guiding her. Today, in fact, she’d almost felt as if she were one of the birds soaring above the reeds, and that she could look down and pick the quickest, safest route from the beach to the cabin. Finally she’d gotten to the cabin and was just about to open the door and step inside, when she sensed something coming toward her. She turned, and out of the marsh, darting up the hill toward her, came Sumi. The cat had hit the porch then bounded into her arms, nuzzling against her cheek.