by John Saul
But avoiding Carl Henderson was only one reason she had retreated from the party. The truth, which she knew she would rather die than admit to Kevin, was that the three girls who’d clustered around Kevin almost the minute their parents had taken off with Molly had totally terrified her. How could she tell him she’d been afraid he might not introduce her to his friends, or even notice her if she tried to join the group?
“There’s something else, isn’t there?” Kevin asked.
Julie hesitated, but in the end she shook her head, unwilling to tell him what was wrong. Better to just keep it to herself, she decided.
When she said nothing, Kevin stood up and pulled Julie to her feet. “Then come on,” he told her. “Molly’s going to be just fine. Let’s go back to the house.” He glanced out the open door to the loft to the yard below. “There’re still some people here, and there’s lots of food, and if our folks aren’t here, shouldn’t we be taking care of things? I mean, it’s kind of like we’re the host and hostess now, and our folks did get married today.”
Julie’s eyes drifted toward the house. “I can hardly even remember anyone’s name—” she began.
“I’ll be right beside you, and I’ll introduce you to everyone who’s still here,” Kevin told her. “Now stop worrying, and brush the hay off your dress.”
Julie gazed down at the skirt of the beautiful blue dress that had been brand new only a few hours ago. Now it was a mass of wrinkles, and covered with flecks of straw. “Oh, God, I look awful!” she moaned.
For the first time since he’d come into the barn, a grin played around Kevin’s lips. “No you don’t,” he said. “You look great. You’re a lot prettier than any of the other girls.”
“But my dress—” Julie began.
“People will just think we’ve been making out up here,” Kevin said, starting to laugh as Julie flushed a deep red. “It’ll be great for me! Every guy down there will be totally pissed off! They’ve all been begging me to introduce you.”
“But we haven’t been making out!” Julie protested.
Kevin’s grin broadened. “I won’t tell if you won’t tell,” he offered.
“But everyone will think—” And then she realized what he was really saying, and for a moment felt herself floundering. Her hands instinctively tightened in his. “I’m sorry I got mad at you,” she said softly. “I just—” Again she had that strange feeling of confusion, and when she felt his fingers pressing her hands, her heart fluttered. “I don’t know what happened.”
“Well, it’s okay now,” Kevin told her. He chuckled. “Or anyway, you’re not mad at me, and I’m not mad at you. But Grandpa’s totally pissed at both of us.”
“Both of us?” Julie repeated. “Why should he be mad at you?”
“ ’Cause I told him to cut out what he’s been doing,” Kevin replied. He shivered as he remembered the fury in his grandfather’s eyes as he’d left the old man standing on the porch. “He looked like he was ready to give me a licking.” Still holding Julie’s hand, he started once more for the ladder that led down to the barn floor. “We’ll just stay out of his way, and he’ll cool off. He gets mad real fast, but he gets over it almost as fast. Come on—let’s go find you some friends. But if any of the guys tries to hit on you, they’d better watch it!”
As he stood aside to let her start down the ladder first, Julie wondered exactly what he’d meant by his last words.
Did he mean they’d better watch it because he was sort of like her older brother now?
Or did he mean it another way?
To her own surprise, she realized with clear certainty that she hoped he meant it another way entirely.
The last thing she wanted right now was for Kevin Owen to start acting like her brother!
Karen Owen stood frozen with terror in the emergency room at the hospital in San Luis Obispo, her eyes fixed on her daughter. Talking to Julie on the phone, she’d forced herself to sound calmer than she really was, but now, as she gazed at Molly’s unnaturally red face and her grotesquely distended leg, she felt panic rise in her again. The little girl’s breathing was still coming in heavily labored gasps, her face so swollen that her big blue eyes were reduced to slits.
Why wasn’t anyone doing anything?
Why was the doctor talking to Ellen Filmore instead of doing something to help Molly?
“Does she have a history of allergic reactions?” she heard someone ask, then realized that the resident had turned his attention to her.
Though his name badge identified him as Dr. Paul Martin, he looked barely old enough to have graduated from high school, let alone from medical school. “Never,” she replied, shaking her head.
Martin frowned, then began what seemed to Karen to be an absolutely endless process of duplicating the same examination that Ellen Filmore had already given Molly back in Pleasant Valley. A nurse stood at his elbow, taking notes, but just as Karen thought she would scream in frustration, the resident finally murmured something that sounded to Karen like it might be an order for some kind of medicine. The nurse left the room, returning a few seconds later with a vial and a hypodermic needle.
“What is it?” Karen asked, her voice sounding unnaturally loud. “What are you giving her?”
“It’s a new kind of antivenin,” the doctor replied. He jabbed the needle into Molly’s arm, then pressed the plunger, injecting clear liquid into Molly. A moment later he pulled the needle out of Molly’s flesh, dropped it in a wastebasket, and carefully dabbed at the tiny wound with a cotton swab.
“I’ll do that, Doctor,” the nurse immediately said. Martin made no objection to the nurse taking over the swab, but neither did he move back from the bed. Instead he leaned over and gently peeled one of Molly’s eyes open.
“I-Is something wrong?” Karen whispered. Before the doctor could reply, Molly’s hand twitched, and a second later her color began to change, the bright red starting to ease. “What’s happening?” Karen gasped, uncertain whether Molly was responding to the medicine. “Isn’t it working?”
“Give me a hand with the airway,” Martin told the nurse, still not replying to Karen’s question.
While the nurse held Molly’s head firmly in place, preventing her from instinctively moving away from the doctor’s hand, Martin gently drew the plastic tube out of her throat. Karen, unconsciously gripping the back of a chair so hard her fingernails were cutting into its vinyl upholstery, found herself holding her own breath as she waited for Molly to begin breathing without the aid of the tube. Only when the little girl’s chest heaved did Martin finally glance at Karen, smiling.
“The swelling in her throat’s already down enough for her to breathe, and her color’s almost back to normal. She’s going to make it.”
As if in response to the doctor’s words, Molly’s eyes fluttered, then opened, and an almost inaudible word escaped her lips. “Mommy?”
“I’m here, darling,” Karen replied, moving quickly to the head of the examining table and taking one of Molly’s hands in both of her own. “I’m right here, and you’re going to be fine. Just fine!”
Molly glanced around, then frowned deeply. “Where am I?”
“In the hospital in San Luis Obispo,” Karen explained.
As her mind began to clear, fragments of what had happened came back to Molly. Her frown deepened. “I wrecked the wedding, didn’t I?” she asked. “Is everybody mad at me?”
Tears of relief ran down Karen’s cheeks, and she kissed Molly’s fingers. “Of course no one’s mad at you. You just got stung by a bee and had a bad reaction to it, that’s all. It wasn’t your fault. Everything’s going to be fine.”
Molly, still not satisfied, tried to sit up. “Where’s everybody else?” she asked. “Is Julie here, too?”
Karen shook her head. “Just me and Russell and Dr. Filmore. There wasn’t room for anyone else in the plane.”
“The plane?” Molly echoed, looking puzzled.
“Mr. Henderson flew us over,” Ka
ren explained. “He works for a company called UniGrow that helps Russell raise better crops.”
“And I’ll fly you home, too,” a voice said from behind her.
Karen turned to see Carl Henderson, along with Russell, standing just inside the door.
“They told us we could come in,” Russell said, moving across to lean down and kiss Molly on the cheek. He made as if to tickle her ribs, a game he and the little girl had discovered early on. “How’s my favorite girl?”
Molly giggled and wriggled away from his fingers. “I thought Mommy was your favorite girl!”
“Next to you, she is,” Russell replied. “Feeling better?”
Molly nodded. “Except my leg still hurts.”
“That should go away pretty soon,” Dr. Martin said. He turned to Carl Henderson. “That’s some stuff you guys are making. She responded to it in less than a minute.” As Henderson’s brows rose questioningly, the doctor looked confused. “Didn’t you say he works for UniGrow?” he asked Karen.
Before Karen could reply, Henderson nodded. “I do, but what’s that got to do with Molly?”
Martin’s look of confusion deepened. “You don’t know what your pharmaceutical division’s doing?”
Henderson’s questioning look cleared. “I don’t have anything to do with them. I’m an entomologist, specializing in agricultural insects. It’s a big company, and most divisions don’t know what the others are doing. And I’m lucky. I work out in Pleasant Valley, pretty much by myself.”
Martin handed him the vial that still sat on the counter running the length of one of the emergency room’s walls. “Amazing stuff. It seems to work much faster than anything else we’ve got.”
Ellen Filmore stepped forward. “What is it?”
Martin smiled wryly. “It doesn’t even have a trade name yet. Right now, they’re still identifying it by the chemical compound, and I’m not about to try to pronounce it.” He winked at the nurse. “We’re calling it “that new stuff UniGrow made for bee stings.’ Real scientific, huh?”
“Works for me.” Ellen chuckled. “Maybe that’s what they should market it as. Then us docs could speak the same language as the patients.” She inclined her head toward the vial that was still in Carl Henderson’s hand. “Can you get me some of that?”
“I don’t see why not,” Henderson replied. “If it’s in the catalog, there won’t be any problem at all. If it’s not, it might take a little doing.”
Ellen Filmore shrugged. “Even if it’s not on the general market yet, I want to know all about it. If push comes to shove, I can try to get us in on the final testing phase. If we’re going to have any more stings like Molly’s, epinephrine just won’t cut it.”
Henderson nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.” His eyes shifted back to Dr. Martin. “Can Molly go home?” he asked.
Paul Martin shook his head. “Not a chance,” he replied. “I’ve just given her a pretty strong dose of a brand-new drug, and I’m not about to let her out of here until I’m sure there aren’t any side effects.” He turned to grin at the little girl. “Sorry, but I’m going to have to stick you in a private room tonight, without anything except a television, a VCR, and a whole stack of movies.”
Molly’s eyes brightened instantly. “Do you have Bambi?” she asked. “I love Bambi.”
“I think we just might,” Martin replied. “And if we don’t, I bet you could talk your dad into going out and renting it for you.”
Molly’s grin wavered as her eyes flicked toward Russell. “He’s not my dad, he’s—”
“I’m her stepfather,” Russell said. “And I think we can probably produce a copy of Bambi.” He slipped an arm around Karen’s waist. “What do you think about a honeymoon in San Luis Obispo?” he asked. “I know it’s not Paris …”
“It’ll be perfect.” Karen smiled. “And I know just Where we’ll stay—the Madonna Inn!”
“Perfect,” Russell agreed. “I’ve always wanted to have on excuse to stay there, and this is it.” He leaned over and issed Molly. “Thanks, Princess. I don’t know how you managed it, and I’m sorry you’re stuck in the hospital for he night, but you’ve pulled it off. The wedding is now perfect. Your mom and I don’t have to deal with that huge arty at the farm, and we get to have a honeymoon at a lace we’ve always wanted to go. I owe you, and so does our mom. Before we go home tomorrow, we get you a resent. So start thinking about what you want, okay?”
Molly, finally certain that neither her mother nor her stepfather was angry at her, nodded happily as an orderly egan wheeling her toward the room in which she would pend the night.
By the time she was settled into her bed, the swelling in her leg was beginning to ease and the pain of the sting was almost gone.
She had no idea how close to dying she had come.
DAWN
INTERMEZZO
It was a nightmare.
It had to be a nightmare, and in a few more minutes she would wake up.
She would be in her bedroom in Los Banos, and through the thin wall she would hear the sound of Elvis Janks and her mother having their usual quarrel while they tried to treat their hangovers with coffee.
The darkness would lift, and she would get the covers untangled from her arms and legs, and she would look up and see the light of morning flooding through her bedroom window.
But as her mind slowly floated up through the dark waters of sleep, no trace of light appeared to brighten the blackness around her, and as the realization that what she was experiencing was far worse than any nightmare could be, Dawn Sanderson began to feel hope fading away.
She had no idea how long she’d been in the blackness.
No idea whether it was hours or days.
Perhaps weeks?
She had no way of knowing.
Time no longer had any meaning for her.
Should she try to scream?
She remembered that she’d tried that before.
How long before?
She didn’t know.
A sob wrenched her body, but it was a nearly silent sob.
As she came fully awake, she waited for the familiar searing pain in her arms. They were tied above her head, the rope from which she hung cinched so tight that if she bent her knees at all, her feet lifted off the floor of her prison and her arms felt as if they were being torn from her shoulders.
This time, though, the pain seemed to have disappeared. For a brief moment of unutterable joy Dawn thought she must have been released from her bonds. But as she tried to move her naked body, she felt her bare feet lift off the floor. With a terrible sinking feeling Dawn realized what had happened.
She wasn’t free of the rope at all. Rather, she had simply lost all feeling in her arms and hands.
As that realization seeped through her consciousness, she also became vaguely aware of a new pain.
A terrible cold, deep within her, that seemed to be emanating from her numbed shoulders.
Why?
Why had this happened to her?
Every time she’d awakened from those periods of sleep that seemed to bring neither rest nor escape, she’d tried to put what was happening together in some way that made sense.
All she’d been trying to do was escape!
And the man had seemed so nice. It wasn’t like he’d tried to drag her into the car.
All he’d done was offer her a ride. And she’d only taken it because he didn’t really seem to care if she went with him or not.
He’d bought her a cup of coffee, and she started feeling funny.
And the next memory she had was of coming slowly awake in the blackness, her arms on fire not only from being held high above her head, but from the chafing ropes she’d been able to feel around her wrists.
She’d screamed—screamed as loudly as she could—until finally her vocal cords had given out and all that would emerge from her throat was a rasping gasp.
The door had opened while she was screaming, and for a few seconds she’d been
able to look into his face.
The friendly grin he’d worn when she first met him was gone. His lips were twisted into an ugly sneer, and his eyes were glazed over with that same strange look he’d had just before she passed out.
“It won’t do any good,” he told her. “It never does.”
Then the door closed, and despite what he’d said, Dawn kept screaming until her voice gave out.
She’d seen him twice more.
He’d opened the door, stood staring at her for a few moments, saying nothing at all, then closed the door again, plunging her back into the terrifying darkness.
She clung to the few images she’d caught when the door was open.
A basement.
She was in a basement, with concrete walls, and heavy beams supporting the floor above.
But that was all she knew.
She’d heard him, though.
Sometimes, when she woke up, she heard him outside her dark prison, muttering softly, as if talking to someone.
She never heard another voice, though, and finally decided he was talking to himself.
Now, as she hung in the darkness with the terrible cold in her shoulders seeping inexorably into the rest of her body, hunger began to gnaw at her belly, and the terrible thirst she’d been feeling rose up in her parched throat once again. She tried to lick her lips, tried to summon up at least enough moisture to slake the terrible dryness, but her tongue felt like a thick pad of cotton in her mouth, dry and swollen, threatening to choke her.
Slowly, very slowly, the truth began to sink in.
Dawn Sanderson was dying.
That’s what the cold meant.
She could no longer feel her arms and hands because they had died, and now the cold of death was creeping down into the rest of her body as well.
How long would it take?
Would it end in a few minutes, or would the terror and agony of the darkness stretch on to eternity?
Would she even know when she’d died?