"I think so." Her voice trembled slightly. "That's the problem? I … I can't be sure. There are huge chunks of my memory missing. I saw a therapist when I couldn't remember my school days, and she helped me get past the blocks as much as she could."
''Blocks?"
Sara nodded. ''She said that my memory had been tampered with; that either I blocked out certain things myself, or that someone did it to me. She said it was probably the latter."
"How could she tell?"
''I let her hypnotize me." She gave him a small, twisted smile. "It wasn't easy to do. I really don't like to be manipulated."
"A fellow control freak."
She nodded. ''Frankly, I have a hard time with the idea of hypnosis. Did you know that suggestions can be planted by the hypnotist accidentally?"
"I've heard that. Did you trust your therapist?"
"Yes," she said after a long pause. "Yes, I did. She wasn't the sort that was out to prove that everyone was an abused child. I don't think she had any hidden agendas."
"What was it that you remembered? Was it Jenny's death?"
''Yes and no. I already knew Jenny had died. I found her body. But, except for my nightmares, I had no reason to think she'd been murdered, even though I never believed she had committed suicide." She silenced while the waitress set their burger platters before them. Picking up a fry, she nibbled it thoughtfully. ''Have you ever bad dreams that seem to be trying to tell you something?"
Have I ever. "Yes," he said uneasily. "I think that's normal. Your subconscious is trying to tell you something, or you're working out frustrations. That's what dreams are for, aren't they?" He bit into his bacon-cheeseburger.
''Maybe. What about nightmares?"
"Have I bad them?"
''Yes."
''Of course." He felt guilty about being so flippant with her, since he was fairly certain that what she was trying to tell him would hit very close to home, but he couldn't help it. He'd denied that there was any problem for so long that it was second nature now. ''But nightmares are still just dreams." He took another bite and the food sank in his belly. He thought of Mark suddenly, uneasily. But he was safely at the Parkers'.
"Usually they're just dreams." She pointed a French fry at him. ''But have you ever lost something or forgotten something and remembered it in a dream?''
"Car keys," he admitted. "But misplacing a set of keys isn't exactly the same thing as forgetting a major incident in your life."
"Maybe you're more willing to accept that you found your keys through a dream than something less tangible. Or less pleasant."
''Well, when I forget to call my grandfather for a week or so, I begin dreaming about him. A guilt-induced dream, to remind me." He chewed slowly, then swallowed, the food feeling like a hard lump in his throat. He wanted badly to admit to Sara that he knew exactly what she was talking about, that he, too, had missing time and nightmares that tried to fill it. But he couldn't- not and maintain any shred of authority. She was staring hard at him, not bothering to eat. "But I think I understand what you mean," he added uncomfortably. He was having a hard time concentrating; his son was on his mind now, as much as the topic of conversation. You just want to avoid the subject.
"I think you do," she said solemnly.
The silence between them lay heavily for a long moment; then Sara sipped her Coke and smiled. ''So, tell me all about your son."
Thirty-eight
Now that they were safely in Witch Forest, Mark and Corey felt no need to hurry. In fact, they had begun purposely to dawdle so that Pete would be stuck explaining to his parents and Caspar why his friends had left him alone to work on the Haunt. He deserved to suffer that much, at least. Mark doubted anyone would find out that Pete was with them at St. Gruesome's- he had no intention of ratting on either of his friends - and maybe, just maybe, Kelly would be able to retrieve his jacket and wallet and save his butt, too.
"We're almost there," Corey said, as they approached the boundaries of the small park. ''You want to go to the Mezzanine or the bridge?'' .
“The Mezzanine," Mark told him, almost yelling to be heard over the Falls. Corey nodded and the pair walked another hundred feet coming to a steep fifty-foot incline.
The ground was soft and covered with pine needles, so Mark took the lead, turning parallel to the slope and digging the sides of his feet into the earth with each step. Behind him, Corey did the same.
Mark, chilled without his jacket, relished the first splashes of bright sunlight that hit his face as the trees thinned at the bottom of the hill. The meadow lay just beyond the last stand of trees and as he approached it, a chill ran down his back
“Why’dja stop?" Corey asked, bumping into him from behind.
''I was just thinking about my dad's little brother. The thing was, he hadn't been back to the Falls since Minerva had told him about his uncle's death, and suddenly he was both excited and scared about being here.
"Yeah, that's creepy- "
A raucous screech exploded so close that Mark clapped his hands over his ears. He glanced at his friend and saw him standing paralyzed, his face drained of blood. Mark put his finger to his lips, indicating silence, when Corey opened his mouth to speak.
The cry hadn't come from above, but from somewhere ahead of them. Mark tried to peer between the trees, but they were still too far from the clearing to see more than a few patches of dry yellow grass. Looking down, he saw that the pine needles were thinner.
He gave Corey another quiet sign, then crooked his finger, gesturing for the other boy to follow him. Mark took one silent step, then another. On the third, a twig snapped under his sneaker and they stood still a long moment. Nothing happened.
Ten more steps brought them close to the meadow's edge. Mark stopped behind the thick trunk of a sycamore, Corey breathing down his neck. He was about to peek around the tree when another screech tore the air, shrill and ragged and horrible, far louder than the crash of the waterfall. Mark put his hands against the tree trunk to stop their trembling and nearly jumped out of his skin when Corey tapped his shoulder. "What?" he whispered, the sound utterly lost in the thunder of the Falls. "What?" he said again, this time bending toward Corey's ear.
''What is it?" Corey hissed back.
"I don't know." He swallowed hard. "But I think it's in the meadow. I'm gonna look."
To his surprise, Corey nodded. ''Me, too."
Slowly, slowly, Mark, with Corey behind him, edged around the broad sycamore. He realized he was squinching his eyes shut and told himself to stop. One. Two. Three. He opened them just as a breeze came up, carrying a gentle spray of water droplets with it. Instead of refreshing, it· shocked him.
At first he saw only the edge of the meadow, the dry fall grass, the tree stumps and boulders, and peripherally, the white water falling. Then he let his gaze crawl across the meadow until it stopped on the back of a huge black bird. Its lowered head moved back and forth, jerked slightly.
It was feeding, and briefly he looked away.
Nightflyers ... that's what Minerva called them. She claimed she didn't know what they were, just some sort of hawk. But she also said they were evil and not to be spoken of, and Mark believed that meant she knew exactly what they were. Maybe not exactly, he amended; maybe she didn't know they flew in daylight as well.
He forced himself to look again. He could see the top of the head now and then as the creature ripped flesh from its prey. Suddenly he glimpsed a flash of black, then a dirty white sneaker, as the hawk yanked and tugged.
Corey screamed.
Instantly, Mark jumped back, but the other boy was blocking his way and he landed on his ass, knocking Corey down behind him. He scrambled to his feet, but before he could do anything else, the creature's head swiveled toward them.
Briefly, he saw the glint of predatory eyes set forward like an owl's, but with a deep reddish glow. He caught his breath at the sight of a piece of stringy red flesh held delicately in a long, hooked beak. It tilted its thi
ck neck back and swallowed the meat, then glared at Mark. He could feel its eyes boring into his, knowing him, making sure it would recognize him.
The head swiveled again and the creature spread its wings, shiny charcoal. The feathers looked more like scales this far away, and there was a bat-like arch to the wings.
Its screech was deafening, the flap of its wings loud and leathery. Barely off the ground, the thing turned gracefully and flew toward them. Without thinking, Mark turned and threw himself across Corey, flattening him.
In slow motion, he felt the wind of the wings, heard the cry, and felt white-hot pain on the back of his neck.
Then it was over.
"Mark! Is it gone?" Corey's voice was muffled against the pine needles and golden sycamore leaves.
"God," Mark rolled off Corey, put his hand to the back of his neck. ''Ouch, shit." There was a half-inch crater missing at the nape of his neck. He brought his hand down and felt himself go numb at the amount of blood covering it, dripping from his fingertips. "You got a kerchief or something?" he asked, clamping his hand back over the wound
Corey felt in his pockets, shook his head no, then pulled his jacket off, yanked his yellow t-shirt over his head and tossed it to Mark. ''Will that help?" he asked, slipping the jacket back on.
''Yeah." Mark folded the soft shirt and clamped it over his neck. He looked at Corey, saw tears streaming down the boy's face, and perversely was glad, because it made him feel a trace of courage, and he needed that very badly right now. Very badly. He glanced at the meadow, at the blue material visible in the long grass. He forced a grin. ''Think I should put a tourniquet around my neck?"
Corey gave him a sick smile, then his eyes moved to the meadow. "It's Pete, isn't it?"
Mark followed his gaze. ''Probably." Suddenly, the nun having his ID seemed almost funny. ''I guess we'd better go look."
"Yeah," Corey said, but he didn't move.
His emotions were gone, numb, dead, and Mark was grateful as he walked slowly into the clearing. With each step he saw more, the blood-spattered jeans, the dirty shoes, finally the glistening wet black jacket and bright red shirt. Only it wasn't red; it was really blue, and the long cord wasn't a piece of clothing, it was intestine, shiny in the sunlight. He forced himself to take the final steps, and then he saw the face. Pete's face. But you knew that already, didn't you? So why are you doing this? He couldn't stop staring at the open mouth, at the hollow black eye sockets.
''Mark."
He barely heard the voice, didn't respond.
"Mark Lawson."
Minerva's voice. Minerva's hands on his shoulders, turning him away from the body, turning him against her, holding him to her breast for a long minute, until he finally felt the hot tears running down his face, realized that his arms were around her and it was her hand holding the sodden T-shirt to his neck now.
''Come away, now," she said softly, and began leading him out of the meadow.
''Corey?" he asked, as they walked into the woods toward her house.
"I sent him for your father and the doctor."
Mark stopped in his tracks. ''My father?" he asked, barely comprehending. "The doctor? But Pete, he's ... "
"Yes, I know, Mark. The doctor's for you. I wasn't sure how badly you were hurt .... Everything will be all right, Mark, but we have to take care of the bite."
"Bite?" he repeated, then looked up into the old woman's eyes. ''I saw it, Minerva. I saw the nightflyer."
"And it saw you," she said, and hurried him toward her cottage.
Thirty-nine
Kelly Reed had successfully returned to St. Gertrude's after leaving Mark and his friend in the woods, but the screeching of the nightflyers had frightened her so much that she went straight to her room instead of checking to see if she could get into Mother Lucy's office to retrieve Mark's jacket and wallet. After twenty minutes of rest, she felt better, and taking her notebook and math book, she entered the main building.
As she expected, the halls were nearly empty- almost everyone would still be in the cafeteria at this hour. Quietly, she slipped into the library and settled in an alcove, then opened her book and stared at the meaningless numbers as she built up her nerve. After a moment, she glanced at the ornate old wall clock and saw that very soon, the girls and, more importantly, the nuns, would be roaming the campus in far greater numbers. She had to act now.
Her chair rattled as she stood and the nun in charge of the library, Sister Jerome, glanced up, a scowl on her face. Kelly smiled apologetically across the deserted room, then walked to the water fountain near the door and took a drink. As she straightened, she saw that the nun was still watching her. Swallowing her fear, she walked up to her desk and whispered, ''I have to go back to my room for another book. May I leave my notebook here for a minute?"
The sister nodded curtly. Kelly, smiling politely, backed away and went out the door. The corridor was quiet as she turned the corner and approached Lucy's office door. She knocked and was relieved that there was no answer. Trying the knob, she found it unlocked, so she entered, walked through the waiting room, and rapped smartly on the door to Mother Lucy's private office. She hadn't even let herself think about what she'd say if the headmistress actually answered- she was better at instant improvisation than rehearsed speeches- but she still felt butterflies swarming in her stomach as she waited. She could feel the eyes of the tortured saints in the paintings watching her.
No one bade her enter. Gently she tried the knob and found it locked, as she'd expected. Taking her student ID card out of her pocket, she slipped it under the lock and worked it and the knob for a few seconds. It clicked open. Sneaking away to see Minerva was one thing, but breaking into the headmistress's inner sanctum was another altogether, and as she stood there staring at the portraits, at the massive desk, smelling the chill, paper-dry air redolent of Lucy's stale cinnamon scent, the butterflies turned to nausea. Get this over with!
Her entire body trembled as she approached the desk. The portrait of St. Lucille seemed to watch her every move. She glanced at it, thinking that Mark's wallet might be in the desk, but the coat certainly wouldn't be. She was determined to get both items.
Turning, she saw an almost invisible closet between two tall oak file cabinets. Quickly she put her hand on the brass inset in the door and pushed. The door slid smoothly into the wall.
For a moment, she forgot her fear as she stared at the closet's contents. Front and center, there was a long black cloak, several habits, a black umbrella, and two pairs of – quelle surprise – black shoes. What shocked her was that one pair had six-inch stiletto heels. Kelly stared at them an instant longer, fascinated, tempted to try them on. Instead, she reminded herself of her mission and rifled through the clothes, checked the dark comers of the floor. Then, on tiptoe, she checked the top shelf and hit pay dirt: one sleeve of Mark's blue jacket was hanging out of a hatbox.
She lifted the round box down, surprised at its weight. Turning she placed it on the edge of the desk, then gingerly lifted the lid. She pulled out the jacket and found the wallet still in the pocket Smiling to herself over the thought of presenting Mark Lawson his belongings, she was about to replace the lid when she noticed the items below.
The box was half-filled with inexpensive beads and charm bracelets, rings, ribbons and barrettes, years' and years' worth of confiscated property. And in the middle of it all, right on top, her locket. With trembling fingers, she lifted it out and opened it, saw that the photo of her mother still rested inside. Snapping it shut, she opened the clasp and put it around her neck, slipping it beneath her shirt so no one would see it.
Kelly put the lid back on the box and replaced it in the closet, slid the door shut. Looking at Mark's windbreaker, she wished she'd brought a book bag to hide it in while she took it back to her room. Probably, she reassured herself, no one would notice it since the blue material was almost as dark as her uniform. She began folding it up.
"Well, well, well. What have we here?"
>
Kelly whirled to see Mother Lucy, arms crossed, beady eyes glaring, standing in the doorway. Her cheeks were flushed and she sounded slightly breathless.
"I ... I ... " She silenced. There was no way she could talk herself out of this one.
The Mother Superior whisked past her, snagging the jacket as she moved to her desk chair. She sat down and examined the coat, drew the wallet out, and opened it.
Kelly stood watching, stunned and afraid. Suddenly, it occurred to her that she might be able to run away. Minerva would help her, if she could make it to her cottage.
While Lucy was scrutinizing the ID card, Kelly bolted into the waiting room, running blindly for the door. She slammed into a body, felt strong hands dig into her shoulders. She looked up into the leering face of Basil-Bob Boullan.
"You going somewhere, missy?"
Without thinking, she brought her knee up into his groin.
Grunting in pain, he loosened his grasp, and as he doubled over, she tried to push past him to get to the door, but he threw himself against it and glared at her, eyes watering from her attack. "You're going to have to do better than that," he growled.
"Bring her back in here, Basil," Lucy's ice-cold voice ordered from the inner office.
"Yes, ma'am." Boullan rose to his full height, his face red and furious as he took Kelly's wrist and twisted her arm behind her. He marched her into Lucy's office, pulling her arm up until she thought her elbow would pop its socket. But Kelly managed to remain silent, eyes dry, determined that she wouldn't give either of them the satisfaction of seeing her fear and pain.
"Put her in the chair," the nun commanded.
Roughly, Boullan did her bidding, then stood behind Kelly, his fingers now pinching her shoulders.
''That will be all, Basil," Lucy said stiffly. ''Please go into the waiting room and allow no one to disturb us."
"Yes, ma'am."
After he left, Lucy studied her, making Kelly feel like an amoeba under a microscope. "Why?" the nun asked.
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