''Why what?" Kelly snipped back.
''Why were you stealing this jacket?"
"It's not yours," Kelly said sullenly.
"Do you know this boy, this Mark Lawson?"
Kelly didn't answer.
"I assume you've lost your virginity to him. He came here to have sexual intercourse with you."
"No!"
"We'll see about that. I have no reason to believe you." She paused, her pinched face as harsh as her voice. "How did you meet this boy?"
"I don't know him."
"You're lying." The nun's voice was glacial now. "Where did you meet him?"
Kelly decided that the only thing she could do was refuse to answer, so she remained silent as Lucy asked question after question.
Finally, the nun twined her fingers together on the desk. Her knuckles were white, in spite of her calm exterior. "You will be punished, of course."
"Of course."
"Impertinence will only make things worse for you."
"So?" Kelly kept her eyes on the nun, trying not to flinch or look away.
''A week in solitary, for lying. If you decide to tell me about your relations with this Lawson boy by tomorrow, I'll shorten it to four days."
Kelly felt sick. A week in that horrible dark room would drive her insane, but she wasn't about to admit it.
''For stealing, after your confinement ends, you will be responsible for cleaning all the lavatories every day for the month of October. No one will help you. I'll personally inspect your work and each infraction, every hair in a sink or fingerprint on a light switch, will extend your sentence another day. Is that understood?"
Kelly nodded curtly.
"Basil," Lucy called.
The door opened almost instantly, and the creepy caretaker came in. "Yes, ma'am?"
"Take this girl to Dr. Dashwood. Tell him I want to know if she's lost her virginity and that I'll expect his report before the dinner hour. When he's finished with her, put her in the solitary room. Bread and water only."
The smarmy grin on Boullan 's face made Kelly feel sicker. She had to get away somehow.
"Get up, Miss Reed, and go with Mr. Boullan," Lucy ordered. "Don't try anything, or solitary will be extended another week."
Silently, she rose and walked to the door, Basil-Bob's hand clutching her shoulder.
''Open the door," he ordered, after they'd crossed the waiting room.
She did, instantly coming face to face with Marcia Crowley and her snotty friends.
Marcia stared at her. ''Get in trouble again, Ghost Girl?" she taunted. The others giggled, and behind her Basil-Bob chuckled, too.
His hand loosened for just an instant and Kelly saw her chance. She bolted for the front doors, ignoring Basil-Bob's outraged cries behind her.
She made the doors and slammed out of them, running down the stairs, slipping at the bottom, and going down on one knee. She could hear Boullan's running steps behind her, but she was instantly back on her feet, running across the lawn, running for the forest, knowing that with a little luck, she could lose him there.
Forty
"How did you get down there? It's so steep," Mark asked, trying not to cringe. He sat in a chair, his head lowered, as Minerva Payne stood over him, cleaning the wound on his neck not with herbs and poultices, but with plain old hydrogen peroxide. She daubed up the excess before it could drip, and it hurt like crazy.
"I have my ways," she said. "No, don't turn your head."
''What ways?" he persisted, determined to keep thinking about things other than Pete Parker's bloody, eyeless face.
''Magic."
''Really?"
"Don't turn your head. And no, not really. You know better than that, don't you?" She chuckled softly. "Do you think I hopped on my broom and flew down?"
"No, of course not."
"I came down the same way we came up. Do you remember?"
He tried to think, but the peroxide felt like those little scrubbing bubbles on the bathroom cleaner ad were eating his flesh, and he couldn't get the image out of his head. Between that and all the other images stumbling through his brain, he couldn't remember how he'd even ended up in Minerva's house. "I don't remember," he said at last.
''We walked to the end of the meadow and came up where it's not so steep. There, I think this is clean enough, and it's stopped bleeding. It looks worse than it is. I'm just going to tape some gauze over it."
''Thanks," he said. He raised his head when Minerva finished taping. "I don't need the doctor now."
"You should have a tetanus shot, Mark, and I think maybe Dr. Cutter will want to sew it up. He might want you to take some antibiotics."
Mark had no use for shots or pills, and he'd thought Minerva didn't, either. He turned to stare at her. "But you're a healer. I thought you didn't believe in doctors. Or antibiotics."
''Of course I believe in antibiotics." She smiled gently. ''The healers knew about them long before modem medical science carne along. I could pack your wound with myrrh or maybe penicillin mold from bread. Would you like that better than taking Dr. Cutter's pills?"
''Better than a shot," he replied.
Minerva crossed to the stone fireplace and stoked the embers of a dying fire, then added some kindling and a small log from a brass basket on the hearth. The fire carne back to life, and satisfied, she seated herself in her rocking chair.
"Not me," she said. "I'll take the shot. Modem science may have its drawbacks, but it's also made some improvements on the natural medicinals. There are times, and this is one of them, when Dr. Cutter's methods are preferable to mine."
''I doubt it," Mark grunted.
"Believe me, child, if I sewed that wound up, you'd be screaming. With Frank Cutter, you won't feel a thing."
Mark shrugged. "Yeah, I guess. But it's a big hole. How can he sew it up?"
''It feels bigger than it is," Minerva said bluntly, ''and there's plenty of skin to pull together."
They sat quietly a few moments; then Mark broke the silence. "How did you find us?"
"You might say that you called me to you."
''Huh?"
"I sensed you. I've told you, Mark, you have the same gift in your blood. Your terror was difficult to ignore."
"I don't get it."
"Haven't you ever known the phone was about to ring? Or that maybe something was going to happen before it did?"
"Yeah, the phone, a lot. One day when I decided to play hooky, some kids got killed at school. And I knew about the last earthquake about half an hour before it happened, but nobody believed me."
“I believe you. You and your father both have the ability, I've told you that. I possess the same talent, so I knew something was wrong. I decided to close the Gingerbread House early and come back to the house because I thought you might be here."
''I was in the forest."
She nodded. "Yes. When I carne closer, I realized that. Plus, I heard the nightflyer."
"It's a dayflyer, too," he said sourly.
''Yes, I suppose it is, but very rarely. Only when the time has come."
"I never know what you're talking about."
Another gentle smile. "It's a bad year for nightflyers."
"When was the last bad year?"
"Nineteen seventy-two." She stared at him.
Suddenly, realization dawned. ''When my uncle was killed?"
Solemnly, she nodded. "The cycle is twenty-four years. You'll have children of your own the next time it happens like this, the next time they fly by daylight."
"What are they?"
"A kind of night hawk."
"Bullshit."
Minerva's eyes opened wide a moment, then she laughed. "Bullshit, indeed."
Mark studied her, more surprised at her use of the word than his own. ''I saw its face."
"I know."
"Did you see it, too?"
"Over the years, I've glimpsed them occasionally, but never quite so well as you."
"Did you see
it today?"
''Briefly, as it took off."
''It had a beak."
"Some do, some don't."
"Is it a bird?"
"It has wings- it must be, don't you think?"
"Bats have wings ... and rabies, " he added, suddenly worried.
She nodded. "They do. But it's no bat."
"Gargoyles fly, too," he said, watching her closely.
"So they do," she agreed, her expression never changing. "So they do."
"Do you know what they say in town?"
Minerva smiled bitterly. ''I think so, but tell me."
"That the gargoyles steal babies and bring them to you to bake into pies."
"Yes, I knew about that." She snorted softly. "An old enemy began that particular rumor."
"Who?"
"The headmistress at St. Gertrude's."
Mark's eyes widened now. "Mother Lucy?"
Minerva looked at him sharply. ''How do you know her name?"
''Kelly told me." Suddenly, the entire story of his day began spilling out of him, and with every sentence he felt better.
Forty-one
Sara didn't know what to make of John Lawson as she drove back down the tree-shrouded lane toward St. Gertrude's. Personally she liked him, and she knew the feeling was mutual; he'd asked her to go to dinner with him and wasn't put off when she couldn't set a date because she didn't know her schedule. He gave her his home phone number and suggested she call him when she could.
She thought he was shy, pleasant, and sincere, and when he talked about his son, his pride and love were obvious. Professionally, though, something was going on with the man that kept him from making any commitments regarding an investigation into Jenny Blaine's death. Maybe it was just caution- she could certainly understand his position- but she had a feeling there was more to it than that. There was a haunted quality to his questions and comments, and he had been agitated by their discussion of dreams and memories. And even though he didn't say anything, she thought he had something more on his mind as well.
She reached the abbey and slowed. taking the rutted left fork toward the garage, wondering how she should proceed with her investigation. Tomorrow, she'd begin teaching, and that would cut into her time, but it might be helpful as well. She hoped to make friends with some of the nuns- a hard task, to be sure, but she thought she might be able to get the loquacious Sister Bibi to talk about the old days.
"Damn!" Sara slammed on the brakes as a girl in blue darted out from between the bushes, right into her path. The car jerked to a halt as the girl fell before it. Thank God, there was no fateful thunk.
Sara jumped from the car. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah." The girl scrambled to her feet, pushed her red hair from her face. "Miss Hawthorne!"
"Kelly! What's going on?" She took in the skinned knees, the tearstained face.
''You've got to help me." Tears ran down her cheeks, making tracks in the dust. "They're going to put me in solitary. Mother Lucy has Mark Lawson's jacket and I tried to get it for him and she caught me."
"Mark Lawson? The sheriff's son?"
Kelly nodded. then looked over her shoulder, toward the bushes. "I have to get to Minerva's. Please say you didn't see me. Please! Minerva will let me stay with her. Just don't tell!"
"Who's Minerva?"
Suddenly Basil-Bob Boullan crashed through the bushes. "There you are, you little brat!"
"Ask Mark!" Kelly cried, as she started running for the woods- but she was too late. Boullan took a running leap and tackled her.
"Hey!" yelled Sara. "That's no way to treat a child!"
Boullan rose, holding Kelly's arm twisted behind her. ''Take it up with the Mother Superior," he said, smirking at her. "She'll set you straight."
"Miss Hawthorne!" Kelly cried as Boullan propelled her toward the bushes.
"Don't worry, Kelly," she called after the girl. As she and Boullan disappeared through the hedges, Sara climbed back into the car. "I'll do something," she said softly. "I promise."
Forty-two
Poor Mark. John Lawson hadn't been able to get his mind off his son during lunch with Sara Hawthorne, or after, back at the station, and now he knew why. Corey Addams, frantic and hysterical, had raced into the office less than twenty minutes after John returned, and it took all his patience to calm the boy enough to get a garbled story out of him. Corey had insisted that Pete Parker had been killed by a giant bird that had also taken a bite out of Mark, who had been taken away by the old witch.
After he'd called Cutter and the paramedics, he set off for the Falls, Deputy Griffin trailing in his own cruiser with the doctor. John hadn't known what to expect concerning his son, so he sent Griffin and Cutter to the Mezzanine, where Corey said the Parker boy's body was located, then led the ambulance crew as far down the dirt road to Minerva Payne's as possible. They had come the last eighth of a mile on foot, the two paramedics towing along a stretcher while John, too anxious to wait for them, trotted ahead.
When he arrived at the cottage, Mark himself opened the door. He was pale and had a bandage on the back of his neck, but he threw his arms around his father and clung to him so tightly that John knew he'd be fine. The paramedics arrived a moment later and inspected the wound, confirming what John already knew. He questioned Mark briefly and gently, then sent him along with the med techs to Frank Cutter's office to await the doctor's return.
Now he sat opposite Minerva Payne, sipping hot tea as if nothing unusual had happened ... but it had. Wyn Griffin had let him know by cell phone that Pete Parker was very, very dead, evidently the victim of an animal attack. Frank Cutter had already left the scene to take care of Mark before the other boy's body arrived for examination.
"More tea?" Minerva asked, as he set his cup down on the gleaming oak dining table.
"Yes, please." He was cold despite the cozy warmth of the cottage. He watched as the old woman poured from a delicate porcelain pot, her hands steadier than his own.
She poured more for herself, then replaced the teapot on a woven trivet. "You have a fine son," she said gently. "He's special, you know."
John shook his head. "I'm surprised at his behavior, though. Sneaking around the abbey, then going to the Falls." He paused, studying Minerva. Despite himself, he liked her and understood why his son thought so highly of her. "He said you told him about my brother, and that you warned him to stay away from the Falls. I thought you'd made a huge impression on him."
"Perhaps, for a little while, but children believe they're immortal," Minerva told him. ''And of course, no boy can resist an adventure, not even one like Mark. If it helps, I don't think he wanted to go to St. Gertrude's, but the other boys would have called him a coward if he' d refused. I'm sure you understand that."
''I understand it all too well."
"Don't be too hard on him, Sheriff."
"He's suffered enough," John replied, and meant it. "Finding a body, especially that of someone you're close to, well, no one should have to go through such an ordeal. I'm just glad ... " Embarrassed, he let his words trail off.
"You're glad it wasn't your son who was killed," Minerva finished.
"The Parkers will be devastated," John said, more to himself than to Minerva. He felt selfish, first, for being relieved that it was Pete who'd been killed, not Mark, and second, for dreading the house call he would have to make later today. He cleared his throat. "How did you happen to be at the scene, Mrs. Payne?"
“'Minerva," she corrected. ''I closed my shop early. I heard the nightflyers screeching."
"Nightflyers?"
''The creatures that killed Pete Parker."
"You've lived in this forest most of your life. Have you ever seen them? Are they some kind of hawk?"
"I've seen them only from a distance. And I don't know what they are. Night hawks, or some other bird, or creatures of myth and superstition, I wish I knew. They don't come from this forest, though, Sheriff. Look to the woods on the other side of the west fork o
f Moonfall Creek for their home."
"You mean they live on St. Gertrude's land?"
Minerva nodded. "So far as I know." She gave him a small, sly smile. "The nuns probably keep them as pets, don't you think?"
"I wouldn't be surprised." He inhaled the rich, clean aroma of the tea and took a sip. "You heard the birds, and that worried you enough to close your shop on a Sunday?" That was odd behavior for any shopkeeper.
''Not by itself, but I couldn't get your son off my mind. The two seemed connected. So I followed my instincts."
Since he'd been worrying about Mark for no apparent reason, he couldn't argue about intuition. ''Connected? How could they be connected?"
"I don't know. I only feel these things, just as you do. As your son does."
"What are you saying?"
"You're an excellent sheriff, like your father before you, and that's because you are aware. "
"Aware of what?"
"Most people have only a little tuition and rarely pay it any attention." She chuckled. ''Those who have it a little stronger call it either good luck or bad luck, depending on how they use it. But you, like Mark, and your father and grandfather, and his father before him, have inherited it to a very high degree."
"I don't think so."
''Can you deny you were worrying about Mark before you knew anything had happened to him?"
He had no answer. "Did you know my father?" he asked instead.
"Not as well as I'd have liked. Like you, he was afraid of me. Afraid of what I represent."
"What are you talking about?"
"You've been afraid of me since the moment you saw me watching you from the bridge the day your brother died." She hesitated. ''If I had forced your father to listen to me, we might have stopped it then. Now it's happening again."
"What's happening?" She's senile ...
"The cycle." She cocked one eyebrow. "And I know what you're thinking."
"Telepathy, huh?" he asked, disappointed that this woman who seemed so fascinating, was probably losing her mind.
''No, John, not telepathy. Logic."
He looked up, surprised at his name and her crisp answer.
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