When Michael Calls

by Farris, John

  Doremus looked thoughtfully at the headmaster. "Maybe Craig can help us here. Let's find out how the boy is."

  Craig and Amy had come downstairs from the infirmary and were sitting on opposite ends of the couch in the headmaster's office.

  "He's asleep now," Amy said as soon as the men came in. "It wasn't easy; the sedative we gave Peter should have knocked him out in a matter of minutes, but he was so horribly disturbed . . ." Her voice was bleak. "He couldn't stop thrashing in the bed, and moaning. I don't know when I've spent a worse half hour." Craig had no comment. He looked aghast, demoralized. He was trying to smoke a cigarette, but his hand shook so badly that the effort made him look almost comical, like a talentless actor miming a drunk.

  "Will we be able to ask Peter some questions in the morning?" Enoch Mills said tentatively, and Craig said, flaring:

  "Absolutely not!"

  After a few seconds he apparently regretted his tone and looked up at them with a trace of apology. "Peter is badly in need of rest, and . . . and complete quiet. It might be necessary to keep him tranquilized for several days. You see, I don't have a clear idea of the trauma he's suffered, and I won't until I've had the opportunity to sit down with him and—"

  Doremus said, "Could Peter Mathis be Michael, your brother?"

  The psychologist winced as if he'd said something deliberately foolish. "What are you talking about?'

  "Let me put that another way. Could he think he's your brother?"

  "Good God, of course not!"

  "Originally you believed that the boy who was telephoning Helen had convinced himself he was Michael Young."

  "Yes, I thought that was a possibility. But Peter doesn't know anything about my brother! Oh, I'm sure during the past couple of weeks he's heard the gossip about 'Michael's ghost,' all that nonsense—I must be quite a figure of fun around here because of it. But Peter hasn't been doing any telephoning. I've told you that already."

  "Yes, he's mute. But his problem is psychological, isn't it, and not physical."

  "He stopped speaking when he was about four years old, because of extreme emotional problems, and he hasn't said a word since."

  "Maybe he hasn't spoken," Doremus conceded.

  "Yet, apparently, he's done some remarkable things for a nine-year-old boy." He explained the observations which he had made from Peter's room. Craig listened soberly, if incredulously, then got up and went to the windows that overlooked the lighted quadrangle and the residence halls. Amy followed him, and they stood side by side staring out. No one else in the room said anything.

  When Craig turned around he looked baffled but frightened. "I don't believe it."

  Enoch Mills glanced at Doremus, and his usually placid, pale-green, country-sage eyes were shadowed with annoyance. Doremus was keeping his thoughts to himself, and his own eyes on blonde Amy, who still had her back to them all. Mills turned his Stetson hat around and around in his knobby hands and said, somewhat reluctantly, "Not believing it don't get us anywheres. What happened tonight fits right into a pattern. First Mrs. Connelly had all them telephone calls—didn't you listen in on one of them yourself?" Craig shook his head slowly. "But you were there, I believe. Well, anyway, she had them calls, from the same boy who said he was your brother, and after a while he started sounding kinda ugly. Then one afternoon he calls up Peggy Connelly and says something bad is going to happen to old Doc Britton and sure enough that same afternoon Doc's dead. No accident, neither, the whole thing looks arranged, and right after Elsa Britton finds her husband dead then she sees this boy too, hanging around the barn, and she swears it's Michael Young as she remembers him." Enoch cleared his throat urgently, as if he were not used to long speeches, and went on doggedly: "That patient of yours, Peter Mathis, could pass for your brother any day, near as I can tell from that little school photograph taken of your brother back then."

  "I don't think they look alike at all."

  "Well, you got to consider the shape of their faces and the set of their eyes; other features and hair color don't mean that much. Let me get through with this. Peggy Connelly claims that she saw this boy twice, and I'm inclined to take her word even if she is a child. Once she saw him about dark on The Shades School playground, and that's just the other side of the hogback out there, maybe a couple of miles at the most." He turned his attention to the headmaster. "Did this Mathis boy ever stray off the campus that you know of?"

  "Yes, I recall that he did. When he first arrived last year he left school several times without permission. But that was during the day. As you're already aware, Sheriff, we have this sort of problem because though the majority of our children are rebellious and extremely insecure, we try to avoid any suggestion of the reformatory here. Nearly all of our wanderers come back of their own accord." Quinlan shot a look at Craig, who confirmed this with a nod. "Peter always returned. It was never a question of going out to search for him."

  "That would account for Peggy having seen him on the playground, but the other time she got a close look it was late, past midnight, and she and her mama were maybe eight miles from here."

  "I know," Craig said wearily. "I was there."

  "But you didn't see nothing of the boy yourself ?"

  "I stayed for ten or fifteen minutes after Helen left, looking around with my flashlight. I didn't see anything. I'm fairly sure Peggy was dreaming."

  "Could be," Mills grunted. "I wasn't dreaming the night that boy called up the station and asked for Hap. Can't prove he had any part in what happened up there on the river—"

  "And nobody's proved Peter has made any telephone calls," Craig said angrily. "I've told you several times he's emotionally incapable of speech, but I don't seem to have made an impression: you're hell bent on connecting him with two violent deaths. That's irresponsible. He's a confused, unhappy nine-year-old boy!"

  "Craig," Amy said, so softly they barely heard her.

  Craig's shoulders slumped. "I don't want to listen to any more of this," he muttered. "I have a responsibility toward Peter, and I should be with him right now."

  "I'm just trying to get a few things straight in my mind," Enoch said heavily, "and I don't think I called him a murderer. But we know where he was tonight, and what he tried to do. My boss found a burned-out torch and an empty two-gallon can of gasoline in the brush next to that gristmill. If he didn't make the call to Dormus, then it looks like there's two boys involved. Hell, maybe there's a slew of 'em."

  Doremus said, "Has Peter's behavior been noticeably violent in the past?"

  "He's had spells of anger since I've known him," Craig said eagerly. "In fact, I've encouraged them. And he's had a couple of minor scuffles with other boys, but they were due to normal aggressiveness; they weren't characterized by unusual violence. That's why I don't understand this attack on you."

  "Tell me about Peter. Where's he from?"

  "St. Louis. His childhood has been . . . totally grim. His mother was a spoiled and hateful young woman. At seventeen she became pregnant, refused to marry her lover and settled down in her parents' home to wait for the birth of the baby. The girl apparently was having her revenge on unloved parents, and if you met them you'd know why they were unloved. They're old, rich, prominent, and as heartless a pair as I've ever seen. I don't know if it's to their credit that they refused to be intimidated by their daughter's action. They simply retired to their mansion, seeing no one. Even today they seldom appear in public. So Peter was born, and grew up in an atmosphere of scathing hatred. One thing in the mother's favor: apparently she was fond of Peter, she looked after him herself. But she burned to death smoking in her bed when Peter was three and he was left on his own, totally vulnerable. I've already said he stopped speaking at the age of four, which may give you an idea of what he suffered at the hands of those people." Unexpectedly Craig's eyes filled with tears but he went on, his voice even. "If he didn't have a strong will he'd probably be in a mental institution today. As it is, I think we're making progress with him; through h
ypnosis I've come very close to removing the block that keeps him mute. After tonight I suppose I'll have to start all over." He dried his eyes on the back of his hand and stood with his head bowed, staring down at the carpet. Outside, the bell tolled three times and Doremus cocked his head, listening.

  "For what it's worth, I don't think Peter attacked me tonight," Doremus said. He raised his hand and gingerly touched the small bump on the back of his skull, near the right ear. "Someone else was in that mill with him." The Sheriff started to speak but Doremus cut him off. "I didn't see anyone else, Enoch, this is pure hunch. But I stand six-three and it's not likely Peter could have given me this whack on the head while he was on the run. And he was on the run all the time I was there, it was a game to him. I didn't hear him speak but I heard him giggling from excitement."

  They were all looking at him now, except for Amy, who seemed to have turned to stone in front of the windows. "Peter was playing games tonight. He didn't go to the mill to kill me or anybody else. Even when he was stalking me with that lighted torch there was something odd about the way he acted. I believe he was only trying to hand me the torch, because that's what he'd been told to do. He was puzzled because I didn't want it." Doremus fell silent awhile, then he said sharply, "Does that make sense to you, Amy?"

  She wasn't startled, but he turned and looked his way rather vaguely before replying. "Yes," she said then, her voice pitched low, "I'm beginning to see what all this means." Her eyes strayed momentarily to the window. "After all, he has been leaving here, sometimes late at night, we're sure of that, so something—someone is making him take such terrible chances. So it has to be. Peter is possessed. There is no other explanation." She looked defiantly at Craig, at the befuddled headmaster. "No other," Amy repeated, and her voice was brittle, her eyes wide and frightened. "Michael Young has control of him. He's making Peter do these awful things."

  Craig made a sickened noise in his throat, and Quinlan continued to regard her as if she were raving. Craig said, desperately, "Amy, don't get started—"

  "You don't believe in demonic possession, but the phenomenon is real, volumes have been written on the subject! I have some of them in my office. You told me not long ago that something evil was loose in The Shades, you said that you felt the presence of evil! I'm not claiming it's the spirit of Michael Young. But Michael could easily be living, as Doremus suggested. Don't you agree, Craig? You believed it a few nights ago. All right, why not assume that Michael didn't die, that he grew up and came back here—he's living here and he's murdering people. We don't know who he is . . . but Peter knows him!"

  "What?" Craig said weakly.

  "Yes, Peter knows him," Amy insisted. "He's met with Michael many times, out there, in the woods, and they're friends. Michael has told Peter all about himself, all about the Youngs, he's told him many times about the terrible death of his mother, and of course Peter is sympathetic—his own mother was hated and hounded and she died in a tragic mysterious accident. You see, they have a lot in common. And Michael has been cunning enough to use Peter to his own advantage. He can talk Peter into doing anything, taking any sort of risk, in the name of—" Amy broke off. "Helen!" she said, as if her throat were raw.

  "She's all right. I've had a deputy parked in front of her house since eleven o'clock," Enoch Mills assured her. He licked dry lips and clamped his Stetson on his head. "Well," he said, turning to Doremus, "I guess she makes better sense than anything else I've heard tonight. Maybe that boy will be a help to us yet—when we can get in to see him," he finished, with a significant look at Craig, who ignored him. "Meantime . . . where's that infirmary at?"

  "Second floor of this building," the headmaster replied.

  "This here's Sunday already," Enoch mused. "How long do you figure that boy will sleep?"

  "As long as fifteen hours, if he's not disturbed," Craig said.

  "Reckon I ought to put a deputy up there, to make sure he ain't disturbed. Or maybe we ought to move him to the hospital. We're dealing with a killer, after all, and he may try to get at that boy."

  Amy blanched. Craig said, "There are three other boys in another part of the infirmary, and a nurse is on duty around the clock. I think Peter is perfectly safe where he is . . . but I intend to stay with him myself, until he wakes up. Longer if need be."

  "The sooner we find out where his friend is, the better."

  "I realize that." Craig looked at Amy for a long moment. "I hope we have the answers now; I hope this will be over with quickly now." He looked anxious, unconvinced. "Why hasn't Mi—Michael Come to me? We were friends. . . . Does he mean to kill me too? How could he have become so twisted?" Amy put a hand on his shoulder, but he didn't seem to notice the hand, or her. "I'd almost rather believe in a ghost—or that Peter could sprout wings and fly." He started to laugh, but it became a coughing fit; his eyes looked dry, as if fever were beginning. "Crazy," Craig muttered. "It's crazy, incredible . . . the only thing very real to me is that boy, that helpless boy." Amy flinched slightly, but only Doremus saw it. She withdrew her hand.

  "I'd like to stay tonight too," she said softly.

  "What? Oh, no, no need for that. Get yourself some sleep, Amy. I'll call you if . . ." He wandered away from her, looked once at Enoch Mills and once at Doremus, distantly, then went out the door. They heard his quick footsteps in the hall, heard him racing up the stairs three at a time.

  Enoch Mills yawned, then pulled the Colt Woodsman from beneath his twill jacket and handed it to Doremus. "Almost forgot . . . the boys found this near the empty gas can. You got off three shots, huh?"

  "Just to make noise. I wasn't aiming at anything."

  Mills shook his head in a troubled way. "Maybe we can get together tomorrow, chew this thing over? Can I give you a lift to the village now?" Doremus declined and Mills left, murmuring good nights. The headmaster had begun to shuffle around in his bedroom slippers, turning off lights. Amy looked abandoned.

  Doremus said pleasantly, "I'm interested in those books you have on demonology. I might borrow one, if you don't mind."

  "Not at all." The three of them left the headmaster's office. Quinlan lived just down the hill; when summoned by Craig he had come wearing layers of sweaters over his pajamas, and a heavy topcoat. He said:

  "I suppose I should notify Peter's grandparents about this; it's the only ethical thing to do. But I wouldn't know how to begin an explanation. I just wouldn't know."

  "Peter will be all right now," Amy said soothingly. "I'm sure of it."

  "He's been badly used . . . badly used. And it happened right under our noses. But I think we do our best for our boys . . . we try our best."

  "Yes, sir."

  "You'll see that Mr. Ketchum locks up after you, Miss Lawlor?" The old man went out by the front door and began walking dispiritedly toward the drive where he'd left his car.

  Amy said: "He's a lovely man, but . . . just a little old for this sort of work. I'm sorry for him. He's sincerely interested in each of the boys." They continued slowly down the hall to the corner office that was Amy's. She pointed to her bookshelf and sank down on a wheezing leather sofa, gloomy and uncommunicative.

  Doremus politely read a few titles and then said, "On second thought, I probably don't have much time to read. Could I bum a ride?"

  Amy gave him an annoyed look, then softened. "I'd appreciate the company," she admitted.

  Chapter 14

  She drove a good used Mustang and drove it well, rubbing her eyes and shrugging her shoulders from time to time to keep alert. Doremus slouched in the seat next to her and wished for a cigar. He said, "If it wouldn't be too much trouble I'd like to recover my motor scooter. Left it in some bushes down near the gristmill."

  "No trouble," Amy said a trifle grimly. "That's Millican Dairy Road, isn't it?"

  "Right." They passed through the deserted village. There were only traces of the early mist, and the moon shone high and yellow. "You've been going with Craig for quite a while, haven't you?" Doremus asked.<
br />
  "Since I came here—eighteen months ago. I was fresh out of USC graduate school."

  "California girl?"

  "Born and bred. West Covina, in the days when there were still a few orange groves out that way."

  "Helen says you gave pictures a try."

  "It's the only thing you want to do when you're sixteen. I was . . . full-grown—maybe full-blown is the expression—and lucky. A few bit parts right away, the second lead in a terrible horror epic we shot by the light of borrowed flashlights, then a small continuing role in a syndicated series that bombed out after thirteen weeks. Real fringe stuff, but I was dizzy with success. I even managed to get a good agent—he could pick up the phone and get right through to Richard Brooks or somebody like that. I took acting lessons and made the scene with a lot of gorgeous young guys who were already dead inside at twenty-one, and after a couple of years of it I saw where I was headed and had the sense to get out."

  "You made a good choice."

  "A perfect choice. I love what I'm doing now."

  "You and Craig will be getting married before long, I imagine."

  She was quiet for three heartbeats. "Yes. Before long."

  They drove down Millican Dairy Road, raising dust, and Amy slowed when the bridge over the creek came into her headlights.

  "I meant to ask Craig if he saw anything when he came down this road tonight," Doremus said. "Slipped my mind."

  "That was after all the excitement. Besides, he might have driven over by way of 22. Brunell's place is closer if you cut off the state road." They rattled across the loosely planked bridge. "Where do you want me to stop?"

  "Anywhere beyond the bridge. Good thing Craig showed up when he did; we would have had a great deal of trouble getting Peter back to the school."

  "Well, Craig has his eye on a gorgeous bronze nude about so high that Brunell got in two or three weeks ago. He's practically been living over at the gallery, trying to get Abe to come down on it a hundred or so." She turned off the engine. "I guess it would be better to put your scooter in the trunk rather than in the back seat. We can tie the lid down if need be."