Child Of The Night

by Lee Karr

  “About my visit,” she said, bringing the conversation back to the purpose of her call. “I’ll be there at three o’clock. If you would arrange for Cassie to be in her playroom at that hour, I would appreciate it.”

  “I’ll see to it. Anything else, Doctor?”

  His withdrawal came clearly over the phone and brought a tightening in her chest. She longed to say something that would change the adversarial climate between them. She moistened her lips. Her professional expertise had never been put to this kind of test. She closed her eyes and felt herself drawn to him in a bewildering way that defied the distance between them.

  There was a long silence, and then, as if he was experiencing the same kind of need to draw her closer, his tone softened. “I’m glad you called, Tyla.”

  The intimate use of her first name undercut the formal, distant tone she had been trying to maintain. How was it possible that just the timbre of his voice could act like a soft caress, sending a warm tingle across her skin?

  “Tyla?”

  “I…I have to go,” she stammered. “I’ll let you know how the visit goes.” She put down the phone with a loud click. Coward, she told herself. Running away like some frightened schoolgirl. She fought an impulse to call him back. No, don’t do it. Let it go.

  Even over the telephone, the man made her feel vulnerable. She felt as if he were relating to her as a desirable woman instead of a professional. And you like it! The truth crossed her mind before she could reject it. Maybe that was the problem, she admitted. She hadn’t felt like a desirable woman for a long time. But that didn’t mean she was going to give in to any feminine impulses and allow someone like Clay Archer to sabotage her life. She had an appointment for Saturday, and thank heaven he wasn’t going to be there. Before she saw him again, she’d have herself firmly under control.

  A buzzer sounded on her desk, the signal from the receptionist that her first client had arrived. Reality came rushing back. She had a full day ahead of her. Each case demanded her full attention and dedication.

  She hurried into her small adjoining bathroom and splashed water on her face. Then she smoothed her hair and touched some light pink lip gloss to her lips. This isn’t happening, she told her reflection in the mirror. How could a man’s voice over the telephone have such a devastating effect on her? Despite her best efforts, her feelings for Clay Archer were escalating. I have to put a stop to it now, she told herself. The situation was becoming impossible. She hurried back to her desk, picked up her notebook and firmly shoved Clay Archer into a distant compartment of her mind.

  Tyla went through the day’s activities with a firm resolve that no man was going to play havoc with the independent life she’d built for herself.

  When Doreen arrived with Cassie for her afternoon session, Tyla immediately saw that the child was totally unresponsive to anything around her. The little girl didn’t acknowledge Tyla’s greeting at all.

  “Cassie had one of her screaming nightmares last night. She went into one of her hysterical fits. Screaming, kicking, crying and sobbing. Kept calling for her mother. I’ve moved into the house and usually I can get her quieted down. But not last night.”

  So Doreen was living in the Archer home and moving around the house at night.

  Tyla could picture her in some feminine nightgown, sailing into Cassie’s room—and perhaps into someone else’s.

  “What time was this?”

  Doreen shrugged. “About midnight, I guess.”

  Midnight, thought Tyla. About the time she’d experienced the illusion of the telephone call and the child’s crying. Had someone been debating about calling her? Clay, perhaps? “Was Cassie’s father there?”

  She nodded. “Clay tried to settle her down, but Cassie only got worse. He had to leave so we could get her back to sleep.”

  Tyla digested this information as clinically as she could. The child’s aversion to her father was evident in this rejection of him even when terrified by a nightmare. The reason must be deep-seated and traumatic. “Do you have any idea why she reacts to her father that way, Miss O’Day?”

  Doreen’s expression hardened. “You’re the specialist, not me.” There was a flash of challenge in her pretty green eyes.

  “But you’re with Cassie day and night. If you have any insights—”

  “I don’t,” she answered curtly, cutting Tyla off. “I understand you’re coming to the house on Saturday. Clay and I won’t be there. We’ll be out of town for the weekend.”

  So Doreen was going somewhere with Clay, a fact he hadn’t bothered to mention. With some effort Tyla kept her expression neutral. “Maybe you and I could talk some other time, then?”

  “Of course, we want to help any way we can.” She gave a flip of her long blond hair. There was no doubt about who the generic we referred to.

  “Be good, Cassie,” Doreen flung over her shoulder as she sailed out the door. Her tight pink pants and clinging knit top left little speculation about what lines and curves lay beneath.

  Cassie walked listlessly beside Tyla down the hall to the playroom. Like a weary, hunted creature, Cassie crawled under a play table and curled up into a ball. Tyla wasn’t surprised. Often disturbed children sought the reassurance of a shadowy closed space where they could hide from the rest of the world.

  Tyla sat down in her chair and opened up her notebook as usual, knowing that Cassie would be reassured if there was no change in the routine. In a few minutes Cassie’s regular, deep breathing told Tyla that the child was asleep.

  When Cassie awoke from a short nap, she crawled out of her hiding place and she peered up at Tyla. Her eyes were as dark as a moonless sky, and she seemed ready to dart back under the table if Tyla made any kind of movement toward her.

  “You were sleepy. You wanted to take a nap.” Tyla smiled as the little girl eased to her feet. Cassie’s dark curls were tousled, and a warm, sleepy flush tinted her cheeks. She looked soft and cuddly, and Tyla fought an impulse to pull her on her lap for a big hug. An unexpected swell of affection brought a warm fullness to her eyes.

  Cassie wandered listlessly around the room and finally stopped in front of a painting easel that held a large pad of paper and various nontoxic markers. She picked up a marker. “Black,” she said. She held it out for Tyla to see.

  “A black marker,” Tyla repeated without any inflection in her voice. She didn’t want to direct the child’s behavior in any way by reaction, suggestion or questioning. If play therapy was to be successful, Tyla had to be very careful not to offer any controlling pressure. Only when Cassie felt secure in expressing herself would she reveal the fragmented aspects of her personality and the controlling forces that lay behind her emotional deterioration.

  “Black,” Cassie repeated, and then began slashing the black marker across the first sheet of the pad until it was covered. Savagely she tore off the sheet of paper and did the same thing again. After two black pictures, she added red to the third one. Stabbing the paper with the red marker, she filled the paper with crimson slashes. And then she began to cry.

  Tyla knelt down beside her. “You drew a picture that makes you cry.”

  “Mama’s car,” she sobbed.

  “You’re drawing your mama’s car.” Tyla’s chest tightened in a vise. Lynette Archer’s accident had taken place at night. Her car had gone over a cliff and undoubtedly had burst into flames. Had Cassie viewed her mother’s fiery death in one of her clairvoyant visions?

  Cassie’s little shoulders trembled. “Mama’s car,” she repeated. Then she flung herself at Tyla and buried her little head against Tyla’s chest.

  As Cassie shuddered in her arms, Tyla stroked her soft head in comforting silence. She let the child give in to the feelings that had been held back and hidden from everyone. An important barrier had come down. There was trust in the clinging little body pressed against hers. A big step had been taken, but Tyla knew how easily a threatened child could retreat into a protective shell. If Tyla tried to move too fast,
the walls would come up again.

  They sat together on the floor for a long time. Tyla kept her arms around the child until she pulled away. Without saying anything, Cassie got up and climbed up into the window seat.

  Tyla thought the child might fall asleep again, but Cassie just hugged a pillow and stared out the window. What was going on in that little mind of hers? Had the paintings released some dark torment as a first step to a healing process? Cassie looked so lost and vulnerable that Tyla felt a rise of painful frustration as she withheld the affection she longed to shower upon the little girl.

  Tyla sighed as she looked at the clock. “It’s time to go, Cassie,” she said gently.

  This time when they left the playroom, Cassie grasped Tyla’s hand as they walked down the hall. Doreen took one look at Cassie’s red eyes and fixed an accusing glare on Tyla. “What did you do to her?”

  Cassie’s little hand tightened in Tyla’s.

  “What happened?” demanded Doreen.

  Tyla looked down at the little girl and smiled. “Cassie will tell you about it if she wants to. It’s her decision.”

  “I’ll have to tell Clay about this,” warned Doreen. “I’m sure he didn’t agree to send Cassie here every day just to have her upset. If these sessions are making her miserable, I think they should be stopped.”

  Tyla fought for professional control. Not only was Doreen out of line in assuming that she had the right to stop Cassie’s sessions, but this was not the time or place to discuss the termination of the child’s therapy sessions. Tyla decided to ignore her and give her attention to Cassie.

  “Tomorrow is Saturday, Cassie,” Tyla said, bending down so she could look directly into her little face. “Nobody comes to the playroom on Saturday. It’s like school. You didn’t go to school on Saturday and Sunday.”

  Cassie’s eyes widened slightly in protest, and Tyla added quickly, “But I want to see you…at your house. I’ll come to visit you tomorrow. We can spend our time together in your room.”

  She waited for Cassie’s reaction. After a long moment Tyla detected a slight nod of Cassie’s head, but the child’s face looked pinched and closed once more. Obviously the change in the routine had alerted Cassie’s defenses. As Doreen led Cassie out the door, Tyla prayed that Doreen wouldn’t fill the child with so much apprehension that Cassie would completely shut down.

  She went back to her office, satisfied that the session with Cassie had been encouraging. Maybe the emotional paintings had released some hidden anguish that would allow for one small step forward, a step toward releasing some of the tension pressing on Cassie. If Cassie drew back now, she might not be able to reach out again to Tyla before it would be too late to mend her fragmented inner self.

  Chapter 7

  The Archer home was located in an exclusive residential district in southeast Denver. A uniformed guard waved Tyla through the security gate, and she followed a circular road until she reached the correct address. Cassie lived in a Georgian-style house built of pink brick, set in the middle of spacious acreage and framed by tall precisely trimmed greenery.

  Money, thought Tyla. And plenty of it. She parked her car on the circular driveway in front of the house and mounted long, wide steps to elaborately carved double doors. As she waited for someone to answer the doorbell, she looked around for any signs that a child lived inside the house. None. The front of the house was as sterile and precise as a Home Beautiful magazine photograph.

  A staid white-haired manservant answered the door and waited expectantly for her to state her business.

  “Dr. Templeton to see Mrs. Millard.”

  He nodded, stepped back and admitted her into a spacious entrance hall. The mansion’s interior furnishings were as formal as the outside landscaping had been: white marble floors, ebony statuary, dark walnut furniture and a pristine chandelier sending light upon a circular staircase.

  She knew that Clay Archer was well-to-do, but the display of opulence in his home still surprised her. Even the smallest ebony statue placed on a rectory table beside a vase filled with fresh flowers would have taken a devastating hunk out of Tyla’s yearly salary. As she looked about the large reception hall, original paintings hanging on the wall gave the impression that she was visiting some exclusive museum instead of a private home. Did the opulent decor express Clay’s tastes? Even though he projected the assurance of the wealthy and wore clothes that never saw a sales rack, he didn’t seem intent upon impressing anyone with his affluence.

  “This way, please.”

  Tyla’s high heels clicked on the hall’s marble floor as she followed the servant to an arched doorway that opened into a living room large enough for several islands of furniture.

  “Dr. Templeton,” the servant announced in a formal tone.

  Harriet Millard rose from a chair at the far end of the room. She lightly touched the shoulder of a man propped up in a nearby wheelchair. “Karl, we have a visitor. Dr. Templeton is here to talk about our Cassie. Remember, I told you our granddaughter was going to get some professional help.”

  Harriet waited until Tyla had crossed the room before she held out her hand and gave her an artificial smile. “I’m glad you were able to visit us, Dr. Templeton. We’ve all been concerned about Cassie’s behavior since Lynette’s death. My husband and Cassie were especially close before his stroke, weren’t you, Karl?”

  Tyla acknowledged the paralyzed gray-haired man. “I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Millard.”

  Cassie’s grandfather’s face might have been full at one time, but now flaccid skin hung loosely around his mouth and chin. There was no movement except in his. eyes, which were dark brown and strangely feathered with black. She’d never seen eyes like that. Her chest tightened as some undefinable vibration touched her. Her senses were suddenly alert. Was he trying to tell her something?

  “No need to stare at him like that,” Harriet snapped. “Surely, Dr. Templeton, you’ve seen individuals suffering from debilitating strokes before.”

  “I’m sorry,” Tyla said quickly, not wanting to reveal the strange telepathic communication she was picking up from the paralyzed man.

  Harriet bristled. “Cassie is in the nursery. I told Cassie’s nursemaid that you would be spending an hour with my granddaughter…alone.” She emphasized the last word as if still irritated by the way Tyla had dismissed her on Cassie’s first visit. Harriet rang for a servant.

  Tyla was not about to be ushered out of the room so quickly. She looked directly into the grandfather’s intense brown-black eyes. “I think you know how special your granddaughter is. You’re concerned about her, aren’t you?”

  “My husband can’t talk,” Harriet intervened impatiently. “I’m not sure he even understands anything that’s said to him. Karl has been this way for months.”

  Tyla inwardly bristled at Harriet’s manner, speaking in such an unfeeling manner in front of her husband. How did she know what was happening in his mind? He might very well understand everything that was said, and if people disregarded his presence, he might be privy to a great deal more than anyone gave him credit for. She felt an active energy coming from the immobile man. If only he could talk—

  “How does Cassie relate to Mr. Millard?” Tyla asked, giving the man a reassuring smile.

  Harriet shrugged. “The child doesn’t seem to realize how…how limited her grandfather is. Sometimes she’ll sneak into his room and throw a tantrum right in front of him. Of course, the nurse shoos her out when she catches her trying to creep in.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” Harriet echoed in disbelief. “Because the child has no business wearing him out, that’s why. As sick as he is, he certainly doesn’t need that.”

  Tyla held her tongue. She wasn’t here to evaluate Karl Millard’s situation. Maybe his wife was right to protect him from the disruptions caused by the child. Tyla wished she knew exactly what influence the grandfather might be having upon his granddaughter. Tyla was still picking up strong vibrations t
hat seemed to come from him—an attempt to communicate with her, she believed. What was he trying to tell her?

  “Cassie has been particularly uncooperative today. When she found out that Doreen was going somewhere with her father this morning, Cassie deliberately poured out a pitcher of orange juice all over the table.”

  Tyla paused. “Do you think Cassie is jealous of the time Mr. Archer spends with Doreen?”

  “Don’t ask me what is going on in that child’s head. You’re the expert. We’ll all be interested to know what your professional diagnosis is. I wouldn’t be surprised if my granddaughter is suffering from some mental deficiency.”

  “I can assure you that Cassie’s IQ is well within the normal range.” And probably above the average, Tyla added silently.

  “Well, I have my doubts,” Harriet insisted stubbornly. “She acts mentally retarded to me sometimes.”

  “Cassie’s a bright little girl.” Tyla impulsively sent the silent figure in the wheelchair a confident smile as if she needed to reassure him about his granddaughter. She didn’t understand the impulse to league herself with him. Why did she instinctively like the handicapped man who was unable to move or speak to her?

  Harriet saw the smile that Tyla had sent her husband and she drew herself up with open displeasure as a plump young woman wearing a maid’s uniform came into the room. “I don’t think you should keep Cassie waiting,” Harriet said stiffly.

  “No, of course not. Perhaps we could continue our talk later?” There was a great deal more she wanted to know about Mr. and Mrs. Millard and the dynamics of their presence in the house.

  “I have an appointment this afternoon,” Harriet said bluntly with a dismissing wave of her hand.

  Tyla glanced at Karl Millard. His feathered dark eyes were fixed in an unblinking stare on Tyla. Impulsively she reached out and touched his flaccid hand. “I’ll look forward to seeing you again, Mr. Millard.”

  “Marie, take Dr. Templeton to Cassie’s room,” Harriet told the servant. “And stay close by in case the doctor needs anything.”