The Searing

by John Coyne

  Tom came to the couch and sat on the edge, turning to face her. “Let’s interview that girl, give her an examination. Let’s find out how severely autistic she is. I don’t trust her parents. Have you talked to that old man? I mean, that guy is very strange.”

  Sara nodded, agreeing, but did not immediately answer. The whole experience of the night had been exhausting, and now she had developed a pounding headache. She rubbed her brow to try and ease the pain, but the ache was sharp, a series of jabs across her forehead. It was hard even to concentrate, but she answered Tom, saying, “I can’t just examine the child. In the first place, I need her parents’ permission and I won’t get it. When I mentioned a special school for Cindy to Delp, he got very upset and as much as told me to mind my own business.”

  The pain was excruciating now, intense bolts of pain spinning in her head. She was going to be sick, she realized. This wasn’t a headache at all. She grabbed the comer of the couch to pull herself from the seat. She had to stand; she had to get out of the house.

  Tom was speaking to her, asking if she were all right and she could feel his hands grabbing her shoulders.

  “My head,” she whispered.

  The pain had a life of its own. The sharp, piercing jabs had changed to swirling currents that whipped around her head. She could no longer see. Thin bolts of colored lights raced across her eyes in zigzag lines.

  “Look!” She turned her face to Tom’s. “It’s my eyes. Do you see anything?”

  Tom held her face steady between his hands. Her eyes were wide and blazing with colors. Microscopic bars of colored lights flashed across her irises and pupils in bursts of irregular lengths. And under his palms, Tom felt the temperature of Sara’s skin change as her face became feverish.

  “Help me, Tom.” It was taking all her strength to stay conscious. She knew she couldn’t stand; she couldn’t get out of the house. And then she became sick and, jerking her head free, turned and threw up over the couch.

  “Oh, God,” she moaned as her body, out of control, retched again and she vomited what little fluid remained in her stomach onto the rug.

  “Easy, darling,” he said, trying to hold her steady in his arms, but she began to tremble and her rising fever dropped immediately. He felt her body turn icy in his arms. He kept talking, kept reassuring her as he moved her into a large wing chair and put her feet up on an ottoman. Then he pulled the comforter off the back of the couch and tucked it around Sara’s shivering body.

  “I’m going to telephone a doctor. Is there someone in the Village?”

  Sara tried to shake her head, but the pain swirling around her skull made it impossible. “It’s killing me, Tom. Please, dear God, take the pain away.” Her face twisted against the torment. She took hold of him and her fingernails dug deeply into his hands, cutting his skin with her anguish. He grabbed her wrists and pulled himself free, and Sara’s hands shot to her tormented head, digging her hands into her own scalp and drawing blood.

  “Oh, Tom, please make it stop!”

  He knelt beside her, tried to pull her hands from her hair. She was delirious, out of her mind with pain, and helpless to tell him what to do. He had no idea where the closest hospital was located. He’d have to telephone Santucci. Santucci would get a doctor and ambulance and get Sara out of here, and then Tom remembered the murders. Sara was next. She was being killed right before his eyes, he realized, and then he remembered Cindy Delp.

  She was here, he knew, in the house or close enough to cause pain, to kill Sara. He had locked the doors himself, and checked them after Cindy attacked the windows, but the bedroom windows were open and the broken glass still on the rug. It was possible that Cindy had gotten back inside.

  Tom ran up the front stairs and pushed open the door. Sara had taped heavy plastic over the broken windows, but one sheet had been ripped off and was flapping loudly in the cold, dark room.

  He stepped inside and closed the door. He did not turn on the light, but stood with his back to the door, searching the room in the moonlight.

  She had to be there, hiding in the closets or the bathroom, and that frightened him. The child was deranged; she could do almost anything to him. Downstairs, Sara screamed in pain, and her cry ran up his spine. Behind his back, he turned the lock on the bedroom door, locking himself inside with the young girl.

  “Cindy?” he called. There was no answer, no movement in the darkened room. The only sound in the house was Sara’s helpless screaming.

  Tom circled the room, keeping away from the windows, moving along the wall toward the closets. He called Cindy’s name again, but she would not answer.

  He slid open the closet doors, moving quickly, pushing Sara’s clothes aside as he searched. She was not there, nor, when he crouched down, did he find her under the bed.

  Downstairs, Sara screamed once more, and he pushed open the bathroom door and flipped on the light.

  He could see Cindy’s distorted figure behind the foggy glass of the shower stall, and he yanked open the door. She was sitting on the tile floor, her legs drawn up tight. Sitting in a tight ball and rocking back and forth. She stared at him, her face blank and expressionless, her eyes unfocused.

  Again, he heard Sara, her cry coming muffled through the house, and he reached forward and lifted Cindy off the floor, grabbing her beneath the arms and jerking her from the corner.

  “Stop it!” he shouted, shaking the child. “Quit it, Cindy. Let her go.”

  The young girl stared dumbly at him, her mouth slack, her eyes empty.

  Sara screamed again. The piercing cry rang through the house and tore at Tom. He could see her suffering on the couch, her mind being destroyed by this mute child.

  “Cindy!” Tom shouted.

  She was trying to speak.

  “What?” he demanded and, with the strength of his arms, lifted the child, pulled her close.

  Sara cried out.

  “Goddamn it!” He shoved Cindy away and, with one quick, violent movement, slapped the girl across her face. Her head popped back with the blow. Tears flooded her eyes and a bubble of blood spilled onto her lips.

  Downstairs, Sara stopped screaming.

  FIFTEEN

  Joe Santucci stood before the fireplace and listened to their stories. He took notes and nodded, kept them talking, and, when they had finished, he paused a moment to flip through the pages and review his notes before he looked over and asked, “You said when you slapped the girl the headache stopped?” He sounded incredulous.

  Tom nodded. “At the exact moment.” He was positive about this. He could still see himself hitting the child, slapping her hard across the face, and then the silence from the living room.

  “How can you explain something like that, Doctor? Explain it, you know, medically?” He and Tom Dine both looked expectantly at Sara, who sat across the room in one of the deep chairs. Tom had wrapped a blanket around her, and she looked small and afflicted.

  “I can’t,” she said.

  “But you think somehow this girl caused the headache?” Santucci glanced back and forth between the two of them.

  “I do,” Tom answered. “I have no idea by what process, but I know that girl had control of Sara’s mind. And I think she was trying to kill her.” He stood and began to pace the length of the large living room. There were only the three of them there; two county police officers had already taken Cindy Delp to her house.

  “I also think,” Tom continued, “that Cindy is responsible for these deaths. I think she killed the kids, and is attacking the women in this Village.”

  “How is she doing that, Tom?” Santucci asked.

  “Some sort of mental telepathy, maybe.” He sounded uncertain now and his voice had lost its confident edge.

  “Telepathy, huh?” Santucci smiled coldly. He flipped his small notebook closed and moved away from the fireplace. “Is there anything else, Doctor Marks?” he asked, towering over her as he buttoned his overcoat. “Do you want to press charges against her for th
ose bedroom windows?”

  Sara shook her head.

  “I can’t guarantee Cindy Delp won’t do this again, but if I slap a court order on her, then we’ll make her parents responsible.”

  “I’m not interested in punishing the child, Lieutenant.”

  The detective nodded. He knew the MO of these people: sophisticated liberals appalled by the notion of punishment. Well, they were her windows, he thought, her house and life. His experience told him it might get worse. Next time the kid might burn down the place.

  “Wait a minute!” Tom protested as Santucci headed for the door. “Aren’t you going to do anything?”

  “If you people won’t press charges, then there’s nothing I can do.”

  “I’m not talking about criminal charges.” Tom knelt and took hold of Sara’s hand. Her fingers were icy cold in his grasp. “Sara, you have to do something. This kid almost killed you an hour ago. She’s attacking you and the others.”

  “Tom, you don’t know that.” He was staring at her, his eyes wide and alarmed. “It’s not possible for Cindy to be responsible. You can’t accept not knowing, so you’re blaming her. I understand that, but I won’t press charges.” She spoke calmly, trying to ease his fears with the smoothness of her voice.

  “Can’t you examine her? We know the girl isn’t normal.”

  “We know she’s autistic, but that doesn’t give her superhuman powers.”

  “Examine her, Sara!”

  “I can’t. I am not the girl’s physician. I haven’t the authority.” She kept shaking her head. “I don’t want to be involved with these people.” Tears flashed in her eyes. “Tom, I just want to leave this house, get away from this Village.” She was crying and she turned her face into the cushion to smother her outburst.

  Tom sighed and stood, letting her cry.

  “I’m taking off, Tom.” Santucci opened the door as he spoke. “I’m going to stop by Delp’s place and see the kid.”

  “Are you going to arrest her?”

  “That little girl didn’t kill anyone, Tom,” Santucci said quietly. “We’re looking for a male, six feet perhaps, weighing about 170-180. That’s who killed the girl in the woods. Not Cindy Delp.”

  For a few minutes after Santucci left, neither one of them said anything. Sara got up and made coffee, and Tom fussed with the fire, building it with a few more cedar logs. It was only when the silence became too much that Sara said, apologizing, “I’m sorry, I can’t agree with you about her, Tom.”

  He nodded, not looking away from the fire.

  “I do know something about parapsychology, and this mental telepathy just isn’t feasible.”

  “Okay. Okay. You’re the doctor.”

  “Thomas, don’t be like that. Yes, I am the doctor. And yes, I happen in this particular instance to know more about psychic phenomena than you do.” She was angry and disappointed at his adolescent behavior. Still, she hadn’t liked siding with Santucci against him. She had seen the torment in his eyes last night when he watched her suffering.

  Tom rolled over on the rug and faced Sara.

  “You’d agree that mind control is possible. That some people can dictate our behavior?”

  “Of course. It has happened throughout history. All charismatic leaders have that power. So do hypnotists, doctors, teachers, priests.” Sara shrugged.

  “And autistic children.”

  Sara frowned and shook her head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I’ve been reading about autism, and there are a couple of things that struck me as having to do with mind control. These children have unusual abilities, and one of them is the power of concentration. In fact, they concentrate to such a degree that they lose touch with the world around them. Their concentration is like a flashlight beam in a dark room, narrow and intense on one spot. They’re like geniuses in that regard.

  “They tell the story of Isaac Newton, of how once during a dinner party he went down to the wine cellar for another bottle and didn’t come back. The other guests finally went looking for him, and they found Newton kneeling in the dust of the kegs, apparently seized by an inspiration, and trying to solve an equation.

  “The point is, these autistic children—like geniuses—can’t turn it off. They’re locked into a narrowly focused and intense beam of concentration, and it is this strange power, I think, that Cindy Delp has.”

  “And she used these powers of concentration to cause my headache?”

  “Yes. I think she’s trying to kill you.”

  “Oh, Tom!” Sara sat up, angry at his persistence, and at herself for listening to him. “Really, you’re being absurd.” She leaned forward in the chair, her face now only a foot from Tom. “Amy Volt and Debbie Severt had their brain tissues burned. The other child was brutally attacked; her head was smashed. Was Cindy there? Yes, I admit, she was around when I had some of my attacks. But Benjy Fleming never mentioned her. We have no idea where she was when these children were killed.”

  Tom sat up and seized Sara’s hand, as if physically grabbing her attention.

  “Sara, sure I’m making a wild guess. I know it’s fantastic, but I think it’s possible.”

  “It isn’t,” she answered flatly.

  “Examine the child. Talk to her. See how she reacts to you. See if she is hostile to you.”

  Sara sighed. “Why are you so insistent?”

  Tom paused a moment, remembering what it was that had given him this feeling about Cindy Delp. “I think it was the look in her eyes. It was a strange combination of fear and hostility. And then when I hit her—she didn’t expect anything like that. I don’t think her parents have ever physically touched that child. Well, when I hit her, she just crumpled against me. You stopped screaming at that exact moment, and I just knew you were okay, and Cindy …” Tom paused again, trying to recall just how the child reacted.

  “Then what happened?” Tom had not told her these details before.

  “She got angry, fought to get away, tried to bite me. I really couldn’t hold her. She may only be twelve, but she’s a lot stronger than Santucci thinks. I know she’s physically capable of killing that child in the woods.”

  Sara shook her head. “I’m not going to find out much from her, you understand. I’ve tried to talk to Cindy before and it’s impossible. She only screeches at me.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Tom said quickly, encouragingly.

  “Well, let me talk to her parents. They may not say yes.” Sara tossed off the blanket and stood up. “Do you think we should go now?” she asked. “It’s still dark.”

  “Yes, while Santucci is with the family. I want him to see this.” Now Tom was in a rush to see the child before Sara changed her mind.

  “I’ll get my coat,” Sara said, and as she moved out of the room, the phone rang, startling her. She let it ring a moment, then turned away. “Tom, you get it please. I’m not up for more bad news.”

  Tom picked up the phone in the living room. It was Santucci calling, his voice low and hesitant, asking where Sara was.

  “She’s here. Why?” He knew from Santucci’s voice that something had gone wrong.

  “It’s this Delp girl,” Santucci said slowly, trying to seem casual and offhanded. “She’s missing.”

  “I thought you had cops watching her?” Tom turned his back so Sara wouldn’t hear. Now he was afraid. The child was loose in the Village. And he knew he was right about her; she was a killer.

  “I don’t think we’ve got a problem,” Santucci went on, still speaking slowly, carefully. “Why don’t you take Marks out of the Village until we trace the girl down? You know, just in case.”

  “I thought there was nothing to worry about? I thought you said that little girl was harmless?” The anger that he had suppressed broke out once more.

  “Look, Dine, I think the kid can do some harm. I mean, she might break a few more windows, but I’m telling you for the last time she ain’t a killer.”

  “Then we’ll stay
right where we are.”

  “Suit yourself. I’m sending up a couple men anyway to watch the house. But do yourself and the doc a favor and don’t go wandering off. And keep out of the woods, for chrissake. As soon as it’s light, I’m going to have my people sweep those woods.” And then, without a good-bye, he hung up.

  “She’s gone?” Sara asked when Tom turned around.

  He nodded. “Yes, and Santucci thinks she might come here. He’s sending some cops up to stand guard.”

  “I’m beginning to feel I’m targeted somehow.”

  “So does Santucci. He wants me to keep you inside for a while, and to tell him if we leave the Village.”

  Sara touched her forehead, as if she had forgotten something, and then in a daze wandered over to the bay windows of the living room and stood there with her arms crossed, looking out at the dark cul-de-sac.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Tom stepped up beside her. “I’m not trying to scare you, but she could be out there, watching the house. Why don’t you come away from the windows?”

  Tom slid his arm around her shoulder and Sara leaned against him. She was exhausted from being up half the night, and from the tension of her headache and its aftermath. It felt good to be held for a moment, to enjoy the safety of his embrace, and she turned against him and, wrapping her arms around his waist, buried her head against his chest.

  He kissed the top of her head, then lifted her chin to kiss her lips.

  She responded. She linked her arms around his neck and pulled him toward her, enjoying the feel of the length of him against her. When they broke the embrace, they were breathless. Turning together so their bodies wouldn’t part, they moved toward the stairs.

  In the foyer, Sara asked, “Check the front door, Tom. I want to know those people can’t get to us.”

  “I did, when Santucci left.”