The Searing

by John Coyne

  Sara’s voice trailed off. She looked at the child and was struck again by her exquisite beauty. Cindy did not look retarded. Her features were not deformed. Only the blank, empty eyes of the child suggested that in some way she was lost to this world.

  Sara moved the small tape recorder closer to the child and asked softly, “What is your name?”

  The girl did not look up from the drawing, but she did reply. A short burst of screeching noise.

  “Cindy, I want to ask you some questions.” On a notepad, Sara wrote down the questions in the order she asked them. “Cindy, how much is 8,346 times 5,721?” She paused and again Cindy screeched. The noise was sharp and meaningless, but Sara continued softly. “Cindy, in which months during 1998 will the seventh fall on a Wednesday?”

  Again, Cindy screeched harshly. Santucci’s detectives glanced at each other, almost embarrassed to be witnessing this exhibition of the child’s illness. But Sara ignored their skepticism; she knew autistic children were capable of astounding mental feats, and she wanted to test Cindy’s ability. The questioning continued for another five minutes, and when she was done, Sara shut off the tape recorder and sat back with a sigh.

  “Well?” asked Santucci. “You call that an I.Q. test? No normal kid could possibly know those answers.”

  Sara shook her head. “I know how it looks. But I’m convinced that those sounds are not random. I want to play the tape back and see if there’s any way to make sense of it.” Sara smiled up at Pearl Delp. “Thank you for letting me talk to Cindy,” she said.

  “It’s gibberish,” Tom stated. They had gone back to Sara’s house and Tom had set the Sony on her study desk and played the tape again. Cindy’s replies came back clearly but it was all incoherent to them.

  “Perhaps it’s another language,” Marcia suggested. “Is it possible that she knows a foreign language, after all?”

  “Yes. There are six-year-old autistic children who can speak French, Spanish, Japanese, Arabic, and Hebrew, but can’t say a complete English sentence.” Sara shook her head. “But this is different.”

  She walked to the windows, and stood there with her arms crossed, staring out at the cold day. From that side of the house, she could see the top of the ridge, and the slope of wild highland behind the Village. There were plans to landscape that hill in the spring and plant a small park of pine, walnut, and birch trees, but now the long grass grew wild. It would have to be cut, she thought distractedly, or it could catch fire, especially now in the last dry days of late autumn. Then Sara heard Tom say, “We’ll never be able to reach that kid, to understand her.” He sounded tired and defeated.

  Sara turned from the windows. She was shaking her head and disagreeing. “Cindy is functioning on her own wavelength,” Sara said. “It’s our problem that we can’t communicate with her.”

  “Well, what do we do?” Tom asked, sounding impatient. “We ask her a question and she screeches back at us.”

  “I don’t know what we do,” Sara sighed. “I just want to get some sleep. My whole body is exhausted.”

  “Tom,” Marcia said nicely, interjecting herself into the conversation. “Would you do me a favor and drive over to Neil’s and pick up Benjamin?” She smiled sweetly at the reporter.

  “Oh, sure.” Tom glanced between the two women, sensing immediately that for some reason they wanted him out of the house.

  “You’ll be all right?” he asked halfheartedly.

  “Yes, we’ll be fine.” Marcia walked with Tom to the front door, asking him to take Benjamin back to her house. “I’ll be home within a few minutes, just wait for me.” When she returned to the living room Sara said, “We’re due for another attack, aren’t we?”

  Marcia nodded. “I think so. If I’ve guessed right on the times.” There was fear in the smaller woman’s brown eyes.

  “It may not happen,” Sara said hopefully.

  “Yes, it will,” Marcia answered. She began to pace, to use the length of the living room as her track. She was too frightened to sit, to wait for the attack as if it were a burst of gunfire. Any feeling of perverse pleasure she had gotten from the first orgasms had passed. The last one she had experienced the night before had been violent and painful.

  “Come, sit,” Sara said, “it will be easier.”

  “No, it won’t.”

  “Relax,” she said. “Let your body accept the assault. It will be less traumatizing.”

  Marcia swung around. “It isn’t an orgasm, is it, Sara?”

  Sara hesitated, unsure of what to say. She didn’t know any more than Marcia, but before she could reply, the fierce bolt of pleasure and pain struck her, left her gasping. Sara saw Marcia seize the back of a chair and crumple to her knees, and she herself stumbled forward and hit the rug, her legs weak and rubbery.

  “Sara!” Marcia cried, but Sara could not go to her. Her body trembled and shook, and went wet with sweat as the pulse ran the length of her body, and hit with a massive explosion deep inside. There was no longer any pleasure in the attack. It felt as if her mind was on fire, and Sara gasped with pain, seizing her head, as if to squeeze out the flame.

  Sara pulled herself to her feet and then, resting against the arm of the chair, exclaimed, “God, my head! It feels as if it has been ripped apart.” She leaned over and without warning vomited on the rug. She cried out in pain and humiliation.

  “It’s all right, Sara,” Marcia said reassuringly. She had pulled herself up and into a chair. There was more blood in her nostrils and on her lips, and she could see a smear of blood on Sara’s face, but it wasn’t the blood that frightened her now.

  “It’s getting worse, Sara,” she whispered, “it’s getting more violent.”

  Sara nodded. Her head hurt her too much for her to speak, but she realized, too, that it was getting worse. Next time, she realized, none of them would be able to stand the assault on their minds.

  EIGHTEEN

  The pain woke Peggy, drove her from the deep groggy sleep of the injection, and she stumbled from the bed, staggering and confused as the attack came again, driving a wedge of pain from the base of her neck up through her skull. It felt as if her forehead had caught on fire.

  Reeling with the pain, Peggy pushed through the nursery door and into Amy’s room. Bright, flashing lines of color now zigzagged across her eyes and she could see nothing else. The lights distorted her vision, and suddenly she felt sick. At the doorway, she leaned against the frame and vomited into the room.

  She was sure she was dying. The fierce pain whipped inside her head, knocking her off-balance and sending her spinning across the dark nursery, grabbing for the walls and furniture. Peggy struck the hayrack crib, shoving it into the wall, and hung onto its high sides, then slid to the floor. She could feel blood in her mouth, its taste sweet and warm.

  And then the pain stopped. Peggy leaned against the crib, breathless and bleeding. Her vision had cleared and she looked across the empty nursery, dark in the late afternoon. It was over. The attack was over, and she was safe and alive. She pulled herself up, using the wooden slats of the crib for support and stood, bracing herself against the side of the hayrack.

  Then she saw the girl. The long-legged daughter of the farmer was curled up in the deep, quilted bottom of the hayrack, sucking her thumb and staring off, her dark eyes fathomless.

  “Get out! Get out of there,” Peggy yelled, but the child did not move or even cringe. She lay lost in her own world.

  “What do you want?” Peggy shouted, enraged that the young girl was in Amy’s crib, soiling it with the filth and the stench of her father’s farm. “Get out of this crib! Out of my house!” She grabbed Cindy by the collar of her dress, tried to pull her over the high wooden railing, but Cindy was too heavy, too tall, and she screeched and fought as Peggy tried to wrestle her from the crib.

  Cindy’s strength startled Peggy, but she wouldn’t let go. She had the girl in her grip, and she wrenched at her crazily, bending her body over the railing.

&
nbsp; The child was screeching. Her high, thin-pitched voice shrieked in Peggy’s ear as the girl struggled to free herself from the stranglehold, and her long, thin adolescent arms swung wildly at Peggy, striking her at the back of the head, on her shoulders.

  “Goddamn it!” With one quick, sudden motion, she slapped Cindy hard on the face, snapping the child’s head back. She hated the girl; hated her for being in Amy’s crib, hated her just for being alive. And with both hands, she seized Cindy by the neck, her fingers closing convulsively, squeezing the soft, smooth skin of the child. Peggy pressed harder and her strong hands tightened, as if Cindy’s throat was soft dough to be kneaded.

  Now Cindy lashed out, her fingers flying to Peggy’s face and ripping her skin, drawing blood in fine lines down her puffy cheeks. Then she grabbed Peggy’s hair and twisted her head, knocking the woman off-balance.

  Peggy lost her hold on Cindy’s throat, but when she gained her feet again, she braced her body against the hayrack and, with one enormous effort, yanked Cindy over the high rack and out of the crib.

  They tumbled to the floor, and Cindy broke free and rolled away from the woman, soundlessly on the nursery rug. Then, hurt and exhausted, she crawled into the far corner of the bedroom, drew her legs up, and curled her body into a tight ball. Her high, insistent screeching had stopped, and in the dark nursery corner she began to whimper and whine.

  For a moment, Peggy lay panting on the rug. There was blood on her lips. She could taste it on her tongue, could smell her own vomit in her mouth and on her clothes. Her body hurt. Her arms ached from wrestling Cindy.

  Peggy rolled over and spotted the girl crouched in the far corner of the room. She would have to kill her, just as she had killed her husband. She remembered how she had done it, the knife flashing in the bright light of the basement as the blade sliced through the air. Then the memory went vague and she shook her head, confused and hurting still from the attack. She forced herself to concentrate, to remember where she was and what she had to do.

  Amy needed her. She had to nurse her baby, and Peggy pulled herself up to her knees, staggered to her feet, and went to the crib.

  “Yes, my darling,” Peggy cooed and shaped her arms around the quilted bundle at the bottom of the crib. She slipped her nightgown off her right shoulder and lifted the bundle to her naked breast. “There, darling,” she whispered. “Don’t cry.” She bent forward to kiss the infant’s face and realized the baby was gone, the quilted blanket was empty. She began to cry, and, turning, confused, from the crib, she spotted Cindy crouched in the corner.

  “You!” Peggy screamed. “Where is my baby?”

  She ran to the child, grabbed her long blond hair and jerked Cindy, screeching, from the safe corner. Furiously, she kicked at the girl, and Cindy, still screeching, turned and, grabbing the woman’s leg, bit her left calf, drawing blood with her teeth.

  “Goddamn you!” Peggy bent down and swung wildly, screaming and swearing at Cindy. Out of control, she was intent now on killing the girl.

  Cindy raised her hands to shield her head from the beating. She was screeching at Peggy in the same high, piercing voice, as if she were a tropical bird in a rain forest, and Peggy screamed back at her, shouting, “Where’s Amy? What have you done with my baby?” She kicked once more, and this time Cindy reached out, grabbed Peggy’s leg and sent her sprawling. Instantly Cindy was on top of her.

  Looking up, Peggy saw that Cindy’s vacant eyes were brilliant with flashing colored lights, and that her face was violently changing expressions. Its passive, bored vagueness shifted rapidly, as if she were watching the girl on speeded-up film. Cindy was at once angry, snarling, growling, then suddenly sweet and loving.

  Cindy’s bizarre, explosive reaction startled Peggy, shook her back to reality, and she saw she was in danger. Her own insane rage shifted quickly to fear, and she struggled to get out from between the legs of the child.

  Yet Cindy did not attack. Instead she grabbed her own head with both hands, doubled over with pain, and screeched. The innocent, empty face was distorted and she was sobbing. Cindy screeched again, high, long, and piercing.

  Peggy tried once more to get away, but this time Cindy grabbed her clothes and held on desperately, as if she were drowning.

  “Get away!” Peggy yelled, hitting the child, knocking her over with the force of the blow. Still the young girl clung to Peggy’s nightgown, her nails dug into the nylon folds of the skirt. Peggy yanked the gown down to her waist, then over her hips and pulled free. She rolled over, in a panic to get away from Cindy, to lock herself in her own room.

  Peggy stood, and was struck once more, this time by a violent bolt to her head. The pain went up the back of her head, cut through the soft mass of cerebrum, dividing the hemispheres, and drove deep into the hypothalamus. Peggy could smell the cell tissues and nerve fibers of her brain burning like fall foliage. The smell of death in her nostrils was the last memory of her life.

  Downstairs in his laboratory, Kevin Volt heard the muffled noise from the second floor, and in the early evening, he walked upstairs to check on his wife.

  He was exhausted. After working on the beam for eight hours, he was fatigued to the point of numbness. Still, he had not solved the problem, and by week’s end he had to demonstrate some results.

  On the second floor, at the end of the hall, he stopped, pressed his ear against her doorway, and listened. She would still be sleeping, he reasoned, and he unlocked the bedroom door and pushed it open.

  In the waning light of dusk, Kevin saw immediately that Peggy’s bed was empty. Instantly wary, he swung the door wide and back against the wall, making sure she was not waiting for him behind it. Then he moved into the room, closing and locking the door behind him. The small bolt clicked loudly as he tumbled the lock.

  His shoulder blades pressed against the wood of the door, Kevin surveyed the room. He was wearing a Lacoste tennis shirt, khaki slacks, and his Nike running shoes. The rubbery web soles were soundless on the carpet of their bedroom.

  She had to be here, he told himself. There was no need to worry about her escaping. There was no way she could get away to tell the others. Her little games were even exciting. He looked forward to disciplining her.

  Still he did not start out toward the center of the room, where the twilight cast a blanket of light across the double bed. He kept to the walls, walked toward the built-in closets. He was thinking quickly, deciding where she might hide in the bedroom. There were so few choices: under the bed itself, the bathroom, but, more likely, he guessed, the walk-in closet. She would be crouched there, like a disobedient child in the dark corner, in among her dozens of shoes.

  He had left the plastic syringe and the sedative on the dresser, and in the semidarkness, he broke open the package and filled the syringe, holding it high in one hand, as he easily slid open the door of the closet.

  “Peggy, come out of there!” he demanded, yanking apart the dresses. In the dark closet, the only sound was the swash of clothes on the rack as he pushed them back and forth, searching for his wife. She was not there.

  Kevin looked back at the bedroom and saw the mistake he had made. The door to the nursery was open. Now he was alarmed. He had been locked in his basement laboratory the entire day; Peggy could have been out of the house for hours. He rushed around the bed and to the door of the nursery.

  Dimly, amidst the silhouetted furniture, he made out the crumpled form of his wife, huddled in the oversized crib.

  “Peggy! For Christ’s sake!” He set down the syringe on the dresser and crossed the room, thinking only: she is sicker than I had imagined.

  He went quickly forward and reached down over the high sides to pull her from the crib, and only then did he see that she was naked, her face tucked into her crossed arms, and hidden from sight.

  “Peggy!” He touched her bare skin and it was cold and clammy under his fingers. “Peggy!” He leaned forward and caught the strong, unmistakable odor of excrement.

  Her
shoulders and breasts were smeared with blood. It was caked to her body like copper mud. “Oh, Christ,” he whispered and forced himself to reach out and pull her hair away from her face. The long brown strands had caught in the dried blood and he had to jerk the hair free to see his wife’s face. Peggy’s eyes were open and she looked surprised, as if whatever had struck her had been more startling than painful. The blood had gushed from her nostrils and poured into her gasping mouth, choking her to death in its thick swill.

  And then Kevin realized it was not excrement he smelled, but the soft cell tissues of her cerebrum. Smeared across her face and matted in her hair was the gray matter of Peggy Volt’s brain.

  By turning her head slightly, Sara could see the digital clock on her desk. It was a little after six in the afternoon. She had been sound asleep on the library couch for nearly six hours, and she woke to the thought that she was due for another attack.

  Still, she did not move. The realization of the imminent attack paralyzed her. The last one had been more vicious than ever before. Each one, she now understood, was becoming increasingly violent and destructive, and she wondered how long she could endure them.

  Sara threw off the heavy quilt and stood. Her feet touched the floor as the digital clock changed to six-ten, and she tumbled forward in pain, struck this time from behind. A driving pain drove up through her head, as if her mind had been severed into its two hemispheres. She could no longer see. Bright, violent lines of color zigzagged across her eyes. In a moment, she knew, she would be sick.

  She lay quietly, waiting for Cindy to appear. The child had to be loose, and somewhere near the house, perhaps in the house itself. She should have gone with Tom into the city. Why was she in the Village enduring such pain? Why was she trying to save this girl? And then she was hit again, a driving, blind light spinning through her mind, blinding and stunning her before pushing her over the brink into unconsciousness.

  When she woke, she was still sprawled on the rug, her fingers clutching the deep pile. She rolled over and breathed deeply. She was all right, she realized. She had lived through another attack, and she pulled herself up. Blood stained the pale blue of the rug, and she could feel blood on her face and in her hair.