Nightmare Child Page 4

  No sound came from the house. Deep behind the downstairs curtain a faint light burned. The upstairs was utterly dark. She knocked.

  A distant dog announced the night; a car somewhere fishtailed in too-deep snow, straining for traction; and over all lay the fine gray dusk and the fragile light of stars.

  The door opened.

  "Hi," Jeff McCay said. He left the chain lock on. Almost no one in Stoneridge Estates had chain locks on their front doors. It was tacky, redolent of brute life in the city.

  "Hi. I brought a gift for you and your family."

  Dressed in white shirt and dark slacks, smelling of cigarette tobacco and whiskey, handsome Jeff looked as hapless as his wife had lately.

  "I'm afraid you'll have to open the door."

  "Oh. Right."

  Flustered, he first closed the door, ripped back the golden chain along its train, and then flung the door open again. Behind him the living room was lost in gloom. Farther back from the kitchen, came the soft yellow electric glow Diane had seen behind the curtains.

  "Is everything all right?" Diane asked.

  Too quickly, he said, "Everything's fine."

  "I miss seeing Jenny."

  "Well, she's not…quite right yet. You know, the kidnapping and all."

  With that he bent forward and took the towel-wrapped pie from her.

  "My God," he said, sniffing it. "This is wonderful. Homemade?"

  She laughed. "You always did like my pies."

  He held the pie even closer to his nose. His eyes closed; he seemed to be in some sort of sexual ecstasy. "You don't know how good this is."

  She giggled uneasily. "It's just a pie, Jeff."

  "No, what it represents, I mean."

  "What it represents?"

  "Yes." He glanced anxiously over his shoulder. "Normalcy, I mean. Life as we used to live it."

  "You mean your life is…changed now?"

  But before he could answer, a sharp voice that could only be Mindy's called from upstairs, "You're letting a draft in and Jenny's getting cold! Come up here right now, Jeff."

  A draft? All the way upstairs? What a weak excuse to pull Jeff back from her, Diane thought.

  "I'm sorry, I—"

  "I understand," Diane said. She almost said "Mindy and her moods," but that was too presumptuous and bitchy so she stopped herself. "Just tell me one thing, if you can?"

  "If I can."

  "How is Jenny?"

  He began closing the door.

  "Did you hear me, Jeff?"

  He met her eyes briefly. "I'd better not talk about that."

  "But—"

  "Thank you very much for the pie, Diane. But I'd really better be going now."

  And with that the door was abruptly shut, and Diane was left alone like a locked-out child there in the pink-streaked dusk, the dying sun an explosion of purple on the curve of the earth.

  Upstairs, Mindy began shrieking at Jeff. Diane couldn't catch the words but she certainly understood the tone. As if a child was being chastised. Apparently Mindy treated Jeff no better than she used to treat Jenny.

  Shuddering, and not quite knowing why, she set off back to her house, her footsteps crunchy in the snow that the night made dark blue.

  "You haven't seen her in how long?"

  "Not since the day she came back."

  "They never take her out?"

  "Not that I can see."

  "Do they leave her alone?"

  "Occasionally. Hmm," Diane said. "That's something I hadn't thought about."

  "What's that?" Robert Clark asked.

  Three hours after Diane took the pie over to the McCays', she and the Chief of police—though you'd never deduce his occupation from the dark turtleneck sweater and jeans he wore—sat in front, of the fire in Diane's place, discussing her odd visit with Jeff McCay.

  "Why would they leave a young girl like that alone? Especially after all the traumas she had."

  Firelight flashing on various corners of the darkened living room, Clark leaned forward, put another plump white marshmallow on the willow stick he'd whittled earlier, and set the willow on the edge of the grate. "Maybe they have a baby-sitter you don't know about."

  "I don't think so."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I'd see her coming and leaving."

  He smiled. "Weren't you the one who once told me how much she disliked nosy neighbors?"

  She knew the heat on her cheeks was caused by more than the warmth of the fire. She laughed comfortably at herself. "Gosh, I was being a hypocrite when I gave you that speech, wasn't I?"

  "That's all right. We're all hypocrites—and all busybodies. It's just human nature." He set a big, but gentle, hand on her shoulder. "Is it all right to tell you how much I'm enjoying myself?"

  She set her slender hand on his. "It's fine, Robert. In fact, if you hadn't said it, I would have."

  For the next few minutes, they stared without words into the lapping fire, the glowing coals pleasant and reassuring on a night of five degrees below zero, with a wind-chill factor of minus eighteen. No words were necessary. Over the past three months, Diane and Robert had had five dinner dates, Diane being careful to confine their meetings to public places, and to end them all with almost childlike pecks on Robert's cheek. Neither of them wanting to make the same mistakes they had the first few times they'd gone out. Diane told Robert the truth—that she'd been a virgin when she married her husband and, consequently, the prospect of dating, let alone going to bed with anyone, terrified her. Plus, there was the residual guilt to work through. She still was not sure if it was "proper" for her to see anyone less than a year after her husband had been buried. If Robert could accept all her anxieties and hang-ups, then she thought that going out for dinner dates made sense. If he couldn't, if he was going to push as hard as he had the first few times, then there was no sense in seeing each other because they'd both just end up frustrated and hurt. Robert accepted her terms.

  Tonight was the first time she'd ever fixed a meal for them. She'd had first-date flutters all day, worrying about everything from how clean the downstairs bathroom was to the quality of the rump roast she'd bought for tonight. Fortunately, everything had turned out fine thus far.

  "I have to warn you about something," Robert said.

  "Oh?"

  "With the wind blowing and us nice and snug in here, I may be tempted to kiss you."

  She laughed. "Now, that would be a shame, wouldn't it?"

  "You mean, you wouldn't mind?"

  "Not if that's all it is. A kiss."

  "Like this, for instance?" he said.

  And then they moved to embrace each other, the rustle of clothes temporarily louder than the crackle of the fire, the warmth of her vulnerable desire temporarily warmer than even the flames.

  But while she should have been enjoying the kiss, she started worrying about all the things she'd always worried about during high school and college: Was her breath all right? Was she a good kisser? Did she seem interested but not forward?

  Finally, she gave in to the moment, closing her eyes, running her fingers through the back of his hair, and letting him put his tongue in her mouth at least briefly.

  Gently, then, she pushed him away.

  "Now, that's what I'd call a good start." She laughed. "But this is a very slow track."

  "Yes, I seem to remember you saying something about that."

  "And I remember you giving your word about going slow."

  He grinned and leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. "And I remember giving my word, too. This time I don't plan to spoil anything, Diane."

  They spent the next two hours in the den watching a TV movie about an astronaut who came back to earth as an alien time bomb meant to kill the President of the United States. While it was not exactly an original premise, the script and acting were quite good, and Diane and Robert took turns telling each other how much they enjoyed it. Only a few times did Diane think of her husband and how, in much the same w
ay, they'd sat so many nights in the den, similarly enjoying themselves.

  Afterward, in the kitchen, Robert helped Diane load up the dishwasher. In no time the appliance was thrumming and Robert was glancing at his watch.

  "I'd say it's time for a respectable couple without a chaperone to say good-bye for the evening," he said.

  She kissed him on the cheek. "Thanks for keeping your word. I've had a great time."

  "I hope I've earned another invitation."

  "I was just thinking about asking you for Saturday night."

  "How about if I rent a movie?"

  "That sounds great. I hadn't thought of that."

  "Did you ever see Cape Fear, with Robert Mitchum and Gregory Peck?"

  "I don't think so."

  "Then that's what I'll bring. If you like suspense movies, you'll love this one. I promise."

  "Fantastic!" she said, walking him through the house to the front closet, where she gave him his rugged green parka.

  Wrapping his tan wool scarf around his neck, he puckered his lips and pushed his face forward.

  She kissed him quickly and withdrew.

  "I've had a beautiful evening, Robert. I really have."

  "So have I. And I almost hate to ruin it."

  They were at the front door now.

  "Ruin it? How?" she asked.

  "By asking you to do me a little favor."

  "Oh?"

  "Uh-huh." He nodded in the direction of the McCay home. "The next time you see that both Mindy and Jeff are out of the house, call me right away, all right?"

  "Sure, if you'd like. But why?"

  "Because I'm going to go in there and look around."

  "For what?"

  He shrugged. "I'm not sure. But there's something odd going on there. They won't let anybody in anymore—no doctors, no clergy, no social workers—nobody. And they won't let Jenny go to school…or go out anywhere, for that matter." He smiled. "Now, as one busybody to another, aren't you kind of curious about that?"

  She opened the door. It was like throwing back the covering on a deep freeze. Even inside, the temperature seemed to drop by twenty degrees.

  "I'll call you as soon as they both leave the house."

  He took her hand and held it. "Maybe if I get lucky I can even persuade you to go in there with me."

  She nodded. "I'd like that." Her dark eyes became somber. "I'd like to see Jenny again. I miss her."

  He squeezed her hand, and then made his way out into the howling night.

  Diane came awake around two o'clock that morning. At first she assumed it was the wind that had brought her up from the depths of a cozy, warm sleep, a wind furious enough to rattle windows and set chill invisible snakes of cold air slithering across the bedroom floor.

  Beneath her electric blanket Diane stirred, but only grudgingly. She had been dreaming of a summer picnic with Robert Clark at which he had again been a perfect gentleman. She had felt secure, and no longer ashamed to like this first man since her husband.

  And then she'd been awakened.

  Silty white snow sprayed across the windows, making a soft shushing sound; shadows blue and black gave the bedroom a mysterious and somewhat ominous depth, the sort of depth from which the boogeyman of her girlhood might again appear; and moonlight the color of hammered silver was painted thinly across the top pane of the westerly window.

  She did not want to move; she was too comfortable. But then the cry, almost lost on the wind, came again and she remembered now what had awakened her. It hadn't been the wind…

  It had been someone crying out…

  Throwing back the covers, simultaneously reaching for her robe and swinging her feet off the bed to find her slippers, she sprang from bed and rushed to the window.

  This high up, she could see little more than the whipping snow.

  The stair landing between the first and second floors would give her a much better view of the McCay house, from where she now knew the cries were coming.

  Careful of the stairs in the darkness, she reached the landing and pulled back the curtains.

  Her first glimpse of the house made her think that she'd been imagining things. Imposing in the winter night, the McCay home gave the impression of providing warmth and comfort for its occupants during the long winter darkness. No light burned anywhere; no sound, and certainly no cry, came on the currents of the wind. Tucked in for the night, the McCays were obviously asleep.

  From where had the cry come? And had it, in fact, been a cry? Keening wind could certainly play tricks. As she stood there on the landing, gathering her robe around her in the chill, Diane smiled to herself and shook her head. She was so suggestible. She and Robert had spent much of the night speculating on the McCays, and obviously that speculation had planted all sorts of fantastic notions in her head, so that when she heard a particularly savage howl of wind, her mind interpreted it as a human cry.

  Half-amused with herself, Diane took one last look at the darkened McCay house, then shook her head again and started up the stairs to her bedroom.

  She was on the fourth step when she heard, unmistakably this time, a wailing sound that rode the edge of the wind and seemed to permeate every inch of the house.

  Terrified but fascinated, she ran back down the stairs, stumbling once and falling into the wall as she went, dragging herself to the landing window, and pulling back the curtains.

  At first glance, the McCay home still seemed happily bedded down for the night.

  But when the cry came again and her eyes fell to the front yard, she saw that all her worst suspicions had come true.

  Through the veil of blowing snow on this cold, dark night, she saw the white, naked figure of Jeff McCay wandering like a lost and perhaps deranged man toward the street.

  She did not know which was more shocking—his nakedness or the peculiar wailing sound he made, a sound that was still more dominant even than the wind.

  Her next glance was at the front door of the McCay house, to see if Mindy were coming out to get Jeff and bring him back inside.

  But darkness still prevailed inside the house, and if Mindy were coming out to help Jeff, she as yet gave no sign of it.

  Moving on instinct now, Diane started downstairs, careful to keep her hand on the banister. Falling from this height, she could injure herself seriously.

  Walking across the floor to the entranceway closet, Diane found the light switch and clipped it on. From inside the closet, she took one of her own heavy winter coats and a pair of fleece-lined boots. She put them on quickly and then reached back into the closet for one of her husband's overcoats, one of the many items of clothing she'd been planning to give away but that sentiment stopped her from doing.

  In moments, she opened the door and stepped outside. The wind raised her up slightly and slammed her back against the door. Now her own cry could be heard on the wind as she tried to stop herself from being thrown around and slammed once more against the door.

  Ducking her head, angling her entire body against the wind, Diane started her careful, slippery way down from the steps.

  Far ahead, she could see Jeff McCay in the road, still naked, still giving the impression of being crazed, his arms flapping at his sides almost comically.

  Keeping her head down, Diane moved toward the man, through the piles of wet snow that had drifted along her walk, then along the deeper drifts piling up like a wall along the edge of the street. Already, her face felt frozen and chafed; her sinuses were plugged up; and her fingers —how could she have forgotten gloves?—were numb from the cold.

  But she continued forward, pushed back momentarily every few steps by a particularly strong gust of wind.

  She tried calling out to Jeff a few times but it was hopeless. Her calls were lost almost as soon as they left her lips.

  She could see now that he was headed in an easterly direction, apparently toward the brook that traveled on one edge of Stoneridge Estates.

  For a long stretch, thanks to a windbre
ak of poplars, there were no drifts so she could move faster, and cut down the distance between them.

  Shouting for him once again, she pushed through a drift that nearly reached her knees, holding the coat she'd brought for him up against the smashing wind.

  "Jeff! Jeff!" she shouted as she came near him.

  He started to turn. She felt idiotically happy that perhaps he was finally hearing her, after all. But then his head swung around and he continued on his way down to the brook.

  Fighting her way through the snowbanks, she came within ten feet of him, shouting so hard now she could feel her throat grow hoarse. He looked terribly white, almost ghostly in the faint silver moonlight.

  Not until she was within five feet of him did she see what he was going to do—jump the twenty feet to the rocky brook below. In his condition, he would either be very seriously injured or even, perhaps, killed.

  Wading through thigh-deep snow now, with the same torturous progress she would have made wading through thigh-deep water, she reached out to grab the back of his head, but it was no use.

  As she stood by helplessly, Jeff vaulted from the snow, twisted twice in midair, and then fell to the darkness below. He made no sound and the lashing snow muted his collision with the rocky brook.

  Shouting again, Diane dragged herself to the edge of the embankment. Cupping her hands against her eyebrows so she could see down into the brook, she moved as close to the edge as she dared.

  He was there, a broken white figure who had smashed through the ice and was even now probably drowning.

  An animal cry trapped in her throat, Diane began the steep descent, finding only scattered roots and rocks to hang onto.

  Twice, she was afraid she would pitch forward herself, cracking her skull on the rocks below, and join Jeff in his grave.

  By now, her face was so numb it was virtually devoid of feeling. Her eyes watered up, cutting down on her vision even more, and her feet were beginning to callus from the chafing boots. She had not had time to put on socks.

  It took five minutes to reach the unmoving form of Jeff McCay as he lay sprawled across the ice, face down in the water.