Nightshade

  Becky’s fury grew. “How would you be acting if all your friends were treating you the way you’re treating Matt? I thought you were supposed to be his best friend! I thought — ” Before she could finish, Pete Arenson pushed through the hedge that separated the Adams’ backyard from Eric’s. “What do you want?” she demanded. “If you’re going to start talking about Matt, I don’t want to hear it.”

  Pete barely even glanced at her. “You ready?” he asked Eric.

  “Ready for what?” Becky asked.

  “Pete and I are going to look for Kelly,” Eric told her.

  Becky stared at the two boys she had known all her life and wondered why she’d ever wanted to be part of their crowd. But she knew why: because Matt was part of it. But not anymore. All the people Matt thought were his friends had turned their backs on him.

  Suddenly Becky no longer wanted to be part of that group. “Jerks,” she said, not aware that she was speaking out loud.

  “What?” Eric said. “What did you say?”

  Becky flushed with embarrassment, but it quickly vanished. “I said you’re both jerks,” she repeated. “I thought you were Matt’s friends, but you’re not. If you were really his friends, you’d know he couldn’t have done any of the things you think he did. He couldn’t have hurt his dad or his grandmother, and there’s no way he could have done anything to Kelly!”

  Eric Holmes stared balefully at Becky. “We may be jerks,” he said, “but at least we’re not stupid.” A moment later he and Pete Arneson were gone, disappearing into the night.

  CHAPTER 19

  “SO WHERE DO you think he took her?” Eric Holmes asked as Pete Arneson revved the engine of his BMW. Though the car had been new the year before Pete was born, he loved it as much as if it had come off the assembly line last week, and for a moment, listening to the purr of the motor, he ignored Eric’s question.

  “Do you hear a valve clattering?” he asked, cocking his head as he concentrated on the car’s rumble.

  “How would I know what a valve sounds like? I’m gonna be a lawyer, not a mechanic. And if we’re going to go look for Kelly, let’s do it, okay?” As Pete pulled away from the curb, Eric repeated the question he’d asked a moment ago. This time Pete grinned at him, the pale glow of the halogen street lamps making the twisting of his lips look almost cruel.

  “Same place he took his grandmother.”

  “They haven’t even found his grandmother,” Eric reminded his friend, but Pete shrugged the question off.

  “They found her slippers, didn’t they? Just because they didn’t find her body doesn’t mean anything — all they did was look in the stream and under the falls. Matt could have buried her out there, and the grave would be so covered with leaves nobody’d ever notice it.”

  Eric wasn’t so sure. “I heard they took dogs out there. If the dogs didn’t find anything, how come you’re so sure — ”

  “Look, do you want to do this, or not? Because if you don’t, I can take you back to your house and go by myself.”

  And then tell everyone I chickened out, Eric thought. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t go,” he protested. “All I said was no one really knows what happened to Mrs. Moore.”

  Pete shot him a look. “Well, we sure know what happened to Mr. Hapgood, don’t we?” As they passed the last of the streetlights, the night seemed to close around the car, and Eric unconsciously shrank back into the seat, a movement Pete caught out of the corner of his eye. “Going to chicken out?” he mocked.

  “Just drive, okay? We’ll see who chickens out when we get there.”

  Pete pressed hard on the accelerator. The car shot forward, but seconds later he had to brake sharply as they came to the mouth of the narrow dirt road that led to a small parking area the Hapgoods had carved out of the woods two generations earlier. Slowing the car to a crawl, Pete negotiated the ruts and potholes in the worn surface until he came to the deserted parking area at the trailhead of the path that led to the waterfall.

  Pete shut the engine and headlights off, but as the comforting hum of the engine died away and the silence and darkness of the night closed around them, neither boy spoke nor made a move to leave the car. Eric finally broke the silence. “So what’s your plan?” he asked. “Are we just going to sit here all night?”

  Spurred as much by the mocking tone as by the words, Pete Arneson jerked on the handle and pushed his door open. “Maybe you are, but I’m going to take a look around.”

  Eric hesitated, then he got out of the car too.

  For a moment neither boy could see anything, but as their eyes adjusted to the darkness, the moonlight filtering through the branches provided just enough illumination for them to make out the trail and the trees on either side of it. “You coming?” Pete asked as he started down the trail.

  As Pete moved quickly toward the path, Eric just as quickly considered his choices. He could stay by himself in the parking lot, but if he did, he knew that by tomorrow afternoon Pete would tell everyone they knew that he lost his nerve and he’d never live it down. Besides, what if Kelly was out here? What if something actually had happened to her?

  What if someone had killed her? And what if that someone was still out here?

  The idea of being alone in the silence and the darkness was suddenly more frightening than going with Pete, and Eric hurried after his friend before the other boy vanished completely into the darkness.

  They moved quickly along the path, Pete leading the way. They had walked it hundreds of times before, but tonight it seemed longer, and they found themselves pausing every few yards.

  Pausing to peer into the darkness around them.

  Pausing to listen to the sounds of the night.

  But they could see nothing, and all they could hear was the steadily growing roar of the waterfall that lay a quarter of a mile ahead.

  A roar that would grow louder and louder, masking every other sound.

  Though neither of them spoke, the same thoughts came to both of them:

  What if there’s someone else out here?

  What if it’s not Kelly? What if it’s someone else, and he’s right beside us?

  Following us.

  Watching us.

  Pete began moving faster, and Eric matched his pace. The path seemed to grow narrower, the forest denser.

  A faint sound stopped Pete dead in his tracks, and Eric almost bumped into him. “What is it?” he whispered, his words sounding louder than they were. “Why are we stopping?”

  “Will you shut up?” Pete whispered back. “I thought I heard something!”

  A chill passed through Eric, and he scanned the darkness, straining to pierce the night.

  But he could see nothing.

  They stood still, their bodies as tense as those of animals sensing danger, but all they could hear was the roar of the waterfall, and they slowly relaxed. Pete continued along the path, Eric following, but as the trail opened onto the broad shelf of rock that edged the pool, he stopped again, reaching back to stop Eric as well.

  Pete pressed his forefinger to his lips, and as Eric moved closer, Pete pointed toward the waterfall.

  At first Eric saw nothing, but then, almost invisible in the darkness, he barely was able to make out a shadowy figure.

  Someone was standing on the ledge about forty yards away.

  Standing on the ledge, and peering into the pool.

  Every instinct in Eric Holmes told him to turn around and slip back into the protective darkness, then run back to the safety of the car. But as he started to back away, Pete Arneson moved through the grove of trees that edged the rocky shelf.

  Against his own will, Eric found himself following.

  They moved closer, until they were only twenty feet from the figure that was now silhouetted against the cascading waterfall. And then, over the roar of the falls, they heard a voice.

  “Kelly? Kelllly . . .”

  It was a voice they both recognized.

  Matt Moore.


  Pete and Eric looked at each other. Again Eric’s instincts told him to go back to the car, to go back to town, to tell someone what they’d seen — their parents, or even the police. But before he could say anything, Pete spoke up.

  “What did you do with her, Matt?” Matt spun around, and Pete glared balefully at him in the darkness. “What did you do with Kelly?”

  Matt remained frozen where he was, staring at the two figures that had suddenly materialized out of the darkness. But as Pete took a step toward him, he finally recovered. “I didn’t do anything to her,” he said. “I’m looking for her.”

  “You’re lying,” Pete Arneson said. Keeping his eyes on Matt, he gestured to Eric. “Come on. Let’s make him tell us what he did with her.”

  Sensing what was about to happen, Matt darted toward the trail that would lead him home. Pete, anticipating him, countered by moving quickly in the same direction and tackling him. Matt grunted as he went sprawling facedown on the rocky shelf, the cheek around his left eye slamming painfully against the granite. In an instant Pete was on top of him, rolling him over, pinning his arms down.

  “Where is she?” he screamed, his face contorted with rage as he glowered down at the boy who had been his best friend only a few days ago. “What did you do to her? I swear to God, you tell me what you did with Kelly, or I’ll kill you!”

  The look in Pete’s eyes — the cold fury that told him Pete meant what he’d said — galvanized Matt. As adrenaline shot through his system, he jerked his arm free of Pete’s grip, balled his fists and slammed it into the other boy’s face.

  Pete bellowed in surprise, then howled in pain as blood spurted from his smashed nose. Instinctively clutching at his face with both hands, he lost his balance, and Matt, both arms free now, pushed him aside and scrambled to his feet. “I didn’t do anything to her,” he shouted down at Pete, who was cowering on his knees as he tried to stanch the flow of blood streaming down his face and chest. “I was just looking for her!”

  Leaving Eric Holmes to take care of Pete Arneson, Matt turned and fled into the woods.

  * * *

  THOUGH THE WINDOW was tightly closed, the chill of the night outside had crept into the room, binding itself around Joan like an icy sheet. But it wasn’t just the cold that gripped her now. She was aching from the remembered pain of that terrible day more than two decades ago when she had sat before this same mirror as her sister wrapped their mother’s fur around her shoulders then stood by and watched as her mother beat her. The memory of the beating, buried for so long, was as fresh now as if it happened yesterday.

  Joan gazed into the mirror, her finger tracing the curve of her cheekbone where a tiny scar was still barely visible. A scar whose source had until tonight been buried so deep that she hadn’t wondered about it for years.

  “You fell,” Cynthia told her when she was in high school and self-conscious about the scar, though no one else appeared to notice it. “Don’t you remember? You were riding your tricycle, and fell off.”

  But that wasn’t true, and now, staring into the mirror, she saw the face of the little girl she’d once been. But it wasn’t the face Cynthia had created, covering her skin with pale makeup and bright rouge.

  Now she saw the face her mother had created, saw not only the scar, but the terrible purple bruise that had formed around the cut.

  Saw the battered, swollen tissue that had kept her hidden in the house for days, days that, until this moment, she had forgotten about.

  What had happened during those days when the swelling and the bruises kept her from leaving the house?

  What had caused the pain that now — years later — was throbbing in her arms and legs, making her feel as if she’d been tied up for hours?

  Hours, or even days?

  Was it possible? Could her mother have done such a thing? No! No, of course not! She’d been just a little girl!

  Another question rose in her mind: What did she tell her friends when her mother finally let her outside again? Did she tell them she was sick? Or had the story of the tricycle already been invented?

  As Joan gazed into the mirror — gazed with the strange, shocked detachment of a bystander at the scene of a terrible accident — tears began to stream down the face of the child she had once been.

  Tears she could not remember having shed.

  Then, through the blur of the tears, she saw her sister and her mother standing behind her, close together. Cynthia’s arm was curled protectively around Emily’s waist. They were looking at each other, smiling at each other, and even in the mirror Joan could see that they shared some kind of secret, one that she was not a part of.

  As she watched, first her sister and then her mother turned to look at her and laugh.

  The laughter tore at her, and Joan whirled around to face them.

  There was no one there; the room was as empty as when she’d come into it. For a few seconds she felt disoriented, but then her mind slowly cleared. Of course they weren’t there: Cynthia was dead, and her mother had vanished.

  It had all been an illusion. But an illusion so real that she could still feel the pain she must have felt as a child, still recoil from the cruel laughter she had heard in the empty room. “Why?” she whispered, though there was no one there to hear her. Rising from the vanity, she gazed at the portrait of Cynthia. “Why didn’t you tell her the truth?” she asked, her voice strangling on the pain of the memory that had only tonight emerged from the depths of her subconscious, escaping from the grave where she had kept it buried for so many years. “Why did you let her do that to me?”

  Her sister stared coldly back at her.

  “I’m glad you’re dead,” Joan whispered. “I’m glad you’re dead, and I hope you’re burning in hell.”

  The sound of the back door slamming jerked Joan out of her reverie, and she turned her back on the image of her sister. But as she left Cynthia’s room, she heard the whispered sound of her sister’s voice.

  “What if I’m not dead, Joan? What if I’m alive? What if I’m as alive as you are?”

  * * *

  “MATT?” JOAN CALLED as she hurried down the stairs. “Matt, is that you? Where have you — ” The words died abruptly on her lips when she saw her son standing in the door to the kitchen. For a moment she felt what seemed like a wave of déjà vu break over her, but then she realized that it wasn’t déjà vu at all — although Matt’s clothes were once again smeared with blood, this time his left eye was badly swollen and starting to turn an ugly purplish color. “Dear God,” she breathed, steering him into the kitchen. “What happened? Who did this to you?”

  “It’s not that bad,” Matt replied. “It’s no big deal — just a little blood. I’ve been hurt a lot worse at football practice.”

  Joan had wet a dishcloth — the closest thing available — and begun to gently wipe the blood from his face. “For heaven’s sake,” she said, “don’t try to tell me you were at practice.”

  “I was looking for Kelly.”

  “Kelly?” Joan echoed.

  “I thought I knew where she might be,” Matt went on, wincing as his mother touched his bruised eye. “I figured she might have gone down by the falls — that’s where we always go when we just want to talk about something. So I thought if something was wrong, maybe that’s where she went.”

  “But surely Kelly didn’t — ”

  “I didn’t find her. But Pete and Eric found me.”

  “Pete Arneson and Eric Holmes?”

  Matt jerked his head away as the dishcloth touched a small cut below his eye. “They said they were looking for Kelly too.”

  When the phone buzzed, Joan almost dropped the dishcloth, and when it sounded again, she handed the dishcloth to Matt. “Rinse it out, wrap it around some ice, and — ”

  “ — hold it against my eye,” Matt finished for her as she picked up the phone. “It’s not like I’ve never had a black eye before.”

  “Yes, he’s here,” he heard his mother say. She wa
s silent for a moment, then: “I really don’t understand why — ” Another pause, and then, “Of course he’ll be here. We both will.” She hung up as Matt was opening the freezer to get some ice cubes. “That was Dan Pullman,” she said, and there was something in her voice that made Matt turn to look at her. The color had drained from her face, and her eyes seemed to bore into him. “He wants to talk to you.”

  * * *

  A PAIR OF headlights swept across the kitchen window. A moment later Joan opened the back door and the chief of police stepped into the mud room. “Matt’s still here?” he asked without preamble.

  “Of course he is,” Joan replied, her voice cold. “Aside from the fact that you called only two minutes ago, where would he go?”

  The color rose in Pullman’s cheeks, but when he spoke, there was no hint of anger in his voice. “Cell phone. I was only a quarter of a mile away when I called.” His eyes shifted to Matt, who was still standing at the sink, the dishcloth and ice pressed to his left eye. “You get in a fight tonight?” he asked.

  For a moment Matt said nothing, but then he lowered the dishcloth to reveal the cut and the bruise. “I didn’t exactly get it in the fight,” he said. “Pete tackled me, and my face hit the ground hard when I went down. And I’ll bet he’s hurting a lot more than I am. Did I break his nose?”

  Joan’s eyes widened in shock. “Matt!” she gasped. “You didn’t tell me — ”

  Matt wheeled on his mother. “What was I supposed to do?” he demanded. “Just lie there and let him beat the shit out of me?”

  Joan recoiled from her son’s anger, her eyes flicking toward Dan Pullman, who seemed to be studying Matt carefully. “Matt! Don’t talk like — ”

  Pullman didn’t let her finish. “Why don’t you just try to tell me what happened?” he said. As Matt hesitated, glancing at his mother as if seeking her permission to speak, he sighed heavily. It seemed as if everything in Granite Falls had changed. Up until a few days ago, he thought he had the perfect job — for the most part, all he’d ever been called upon to do was supervise a couple of deputies whose main duty was to keep tourists from speeding through town. Now he had one man dead, two people missing, and no idea of what might be going on, except that he’d known everyone involved almost all his life. As Matt recounted what had happened, Pullman wondered if he shouldn’t try to get some help up from Manchester tomorrow. At least a stranger would be able to look at everything objectively.