Comes The Blind Fury Part 22

Startled, Mich.e.l.le nearly lost her balance and had to grab at the railing to keep from falling.

"What?"

"I saw it," Susan said, her eyes glistening with malice. "I saw you deliberately try to trip Annie, and I'm going to tell Miss Hatcher. You'll probably get expelled!" Without waiting for a reply, she hurried inside. Mich.e.l.le, suddenly alone in the schoolyard, paused and looked back at the playground, as if she might somehow see what had really happened. She hadn't done it on purpose. She was sure she hadn't. But she couldn't really remember what had had happened, until Annie Whitmore had screamed. Sighing heavily, she started up the steps once more. happened, until Annie Whitmore had screamed. Sighing heavily, she started up the steps once more. I wish she were dead I wish she were dead, she thought. I wish Susan Peterson were dead! I wish Susan Peterson were dead! As she reached the top of the steps, Mich.e.l.le paused. In her head, she could hear Amanda's voice, very soft, talking to her. As she reached the top of the steps, Mich.e.l.le paused. In her head, she could hear Amanda's voice, very soft, talking to her.

"I'll kill her," Mandy whispered. "If she tells, I'll kill her...."

June settled Jennifer into her ba.s.sinet, carefully tucked a blanket around her, then turned to her easel, and surveyed the seascape. It was nearly finished. Time to start on something else. She opened the closet door, pulled the string that hung from the naked bulb just inside and reached for the closest canvas. Its size didn't suit her, and she went further into the closet, rummaging through the tangle of frames and canvases stacked haphazardly at the back. Finally she saw one that suited her and pulled it loose from the rest.

It wasn't until she had it out in the studio that she realized it wasn't blank.

She stared at the charcoal sketch, frowning. She couldn't remember having done the sketch, and yet she must have. She set the canvas up on the easel, then stepped back and looked at it once more.

It was strange.

The sketch, two nude figures making love, was not bad.

But it was not hers.

The style was wrong, and the subject matter.

Over the years she had sketched dozens of canvases, then, displeased with them, set them aside, intending either to do them over, or clean them off. Invariably, when she came across one of them, she remembered the picture, or at least recognized it as her own-her technique, or a subject that interested her.

But this was different. The strokes were bold, bolder than her own, and more primitive. And yet the figures were good-the proportions were right, and they almost seemed to move on the canvas. But who could have done them?

The work had to be hers. It had to! And yet, she couldn't remember it at all. She was about to clean the canvas, when she changed her mind. Feeling strangely uneasy, she put it back into the closet.

Mich.e.l.le began gathering her books together, keeping her eyes on the floor as the rest of the cla.s.s hurried out into the corridor. The afternoon had been miserable for her: she had waited in agony for the recess period. She was sure Miss Hatcher would want to talk to her. But recess had come and gone, and Miss Hatcher had said nothing. Now the day had pa.s.sed. She got to her feet, picked up her cane, and faced the door.

"Mich.e.l.le? Would you wait a minute please?"

Slowly she turned to the teacher. Miss Hatcher was looking at her, but she didn't seem angry. Instead, she seemed worried.

"Mich.e.l.le, what happened at lunchtime today?"

"Y-you mean with Annie?"

Corinne Hatcher nodded. "I understand there was an accident." Her voice sounded concerned, but not angry. Mich.e.l.le let herself relax a little.

"I turned the rope too fast, I guess. Annie tripped, and the rope hit her leg. But she said she's all right."

"But how did it happen?" Miss Hatcher pressed. Mich.e.l.le wished she knew what Susan Peterson had told her.

"It-It just happened," Mich.e.l.le said helplessly. "I guess I just wasn't paying attention." She paused, then hesitantly asked a question. "What did Susan say?"

"Nothing much. Just that she saw Annie get hit by the rope."

"She said I did it on purpose, didn't she?"

"Why would she say that?" Corinne countered. It was exactly what Susan had had said. said.

"She said I was going to get expelled for it." Mich.e.l.le's voice was quavering, and she was struggling to hold back her tears.

"Well, even if you'd done it on purpose, I don't think we'd expel you for it. Maybe make you write 'I won't trip Annie Whitmore' on the blackboard a hundred times. But since it was an accident, it doesn't seem to require punishment, does it?"

"You mean you believe me?" Mich.e.l.le breathed.

"Of course I do." The last of the tension went out of Mich.e.l.le. Things were going to be all right after all. Now she looked beseechingly at Miss Hatcher.

"Miss Hatcher, why would Susan say I did that on purpose?" she asked.

Because she's a mean, nasty little liar, Corinne thought to herself. "Sometimes some people see things differently from others," she said evenly. "That's why it's important to find out what other people say about things. For instance, Sally Carstairs said you didn't do anything deliberately. She said it was an accident, too."

Mich.e.l.le nodded. "It was was an accident. I wouldn't hurt Annie-I like her. And she likes me." an accident. I wouldn't hurt Annie-I like her. And she likes me."

"Everybody likes you, Mich.e.l.le." Corinne reached out and patted her shoulder affectionately. "Just give everyone a chance, and you'll see."

Mich.e.l.le avoided her eyes. "Can I go now?" she asked.

"Of course. Is your mother picking you up?"

"I can walk." The way Mich.e.l.le said it made Corinne think it was almost a challenge.

"I'm sure you can," she agreed gently. Mich.e.l.le started toward the door, but again Corinne stopped her.

"Mich.e.l.le." The child stopped, but didn't turn around, forcing Corinne to talk to her back. "Mich.e.l.le, what happened to you was an accident, too. You mustn't be angry about it, or blame anybody. It was an accident, just like what happened to Annie today."

"I know." Her voice was dull, the words sounding like an automatic response.

"And the children will get used to you. With the older ones, it will just take a little while, that's all. They'll stop making fun of you."

"Will they?" Mich.e.l.le asked. But she didn't wait for an answer.

By the time she emerged from the school building, the grounds were deserted. Mich.e.l.le limped slowly along, half glad there was no one to see her, half disappointed there was no one to talk to. She had almost expected Sally to be waiting for her. But why should she? Mich.e.l.le reflected. Why should Sally waste her time on a cripple?

She tried to tell herself that what Miss Hatcher had said was true, that soon her cla.s.smates would get used to her limp and find something else to talk about, someone else to laugh at. But as she walked, her hip hurting her more with each step, she knew it wasn't true. She wasn't going to get better-she was going to get worse.

She paused when she got to the bluff road and leaned on her cane for a while, looking at the sea, watching the gulls soar effortlessly on the wind.

She wished she were a bird, so she could fly, too, fly high above the sea, fly away, far away, and never see anybody again. But she couldn't fly, she would never even be able to run again.

She started on, her limp more p.r.o.nounced than ever.

As she pa.s.sed the graveyard, she heard the voice: "Cripple...cripple...cripple!"

Even before she looked, she knew who it was. She stood still, then finally turned to face Susan Peterson.

"Stop that."

"Why?" Susan called, her voice mocking. "What are you going to do about it? Susan called, her voice mocking. "What are you going to do about it? Cripple!" Cripple!"

"You're not supposed to be in the cemetery," Mich.e.l.le said, trying to put down the anger that was rising in her.

"I can go where I want to, and do what I want," Susan taunted. "I'm not gimpy, like some some people are!" people are!"

The words rang in Mich.e.l.le's ears, stinging, hurting, cutting into her. Her anger swelled inside her, and once more the fog began closing in around her.

But now, with the fog, came Amanda.

She could feel Amanda before she heard her, feel her presence next to her, supporting her. And then Mandy began whispering to her.

"Don't let her say things like that," Mandy said. "Make her be quiet. Make her keep her mouth shut!"

Mich.e.l.le started into the cemetery, her feet tangling in the weeds, her cane more a hindrance than a help. But she could feel Mandy beside her, steadying her, urging her on.

And through the fog, she could see Susan Peterson's face, her grin gone, her laughter dying on her lips.

"What are you doing?" she whispered. "Don't you come near me."

Mich.e.l.le kept going, dragging her lame leg, her pain forgotten, striking out with her cane at the brambles and rocks in her path, ignoring Susan's words, listening only to Mandy's encouragements.

Susan began backing away as Mich.e.l.le approached.

"Get away from me," she cried. "Leave me alone. You leave me alone!" You leave me alone!" Her face contorted into a mask of fear, she turned suddenly, and began running away across the graveyard, fleeing into the swirling gray mists. Relentlessly, Mich.e.l.le started after her. Her face contorted into a mask of fear, she turned suddenly, and began running away across the graveyard, fleeing into the swirling gray mists. Relentlessly, Mich.e.l.le started after her.

"Stay here," Amanda whispered to her. "You stay here, and let me do it. I want want to do it..." to do it..."

And then she, too, was gone, and Mich.e.l.le was suddenly alone, standing in the overgrown cemetery, resting on her cane, the damp grayness of the fog drifting around her.

The scream, when it came, was m.u.f.fled, floating through the fog almost softly. Then, once more, there was only silence.

Mich.e.l.le stood still, listening, waiting. When she heard Amanda's voice again, she could feel the strange child close to her once more, almost inside her.

"I did it," Mandy whispered. "I told you I would, and I did."

The words echoing in her head, Mich.e.l.le started slowly homeward. By the time she reached the old house, the sun was s.h.i.+ning brightly again from a clear autumn sky, and the only sound she heard was the crying of the gulls.

CHAPTER 17.

It had been a quiet day at the clinic. The last patient had left, and now the two of them were alone. Josiah produced a bottle of bourbon from his desk drawer and poured two gla.s.ses. This was one of his favorite rituals-an afternoon drink on quiet days.

"Anything new at home?" he asked casually.

"I'm not sure what you mean," Cal replied.

You're a cool one, Carson thought to himself. But it's getting to you. I can see it in your eyes But it's getting to you. I can see it in your eyes. When he spoke, he kept his voice friendly. "I was thinking about Mich.e.l.le. Any new ideas about what's causing that lameness?"

Before Cal could answer, the telephone jangled from the outer office. Carson cursed softly.

"Isn't that the way-the nurse takes off, and the phone rings," he commented. He made no move to answer it, so Cal reached over and picked it up.

"Clinic," he said.

"Is Dr. Carson there?" an agitated voice demanded. Cal was sure he recognized the caller.

"This is Dr. Pendleton, Mrs. Benson. Can I help you?"

"I asked for Dr. Carson," Constance Benson snapped, her irritation amplifying her voice. "Is he there?"

Cal covered the mouthpiece as he handed Josiah the phone. "Constance Benson. She's upset, and she'll only talk to you."

Josiah took the phone. "Constance? What's the problem?"

Cal watched Josiah's face as the old doctor listened to Mrs. Benson. As Carson paled, fear began to build in Cal. "Well be right there," he heard Carson say. "Don't do anything-anything you might try to do could only make things worse." He hung up the phone, and stood up.

"Has something happened to Jeff?"

Carson shook his head. "Susan Peterson. Call an ambulance, and let's get going. I'll tell you about it on the way."

"I hope to G.o.d the ambulance gets here in time," Cal said darkly.

They were speeding out of town, and the tires on his car squealed as he turned south onto the cove road.

"I doubt we'll need it," Carson replied, his face set in grim lines. "If what Constance said is true, there won't be much we can do."

"But what happened?" Cal demanded.

"Susan fell off the cliff. Except that from what Constance said, she didn't exactly fall. Constance said she ran over the edge."

"Ran? You mean-ran?" Cal floundered. What could she have meant? Cal floundered. What could she have meant?

"That's it. Unless I didn't get the story straight. I may not have-she's pretty upset."

Before Carson could tell Cal all of what Constance had said, they arrived at the Bensons'. Constance was waiting for them on the porch, her face pale, her hands nervously wringing at her ap.r.o.n.

"She's on the beach," she called as they were getting out of the car. "Please-hurry! I don't know if-if-" Her voice trailed off helplessly. Josiah started toward her, telling Cal to go down to the beach and see what he could do for Susan Peterson.

There's a path behind the house. It's the fastest way down, and Susan should be about a hundred yards south."

Automatically, Cal's eyes scanned the bluff to the south. "You mean by the graveyard?" he asked.

Josiah nodded. "Don't be surprised by what you find-the bluff drops straight down there."