Nightshade (29 page)

“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 was 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.

“Pete’s a lot bigger than I am,” Matt finished. “I got lucky, or he would have really pounded me.” His jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed. “He said he was going to kill me.” He spoke the last words so softly they were almost inaudible, but they weren’t lost on Pullman.

“Why would he want to kill you, Matt?” the chief asked, his voice reflecting doubt that Pete Arneson would say such a thing. Pullman’s eyes held Matt’s gaze, and he hoped that when the boy answered — if he answered — his expression might reveal the truth of his words.

A curtain seemed to drop behind Matt’s eyes, and when he spoke, his voice was flat. “He said if I didn’t tell him what I did with Kelly Conroe, he was going to kill me.”

Pullman’s gaze didn’t waver. “That’s not what the Arneson boy says,” he countered, his frustration evident. “He says you jumped him. And he says he’s going to press charges.”

Matt’s eyes widened. “Why would Pete say that? I was just looking for Kelly!”

“Why would you be looking for her out there at this time of night?” Pullman asked.

“Because that’s where we always went,” Matt began, but his mother didn’t let him finish.

“Don’t say anything else, Matt.” Her eyes flashing with anger, she turned on Dan Pullman. “How can you think Pete’s telling the truth? He’s six inches taller than Matt, and must weigh fifty pounds more than he does. And Eric Holmes was with him, wasn’t he?” When Dan didn’t answer immediately, she repeated her question, her voice lashed like a whip. “Wasn’t he?”

“Yes, but — ”

“Two of them! There were two of them, and they’re both bigger than Matt. And they claim he jumped them? Do you think Matt’s an idiot? The way his friends — or rather, the people who were supposed to be his friends — have been treating him, the only thing that makes any sense is what Matt already told you.” She reached for the phone. “I’m calling Trip Wainwright. If you have any more questions you want Matt to answer, I want Trip to be here.”

“Now, just hold on, Joan,” Pullman said. “If Matt’s telling the truth — ”

“The truth? Nobody in this whole town cares about the truth anymore! All they care about is ruining my son’s life. Well, that’s not going to happen, Dan! I’m not going to let it happen!” Furiously, Joan punched the buttons on the phone, and as Dan listened to her talking to the lawyer, he closed the tattered book in which he’d been taking notes.

The truth, he knew, would come out sooner or later, and he wasn’t about to have whatever case might develop ruined by making Matt answer questions without his lawyer present.

A heavy silence fell over the house as the three of them waited for Trip Wainwright’s arrival.

CHAPTER
20

THOUGH JOAN HAPGOOD hadn’t told Trip Wainwright what had brought Dan Pullman to her house that evening, the strain in her voice when she called him on the phone told him how worried she was, and the moment she opened the back door to let him into the kitchen, he could sense the tension. But it wasn’t until he saw the blood on Matt’s clothes that his lawyer’s instincts went onto full alert.

“Did you call Dr. Henderson?” he asked Joan, deliberately not asking what had happened, lest Matt say something he’d rather Dan Pullman not hear.

“It’s no big deal,” Matt protested before his mother could reply. “It’s not my blood anyway. It’s Pete Arneson’s.”

Wainwright sat down at the kitchen table and listened in silence as first Joan and then Pullman recounted what they knew. When both of them were finished, the lawyer turned to Matt, who, alone among the four of them, had remained standing. “Anything you want to add?” he asked.

Matt shook his head. “It’s like I said — I was looking for Kelly, and Pete and Eric jumped me.”

The lawyer shifted his attention back to Pullman. “From what I’ve heard so far, it sounds to me like you should be taking a complaint from Matt, not questioning him.”

The police chief’s eyes narrowed. “The Arneson kid says — ”

“I don’t really care what Pete Arneson said,” Wainwright cut in, certain that if Pullman had any intention of arresting Matt, he already would have done it. “Nor do I care if Eric Holmes swears to it. Given what’s been going on in this town the last few days, I’ve been half expecting someone to accuse Matt of kidnapping the Lindbergh baby, for Christ’s sake! And you know as well as I do that both Eric and Pete are a lot bigger than Matt. So what’s this really all about?”