Second Child (42 page)

Brett and Kent glanced at each other, and Brett’s mouth opened, but then he changed his mind. Grasping Kent’s arm, he backed away from the strange spectacle of Melissa, who seemed not to have noticed them at all. She was moving across the terrace now, heading toward the swimming pool.

Mallory, their presence already all but forgotten, turned away and caught up with Phyllis.

“What’ll we do?” Kent whispered as the bizarre procession moved across the terrace, then turned to follow Melissa around the pool toward the bathhouse.

“Well, I’m sure not leaving,” Brett replied. “Whatever’s going on, I’m gonna see it.”

They moved forward again, staying well behind the group following Melissa, but not letting them out of their sight. “She looks weird,” Brett whispered a moment later as Melissa, her pace slow and stately, turned around the corner of the bathhouse and started toward the garage. “She looks like she’s sleepwalking or something.”

A moment later Melissa came to a stop in front of the old pottingshed. She stood perfectly still for a moment, and then her right hand came up and she pushed the door open.

A few flies were hovering in the air inside the shed. As the door opened, a foul stench drifted from within.

Though the others instinctively drew back from the odor, Melissa seemed not to notice it at all.

She stepped inside.

And once again her right hand came up.

This time the forefinger of her right hand pointed directly at the loose floorboards.

“There,” she said.

The word seemed to hang in the air for a moment, and then Tom Mallory moved inside, knelt down, and pulled up a floorboard.

“Jesus,” he whispered, closing his eyes for a moment against the sight of Tag’s mangled body sprawled out beneath the floor. He paused for a moment, regaining control of his churning emotions, and then stood up.

Ignoring Phyllis and Teri, he went directly to Cora and
put an arm around her shoulder. “It’s Tag,” he said softly. “I’m sorry, Cora. I’m so very sorry.”

He turned and strode toward the house, already mentally organizing his investigation team.

Not, of course, that the team would have much to investigate.

Melissa, after all, had already confessed.

Burt Andrews pulled his BMW up in front of Maplecrest, sliding it into a narrow gap between an ambulance and one of the police cars. There were three black-and-whites there now, plus an assortment of other vehicles, ranging from a dirty Volkswagen with a press sticker on the windshield to a Rolls-Royce Corniche convertible with New York license plates that read simply
LENORE.

Leaving the BMW, he hurried up the steps and walked through the open door into the foyer. For a moment he had an eerie feeling that the house was empty, despite the number of cars in the drive, but then he saw a cluster of people on the terrace behind the house, and more scattered in small groups on the lawn that rolled away from the terrace toward the woods. From where he stood, it appeared that half the population of Secret Cove had already gathered here. He was about to step through the French doors when a voice from the stairs stopped him.

“Dr. Andrews?”

He looked up to see a tall blond woman, clad in a white blouse and brightly colored cotton skirt, gazing down at
him. Despite what had happened here, she had an air about her of perfect control. As she came quickly down the stairs, she extended her hand toward him. “I’m Lenore Van Arsdale,” she said. “I’m a friend of the Holloways.”

Andrews took the proffered hand for a moment, but quickly released it, his eyes automatically shifting to the stairs. “Where are they?”

“Phyllis is in her room,” Lenore Van Arsdale said. “Teri’s with her, and Melissa is in the library, with Dr. Chandler. They wanted to take her somewhere, but when Teri told me about you, I suggested they wait.”

Andrews’s brows lifted a fraction of an inch, a gesture Lenore Van Arsdale didn’t miss. She smiled thinly. “I have a reputation for being indomitable, and today I decided to use it.” The smile faded away. “Melissa seems to be in a state of shock. I’m not sure she has the slightest idea of what’s happened, or even where she is. It seemed to me there was no point in taking her anywhere until you got here.”

Andrews nodded, starting toward the library, and Lenore fell in beside him. “What about Charles?” he asked. “Has anyone gotten hold of him?”

“He’s on his way,” Lenore told him. “He’s the first person I called. He chartered a plane out of LaGuardia. He called a while ago from the airport in Portland. He’s driving out right now.”

“What about Phyllis?” Andrews paused outside the library door and turned to face Lenore.

For just the slightest moment he thought he saw a flicker of hesitation in her eyes, but then they cleared and she shook her head. “She’s upset, of course,” she said. “But I have a feeling that what’s upsetting her most has nothing to do with what’s happened here. She—Well, she keeps asking what people are going to think.” Her voice took on a note of icy disapproval. “I’m afraid her main concern is whether this is going to ruin her socially. But then it’s always been my opinion that she never really cared much about Melissa, or anyone else.”

This time Burt Andrews’s brows arched high. “You don’t like her much, do you?”

Lenore shook her head. “I never have, and I never will. I’m civil to her because I grew up with Charles and I feel
sorry for him. And I feel sorry for Melissa, too.” She sighed heavily. “Maybe—Well, perhaps all of us here should have done more. We knew the pressures Phyllis put on Melissa—”

“Let’s not blame anyone just yet, Mrs. Van Arsdale,” Andrews interjected. “Until we know what happened.”

“But we do know,” Lenore broke in. “Apparently, Melissa confessed.”

Andrews shrugged. “Didn’t you just say she doesn’t seem to know what’s going on?”

For a split second Lenore Van Arsdale’s cool facade seemed to crack, but she recovered herself “You’re right, of course,” she said. Then: “Can I get you anything?”

Andrews shook his head. “I think I’d better have a look at Melissa.” Lenore Van Arsdale lingered for a moment, almost as if she expected to accompany him into the library, but she finally turned away. Andrews let himself into the library, closing the door behind him.

Melissa, still wearing the bloodstained dress, sat stiffly on the edge of the sofa, her hands folded demurely in her lap, her eyes fixed on the fireplace. Fritz Chandler, a silver-haired, slightly overweight man of fifty-odd years whom Burt Andrews had known for better than a decade, heaved himself to his feet as the psychiatrist entered the room.

“Burt,” he said, automatically dropping his voice to the level he habitually used when making rounds at the local clinic. “Let me tell you, I’m glad to see you. I’ve seen some strange things in my life, but this one …” His voice faded away as he shook his head helplessly.

“Have you given her anything?” Andrews asked. “Anything at all?”

“Not a thing. I’ve checked her over, and I’m telling you, Burt, I just don’t get it. Looking at her eyes, I’d have said she was in shock, but she doesn’t show any other symptoms. Pulse, blood pressure, reflexes—everything’s normal. But she hasn’t said a word. She was still outside when I got here, just standing by that goddamn pottingshed, like she was waiting for a bus or something. Jesus …” His eyes, which had been fixed on Melissa, suddenly moved to Burt Andrews. “Have you been out there?” Andrews shook his head. “Well, let me tell you, buddy,
it’s one hell of a mess. It’s not just the Peterson kid, whose head was damned near split in two with a machete. There’s a dead dog, too, which has been rotting in the heat for about a week, near as I can make out.” His eyes shifted back to Melissa. “And she was just standing there, as if she didn’t notice any of it.”

Andrews nodded, his own eyes fixing on Melissa now. “What happened when you brought her in here?” he asked. “Any problems?”

“None. All I had to do was tell her what to do. I know she hears me, and I know she understands what I’m saying, but she hasn’t said a word.”

“All right. Let’s take another look at her.”

He crossed to Melissa and knelt down in front of her. If she even saw him, she gave no sign at all. Her eyes remained fixed on the empty fireplace, her face expressionless.

“Melissa?” Andrews asked. “Melissa, it’s me. Dr. Andrews. Can you hear me?”

There was silence. Andrews took her wrist in his right hand, his fingers feeling for a pulse. He’d expected to find her skin cold and slightly clammy, but instead it felt perfectly natural.

Except that she seemed totally unaware of his touch.

As Chandler had told him, her pulse was perfectly normal.

He examined her quickly, rechecking for the symptoms Chandler had expected to find, but as the older doctor had said, they simply weren’t there. Were it not for the vacant look in her eyes, and her total silence and stillness, Melissa would have appeared perfectly normal.

Except, Andrews began to realize as he studied her face more closely, something else had changed.

He knew he was looking at Melissa’s face; all her features were perfectly recognizable. But somehow, in some subtle way he couldn’t quite put his finger on, those features had changed.

And then he understood.

It wasn’t Melissa he was looking at at all.

“D’Arcy?” he asked. “D’Arcy, can you hear me?”

Melissa’s head swung around and her eyes gazed at him with no sign of recognition at all.

“I’m Dr. Andrews,” he went on. “I’m a friend of Melissa’s. Has she ever told you about me?”

Something changed in Melissa’s eyes. Andrews was almost certain he saw a hint of a smile around the corners of her mouth. But still she said nothing.

“Where is Melissa, D’Arcy? May I talk to her?”

For a moment the girl simply sat staring at him. Then, very slowly, she shook her head and uttered a single word. “Asleep.”

“Melissa’s asleep?” Andrews asked.

Melissa nodded.

“Can you wake her up?”

Melissa shook her head once more. “She doesn’t want to wake up. She never wants to wake up again.”

Andrews took the girl’s hands in his own and leaned closer. “D’Arcy, do you know why she doesn’t want to wake up?”

Melissa smiled. “She’s afraid. She’s done something bad, and she’s afraid she’ll be punished.”

Suddenly the door to the library opened and Charles Holloway strode into the room. When he saw Melissa sitting on the sofa in the bloody dress, he stopped short, the color draining from his face. “M-Melissa?” he breathed.

Andrews stood up quickly, and as Charles started once more toward his daughter, the doctor put out a restraining hand. “Don’t try to talk to her, Charles. There’s something I’ve got to explain to you first.”

Charles started to brush past the psychiatrist, but as his eyes fixed on Melissa’s face, he paused a second time, for he, too, could see the change that had come over Melissa’s features.

He stared at her for a moment, and then his eyes shifted back to Andrews. “What is it?” he asked. “She looks—she looks different.”

“She
is
different, Charles,” Andrews told him gently. “This isn’t Melissa at all. This is D’Arcy.”

Charles Holloway’s eyes widened with shock. “D’Arcy?” he repeated. “What the hell are you trying to say? There isn’t any D’Arcy.”

“But there is,” Andrews explained. “D’Arcy is another personality that Melissa’s been using to protect herself.
And this is she. She says that Melissa’s gone to sleep and doesn’t want to wake up.”

His legs suddenly threatening to collapse beneath him, Charles sank onto one of the wing chairs. “Wh-What does it mean?” he asked, though he had a sick feeling deep inside that he already knew.

“It means we have a lot of work ahead of us,” Andrews told him, resting a sympathetic hand on the distraught man’s shoulder. “Somehow, I’m going to have to find a way to reach Melissa. But if she doesn’t want to be reached …” He fell silent, leaving the words hanging in the air.

Cora Peterson stirred on her bed and heaved herself into a sitting position. Elsie Conners, who’d come over from the Fieldings’ the minute she’d heard what had happened, got up from the chair next to the window and moved to the bed. “Now you just take it easy, Cora,” she said, using the tone of voice she ordinarily reserved for disciplining her employer’s son. “The doctor said you should lie down.”

“Well, I’m not going to lie down, Elsie,” Cora retorted, swinging her feet off the bed and standing up, automatically smoothing the wrinkles out of her dress. “I’ve lost both parents and a husband without coming all apart, and I don’t think Tag would want me to start fallin’ apart now.”

“But the doctor—”

“Doctors don’t always know everything,” Cora groused. “Now, if you want to help me, fine. But if all you’re gonna do is jaw at me, you might just as well get on back to the Fieldings’.” She went into the bathroom she shared with Tag and reached for her hairbrush, but as her eyes fell on Tag’s own brush and comb set—the one she’d given him just last Christmas, with his initials engraved on the back of the brush—she felt a sob rise within her.

Now, none of that, she told herself. Firmly checking her emotions, she ran her brush through her hair, then quickly washed her face. The cold water felt good, and when she was finished, she took a deep breath. For the last hour, while she’d been lying on her bed fighting off the sedative Dr. Chandler had given her, she’d been thinking. And the
more she thought, the more convinced she’d become that something was terribly wrong.

Over and over again she’d tried to imagine Melissa killing Tag, and no matter how she put it together, she couldn’t make herself believe it.

She hadn’t seen Tag yet—someone had taken her away from the pottingshed right after Tom Mallory had told her what he’d found beneath the floorboards. But now, she knew, she had to look at him, no matter how painful it might be for her.

She had to know what had been done to him, had to see for herself the wounds that had been inflicted.

Had to make up her own mind whether Melissa could have done it.

She started down the stairs, with Elsie Conners fluttering after her. “Cora, where are you going? There’s no reason for you—”