All The Pretty Dead Girls (36 page)

“Sweetie,” Joyce said. “Your mother is alive.”

“No,” Sue said, feeling as if someone had just kicked her in the stomach. “My mother and my father were both killed in a car accident when I was a baby.” There was a dull buzzing in her head.

“No, baby.”

“Yes!” Sue struggled to keep her voice steady. The words of Bernadette deSalis echoed in her mind:
Your mother is alive
. “My mother is dead!” Sue shouted.

“No.”

Sue squeezed the older woman’s hand. “Tell me the truth!”

Joyce leaned back against the booth. “That’s what I’m trying to do, sweetie. Your mother is in a mental hospital in western Pennsylvania. It’s called Fair Oaks, in a town called Star of Bethlehem.”

“My mother—in—a—mental hospital.”

Joyce nodded. “It was a terrible thing, what happened to her. You have no idea how many times I’ve blamed myself for what happened—if only I’d done this, if only I’d done that…”

“What—happened to her?”

Joyce took a deep breath. “We were roommates at Wilbourne—Room 323 in Bentley Hall.”

So she had been right. Her mother had lived in the haunted room.

“One night, I was at the library studying. It was very late. If only I’d gone back to the room earlier…”

“Why?”

“Because maybe I could have stopped what happened.”

Sue swallowed hard. “My mother was the girl who was raped in there, wasn’t she?”

Joyce nodded. “When I got back, she was gone. She had wandered off. We looked everywhere for her, the other girls and I and Mrs. Oosterhouse…”

“And she was never found?”

“Oh, yes. She was found. She was missing for several days, and then one day she just turned up back here in New York.” Joyce’s voice shook as she remembered. “Except she was no longer able to speak. She seemed catatonic. Even when she regained some of her voice, she didn’t make any sense. The experience had driven her right out of her mind…”

“Did you see her after that?”

Joyce hesitated. “Not until after…”

“After what?”

“After you were born.”

Suddenly, Sue understood.

Her rapist got her pregnant.

My father was a rapist.

“She’s been in the mental hospital ever since. Your grandparents had every good reason to keep the truth from you. Please believe me. When you go back home after this, don’t judge them. Listen to them. They’ll tell you everything else you need to know.”

“They’d let you—a complete stranger—tell me this about my mother? About myself?”

Joyce smiled. “It was a great honor. I told your mother I was going to tell you. I’m not sure how much she understood, but I told her. I told her you were growing up to be every bit the woman we all hoped you’d be.”

“You still see her?”

Joyce nodded. For just a second, she looked uncomfortable. “Yes, I see her. Every couple of weeks I visit. I’m the only one who does.”

Everything I’ve ever known about my mother was a lie.

“Sue,” Joyce said, the energy returned to her voice, “you have a bright and wonderful future ahead of you.”

There was no car accident, none of that was true…what else have they lied to me about?

“Eat your lunch, sweetie.”

Sue wasn’t hungry. She pushed her plate away from her and started to cry.

“Don’t cry, Sue,” Joyce said as she began nibbling at her salad. “This simply opens the door for everything else.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Go back and talk to your grandparents, sweetie. They’ll tell you everything.” She gazed over at Sue’s Reuben. “Sure you don’t want it? I might take a bite…”

“How is my mother?” Sue choked the words out. Her entire body was numb, her head was still buzzing, her stomach twisting in knots. “Can I see her?”

“Oh, definitely. All in good time.” Joyce smiled. “Really, baby, your grandparents will tell you everything else that you need to know…”

Sue grabbed her coat and stood up. “I—I’ve got to go.”

“At least wrap up your lunch to take with you,” Joyce said.

“You can have it!” She ran out of the diner, not caring whether Joyce had intended to pick up the tab or not.

She didn’t see Joyce take a bite of the Reuben, or pull her cell phone out of her purse. An eyebrow went up as she said into the phone, “It’s done.”

Ginny poured herself a cup of coffee, and resisted the strong urge to add Bailey’s to it. Drinking first thing in the morning wasn’t going to help anything, tempting though it was. Instead, she just added cream and sweetener, drank half of the cup, and refilled it. She looked out the window. It was going to be another gray, drizzly December morning in Hammond, the perfect background for her mood.

You’re being ridiculous. Just think it through and you’ll know what to do—what the right thing to do is.

It was seven in the morning, and she hadn’t slept well. She hadn’t expected to, despite all the wine she’d tossed down the night before. After she’d put Sue to bed, she’d stayed up trying to take her mind off the story she’d just been told, going over her notes and writing out in longhand an outline of what she was going to write the following day.

But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get Sue’s story out of her head. Her mind just kept drifting back to it.

If it hadn’t been for what Father Ortiz told me the day before I left Lebanon, I’d have never believed her for a minute. Hell, I wouldn’t have listened to her for more than a minute. I would have just called her grandparents and been done
with it. Her story is just too damned fantastic. How could it be possible?

That was the worst part, Ginny thought as she sat down at the table. She was starting to believe it
could
be possible.

The rational side of her mind wanted to dismiss Sue’s story as the product of an obviously unstable mind. It was the part of her mind that tried to dismiss all these Virgins sightings—Bernadette deSalis included—as just part of a mass hysteria. Sue’s ramblings were like something out of the Middle Ages, before science had disproved almost everything religion held to be sacred truths. This was what Ginny’s rational mind told her.

But her instinctive mind—the part of her that was raised in the Church, that still remembered her catechism and still kept a strand of never-used rosary beads in her purse, the part that had prayed and lit candles for the life of her son—that part believed. It all came together—Bernadette deSalis’s visions, her prophecies, her declaration about the Antichrist. Father Ortiz’s stunning revelations. And even Deputy Perry Holland’s crazed rant about a cult committing ritualized murders at regular intervals at Wilbourne College…

Father Ortiz was not talking in hypotheticals. Was he preparing me for the day when Sue would show up here?

Last night, she’d drunk a great deal of wine, hoping to anaesthetize her mind enough to stop thinking about it all. But when she’d finally called it a night and gone to bed, she’d tossed and turned all night, unable to turn off her mind. The thoughts just kept coming, nagging at her as she stared at the ceiling. And when she had been finally able to drift off into something approximating sleep, she’d had nightmares. Horrible nightmares of death and destruction, explosions and fire…Ginny woke each time shaking and sweating in her bed, almost
afraid
to go back to sleep.

This can’t be happening. This can’t be…none of this
can be true, there has to be some logical explanation for all of this that has nothing to do with God and the devil.

And what role does Joyce Davenport play in all of this? Why Joyce?

Sue had told her about her meetings with Joyce Davenport. In some ways, that was the oddest part. But at least on that score, Ginny had little reason to disbelieve. Joyce Davenport in league with the devil? Now
that
she could believe.

Is Sue’s story true, or is she mentally unbalanced? Could she somehow be in cahoots with Bernadette to cash in on some kind of mass hysteria?

No. At the very least, Ginny felt certain, Sue believed every word of her story.

Two days before Sue’s arrival, Dean Gregory had called Ginny. When she’d seen the Lebanon area code on her caller ID, she’d thought,
What the hell is he calling me for?
She’d debated not answering, just letting the voice mail pick up, but finally, curiosity got the better of her. Hearing Gregory’s voice was unsettling enough, but the purpose of his call—to let her know that Sue Barlow was missing, had she heard from her?—was even more disturbing.

“Not another girl,” Ginny had said. “What is going on?”

“We’re all very worried, Ginny. Have you heard from her?”

“Of course not,” Ginny said. At that point, she hadn’t gotten any of Sue’s e-mails. “Why would she contact me?”

“She was in one of your classes. She had a final to hand in to you.”

This was true. But Ginny sensed the dean suspected more.

“She is a very special student, with very special needs,” Gregory told her. At the time, Ginny had thought he meant Sue was the granddaughter of an important school benefactor. Now she wondered.

Could it be true? Was the girl sleeping upstairs really—

Ginny heard a bang. She jumped, her heart suddenly pounding in her ears. It was a shutter outside the window, blown loose by the wind. She relaxed in her chair, surprised at how jittery she was.

Dean Gregory…might he be in fact far more nefarious than she’d ever dreamed?

If Ginny had thought she’d put Wilbourne behind her, here it all was, right back with her. So much for her great plan to renew her mind and body and career. Since returning to Hammond two weeks ago, Ginny had structured her life into a healthy daily routine. Every morning, she ate fresh fruit and granola for breakfast before a vigorous workout at the gym. Three days a week, she rode the stationary bicycle; two mornings a week, she sweated through a yoga class. After showering, she worked for several hours, reviewing her notes and writing. The book was coming along even faster than she could have hoped. One night, while having her usual glass of wine, she’d looked at her notes and was amazed at how fast she was writing.
It’s almost like God wants me to write this book.

That thought had come from nowhere. Ginny laughed out loud.
God and His Mother both.
At the rate she was going, she would not only finish by her deadline, she’d beat it by several months.
And the work is good, probably the best I’ve ever done
—and that only motivated her even further.

And then Sue Barlow had shown up at her front door.

If I didn’t know her from class, if she were someone I’d never met before, I would think she was completely deranged.

But is Bernadette deSalis deranged? Is Father Ortiz?

Ginny sat down at her kitchen table and poured herself more coffee.

She hadn’t called Sue’s grandparents. Sue had begged her not to—and so far, she’d acceded to her wishes.
If her story is true—Good Lord, her grandparents are the last people in
the world I should let know anything.
But as a parent—as someone who’d been a parent—Ginny also empathized with the grandparents. They must be worried sick—if Sue’s story wasn’t true.

She rubbed her eyes and sighed.
The truth is, Ginny, if you’d not had that talk with Father Ortiz right before Thanksgiving, you’d think Sue was completely insane. You would have called her grandparents, you would have called the police, you would have called anyone and everyone who could get her the kind of help she needs.

And maybe it was just too easy to believe that there was something evil going on at Wilbourne College. That was a personal reaction that Ginny needed to separate from Sue’s story.

She stood, suddenly motivated, and walked into her office.
Treat Sue’s story,
she told herself,
like it’s a Virgin sighting for your book. Consider it rationally and objectively without emotion.

From the top drawer of her desk she removed a spiral notebook and a pen. Sitting down, she opened the notebook and stared down at the blank page. Across the top she wrote, “IF SHE IS TELLING THE TRUTH.” Ginny sat for a moment, worrying the end of the pen in her mouth. Then she continued writing.

Upstairs, Sue tossed in the bed, a prisoner of terrifying dreams.

Billy was beckoning to her from one side of a bridge. Joyce Davenport stood on the other. The bridge was falling and Sue had only time enough to make a quick sprint to safety before it plunged into the chasm below. But which side was closest? Toward whom should she jump?

She sat up in bed. Where was she?

Dr. Marshall’s house,
she thought.
I made it.

Images from the past few weeks kept rattling through her mind as she tried to get back to sleep.

Wandering around Times Square after her meeting with Joyce…pulling out her cell phone to call Billy…but snapping the phone shut every time.

She dreaded going back to her grandparents’ apartment. Joyce said they had more to tell her—but Sue couldn’t bear to hear any more. Truth was, she was also terrified of what they might say. They had lied to her. She hated them.

At that moment, she didn’t care to see either of them ever again.

All these years, they’ve lied to me about my mother. Why? Why would they do such a thing? To spare me the knowledge
that my father was a rapist? That I’m a bastard, with a mother locked up in a loony bin somewhere? Were they ever going to tell me that she is alive? And why would they let me find out the truth from Joyce Davenport, of all people—that just makes it worse, so much worse. How could they have done this to me?

Sue desperately wanted to believe that Joyce, not her grandparents, was lying, but there was no conceivable reason for Joyce to make up such a story. She’d told Sue to go back to her grandparents, who’d confirm the story.

But Sue was in no mood for confirmations.

She finally got back on the subway around four and headed back to the apartment. The train was packed full of people carrying boxes and bags, their cheeks flushed red from the cold, talking joyously to their friends. People wished each other “Merry Christmas.” But Sue couldn’t look at anyone, couldn’t bring herself to even glance at their faces. She stared out the dark window at the walls of the subway tunnel. She almost missed her stop, jumping through the doors just before they closed.

Back home, she let herself in quietly. She could hear the television in her grandfather’s den—a football game—and she hurried to her room without saying anything. She shut the door soundlessly behind her, and locked it.

One way to find out if Joyce is a big fat liar—and I don’t have to go to Joyce-Davenport-is-a-lying-cunt-dot-com for this.

The Lebanon newspaper had a Web site, but its archive only went back as far as the launch of the site—a few years. Gritting her teeth, Sue went to the Web site for the
Senandaga Reporter,
and clicked on
ARCHIVE SEARCH
. Unaware that she was holding her breath, she entered “Mariclare Barlow” into the archive search engine, and clicked
SEARCH
.

No matches found. Make sure you have the spelling correct.

She swore under her breath.
Idiot, they don’t print the names of rape victims in the newspaper.

She typed in “rape victim Wilbourne College” and clicked again.

Several links came up, and she clicked on the first one.

Sue stared at the computer screen, reading the story over and over. The date was exactly right. Nine months later, Sue was born.

Finally, she swallowed and went back to the list of search results. She clicked on the other links, but nothing much was new there, just a report that the missing student had indeed returned to her parents’ home in New York and that the assailant had not been found. There were promises that he would be found, but then nothing.

The people of Lebanon appeared to forget the story.

Sue decided to print the accounts of her mother’s rape. She closed the browser window as her printer started spitting out pages.

I have seen my mother’s face in the window of her old dorm room, which people think is haunted. I have seen her face, screaming in the window, like she is trying to warn me about something. But warn me about what? And why? How is it possible that I see her face up there if she is still alive?

The printer stopped. Sue grabbed the pages and shoved them into her backpack.

She was getting out of there.

She packed quickly. She knew her grandparents would soon be knocking at her door. They’d want to find out how her meeting with Joyce had gone. They’d want to tell her more things about her life—a life Sue no longer felt was her own. Her fear outweighed her curiosity.

I don’t want to know anymore! I just want to get out of here!

At the last minute, she decided to take the gun her grandfather had given her, wrapping it carefully in cloth and placing it in her backpack.

She listened at her bedroom door. She could hear the television in the den, and her grandmother saying something to her grandfather. She slipped out into the hallway, and made her way to her grandfather’s home office. Once inside, she carefully closed the door behind her and hurried to the wall behind her grandfather’s massive oak desk. She swung the hinged painting of her grandmother aside, and stretched her arm up to turn the combination lock. As she spun the dial, she heard her grandmother’s voice in her head.
Don’t tell your grandfather that I gave you this. There are important papers in here, and what if there’s a fire or something when you’re here and we aren’t?

Sue heard the click, and turned the handle. The door came open.

She reached back for the strongbox.

If ever there’s a fire or something, Sue, and we aren’t here, you’ve got to come in here, open the safe, and take this metal box with you when you get out. It has all of our records in here—birth certificates and so forth, our wills—and they must be rescued. But don’t ever come in here unless
there’s a fire, and you must never let your grandfather know you know the combination. It’ll be our little secret…

Sue opened the strongbox.

Inside were three manila envelopes. One had her name on it. Sue shook the contents out onto the desk top.

A birth certificate. Hers.

Sue picked it up and stared at it.

Mother’s Name: Mariclare Madeleine Barlow.

Father’s Name: Luke Morgenstern.

They knew the rapist’s name?

Luke Morgenstern…

As realization dawned on her, Sue stifled a scream.

“No,” she whispered as she stared at the document she was holding with trembling hands.

The words of Bernadette deSalis came back to her.

Lucifer Morning Star.