Sister Angel (6 page)

Wearily, Wanda turned off the stove, then faced Constance. “I called Amos. There are things moving in the house, unquiet things. I want to see him alone. You and Charlie have to go upstairs, mind your own business. I don’t want you here any longer. Isn’t that clear enough? I don’t want either of you here now. If Vernon tries to tell me something, Charlie just gets in the way.” She moved toward the hall, this time resolutely.

In defeat, Constance walked with her. They could not order her not to see Amos, order her to keep her house locked up all night, order her to do anything. They were
nearing the end of the hall, the bright living room open be
fore them, when she stopped abruptly, her fingers digging into Wanda’s arm, pulling her back, her other hand on Wanda’s mouth. Amos was standing in the living room, holding a small gun, looking at Charlie on the couch.

“Just don’t forget it’s here,” Amos was saying, putting the gun in his raincoat pocket, keeping his hand on it. “When she comes out with her nice tea, then we’ll talk.”

Wanda pulled hard against Constance, and Constance tightened her grasp, held her without difficulty. She pulled her back farther into the shadows.

“You don’t think people might talk if you come in and shoot up the company?” Charlie said pleasantly. His voice
was so mild, so easy, he might have been asking about ball
scores.

“You’re a firebug. Angel told me. Wanda and Angel and I are leaving and you can play with fire.” He had turned so that he could see the hallway to the kitchen. “Just sit still until your wife joins us with her tea.”

“Were you afraid Vernon was going to take her away from you?”

Amos moved out of range; they no longer could see him. Constance let go of Wanda and ran to the living room.

He was standing close to Charlie, speaking in a low, in
tense voice. “… her fault. She can’t help it. He was going to investigate us, investigate her, take her away.”

“And you killed him. He just wanted to do something decent for the kid.”

“Decent! You know what she does! She told me about you, how she wanted you. I know what that means.”

“What does it mean?” Wanda asked, holding on to the door frame. “What exactly is it she does?”

For a moment, Amos looked too stunned to speak. He
recovered quickly. “She’s sick. I’ve known it for a long time, but I thought I could cure her. I thought my love
would be enough to make her well. It was a mistake. I was
misguided. I know that now. She needs medical treatment, a hospital, help—”

Suddenly, Constance felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. She doubled over in pain, unable to breathe, and at the same time a red hatred poured through her, wrenching her, numbing her. Things were flying through the air; the masks were flying. She tried to dodge, but
something caught her on the side of the head and she fell,
dazed, far removed from the room.

Charlie threw his arm up before his face to ward off the masks, caught one on his elbow and felt his entire arm go
numb. Hatred and fury blinded him. He grunted and fell to his knees when something smashed into his midsection. The chessboard flew from the table, scattering pieces, and
hit Amos in the back. Amos was screaming hoarsely. “An
gel! For God’s sake, stop it! Sister Angel, be a good girl.
Stop!” It was cut off by a scream, and Charlie could not tell
whose scream it was. Wanda crumpled to the floor.

Constance pulled herself up, got to her knees. Angel was
on the top step, barefoot, dressed in a man’s pajama shirt that reached down to her mid thighs. She was crying the way a child cries, like a three-year-old, open-mouthed, her eyes tightly closed, screaming.

She had to make the child hear her, had to say the right
words, make her hear… . Her words were drowned in screams. An end table flew across the room, hit Amos on the leg. She said the words again and could not even hear
them herself. The entire room was alive, moving, crashing.
She would kill them all, Constance thought distantly.

“I’m coming!” Charlie whispered. “Hold on, baby. I’m
coming!” He tried to move, tripped over the chess table and
felt it jerk out from under his body, saw it fly across the room, crash into the wall. He pulled himself on the carpet, clutching it, trying to drag himself to her.
I’m coming. Honey, don’t scream! Stop screaming! I won’t let him send you back, Angel! I swear it!

Amos was dragging one leg, holding on to the back of a
chair, unable to stand upright, yelling hoarsely to her, calling her name over and over. The chair tilted and he crashed to the floor again. The gun was shaken from his pocket to the floor. Angel kept screaming.

Amos flung up his hand to ward off something; he rolled
and doubled up in pain and his hand closed on the gun. He was moaning. “Stop it, Angel! My God, Angel—” He convulsed with pain again, and this time he lifted the gun and
fired.

“Angel!” he screamed. He dragged himself to the steps,
and she fell down on top of him. Her eyes had opened; she stared unblinking at the ceiling; her long white hair swung
when he lifted her. “Angel!” he cried out again, and pressed her body to him, cradled her like an infant, rocking back and forth with her, crying out her name over and over.

Constance buried her face in her hands and shook with weeping. She felt Charlie’s arms around her and leaned against him blindly.

His eyes were closed tight, his face against her neck. He
stirred first. Wanda, he thought. Someone had to see how badly Wanda was injured. He lifted his head. “I’ll be damned! Constance, look!”

Nothing in the room was disturbed, nothing broken,
nothing out of place. Constance raised her head, reached up
to feel her temple, expecting a lump, a cut, blood. There was nothing. Amos rocked back and forth, sobbing, holding Angel in his arms. Wanda was starting to move.

The police had come and gone, and now the sky was light
ening. Charlie and Constance stood before the wide ex
panse of glass and looked at the lake, unbroken by a ripple.
He had told the police that Amos had come for his daugh
ter, then shot her when she appeared on the top step. Constance and Wanda had repeated the story, adding nothing at
all to it.

“That poor kid,” one of the policemen had said over and
over. Poor kid, Constance echoed in her mind. She never had a chance. She remembered the toy cat, how it had
thrown Angel into a panic as she equated herself with it—soulless, will-less, an automaton, taking orders, never free.
And with powers that never would be studied, never under
stood, never used for something other than deception and destruction. Powers that finally killed her, after making her
life hellish. “She never had a chance,” she whispered.

Charlie tightened his grip on her hand. And Amos, he never had a chance, either, he thought, but did not say it. He would have had to kill father figures for an awfully long time. Constance had not asked what Angel had made him
feel, what she had made him see. She never would ask, and
he never would bring it up, either.

“I wish we were home,” he murmured, yearning for their
comfortable living room, the three raunchy cats, the quiet fire, the silent snow accumulating under the windows. She leaned against him and sighed. “Let’s not go anywhere again for a long, long time.” They went upstairs then, and when they got to their room, they shared one of the twin beds, just to hold each other, just to be close.