The Taint (21 page)

SEVENTY-SIX

“Shouldn’t we wait for the other kids?” Debbie Sykes asked, allowing Mrs. Frey to assist her in putting on her sweater.

“You’re the only one coming today.”

“Why?” Little blue eyes peered at her.

“Because of Billy Mitchell.” Amanda went to the closet to get her cloth coat.

“But they’ll find him, won’t they? I know they’re looking for him, ‘cause my dad’s helping them.”

“I’m sure he’ll turn up.” She ushered the child toward the back door.

Debbie hung back, her eyes wide and fearful. “I don’t want to go out there.”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“Something got Billy . . .”

“I won’t let anything hurt you, and we’re not going far.” She avoided meeting the child’s questioning look.

“Where
are
we going?”

“Why, we’re going to help them look for Billy. In the woods.”

Debbie looked around the kitchen, which was filled with morning sunshine. “We’ll be coming back?”

“Of course,” Amanda said, opening the door.

SEVENTY-SEVEN

Jon parked the Bronco on the far side of the church where it would not be visible from the house and waited for Earl. He studied the house, looking for signs of movement behind the starched curtains, finding none.

As soon as Earl arrived they went up to the porch, standing on either side of the door.

“Sure you don’t want me to go round the back?”

Jon shook his head. He pushed the buzzer and heard the bell ring in the recesses of the house. After a minute he lifted the heavy brass knocker and pounded.

A sleepy-eyed Reverend Frey opened the door a minute later, dressed in pajamas and a robe.

“My goodness,” the Reverend said, looking at their serious faces. “What is it?”

“I’d like to speak to your wife,” Jon said.

“Well, come in.” He watched them closely as they passed into the hall and through to the living room. “I must have overslept,” he muttered and left them waiting while he searched.

When he returned his expression was perplexed. “This is very strange; she’s not in the house.” He ran a hand through rumpled hair.

“May we look?”

“By all means.” Martin Frey slumped into a chair and watched with amazement as they proceeded to do so. Jon followed the phone cord along the baseboard, finally looking up.

“The line’s been cut.” Then they were out of the room and searching the dining room and kitchen.

Martin followed behind and stood in the doorway as they checked the pantry and closets until finally the sheriff attempted to open the basement door.

“Do you have a key to this?”

“Well, yes . . .” He crossed to a cabinet and swung it open. There, on the inside of the door, were several keys hung on hooks and clearly labeled. He took down the key to the basement and handed it to Jon.

There was a great deal of blood coagulating on the basement floor and the three men stood, silent, taking it in.

“What does this mean?” Martin asked, looking from one to the other. A look of comprehension came into his eyes. “This is something to do with that boy . . .”

Jon stepped around the puddle of blood and looked around the badly lit room. He took his flashlight and pointed it into the dark corners.

A deep freezer took up most of the space along the west wall and Jon moved in that direction, exchanging a troubled glance with Earl.

Martin caught it. “What?” He looked from the pool of blood at his feet to Jon to the freezer.

Jon stood in front of the freezer and took a deep breath. He lifted the lid.

He let it close almost immediately and turned to face the others. “I’m afraid we found Billy Mitchell.”

“My God,” Martin Frey said, over and over.

Jon nodded to Earl who went out to use the radio to inform dispatch.

“Do you have any idea where she might be?”

“No . . . no . . . how could she . . . do that?”

Jon shook his head.

“My God, that little child . . .”

“We’ve got to find her, Reverend.”

Martin Frey leaned back in the chair, eyes closed tightly, his hands reaching up, entreating his God. “This can’t be happening . . .”

Earl burst through the door. “Jean . . . sent Debbie to school this morning. She must be . . .”

“Damn!” They were gone in an instant.

Martin Frey got up, took the rifle he had never shot a deer with, and followed them out the door.

SEVENTY-EIGHT

“Nathan, why didn’t you tell me about this?” She looked at the angry red swelling on his arm.

“I’m telling you now,” he pointed out and closed his eyes, wincing as her fingers prodded his flesh. “It hurts a little,” he admitted.

“A lot—it’s necrotic in places.”

“Just excise the dead tissue and I’ll take some more antibiotics; I’ll be fine.”

“You think you’re going to work?” Her look was incredulous.

“I’m getting close to something with the organism. I don’t want to lose any time.”

“Would you rather lose your arm? If that infection continues to spread . . .”

“Look at you,” he retaliated. “Yesterday you couldn’t hold your head up and now you’re proclaiming a miracle cure.”

“But I stayed home. And so will you.” She stood and walked to the phone, picking it up and dialing.

“Now who are you calling?”

“Joyce. Maybe you’ll listen to her.”

She found him in his room, dressing slowly and with obvious difficulty, having only limited use of his left arm. She watched in silence for a moment before coming into the room and positioning herself in front of him.

“She’s on her way.”

“What?”

“She told me to tell you that doctors make the worst patients . . .”

“Nurses are always telling me that, and it won’t work. It’s out and out intimidation.”

“Which everyone knows is a doctor’s best weapon.” She looked at him sternly. “You look like hell.”

He sighed. “I feel like it too. All right, I’ll stay home, but only until the swelling goes down.”

“Good.” She kissed his forehead. “And don’t worry; if anything comes up, I’ll give you a call.”

“Thanks for coming right over,” Rachel said as she let Joyce in.

“Is he cooperating?” Joyce removed her cape, revealing a uniform. Catching Rachel’s glance she added: “I thought he might take me more seriously if I dressed the part.”

“Could be. He’s not thrilled about staying home but I’m pretty sure he’s feeling worse than he’ll admit.”

“Considering what’s been happening, I would think being holed up at home would be the best place to be.”

“Why, what’s happened?”

“They found Billy Mitchell’s body in a freezer at Reverend Frey’s home.”

“Oh no! Who do they think . . .”

“Amanda Frey. Now she’s disappeared with the little Sykes girl . . .”

“That sweet quiet woman?”

“They’re scouring the woods for her. I just hope they find them before something happens to the little girl.”

She pulled up in front of the hospital and parked, making sure to lock her car door. Whatever was happening to Amanda Frey, it was obvious that the woman could not be responsible for the other killings. With the woods once again crawling with searchers, there was no telling who might be flushed out of hiding.

In the emergency room, Emma Sutter tried to calm an incoherent Jean Sykes.

“Don’t worry,” Emma said, “they’ll find her, she’ll be all right.”

“She’s just a baby,” the woman moaned. “Not my baby, don’t let her hurt my baby . . .”

“Ssh,” Emma hushed her, stroking her hair and rocking gently. “Everything will be all right.”

SEVENTY-NINE

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Jon stood along the side of the road, high-powered rifle in hand.

Martin Frey nodded. “I am responsible for Amanda.”

“I don’t know about that but I want you to know what might happen out there.”

Groups of men were gathering nearby, all carrying weapons, grim-faced and silent. One was Billy Mitchell’s father.

“Thank you, Sheriff, I know.”

“Do you?” Jon regarded him skeptically. “I want to make sure you understand, the little girl is our first priority. If Mrs. Frey refuses to surrender the child, we might have to use . . . force.”

“I understand, but please, please, let me try to talk to her. I know she’ll listen to me.”

“I can’t promise anything.” He looked at the others. “All right, let’s go.”

They moved through the underbrush and fanned out.

Jon positioned himself to the left of Mitchell, keeping a watch out for signs of cracking. The man was too much in control; his face expressionless, his eyes empty of anger. It wouldn’t take much to put him over the line.

It might just take the sight of Amanda Frey.

He couldn’t take a chance on Mitchell flipping out; a wild shot could hit the girl or start a barrage of fire from the others. He was ready, if necessary, to take Mitchell out.

Frey was another matter.

The minister was probably suffering from the delusion that his wife was going to be receptive to his forgiveness, that a blessing would redeem her. That the Bible could reclaim her soul.

After looking at Billy Mitchell, Jon doubted that she had one.

Amanda Frey could feel them breathing down her neck and she hurried forward, pulling the child behind her. She could feel the burning in her lungs as she gasped for air but she dare not stop.

Debbie had stopped fussing and now followed meekly, white with shock. Amanda had shown her the knife, the edge still smeared with blood. She didn’t tell the child what the knife meant, just held it inches from her face and twisted it slowly, letting the light catch the blade. The child was not dumb.

She was not familiar with this part of the woods; it was farther than she’d ever gone before. She was not sure she could find her way back but somehow she thought she would not be going back.

A place to rest, but where? She now had a piercing pain in her side, like she used to get when she was a child and had run too far too fast.

Pushing, going forward, finding safety. She had always pretended that she was being chased, throwing glances over her shoulder, waiting for the lurking beast to overtake her. Laughing and gasping and finally crying in pain, letting it punish her, for she deserved to be punished.

A willful, disobedient child. Her father had told her. She knew.

Always the guilty glance at her reflection in the mirror, careful not to feel pride or pleasure in her countenance. She had paid the price for vanity; she would not pay again.

She stopped and leaned against a tree, her eyes searching for a place to hide. No one must find her.

The child cried out and she looked in surprise at the small face. Who . . . ?

Birds fluttered through the trees and she forced herself forward, wrenching the child along behind.

A whistle cut through the silence and Jon looked in the direction from which it had come.

Earl waved from about five hundred yards off.

“Look,” Earl said when he got there, leaning down and pointing to footprints in the soft dirt.

Jon nodded. “She’s running; look at the depth of the heel. And . . . Debbie’s with her.” A smaller set of scuff marks to the right.

Mitchell came up then and looked off in the direction the prints were heading. “How far ahead are they?”

“There’s no way to tell . . . Earl and I are going to lead and I want the rest of you to stay back; she’d hear us if we all came together.”

Mitchell opened his mouth to protest but Jon turned and was off.

Martin Frey hurried after him, the others behind.

She could hear the gurgling of a small stream and she headed for it, her mouth unbearably dry.

Sunlight dappled through the trees, catching the fine
dust in its rays, creating a smoky haze. It cushioned her from eyes and she smiled, lifting her face.

The water was cold and clear, running quickly, twirling leaves along, polishing the stones along the bed. She fell to the ground, pulling the child with her, and put her mouth to the water. It numbed her teeth and she stopped drinking to run her tongue across them.

The child moved beside her and she looked through her tangled hair, watching as the tiny mouth tasted the water. Her eyes narrowed. Who was this with her?

Then she lowered her face into the water, letting it wash the sweat and dirt from her skin. It cooled her skin, swirling and pushing hard against her face and she wondered if in time it would polish her features until they were smooth and shiny like the stones.

Reluctantly she drew back, getting up onto her hands and knees, the child’
s
hand still clenched in her own.

And on to her feet.

She could smell the beast coming behind her.

The tracks were no longer going in a straight line but twisting and turning, off to the left and again to the right, the smaller tracks occasionally disappearing, like the child was being lifted off her feet.

“She’s getting tired,” Jon said.

He stopped and motioned for the others to come near. When they had gathered around he spoke:

“It’s not going to be much longer. She’s stumbling and changing direction every few minutes. I want all of you to understand that I’m in charge here, and there will not be a vigilante action. We might be able to talk her into giving up.” He looked at Mitchell. “Anyone who shoots without provocation will be dealt with by the law.”

He stared into each face in turn until satisfied that they understood his position.

“All right.” Another hard look at Mitchell. “Let’s go.”

They had always made the mistake of underestimating her, even as a child.

She had her second wind. Strength flowed through her body and she ran lightly, making no sound. She felt the pull of the child’s weight on her right arm but it did not matter. She was strong enough for them both.

For it was herself that she pulled along behind. The young Amanda.

She held onto herself tightly.

They had never wanted her to have a self; she understood now. She had defied them at first and they had made her pay by introducing her to guilt. Everything that was pleasurable was not allowed. Her needs were of no importance. The only true goodness was in denial.

They had hidden her away.

But she was too clever for them.

Ahead the mountain rose up in the forest and she ran toward it, exulting in the test of her will. Up she ran, slowing a little but feeling the earth draw her, promising safety.

“There she is.” Jon sighted her as she was beginning to climb up the mountainside, dragging Debbie behind. From a distance it was impossible to tell whether the child was injured and they increased their pace, gathering speed as they neared their quarry.

Suddenly, halfway up the mountain, she turned and looked down at them. Jon held his arms up, stopping the others, and stepped forward.

Always, it was the men.

Hounding her, restricting her freedom, denying her the right to be. Her father and now . . . she looked down at the figures below.

She would not be denied.

She felt the breeze blowing her hair and she held her head up. Her heart was pounding in her chest and she could feel the tingle of blood in her hands and feet.

She looked down at the small hand in hers, noticing for the first time that her nails had drawn blood. It saddened her.

The child hung limply, eyes closed, face streaked with dirt and tears, the nose clogged with thick green mucous.

They were calling to her, she could hear their puny voices, raised as always in indignation and condemnation. They held the power, and kept it from her, and she knew that it would be that way. They had taken everything of value that she’d ever had, even as they promised to protect and keep her from harm.

They were beginning to move up the mountainside.

She pulled the child up and held the tiny form to her chest. She could feel the warm breath on her throat and smell the damp hair as it lay against her cheek.

She would not let them have the child.

“What is she doing?” Earl hissed.

Jon could not take his eyes from her. Debbie was not moving—Amanda held her as a shield but the child’s head was angled and her body appeared to be limp.

Martin Frey came up beside him. “Is the little girl alive?”

“I can’t tell. Call to your wife,” he ordered. “Make her put the child down.”

Martin looked up at his wife and nodded.

There were so many of them. They moved like an army of ants, mindless, relying on their instincts, knowing from past experience that she was not equal to their attack.

Was that her father with Martin?

Wasn’t her father dead?

But that was the way they worked. Confuse her, divide her loyalties, demand her allegiance. Force her to bend and threaten to break her if she didn’t.

She had broken their rules by considering herself to be important and fighting to keep whole. That she had splintered under their pressure was not as important as the fact that she had found the child again. The child was what they wanted.

She drew the knife from her coat pocket and held it up for them to see.

“Damn.” Jon raised his rifle to his shoulder.

Ahead of him Martin Frey fell to his knees, voice cracking as he implored his wife to put down the child and throw the knife to the side.

She could no longer hear them, just the rasp of her own breath and behind, coming near, the sound of the beast.

She kissed the child’s head.

And raised the knife higher, the child sliding a few inches down the front of her body. The knife began its descent.

She heard the crack of a rifle.

She knew, then, that she was the beast.

Martin Frey lowered the rifle, deaf from the sound of the gunshot. He watched as the child slipped from Amanda’s grasp and fell in a heap on the ground.

Amanda let the knife fall from her fingers and put her hands to her chest.

Through his tears he thought he saw her smile, and then she slumped to the ground.

Jon knelt beside Debbie Sykes and put his fingers along her neck, feeling for a pulse. Then he looked up.

“She’s alive.” He picked her up, cradling her head, and started down the hill.

He passed Martin Frey who stood, head lowered, sobbing openly.

The others parted as he came near, letting him through. No one spoke and Mitchell was nowhere in sight.

By the time he got back to where they’d parked the vehicles, Debbie’s eyes were fluttering. He placed her on the seat and got into the truck, reaching for the microphone even as he turned the ignition.

He drove with his hand covering hers.