Woman (20 page)

     There was a crazed look on
her face now. "She killed her father when she was twelve," she said.
"The doctor said it was a heart attack but there was nothing wrong with
his heart, he was as strong as a bull. She made his heart stop beating. I know
she did."

     He couldn't speak now. He
could only stare at her as she went on, her voice erratic as she spoke, up in
volume, then falling to a guttural murmur. "Stay away from her," she
said. "She can kill you if she wants to. There's no way to stop her. If
she gets mad, she hurts people. She can kill them if she wants to. I saw her do
it."

     He tried to draw away from
her but her clutching fingers held on rigidly. Go away, he thought. He couldn't
speak though.

     "We were walking one
day and we passed a crippled man asking for money." She went on as though
it was a litany she was compelled to finish. "Ganine felt bad about him
and she said the man should die and not be in pain. After we walked past, I
looked back and the man was dead. I know she did it. I'm afraid she'll kill
me
someday. She'll get mad at me and I'll
die, I
know
it. I want to get
away fromher but I'm afraid to try. So I stay with her and clean and cook and
hope she doesn't hurt me, doesn't kill me. The terrible thing about it is she's
frightened by it. She doesn't know what it is and she can't control it. And
she—"

     She stopped and let his
wrist go. "I have to go," she said. "She might come over
here." She turned to leave, then twisted back.
"Stay
away from her,"
she warned. "Get away
somehow.
Without making her mad.
You're a doctor. You can think of something she'll believe. She's
really like a child, she can be fooled. But stay away from her. If you don't,
you'll never get away. I'm telling you."

     She pulled open the door,
crying out and recoiling at the sight of Barbara. Reacting simultaneously,
Barbara caught her breath and jerked back.

     Then Mrs. Woodbury shoved by
her without a word and moved rapidly down the hall. Barbara watched her go in
astonishment. "Who's that?" she asked.

     "Ganine's mother,"
David told her.

     She flinched at his answer.
"Her
mother?"

     "Yes."

     "What did she
want?7
Barbara asked.

     "I'll tell you later.
Come in," he told her.

     She came in and David shut
the door. Barbara looked pale, in an obvious state of distress. "Liz
here?" she asked.

     
"No."
He looked at her worriedly. "I've been calling you since last
night to ask if you knew where she was."

     "You don't
know?"
she said in sudden distress.

     
"No"
he said. "I went out to get her prescription refilled and when
I got back, she was gone. I've been trying to locate her ever since."

     He put his hand on her arm,
her expression was stricken. "What is it?" he asked.

     "He's dead," she
told him.

     "I know. The hospital
called."

     "The
hospital?"
she looked confused.

     Oh God, he thought. We're
talking about Charlie aren't we? "About Charlie," he said.

     "No, dear God,"
she said, her voice hardly audible.
"He's dead
too?"

     "What do you—?" He
broke off, stunned. "Max is dead?"

     She twitched spasmodically.
"Stroke." She answered. "Last night. There wasn't time to get
him to the hospital."

     
"Oh.
. ."
He looked at her, incredulous.
"Both
of them?" he said.

     Barbara's sob broke with a
terrible sound in her chest. She started crying and David put his arms around
her. He wanted to ask more questions but he already knew the answers and they
all added up to one thing.

     Ganine.

     He led her to the sofa and
helped her sit. "You want a drink?" he asked.

     She shook her head, dazed
expression on her face. David sat beside her and put an arm around her
shoulders.

     "You really don't know
where Liz is?" she said, still crying.

     "No."

     "You've called
everyone?"

     "Of
course."

     Barbara began to tremble.
"We have to find her," she said. "We have to get away. All of
us," she said.

     He stared at her, not
knowing what to respond.

     "You know about
Val," she said.

     He nodded. "We
heard."

     "And Candy."

     
"Candy?"
he said. "I don't—"

     "Her body's covered
with a rash," she said. She made a sickened sound, "Oozing," she
said. "All of it
oozing."

     She's about to crack, he
thought, or she already had.

     "I came to warn you,
David," Barbara said. She tried to stop crying and it made a choking noise
in her throat. "We have to get away. Before it's too late." Another
sobbing laugh contorted her face. "It is too late," she said.
"For Max. For Charlie. For Val. For Candy. For you and me. That girl.She's
evil, David.
Evil!"

     He wanted to tell her
otherwise but didn't have the strength to do it. He was a doctor, he was
supposed to think in rational terms. He couldn't though. He felt submerged in a
nightmare he could not control.

     "Who
is
that girl?" Barbara asked in a
broken, wavering voice. "Where did she come from?"

     "I don't know," he
answered. He felt as helpless as Barbara did.

     "She killed Max—and
Charlie—and maybe Val—
and where is Liz?
Is she dead too?"

     
"Don't
say that,"
he told her in angry resistance.

     "Do you
know?"
she challenged. "She's
disappeared, hasn't she?"

     His shiver was spasmodic as
he remembered what Ganine's mother had said about the kitten.
No,
he ordered his mind, "I'm not
going to lose every bit of intellect I have."

     "The other night,"
said Barbara in a haunted voice. "When Charlie fell down with the blood
coming out of his mouth, I looked at Ganine. So did Liz. The girl looked terrified.
But I could swear that she was smiling too.
Smiling,
David!"

     "Barbara, take it
easy," he said, knowing as he spoke, that his words were futile.

     "From the moment I met
her, I knew there was something wrong about her," Barbara said. "I should
have said something—instead of just sitting and—" she broke off with a
pitiful sob. "And arguing with Max."

     "Barbara, there was
nothing you could—"

     "Do you know what Max
and I were doing when he had the stroke?"

     "Barbara—"

     She ignored him. "We
were fighting," she said.
"Fighting.
I was saying something awful to him. I don't remember what but it
was awful.
Awful.
The last
words he ever heard me say to him were
awful
words,
mean
words.

     Oh, God forgive me!"

     She began to cry again, now
bitterly, her body overcome by helpless sobs. David tightened his arm around
her shoulders but said nothing. There was nothing he
could
say, he realized.

     Both of them jolted as
though shot as the doorbell rang. "It's her," Barbara whispered,
terrified.

     "It might
not
be, Barbara," he tried to
reassure her. "It could be someone from the police."

     "No." She shook
her head, staring toward the door in dread. "It's her, I know it's
her."

She clutched at David's arm as he started to get up.
"Don't
," she said.
"Don't let her in."

     "Barbara, it
could
be Liz."

     She kept shaking her head.
"She wouldn't ring the bell."

     "She left without her
key, Barbara," he said, trying to calm her.

     "
No
," she insisted, her voice
shaking.

     The doorbell rang again and
David pulled away from Barbara's clutching grip and stood. She shrank back
against the sofa as he crossed the room. "No, don't," she pleaded.

     David opened the door.

     It
was
Ganine.

     Barbara made a sound of
childlike horror and pushed up clumsily. Her face a mask of resistance, she
walked unevenly across the room and, without looking at Ganine, moved past her,
trying not to touch her.

     "Barbara?" David
said.

     She made no answer, hurrying
down the hall. Ganine watched her leave, obviously confused by the sight.
"What's wrong with her?" she asked. There was no hint of hypocrisy in
her voice.

     David blocked her way.
"What do you want?" he asked, alarmed by shaking weakness of his
voice.

     "I need to talk to
you," she said.

     "No. No. There's
nothing for us to talk about," he told her. Part of him felt fury at her,
but the rest was cold apprehension. He knew now what she could do and could not
dispel a feeling of anxiety about her being there.

     "Please," she
said, "I
have
to talk to
you. I really do."

     "Ganine, how can
you—?" He broke off, realizing that there was no resisting it, he was
afraid of her. Still. . .She's like a child, he remembered her mother's words.
She can be fooled.

     "What do you want to talk
about?" He felt contemptibly weak for seeking to appease her.

     "Can I come in?"
she asked.