From her breast, and from her throat, blood was gushing, spilling down the woman’s body, dripping to the floor. In contrast to the serene expression on the the painted face, the blood had a grotesque quality to it. It was almost as if the woman didn’t know she was dying.
And scrawled across the picture, in the same crimson as the blood pouring from the dying woman, was one word: Whore!
It was hard for June to look at anything in the picture except for the woman’s face, but as she stared at it, trying to fathom it, she began to realize that the background of the picture was familiar.
It was the studio.
The windows were there, and the ocean beyond. The two figures were on a couch. June slowly moved across the studio until her perspective on the windows and the sea was the same as that on the canvas.
She glanced around, trying to place the couch in the picture. It would have been a little to the left, standing out from the wall about five feet.
She realized where it would have been before she really looked.
The stain.
The ancient stain she had tried so hard to clean up.
She forced herself to look at the spot.
“No!”
She screamed the word, then screamed it again.
“Dear God, no! It’s not happening!”
Across the floor, from no apparent source, a stain was spreading. June stood transfixed, unable to tear her eyes from the spot.
It was blood.
“No!” She uttered the word once more, then, calling on all her willpower, she fled from the studio.
Jennifer, lying in her bassinet — forgotten by her mother — began to cry. Softly at first, then louder.
At the clinic, Josiah Carson and Cal Pendleton sat quietly in their office, waiting for the neurosurgeon to finish his autopsy.
The moment Billy Evans had died, Cal had taken the responsibility for his death upon himself.
“I moved him. I should have waited.”
“You had to move him,” Josiah told him. “You were just too late, that’s all. If you had only gotten to him sooner—” Carson let his voice trail off, let the words sink into the distraught man across from him, sure that Cal was remembering the panic that had gripped him yesterday. Then, when he was sure Cal understood him, he made his voice soothing. “By the time you got to him, the damage was already done. It’s not really your fault, Cal.” Before Cal could make any reply, the phone rang. Carson picked it up. He recognized June Pendleton’s voice, knew she was crying.
Something had happened.
She was sobbing, nearly incoherent, but Josiah understood that she wanted them to come out to the house immediately.
“June, calm down,” he said. “Cal’s right here, with me. We’ll get there as soon as we can.” He paused, then: “June, is anyone hurt?” He listened for a moment, then told her to stay where she was. Cal stared at him as he replaced the receiver on the hook.
“What’s happened? Josiah, what’s happened?”
“I’m not sure,” Carson replied. “June wants us out at the house, right now. Nobody’s hurt, but something’s wrong. Come on.” He stood up, but Cal hesitated.
“What about—?”
“Billy? He’s already dead, Cal. There’s nothing we can do for him. Let’s go.” Cal reached for his coat.
“She didn’t say what was wrong?”
Carson ignored the question and led Cal out of the office.
As they left the clinic, Josiah Carson realized what was happening. It was all about to come together. He didn’t know how, but he was sure. June Pendleton had found something.
Something that was going to explain everything.
Or make it worse.
June had just put the telephone down, and was wondering what to do next, when it suddenly began ringing. He’s not coming, she thought. It’s Cal, and he’s not coming. He’s going to tell me he’s busy, and he can’t come. What am I going to do?
She picked up the phone.
“Cal?”
“June? It’s Corinne Hatcher.”
“Oh.” June’s voice faltered. “I’m sorry. I was just talking to Cal. I–I thought maybe he was calling me back.” “I won’t keep you long. Look, this may sound crazy, but have you seen Lisa Hartwick today? I’m with Tim, and we’re trying to find her. She and some friends — well, it sounds silly, but they were going ghost-hunting.” June had heard nothing except that Corinne was with Tim Hartwick.
“Corinne, can you and Tim come out here?” She tried to keep her voice calm, reasonable. “Something strange has happened.” Corinne was silent for a moment. Then: “Strange? What do you mean?” “I can’t begin to describe it,” June said. “Please come.”
There was an edge of panic in her voice that made Corinne say, “We’ll be right there.” Sally Carstairs and Alison Adams crossed the street and began walking toward the schoolground, intending to take the shortcut across it to Sally’s house on the other side.
“We shouldn’t have left Lisa,” Sally was saying. “When Mom finds out, she’ll be mad.” “There isn’t anything we could have done about it,” Alison replied. “Lisa’s like that — she always does whatever she wants to. If you want to do it too, fine, but if you don’t, tough!” “I thought you liked her.”
Alison shrugged. “She’s okay, I guess. She’s just spoiled.” They walked along in silence for a moment, then a thought occurred to Alison. “I thought you were her friend.” “Whose?”
“Michelle’s. Before she got crippled, I mean.”
“I was.” Sally smiled, remembering how Michelle had been only a few short weeks ago. “She was nice. She probably would have been my best friend. But ever since she fell, she’s sort of stayed by herself.” “Do you think she’s crazy?”
“Of course not,” Sally said. “She’s just — well, she’s just different now.” Alison suddenly stopped short. Her face turned pale. “Sally!” she gasped. “Look!” They were near the swings, and Sally quickly saw what Alison was pointing at.
Annie Whitmore’s body lay twisted in the dirt, one leg still hooked over the seat of the swing.
Jeff Benson’s words rang loudly in Sally’s ears.
Who did you kill today?
She remembered last week, when Michelle had been playing with Annie Whitmore.
Who did you kill today?
She remembered Michelle, walking along the road, coming from town.
Who did you kill today?
Grabbing Alison’s hand, Sally Carstairs began running across the playground — running home, running to tell her mother what had happened.
CHAPTER 27
Michelle walked slowly along the trail at the top of the bluff. A light rain was beginning to fall, and the horizon, indistinct against the steel gray sky, faded away. But Michelle, listening to Amanda’s murmurings, was oblivious to the day.
“Further,” Amanda said. “It was a little further.”
They took a few more steps, and then Amanda stopped, her brow creased, her expression uncertain.
“It’s not right, It’s all changed.” Then: “Over there.” She drew Michelle a few yards farther north and stopped near a large boulder that stood precariously balanced above the beach.
“Here,” Amanda breathed. “It was right here …”
Michelle looked down to the beach below. They were directly above the spot where only a month and a half ago she had picnicked with her friends. At least, they had been her friends at the time.
Now the beach was empty; the tide was out, and the litter of rocks, worn smooth by centuries of flowing water, lay exposed to the threatening afternoon.