Michael, his cheek still stinging from the slap, undressed and then turned off the light. But instead of getting into bed, he went back to the window, staring out into the night, trying to figure out what had happened.
She'd said she believed him, and then she'd slapped him and told him not to talk that way again.
But he hadn't said anything. There'd just been a sudden pain in his head, and then the slap.
Still not sure what had happened, Michael crept into his bed. When Shadow climbed up to join him a moment later, Michael slipped his arms around the big dog, hugging him close…
Him . I saw him. I talked to him.
The words echoed through Janet's mind as she tried to fall asleep, and as she recalled the words, she pictured his face. Her son's clear features had been distorted with rage, his eyes glazed with a fury she'd never seen before.
What had he been talking about? It was Abby he'd insisted he'd seen that night. So who was he?
She turned over and closed her eyes, determined to sleep. And yet, sleep would not come.
It was the house, she decided. The strangeness of it, and the emptiness-that was all; that, and her loneliness.
At last, unable to sleep, Janet left her bed and went back to Michael's room. She found him asleep, his face peaceful, one arm flung carelessly over the edge of the bed, the other encircling Shadow's neck. And yet, as she watched his face, she thought she saw something besides peace.
She thought she saw the same loneliness in Michael's face that she herself was feeling.
Gently easing Shadow aside, Janet crept into the narrow bed and gathered Michael into her arms. And then, with her son's head cradled against her breast, she at last drifted off to sleep.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Charles Potter emerged from his office, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel. He smiled at Janet and Michael Hall, who sat side by side on the sofa in the bay window. "My goodness-the whole family today? We're not having some kind of epidemic, are we? Nobody ever tells me anything around here." Then his eyes came to rest on Janet, and his smile faded into an expression of concern. "It's not you, is it?"
"No, no. I'm fine," Janet assured him. "I haven't even had any morning sickness since Monday. It's Michael. He's been complaining of headaches, and I thought you might have a look at him. I-well, I was thinking of allergies, or something."
Potter sniffed disdainfully. "I don't believe in allergies. It's what incompetent doctors diagnose when they can't find out what's really wrong. An allergy is simply an imbalance in the system, and there are remedies for that. Trace elements, we call 'em. Ever hear of homeopathy?"
Janet shook her head.
"Figured you hadn't. Best kept nonsecret in medicine. It's too cheap, and too easy. No money in homeopathy, which is why I'm so poor, I suppose. Well, come on in." Janet stood up and, with Michael trailing her, followed Potter into his examining room.
"What kind of headaches are these, son?" Potter asked when Michael had stripped off his shirt and perched himself on the edge of the examining table. Janet leaned against Potter's desk.
"I don't know. Kind of like a throbbing, I guess."
Potter frowned. "Where? In the front? The back? All over? Just the temples?"
"The temples mostly, I guess. I don't know."
"Well, let's take a look at a couple of things." He wrapped the sleeve of a sphygmomanometer around Michael's upper arm. A moment later he began pumping air into the sleeve, his eyes on the pressure gauge, his stethoscope plugged into his ears. Finally he nodded, grinning. "Guess what? You're not dead."
"Is his blood pressure normal?" Janet asked.
Potter shrugged. "Within reason. It's a little high, but that's not surprising. Has he had any nosebleeds?"
Janet turned to her son. "Michael?"
"No."
"Well, you might," Potter told him. "If you do, it's nothing to worry about. Just apply a cold compress, and take it easy for a while. Let's have a look at your eyes and ears, then hit your funny bones."
Ten minutes later, Potter finished his examination, and Michael, buttoning up his shirt, went back to the waiting room. Potter seated himself behind his desk and made a few notes, then peeled off his glasses. As he absentmindedly wiped the lenses with his fingers, only worsening their condition, he smiled at Janet, who was now sitting opposite him. "All in all, I'd say there's nothing really wrong with him. The blood pressure's a little high, but as I say, that doesn't surprise me. The stress of his father's death could have brought that on. And it, in turn, could exacerbate a headache. Has he ever complained of headaches before?"
"Nothing serious. The usual. I've always given him aspirin, and that's taken care of it. But these seem to be different, in a strange sort of way."
Potter frowned. "Different? How?"
Janet shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I'm not quite sure how to say it. A while ago he had one of the headaches, and apparently he thinks he saw a ghost that night."
Potter stopped mauling his lenses. "A ghost?" he asked, his voice betraying his skepticism.
Janet's brows arched, and she shrugged her agreement with his doubt. "That's what he told me. And he was quite adamant about it. Except that now he can't quite remember what happened. But he says that while the ghost was around, the headache went away, and after the ghost left, the headache came back. But everything that happened seems to be kind of fuzzy in his mind."
"I'll bet," Potter replied. Then his forehead furrowed in thought. "Where'd all this take place?"
"Near our house," Janet told him. "He was out at the Simpsons', and it happened on his way home."
"Hmmm." Potter leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his midriff. He gazed at the ceiling for a moment, then his eyes came back to Janet. "Maybe I'd better talk to him," he said at last. "Whatever he thinks happened, I'd like to hear it firsthand. Do you mind?"
"Of course not." Janet stood up. "Shall I call him in?"
Potter gave her a conspiratorial smile and a wink. "Why don't you send him in, and let me talk to him alone? Sometimes kids talk more freely if their parents aren't around."
Michael sat stiffly on the edge of his chair, regarding Dr. Potter with suspicious eyes. The familiar throbbing was beginning to play around his temples, but Michael tried to ignore it, concentrating instead on what the doctor was saying.
"You didn't see Abby in the field, did you? You saw something else, and you know what it was you saw. Isn't that right?"
"No," Michael replied. "It was Abby, and she was looking for her children, just like in the story."
Potter shook his head. "No, Michael. There's no such person as Abby Randolph. She died a hundred years ago, and she isn't still here, wandering around looking for anything. So you saw something else. Now, I want you to concentrate very hard and tell me exactly what you saw and where you were."
"I was at our house-"
"Why?" Potter interrupted. "It was the middle of the night, and no one was there. Why did you go there?"
"1 told you. I saw a light in the field, and I wanted to see what it was."
"And you did see what it was, didn't you?" Potter leaned forward, the knuckles of his right hand white as he clutched his glasses. "Didn't you?" he repeated.
Michael's headache worsened, and suddenly his nostrils filled with the strange smoky odor that was becoming as familiar to him as the headaches. And then, as if from far away, he heard the voice.
"He knows."
Michael's eyes widened slightly, and his eyes darted to the corners of the room, even though he knew the voice had come from within his own head. Then the voice, Nathaniel's voice, came again.
"He knows, and he's going to make you tell."