Part 11 (2/2)

William Pennerey sat in the thinly-upholstered causeuse positioned in the center of his locked office. His head rested on the oak column in its middle, and he blankly stared at his and his wife's fuzzy likenesses on the daguerreotype hanging over his mahogany desk. He supposed the process would continue to improve; perhaps someday they would replace portraits. Then he thought of his wife, who lay in her room recovering from the attack, and slowly closed his eyes. Flashes of the fallen, writhing girl, of the woman's exploded face, of the black-red circle that had bloomed a violent rose in the center of the father's back filled the darkness behind his eyes. Durham even screwed up the courage to do that last one, he thought. If you could call standing over a hog-tied man and pointing a revolver at his back courage. If that were true, however, what did you call standing there doing nothing?

Thank G.o.d Susan Greer had stormed down Main Street when she had to collect the girl. Thank G.o.d she'd shrieked, told the men to go home and pray that G.o.d wouldn't end their lives in their sleep, and thank G.o.d she'd smacked the preacher straight across his face and had asked him what G.o.d, exactly, he listened to. (Durham had stood there speechless, the print of her hand showing on his cheek.) Thank G.o.d Susan Greer had done something.

2.

Deacon Thomas Fryer had a bad back. When he walked he stooped forward, his thin legs propelling him at an awkward angle like a bird. Even his head pecked as he walked, an affectation noted and laughed at all over Tempest, but one Thomas himself had never noticed. Perhaps this was because anytime he was not seated was a time of agony.

Tonight, Thomas was upset. He'd been informed to prepare the river for baptism, and to wash the robes-but for whom? He'd heard about the unfortunate incident by the inn-and also the grumblings of several who'd been present, men who'd told him it never should have come to two dead bodies-and he'd heard that only a girl had survived it. Could it be that Durham wanted her dragged out to the river the day after he'd had her parents killed?

Deacon Fryer, stood forward and in great pain, pecked his head and mumbled to himself as he came upon the water. ”Isn't right,” he whispered.

3.

She'd smacked the preacher? Montague Greer, fifteen, only son of Susan and Joseph, couldn't believe it. He was stationed in his room, lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling and not believing it. His parents were in their own room-he could hear the low moan of agitated whispering-and the girl was in the drawing room. If she'd spoken since this morning, he hadn't heard it.

Montague didn't think there had ever been an incident quite like this in Tempest, and their mother was knee deep in it. Father was furious. He'd struck her when she'd returned with the girl. But then he'd begun weeping, and this more than anything else was what filled Montague with terror. It wasn't like waiting for Father to cut a switch, wasn't like Mother screaming at him for some foolishness he'd gotten into: this was stark, naked terror.

The boy turned over on his side, slowed his breathing, and tried to make words out of the whispers coming from his parent's room.

Night had long since fallen, but Montague couldn't sleep. He'd lain there for hours, but couldn't seem to drift off.

Today had been terrible. His mother had stood for what she believed in, but their standing in Tempest might never be the same. His father ran the finances of nearly everyone here, including the church's, but Montague wasn't certain that would continue. He supposed it all depended on how many were sympathetic with Mother's stand, and how many wouldn't bow to the tremendous pressure Durham could exert on the community. Furthermore, what if the preacher declared his mother mentally ill? Durham was a firm believer in phrenology and other modern sciences, and besides his position as the caretaker of Tempest's souls, he'd long ago appointed himself overseer of the town's mental hygiene. He thought back to a year ago, when Durham had suspected Arthur Frank's wife of being both a witch and a mental deviant. After a secret trial by ordeal, she'd been found innocent, but at a tremendous cost: upon her return home, all could see that her right ear was missing, her nose wasn't right, and there were whispers of pale scars mapping her body in horrid rivers. And as far as Montague could tell, her mental state had worsened since the trial. He'd often wondered whether or not her trial had more to do with the time she'd stood up during meeting and told the preacher that it was improper to keep the church's finances a secret.

The idea of his mother undergoing such an affair brought him to tears. He rolled over, sat up, wiped his eyes, and set his feet on the floor. He glanced at the door, thought of the girl, of her laying by herself next to the window, hearing the low sounds of the town coming to rest. How alone she must feel.

Montague stood and the floor moaned. He didn't know how far he could get before his mother awoke, she being such a notoriously light sleeper, but he suddenly felt a compulsion to see the girl. He supported half his body's weight on his bed, not letting go until he could reach the doork.n.o.b. When he grabbed it, he strained his ears to listen for his father's heavy breathing, his mother's snoring, but could make out neither. He lifted up on the door as he turned it, pulled it toward him slowly, cautious to keep the hinge from crying out. Finally, he heard the sounds of his parents slumber, smiled, and took a step into the hallway.

The guest room was on the right, his parents directly before him. He pushed on the door. Somehow he kept quiet, and in seconds had entered. Strips of light fell through the window. The girl lay on her back. Silvery hair cascaded over her pillow as if only her head was above water. Then she blinked and he jumped, the wood moaning. He whispered a curse, but heard nothing. His mother wasn't screaming and his father's footsteps weren't thudding ever closer. Everything was still night-silent. So he neared her, and every step revealed another angle of her. She was stunning. Even in the dark.

His stomach felt like liquid, his hands tingled.

He sat on the edge of her bed. ”h.e.l.lo,” he whispered, and he felt stupid. She didn't move. He decided to try again. ”My name's Montague.”

She didn't speak.

Montague sat there staring at her, thinking that here was the most lovely creature he'd ever seen, and then she moved. Her hand swept out from her thighs, was motionless a second, and then it touched his hand. He nearly gasped. His entire body tingled. He felt warm all over.

Chapter Fourteen: The Test.

1.

Two weeks pa.s.sed.

The hospital released Mike Randall. He dropped out of Carmichael and returned home to convalesce. He sought out neither Mary nor Grady.

The students present in the lunchroom that day didn't talk. Either they hadn't seen much during the melee, or they simply didn't care. The word on campus was that Mike had reaped karmic back pay. Regardless, the dean asked Grady to transfer after the semester, and she agreed. f.u.c.k the f.u.c.king f.u.c.kers, she said.

Meanwhile, Mary hadn't felt well for a week. She returned to her room after her afternoon cla.s.ses. Bent over her books, she stumbled past the door, tossed the books on the bed, then crossed the room and sat next to her friend.

Grady moaned, coughed, turned over. Like wings, her eyelids fluttered. ”Mare?”

”I need to hit the books.”

”Oh . . . sure,” said Grady, yawning.

At her desk now, Mary struck the keyboard. The screen saver snapped off and a ghostly light broke over the room. She slid the mouse about, clicking violently at random things.

”What's wrong?” asked Grady.

”I'm . . .uh, I'm . . .”

Grady sat up. ”Spit it out.”

”I'm late.”

After a quick trip to Wal-Mart, Grady drove them back. She kept a hand on Mary's bobbing knee. ”Everything'll be cool, Mare. I've missed before.

Mary stared at her with wide eyes.

”Couple of times. I was working out too hard. Hormones.”

”It would be . . . you know.”

”Mike's? Or Scott's?”

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