Nightshade (14 page)

The empty eyes that had stared straight at Matt.

The hole in the forehead.

The neat, oddly bloodless hole, that looked as if it had been made with a drill rather than a bullet.

Matt’s hand went to his own forehead, and a whimper of pain escaped his lips as he imagined what it must have been like. But it couldn’t have felt like anything, could it? His dad wouldn’t have even heard the shot, let alone felt the bullet entering his brain.

Alive one second.

Dead the same second.

The image of his stepfather’s face — and the hole puncturing his forehead — had stayed with Matt all day long, and he’d barely been aware of the steady stream of people who passed through the house all afternoon. But he had been acutely aware of some of the people who
hadn’t
been there.

Eric Holmes.

Pete Arneson.

Even Kelly Conroe.

He was pretty sure he knew why Eric and Pete hadn’t come — they were probably still telling the police what had happened. Or at least what they thought had happened. And they thought he’d killed his dad.

But why had Kelly Conroe stayed away? He kept looking for her, kept waiting for her to come in the front door. She wouldn’t even have had to say anything — it would have been enough if she’d just sat with him, and let him hold her hand. But she hadn’t come, and most of the time he’d sat by himself while people came through the house, telling his mother how sorry they were about what had happened.

Some of them had spoken to him, but he could tell by the sound of their voices — and the way they looked at him when they thought he didn’t see them — what they were thinking:
You killed him. You killed our friend.

You killed your dad.

But mostly they didn’t speak to him at all — mostly they just whispered to each other, and looked at him.

Looked at him like he was some kind of strange insect.

But if he didn’t even know what had happened, how could any of them?

The whispering and staring went on and on, and the terrible image of his stepfather’s face hung before his eyes, and a numbing coldness began to fall over him.

By the time he’d finally gone to bed, he knew his life was forever changed.

He felt cold.

He felt alone.

He lay in the darkness, trying to shut it all out, trying to drive the image of his stepfather’s face from his memory, trying to protect himself from the cold by wrapping the blankets tightly around his body. But there was no escape from the image etched in his mind, or the chill that had imbued his soul. Yet finally he’d slept.

And in his sleep, his aunt had come. A whimper emerged from his throat as the memory of his dream — for it had to have been a dream — rose into his consciousness:

The blackness around him receded until everything was suffused with a silvery light. He was still in his bed, still in his room, and it was still night. Dimly, he could hear a clock chiming, but when he tried to count the hours, he lost track, and the chiming went on and on. Then, at the door to the room, a figure appeared. A woman, her long blond hair flowing over her shoulders, a beautiful gown billowing around her body. As the silvery light fell on her face, he recognized it at once.

His aunt.

His aunt Cynthia.

But how could she be here? She was dead, wasn’t she?

She came across the room, her arms stretched out to him.

He lay perfectly still, watching.

She stood by the bed and smiled down at him.

“I’ll take care of you,” she whispered. “I’ll always take care of you.”

The nightgown fell from her body, and a musky perfume filled the air. As Matt breathed deeply of the scent, his aunt reached down and gently pulled back the blankets and the sheet.

Her fingers brushed against the skin of his chest.

The scent grew stronger, and a faint moan drifted from Matt’s lips.

Then his aunt was on the bed, her body pressing close to his, and he could feel the heat of her flesh finally driving the cold from his soul. He drew in his breath, sucking the musky aroma deep into his lungs, and his body began to respond to her touch.

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him.

Her hands moved across his back, caressing him, then moved lower.

And lower still.

He felt her fingers between his legs now, felt the warmth in his body ignite into flames.

“Let me,” his aunt whispered. “Let me love you.”

His heart throbbing, his breath coming in desperate gasps, the strange aroma transporting him, Matt surrendered to the warmth, the comfort — the ecstasy — of the vision that had appeared out of the darkness.

*                                     *                                     *

A DREAM.

It had only been a dream.

But even now, with the morning sun streaming through the window, his body felt spent.

And his skin felt sticky, even though he had showered last night before he went to bed.

Throwing back the covers at last, Matt went into his bathroom and turned on the shower, letting the near-scalding water wash over him. But even though he scrubbed his skin again and again, he couldn’t rid himself of the unclean feeling.

Nor could the steaming water rid him of the cold that had entered his soul.

CHAPTER
9

I CAN’T FACE this. I can’t face any of it.

The thought was already in Joan Hapgood’s mind as she woke from a restless sleep to begin the day that would culminate with her husband’s burial. The dread of it — a dread that had been building for the last two days — held her in bed for a few more minutes, and she found herself checking her body for symptoms — a fever, perhaps, or nausea — anything that would give her a legitimate excuse to avoid facing the day entirely. Like a ten-year-old, she chided herself. Like a little girl who doesn’t want to go to school. A memory came back to her — a memory of being in the fourth grade.

“Just be sick,” Cynthia had told her. It was a Friday morning, and even though Joan had studied the words for the spelling test, she knew that when she was faced with the blank sheet of paper, and Mrs. Van Sant began reading the words to the class, it would be as if she’d never heard them before. “I do it all the time,” Cynthia blithely told her. “It’s easy — all you have to do is act like you’re trying to be brave and really want to go to school, but if you let out a little moan, sort of clutch at your stomach, Mom will send you back to bed. I’ll show you!”

So they went into the kitchen and sat down at the table, and while their mother was facing the stove, Cynthia winked conspiratorially at her. Then, as their mother placed a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon in front of each of them, Cynthia flinched and her hand went to her stomach. “Cynthia?” their mother said, frowning anxiously. “Are you all right?” Joan watched as Cynthia forced a wan smile.

“It’s okay, Mama,” she said, somehow managing to make her voice sound both weak and brave. “I’ll be fine.”

But their mother was already at Cynthia’s side, her wrist pressed gently to Cynthia’s forehead. “I think you’re a little feverish — you go right back to bed, and I’ll bring you a tray.”

As Cynthia trooped out of the kitchen, winking at Joan once more behind their mother’s back, Joan took a deep breath and tried to make her voice as much like Cynthia’s as she could. “I don’t feel very good either, Mother,” she ventured.

Her mother glared at her. “Don’t think you’re going to get away with that with me, young lady! You just want to stay home with your sister.”

That had been the end of it. She’d gone off to school, while Cynthia settled down on the sofa in the living room with a blanket wrapped around her to watch television all day while their mother brought her apple juice and hot tea and whatever else she wanted. But in school that day, when the teacher read the words for the spelling test, Joan managed to get them all right, and until this morning she’d never even thought of playing sick again. In fact, she hadn’t even realized she remembered that long ago day.

So I’ll face it, she decided. I’ll face all of it, and get through it, and I’ll be all right. And Matt will be all right too. But even as she silently reassured herself, Joan knew the reassurance itself reflected her growing worry about Matt. Instead of starting to recover from the terrible trauma of three days ago, it seemed that each day the experience was weighing more heavily on him. Each morning he seemed a bit paler, a bit more nervous, a bit more withdrawn than the day before.

Time, she told herself. We both just need time. After the funeral — after Bill is buried — he’ll start to recover. We both will.

Pulling on her bathrobe, she began her new daily ritual. First she went downstairs to put on a pot of coffee. She never got it quite right, never got it quite the way Bill had always been able to do it, but at least the measuring and the grinding, and the wait while the coffee brewed, gave her a little time to herself before she had to face her mother each morning.

A little time to pray that this would be one of her mother’s good mornings.

On the good mornings, Emily knew where she was and why she was here. She would ask when she could go home again, and want to know what was being done to repair the damage to her house.

And criticize anything and everything Joan might do.

On the bad mornings, she barely recognized Joan at all, seeming lost in some world of the past. On those days, Joan could barely get through to her at all, and though Emily at least didn’t rant at her, it could sometimes take an hour just to get her out of bed and into her clothes. After her mother was dressed, Joan would have to spend most of the day just looking out for her, making certain she didn’t try to start cooking, or wander off for a walk, or simply get lost in the house. The worst so far had been the morning after Bill died, when she’d found her mother on the floor in the guest room, insisting that Cynthia had been there during the night.

Still, given the cruelty of the words Emily was capable of speaking on the “good” days, versus the rambling near-incoherence of the “bad” days, Joan often wondered if the two appellations shouldn’t be reversed. Finally, when the coffee was done and she’d drunk a cup, she knew she could put it off no longer, and made herself go back upstairs.

She tapped softly at her mother’s door, then opened it. “Mother? Are you awake?”

“Did you bring me a cup of coffee?” Emily countered.

No “Good morning,” Joan thought. No “How are you?” And why was she asking for coffee? The last time she had brought her mother a cup of coffee, Emily had refused to touch it.

“I’m not an invalid,” she’d grumbled. “I’ll drink my coffee in the kitchen, like I always do.”

“I’m sorry,” Joan said now. “I’ll bring a cup up right away.” She paused, then: “This is the day of the funeral, Mother.” Her voice trembled as she spoke the words, praying that at least her mother would remember what she was talking about. “We have to decide what you’re going to wear.”

“I’m not going to any funeral,” Emily announced. “I don’t want to go anywhere.”

Not going? What was she talking about? “Don’t you feel well?” Joan asked. “Would you like me to call Dr. Henderson?”

“I’m fine. But I’m not going to sit at that funeral and be stared at.”

“Stared at?” Joan echoed. “What are you talking about? Why would people stare at you?” Even as she asked the question, she knew the answer but despite being forearmed her mother’s next words lashed at her with the sting of a whip.

“Your son murdered him,” Emily said, her eyes fixing balefully on Joan. “Everyone will be staring. They’ll be staring at him, and they’ll be staring at you. But they won’t stare at me, because I won’t be there. I’ll stay here, with Cynthia!”

Joan recoiled, pain and anger churning within her. “That’s not true, Mother. It was just an accident! A stupid hunting accident that wasn’t anybody’s fault! And it certainly wasn’t Matt’s fault!”

“Wasn’t it?” Emily shot back. Her eyes narrowed accusingly. “It was his finger on the trigger, Joan.”

Joan stared at her mother. What was she talking about? Why was she talking as if she’d seen what had happened? “Who told you that?” she asked. “How could anyone have told you that?”

“It’s true,” Emily insisted. “Cynthia told me!”

Joan’s eyes widened in shock, and before she could even think about them, angry words began pouring from her lips: “Cynthia didn’t tell you anything, Mother! She’s dead! She’s been dead for years!”

“She’s not!” Emily cried, pulling herself off the bed and onto her feet. She took an unsteady step toward Joan. “She’s here!” she insisted. “She’s in this house, and she talks to me!”

In the face of her mother’s wrath, Joan backed toward the door. “That’s not true, Mother. You’re just confused . . . you’re just . . .”

“Get out!” Emily spat the words at her daughter. “Just get out and leave me alone.”

Too hurt — too upset — to argue, Joan escaped into the hall, pulling the door closed behind her. Her chest heaving, her pulse racing, she leaned against the door for a moment, willing herself to calm down. She doesn’t know what she’s saying, she insisted to herself. She doesn’t know.

Slowly, she regained control of her emotions, but her mother’s words still echoed in her mind. At least Matt didn’t hear her, she told herself. At least —

But then she opened her eyes, and there, standing in the corridor only ten feet away, was her son. And she knew by the look on his face that she was wrong.

He’d heard what his grandmother had said.

He’d heard it all.

*                                     *                                     *

THE STONE FACADE of the new congregational church on Hartford Street looked almost as dour as the face of its founding minister, Seth Frobisher, whose portrait — darkened with age — hung in the parish hall that adjoined the church. As the car bearing Joan and Matt to Bill Hapgood’s funeral pulled up and stopped in the space reserved for it directly in front of the great double doors — carved from a single tree that had been felled to make way for the building its wood now adorned — Joan almost wished she’d chosen another site for her husband’s memorial service. Yet where else could the funeral have been held? Bill’s family had worshiped in the Congregational Church for more years than the edifice itself had stood. It was Bill’s great-grandfather who had commissioned the doors when the “new” church was constructed seventy years ago to replace the original wooden structure built by Seth Frobisher. Except for a handful of Catholics, nearly everyone in town prayed at the New Congregational Church, was married in it, and was buried in the cemetery that took up the rest of the block upon which it stood. So when it came to Bill’s memorial ceremony, there really hadn’t been a choice at all.