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Myra held her French fry in midair. Finally, she said, "My God. What an asshole."

Ellen grinned. "You don’t like Paul, do you?"

"I think he’s a control freak." She bit off the end of her French fry. "Sorry. I had no right to say that."

"Of course you did. You have a right to say whatever you believe."

Myra stuffed the rest of the French fry into her mouth, reached for another,
swished
it round in a pool of ketchup on her plate. "Maybe," she said without conviction, "he’s just afraid for you. I know I was—am—after hearing you on the news last night baiting that maniac."

Ellen soon turned the discussion around to Myra. She was still having the nightmares, she said, and the headaches. She told Ellen about the blackout she’d had in Dr. Hoffman’s office. "It was the first time anything like that’s ever happened to me.
To just lose time like that.
It’s so weird. Dr. Hoffman said it’s my nerves. She gave me a prescription for something I can’t remember. I don’t think
it’s
helping."

Ellen
nodded,
not at all sure it wasn’t something more serious than nerves causing Myra’s problems. "The vacation will help," she said, sounding more convinced than she felt.

When Ellen wasn’t looking, Myra brought the conversation back to Paul. "You’re probably feeling grateful to him for taking care of the funeral the way he did," she said. "But that’s his thing, Ellen. He was in his element. You shouldn’t feel guilty. Carl and I would have been more than happy to do... whatever, but Paul wouldn’t let anyone else in."

"I know," Ellen said, vaguely remembering the cold, condescending way Paul had treated Myra. What kind of friend was she to let that happen? And now he was using her. "Myra, thanks for removing the sense of obligation I was still obviously feeling toward Paul."

"You’re welcome. Do you really think he’ll give up that easily?"

"I don’t know. I hope so. I’ve got more important things to think about." With that, she took a pack of cigarettes from her purse.
Might as well come out of the closet, so to speak.
Watching the look of surprise on Myra’s face, she lit up. "I bought them at the airport coffee shop last night," she said sheepishly, foolishly implying it was the first she’d smoked, as if it mattered. She blew out the match and set it in the foil ashtray. "What can I say?"

"It must be two years since you quit."

"Two and a half, but who’s counting?"

"Well, what the hell if it helps."

"Thanks for not lecturing."

"Never.
And anyway, I’m no one to talk. I’ve been stuffing my face like I’m planning a major hibernation. I’ve put on a good ten pounds."

"It doesn’t show."

"Yeah, right."

"Well, maybe a little... Tell me about the nightmares."

"Well, they keep changing. Last night I dreamed I was back in the home and Miss Baddie had me tied to a chair, all 200 pounds of me, and she was gleefully chopping off my hair. I could see great chunks of it falling on the green tile. I kept trying to catch it. It was awful, just so damned real, Ellen. I was half afraid to look in the mirror when I got up."

Ellen could see the fear behind her eyes now, a haunting fear. She knew only too well how real dreams could seem. But this was more than just a dream for Myra. It was a memory. A memory of terrible cruelty inflicted on her in childhood, one that had etched itself forever in her mind.

"I guess I’m doomed to relive it into all eternity, huh?" Myra said, as if reading Ellen’s thoughts. "Funny, though, I haven’t for a long time. Though I do have to admit, I’ve often wondered whatever happened to that miserable old witch since they closed the place down. Did Gail ever talk about her? I mean, I know she went there long after I was out, but..."

Ellen didn’t mind answering the question, though she could hear in Myra’s voice she was sorry she’d asked it. "No, we hardly ever spoke about the six months she spent in the Evansdale Home. She wanted to put it behind her, and that was fine with me. I didn’t like thinking about it, either."

Gail had ended up in the home because of a traffic accident. Myra was there because of her father, who, after molesting her from the time she was eight years old, had gone to his grave denying everything. She knew that that was the hardest for Myra.
That,
and the fact of her mother calling her a dirty-minded little troublemaker when she finally did tell. It was why she’d kept running away, and why, when her own body was the only place left to hide, she’d kept on eating.

"Would you girls like this paper?" the man in the business suit said, smiling down at them, setting the folded paper on the table next to them. They thanked him, returning the smile.

"How old would she have been, then?" Ellen
asked,
when he was gone.

"Who?"

"Miss Baddie. Isn’t that what you called her?"

"Oh. Yeah. I don’t really know. She always looked old to me. You know, like people do when you’re a kid. Yet, in another way, she seemed ageless, like that guy in Oscar Wilde’s novel."

"Dorian Gray," Ellen offered. "He made a pact with the devil to remain young, while his picture aged."

"Sounds about right."

Ellen grinned. "Well, maybe she’s long dead by now. What was her name? Do you remember?"

"We were always instructed to call her Miss Mattie." She frowned. "Matilda, I think. Yeah, it was probably short for Matilda. Her last name was Chapman...
Shipley... something like that.
Bald as an eagle, she was. I remember she always wore a red wig, one of those cheap jobs. One day, we were all at supper, seated around the long table in the dining hall, and one of the kids tore it off. The look on Miss Baddie’s face was enough to
jell
your blood. We were all afraid to breathe. Do you know how hard it is for a bunch of kids who are halfway hysterical anyway not to go nuts laughing at a sight like that?"

"But you didn’t."

"You got that right."

"What happened to that girl?" Ellen asked quietly, unable to stop herself from wondering what atrocities Gail may have suffered in that place.

"One of the dykes dragged her away kicking and screaming. She was a much mellower girl when I saw her again."

They didn’t speak for several seconds. Then Ellen said, "People like that are bound straight for hell!"

"Or are sent from there to put in an apprenticeship for officer’s training," Myra quipped. "We didn’t call her Miss Baddie for nothing.
And only then behind her back, of course.
She was one calculating woman. A devil when only we girls were there for witness, but on visiting days, or when someone from the welfare department showed up, God, Ellen, even you would have believed it; she was Mother Teresa herself."

"Didn’t anyone ever complain?"

"Are you kidding? We knew better than to threaten or undermine Miss Baddie’s position in the community in any way." Myra tore a strip off her napkin, dropped it into the ashtray. "Anyway, who believes a kid?"

Hearing the pain in the question, Ellen knew they were no longer talking just about the home.

"Things are a lot better today," she said gently.

"Are they?"

"Yes, I—oh, I don’t know, Myra. I like to think so."

"You know, thinking about Miss Baddie," Myra said, gazing past Ellen, at that distant, awful time, "I can only recall one foster mother who even came close to her. Most of them were okay, you know? They really tried. But I’d gotten to be quite a piece of work myself by then." She suddenly snapped herself back, looked apologetically at Ellen.
"And why the hell am I going on and on about this?
As if you don’t have enough on your mind. Besides, you’ve heard countless hours of this garbage already. It’s your ticket into heaven." She slid out of the chair and buttoned her coat. "C’mon, let’s get out of here. Let’s get some buns and go over and feed the pigeons."

As they were leaving, Ellen glanced down at the folded newspaper the man had left them, read: LOCAL WOMAN MISSING. The picture above the caption was of a pretty blond girl wearing drop horseshoe earrings. Her name was Cindy Miller. No one Ellen knew.

~ * ~

The clock on the gray stone building facing them from across the park said 3:24 p.m. Next to it, separated by a narrow alley, was the Paramount Theater.
Silence of the Lambs
was playing. As they were crossing the road to the park entrance, Myra said uncertainly, "It was only the older girls, you know, Ellen, who
were
singled out for... well, I don’t want you to think Gail..."

"Gail was twelve," Ellen said woodenly.
"Nearly thirteen.
It doesn’t matter now, Myra. Don’t feel bad. There’s nothing to be done about it—about any of it."

Just past the bandstand, which was heaped with snow and resembled a giant wedding cake, they found a bench in a sunny spot and sat down. On the ground, naked trees cast long shadow branches.

Myra barely had time to open the bag of hamburger buns when the pigeons swooped down on them, coming from every direction, cooing, fluttering, crowding at their feet, the bits of bread vanishing almost faster than they could scatter them.

Laughing at the birds’ antics, enjoying a rare, pleasant moment in which the darkness was dispelled, neither woman noticed the brown van cruising past McDonald’s, slowly circling the park for the third time, nor the red-haired man behind the wheel who stared out at them.

He could see them laughing and knew they were laughing at him, making jokes about him. His eyes passed over the dark-haired woman, fixed on the one in the white parka, whose hair gleamed red-gold in the sun. He knew she was Gail Morgan’s sister.

Seeing her in person like this sent the blood coursing through him like molten lava. He liked this game she’d arranged between them. But he also knew she could be dangerous to him. He would have to proceed with the utmost caution.

Hearing her speak so directly to him the way she had, her lovely face filling the screen, her blue eyes penetrating, just like she was right there in the bar with him, like she could just reach through and grab him, had held him frozen. It had made him feel small and afraid.

It was her voice that had frightened him most. It was not the first time he’d heard it. Once, that voice had wakened him while he slept in his chair in the den. He’d thought after that he’d been dreaming, but he knew now he hadn’t been.

This one was different from the others, Alvin thought. He picked up a little speed, reluctantly leaving the park area (someone might later remember a brown van circling the park) and headed north toward the highway. Ellen Harris was a child of Satan—a witch. She had special powers.

But Alvin had powers of his own. He knew how to take care of her.

In the meantime, he hoped she would enjoy the little gift he’d left for her in her mailbox.

Alvin smiled.

Twenty-two

Wishing Myra a "bon voyage," Ellen dropped her off at her house and drove on home. She felt mild surprise seeing a police car parked in her driveway. She pulled up alongside it and got out.

"I’m Lieutenant Mike Oldfield," the policeman said, crossing to her, his hand outstretched. "How are you holding up, Mrs. Harris?" The sincerity of the question was in his voice, in the warm pressure of his hand. She recognized him as the policeman who had come with Myra to the airport.

"Managing.
Thank you." She saw in his face there was no point in asking if he had any news for her.

He didn’t. He wanted only to talk to her, to ask her a few questions about her sister. Also, he had a video of the funeral he wanted her to look at.

"I hate to put you through it, but I thought there just might be an outside chance you’d see someone—someone who shouldn’t be there."

"I’m more than willing to look at it, Lieutenant, but there were a lot of people there I didn’t know.
Fans of my sister, curiosity seekers.
But please, come inside."

Except to wring more pain from her, the video proved fruitless, as she’d expected it would. There was no lurking stranger standing apart from the crowd, no menacing figure she could point a finger at.

She made them coffee, sat across from him on the sofa. Mike set his coffee on the end table beside him. After a pause, he said, "That was a brave thing you did last night."