Mary Clark: Where are the children?

At the base of the last staircase, Nancy stopped to control her harsh breathing. The door at the head of the

stairs was open. She could see a shadow against the wall caused by a thin flicker of light. Then she heard it… a voice – Michael's voice… 'Don't do that! Don't do that!'

She ran up the stairs blindly, furiously. Michael! Missy! She hurried, not caring about the noise, but her thick socks didn't make noise. Her hand grasping the banister was silent. At the top of the stairs she hesitated. The light was coming from down the hall. Silently, swiftly she hurried through the room, the living-room probably, that was shadowy and quiet, towards the candlelight in the bedroom, towards the gross figure with its back to her that was holding a small struggling figure on the bed with one hand, giggling softly as with the other he pulled a shiny plastic bag over a blond head.

Nancy had an impression of startled blue eyes, of Michael's blond hair matting on his forehead, of the way the plastic clung to his eyelids and nostrils as she cried, 'Let go of him, Carl!…' She didn't know she'd said 'Carl' until she heard the name come from her lips.

The man spun around. Somewhere lurking in that gross mass of flesh, she could see eyes that darted and burned. Nancy had an impression of the plastic clinging, of Missy's tousled figure lying on the bed, her windbreaker a bright red heap beside her.

She saw the look of stupefaction replaced by cunning. 'You.' The voice she remembered. The voice that over seven years she'd tried to blot out. He started towards her menacingly. She had to get around him. Michael couldn't breathe.

He lunged for her. She pulled away, feeling his thick grasp on her wrist. They fell together, clumsily, heavily. She felt his elbow dig into her side. The pain was blinding, but his grip relaxed for an instant. His face was next to hers. Thick and white, the features bloated and broadened, but the sour, dank smell… the same as it had been before.

Blindly, she reached out with all her force and bit the thick, jowly cheek. With a howl of rage, he lashed out, but let her go, and she dragged herself up, feeling his hand pulling at her. She threw herself on to the bed, with her fingernails tearing at the tight plastic sheet that was making Michael's eyes bulge, his cheeks become blue. She heard his gasping breath as she twisted around to meet Carl's new attack. His arms pulled her tight against him. She felt the sick warmth of his exposed body.

Oh, God. She pushed back his face with her hands and felt him bend her backward. As she tried to pull away, she could feel Missy's foot under her, touching her, moving. It was moving. Missy was alive. She knew it; she could feel it.

She began to scream – a steady, demanding call for help; and then Carl's hand covered her mouth and nostrils, and futilely she tried to bite the thick palm that was choking out air and causing great black curtains to close in front of her eyes.

She was sinking into gasping unconsciousness when abruptly the hands loosened their pressure. She choked -great gurgling sounds. From somewhere, someone was shouting her name. Ray! It was Ray! she tried to call out, but no sound came.

Struggling up on to one elbow, she shook her head. 'Mommy, Mommy, he's taking Missy!' Michael's voice was urgent, his hand shaking her.

She managed to sit up as Carl swooped. His arm passed her and grabbed the small figure that had begun to squirm and cry.

'Put her down, Carl. Don't touch her.' Her voice was a croak now, but he looked at her wildly and turned. Holding Missy against him, he ran away, his gait awkward. In the dark of the next room, she heard him bumping into furniture, and she staggered after him, trying to shake the dizziness. There were footsteps on the stairs now – hard, racing footsteps coming up. Desperately she listened for Carl, heard him down the hall; saw his dark shadow silhouetted against the window. He was climbing the stairs to the attic. He was going up to the attic. She followed him, caught up with him, tried to grasp his leg. The attic was cavernous, musty-smelling, thick-beamed with a low ceiling. And dark. So dark it was hard to follow him.

'Help!' she screamed. 'Help!' At last she could make her voice carry. 'Up here, Ray. Up here!' She stumbled blindly after the sound of Carl's footsteps. But where was he? The ladder. He was climbing the thin, rickety ladder that led from the attic straight up to the roof. The widow's walk. He was going on to the widow's walk. She thought of the narrow, perilous balcony that circled the chimney between the turrets of the house.

'Carl, don't go up there. It's too dangerous. Carl, come back, come back!'

She could hear his harsh breathing, the high-pitched sound that was between sob and giggle. She tried to grab his foot as she climbed after him, but he kicked savagely when he felt her hand. The thick sole of his shoe caught the edge of her forehead, and she slipped down the ladder. Ignoring the warm, gushing blood that streamed down her face, not feeling the force of the blow, she started up again, crying, 'Carl, give her to me. Carl, stop!'

But he was at the top of the ladder, pushing up the door that led on to the roof. Thick sleet pelted down as the door creaked upward. 'Carl, you can't get away,' she pleaded. 'Carl, I'll help you. You're sick. I'll tell them you're sick.'

The wind caught the door, pulled it open till it thudded against the side of the house. Missy was crying now – a loud, frightened wail: 'Mommmmmmmy!'

Carl thrust his body on to the balcony. Nancy scrambled after him, bracing against the door frame. It was so narrow. There was barely space for one person between the railing and the chimney.

Frantically she clawed at his clothes – trying to get a grip on him, to pull him back from the low railing. If he fell or dropped Missy… 'Carl, stop. Stop!'

Sleet beat against him. He turned and tried to kick her again, but stumbled backward, grasping Missy against him. He lurched against the railing and regained his balance. His giggle was now a persistent, hiccuping sound.

The walk was covered with a layer of ice. He sat Missy on the railing, holding her with one hand. 'Don't come any nearer, little girl,' he said to Nancy. 'I'll drop her if you do. Tell them they must let me go away. Tell them they must not touch me.'

'Carl. I'll help you. Give her to me.'

'You won't help. You'll want them to hurt me.' He swung one foot over the rail.

'Carl. No. Don't do it. Carl, you hate water. You don't want water to cover your face. You know that. That's why I should have known you didn't commit suicide. You couldn't drown yourself. You know that, Carl.' She made her voice calm, deliberate, soothing. She took one step towards the railing. Missy was reaching her arms out, pleading.

Then she heard it… a cracking, breaking sound. The railing was breaking! As she watched, the wooden posts gave way under Carl's weight. His head went backward; he swung his arms forward.

As he released his hold on Missy, Nancy darted forward and grabbed her baby. Her hands caught in Missy's long hair – caught and twisted and held. She was teetering on the edge of the walk; the rail was crumbling. She felt Carl grab her leg as he fell, screaming.

Then, as she was being dragged forward, firm arms came around her waist from behind – arms that held and supported her. A strong hand pulled Missy's head against her neck, pulled them both back, and she collapsed against Ray even as, with a last despairing scream, Carl slid off the balcony, across the icy, sloping roof and into the angry, rock-filled surf far below.

The fire licked hungrily at the thick logs. The warm hearth smell permeated the room and mingled with the scent of freshly-made coffee. The Wigginses had opened the store and brought up cold cuts for sandwiches, and they and Dorothy had prepared a spread while Nancy and Ray were at the hospital with the children.