Warren Murphy: Blood Lust

The doorknob rattled uncooperatively in Mrs. Baynes's hands and Norma's heart sank. She really wanted to see this statue.

Finally the door surrendered. Mrs. Baynes pushed it in. She looked in with more than a trace of fear on her face, Norma saw. She stepped aside for Norma to enter.

Carefully, still on tiptoe, Norma Quinlan did just that.

She gasped.

"She calls it Calley," Mrs. Baynes, said, as if speaking of the family dog.

For once, Norma Quinlan was speechless. The thing in the room was grayish-white, like a weather-beathen skull. It squatted-that was exactly the word for it-on a child's toy chest. It was nearly four feet tall, and fairly broad. The face was a malevolent mask. Norma blinked, realizing there were three faces. Two others framed the central one. But most arrestingly, it had four arms. They were upflung in spidery, arcane gestures.

Draped between the lower pair was a yellow silk scarf.

"It's . . . it's . . ." Norma began, groping for words.

"Hideous."

"My thought exactly."

"Kimberly made it. Herself."

"She must be very . . . good with her hands," Norma Quinlan gulped.

"It started as a little Play-Doh figure," Mrs. Baynes explained in a faraway tone. "She made the first one not long after I took custody. It had four arms. But she kept adding new ones. They sprouted from the chest, the legs, even the headdress. Until it made me think of an angry spider."

"I'd prefer a spider myself," Norma said, aghast. So aghast she right then and there decided not to mention the statue to any of her friends. Where would she find the words to describe it?

"One day I mentioned to Kimmo that perhaps she should stop adding arms, that the statue was pretty enough as it was. And do you know what she said to me?"

"What?"

Mrs. Baynes fixed Norma Quinlan with her steady sad gaze. "She said she didn't make the arms. Then she asked for another cat."

"Yes?" Norma said slowly, not seeing the connection.

"It was the fifth cat I had gotten her. The others had all run away."

"No!"

"She cried so much, I brought her a nice tabby. A week later it was gone. I mentioned this to Kimmo and she didn't seem very sad at all. She just asked for another cat. I didn't get her another cat. This time I got her a puppy. They're more stay-at-home."

"Dogs are a sensible pet, I'll agree. I remember when we had our Ginger-"

"The poor puppy wouldn't sleep in her room," Mrs. Baynes continued distantly. "It wouldn't even go upstairs, no matter how much Kimmo tried to coax it. It just sat at the foot of the steps and looked up. Growling."

"How odd."

"One night Kimberly came home with a leash and dragged that poor dog up the stairs. The next morning it was gone."

Norma's hand flew to her scrawny chest.

"My goodness. You don't think Kimberly had anything to do with that?"

"I called the dog officer," Mrs. Baynes said. "The highway department. The city. Everyone I could think of."

She stared at the grotesque statue a long time, her hands clutching one another.

"You know," she resumed in a too-calm voice, "they found that poor animal by the side of the road, its tongue hanging out, strangled. There was a yellow scarf around its neck. Just like that one. Just like the ones that killed Evelyn and A.H."

The coincidence registered on Norma Quinlan's thin, witchy face.

"Perhaps we should leave now," she said quickly. "You know how teenagers are about their privacy."

"You're right," Mrs. Baynes said, closing the door. It wouldn't quite shut, so she left it slightly ajar.

They descended the carpeted stairs in uneasy silence.

"More tea?" Mrs. Baynes asked when they were back in the homey living room.

Norma Quinlan hesitated. Their little chat had taken a nasty turn. She felt positively queasy. Gossip was one thing, but this could give a person nightmares.

As Norma debated her answer, the back door banged.

Norma started. Fearfully, her eyes went to the kitchen.

"Is that you, Kimmo?" Mrs. Baynes asked calmly, as if speaking to a normal child, not a strangler of innocent pets.

"Yeah," said a frowning girlish voice.

Norma stood up. "Perhaps I should be going now," she said nervously.

In from the kitchen came Kimberly Baynes. She wore a flowing yellow dashiki that almost matched her fluffy hair. It hung from her small but womanly body like a tarpaulin on a Christmas tree. She stopped when she saw Norma. Her bright blue eyes flashed with veiled danger. That anger went away quickly and in a thin voice she said, "Hi."

"Hello, Kimberly," Norma said, mustering a sweetness that had fled her voice years ago. "Nice to see you again."

"Same thing," said Kimberly casually. "Gramma, any calls for me?"

"No, dear."

The tentlike dress fluttered disquietingly. "Darn."

"What is it?"

"Robby Simpson's cat had kittens and he promised me one," Kimberly explained. "Remember when we used to have kittens?"

"Distinctly," said Mrs. Baynes, her eyes going to Norma. Norma looked as comfortable as an Israeli in Mecca.

"I have to go now," she said quickly.

"I'll see you to the door," Mrs. Baynes said.

Norma beat Mrs. Baynes to the front door by eight seconds. She flung it open herself. Stumbling out onto the walk, she stuttered breathlessly, "Very nice talking to you, Mrs. Baynes."

"We must do it again," Mrs. Baynes called after her. "Soon. There are so many things I haven't told you."

"Oh, please . . ." Norma Quinlan muttered under her breath as she stumbled across their adjoining lawn to the sanctuary of her own home.

Norma Quinlan hurried inside. She tore right past the telephone and pulled a dusty cookbook off the pantry shelf. She was going to make Fred his favorite dish tonight-Lava Chicken. She hadn't made it for him in years. Not after she put a stop to his little fling with that cheap Calloway hussy. But tonight she would serve him Lava Chicken.

Now that she understood precisely what lived next door, she appreciated him in a new way.

Mrs. Allison Baynes was clearing the living room when Kimberly came storming down the carpeted stairs, her yellow dress fluttering excitedly in symphathy with her agitated arms.

"You've been in my room! How could you?"

"I know you like your privacy, Kimmo," Mrs. Baynes said, unperturbed. "But this is my home too."

"Don't call me Kimmo, you old bag!" Kimberly said with such elemental vehemence that Mrs. Baynes allowed the sterling-silver tea service to slip from her startled fingers. It clattered to the Oriental rug.

"Oh, look what you made me do," she said without rancor.

"And you let that gossip in, too!"

"Mrs. Quinlan is a very nice woman. Could you help me?"

"Why? Why did you let her into my room?"

"Nonsense, Kimberly," Mrs. Baynes said, her voice growing chilly. "What makes you think I would do such a thing?"

"She told me."

"She?"

"And She insists on her privacy."

"I hope you're not referring to that hideous statue. I thought you'd have outgrown it by now."

Kimberly's eyes grew hard and reflective. "Maybe it's the other way around."

"If you won't help me," said Mrs. Baynes, getting down on her hands and knees with difficulty, "then at least take these things into the kitchen as I hand them up to you. I'm not young anymore."

"Maybe She's outgrown this house," Kimberly said, advancing slowly. "Maybe I have too."

"Nonsense. You're only thirteen. Would you take this service into the kitchen for me, please?"

"Sure," Kimberly said lightly. "Glad to."

Ignoring the offered service, Kimberly stepped around her kneeling grandmother.

"What are you doing, Kimberly?" Mrs. Baynes asked.

There was no answer. Only sudden strong hands on her shoulders. Their grip was quite firm.