John Saul - Comes the Blind Fury

Everyone at the hospital told him he was taking it too seriously, but the child’s death continued to haunt him.

Finally he had taken a day off, and driven out to Paradise Point to talk to Josiah Carson about Alan Hanley.…

Josiah Carson greeted him coolly, and at first Cal thought he was wasting his time. Carson blamed him for Alan Hanley’s death; he could see it in the old man’s piercing blue eyes. But as they talked, something in Carson began to change. Cal was sure the old doctor was telling him things he had told no one else.

“Have you ever lived by yourself?” Carson suddenly asked him. But before he could make any reply, Carson began talking again. “I’ve been living alone for years, taking care of the people out here, and keeping pretty much to myself. I guess I should have kept it that way, kept on trying to do all the repairs to the house myself. But I’m getting old, and I thought … well, never mind what I thought.”

Cal shifted uncomfortably, and wondered what the old man was trying to tell him. “What happened that day?” he asked. “Before you brought Alan Hanley to Boston, I mean.”

“It’s hard to say,” Carson replied, his voice low. “I’d been having trouble with the roof, and some of the slates needed replacing. I was going to do it myself, but then I changed my mind. Thought maybe it would be better to get someone a little younger.” His voice faded to little more than a whisper. “But Alan was too young. I should have known — maybe I did know. He was only twelve.… Well, anyway, I let him go up there.”

“And what happened?”

Carson stared at him, his eyes empty, his face sagging with tiredness.

“What happened in the operating room?” he asked.

Cal squirmed. “I don’t know. Everything seemed to be going so well. And then he died. I don’t know what happened.”

Carson nodded. “And that’s what happened on the roof. I was watching him, and everything seemed to be going well. And then he fell.” There was a long silence, broken by Carson: “I wish you’d saved him.”

Again, Cal squirmed, but suddenly Carson smiled at him.

“It’s not your fault,” he said. “It’s not your fault, and it’s not my fault. But I suppose you could say that, together, it’s our fault. There’s a bond between us now, Dr. Pendleton. What do you suggest we do?”

Cal had no answers. Josiah Carson’s words had numbed him.

And then, as if understanding the problems that had been plaguing Cal since the day Alan Hanley had died, Josiah had made a suggestion. Perhaps Cal should consider giving up his practice in Boston.

“And do what?” Cal asked hollowly.

“Come out here. Take over a small, undemanding practice from a tired old doctor. Get away from the pressure of Boston General. You’re scared now, Dr. Pendleton—”

“My name’s Cal.”

“Cal, then. At any rate you’re scared. You made a mistake, and you think you’ll make more. And if you stay at Boston General, you will. The fear itself will force you to. But if you come out here, I can help you. And you can help me. I want out, Cal. I want out of my practice, and I want out of my house. And I want to sell it all to you. Believe me, I’ll make it worth your while.”

To Cal, it all made sense. A slow practice, in which not much happened.

And not much could go wrong.

Not much room to make mistakes.

Plenty of time to think about every case, and make sure he handled it right.

And no one around to realize that he no longer felt competent to be a doctor. No one except Josiah Carson, who understood him, and sympathized with him.

So they had come to Paradise Point, though initially June had been against it. Cal remembered her words when he had explained the idea to her.

“But why the house? I can understand why he wants to sell his practice, but why is he insisting we take the house, too? It’s too big for us — we don’t need all that room!”

“I don’t know,” Cal replied. “But he’s selling it to us cheap, and it’s a damned good deal. I think we should consider ourselves lucky.”

“But it doesn’t make any sense,” June complained, “In fact, it’s almost morbid. I’m sure he wants out of that house because of what happened to Alan Hanley. Why is he so anxious to have us in it? All it can do is constantly remind you of that boy, too. It’s crazy, Cal. He wants something from you. I don’t know what it is, but you mark my words. Something is going to happen.”

But so far, not much had happened.

A bad moment with Sally Carstairs, but he’d gotten through it.

And now, his daughter was starting to have nightmares.

June stood at her easel, trying to concentrate on her work. It was difficult. It wasn’t the painting that was bothering her — indeed, she was pleased with what she had accomplished: a seascape was emerging, somewhat abstract, but nevertheless recognizable as the view from her studio. No, it wasn’t the work that was the problem.

The problem was Michelle, but she still hadn’t quite been able to put her finger on why she was worried. It wasn’t as if last night’s nightmare had been the first. Michelle certainly had had her normal share of bad dreams. But when Cal had come back to bed just before dawn, and told her about Michelle’s dream, she’d had an uneasy feeling. It had stayed with her even when she went back to sleep; it was still with her now.

With a sigh of frustration, June laid her brushes aside, and sank onto the stool, her favorite perch.

Her eyes wandered restlessly over the studio. She was pleased with what she had accomplished in so short a time — the last of the old debris was gone, the walls had been scrubbed and repainted, and the bright green trim had been restored to its original cheerfulness. Her supplies were stored away neatly under the countertop, and in the closet she had installed a rack to hold her canvases upright and separated. Now all she had to do was stop worrying and start painting.

She was about to make one more stab at it when there was a flicker of movement outside the single small window on the inland side of the building, then a light tap at the door.

“Hello?” The voice was a woman’s, tentative, almost timid, as if whoever had come to the door had nearly gone away again without announcing herself at all.

June started to get up to open the door, then changed her mind. “Come in,” she called. “It’s open.”

There was a slight pause, then the door opened and a small woman, her hair wrapped neatly in a bun and her dress covered with a flowered apron, stepped hesitantly into the studio.

“Oh, are you working?” the woman asked, starting to back out tibe door again. “I’m terribly sorry — I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“No, no,” June protested, getting to her feet “Please come in. I’m afraid I was really only daydreaming.”

A strange look crossed the woman’s face — was it disapproval? — then quickly disappeared. She advanced into the room a foot or two.

“I’m Constance Benson,” she said. “Jeff’s mother. From next door?”

“Of course!” June replied warmly. “I really should have come over to see you before, but I’m afraid I—” she broke off her sentence, glancing ruefully down at her pregnant midsection. “But that’s really no excuse, is it? I mean, I really should be walking huge numbers of miles every day, and instead I just sit here and daydream. Well, three more weeks and the baby should be here. Won’t you sit down?” She gestured toward a chaise longue that had been rescued from the attic of the house, but Mrs. Benson made no move toward it. Instead, she gazed around the studio with unconcealed curiosity.