John Saul - Comes the Blind Fury

And when it happened, whatever it was, they would all know the truth.

She only hoped that, in the meantime, nobody else would die.…

Her hip was exploding with pain. She wanted to stop and rest, but she knew she couldn’t.

Behind her, but getting closer, she could hear people calling to her — angry people — people who wanted to hurt her.

She couldn’t let them hurt her — she had to get away, far away, where they wouldn’t be able to find her.

Amanda would help her.

But where was Amanda?

She called out, begging her friend to come and help her, but there was no answer — only those other voices, screaming at her, frightening her.

She tried to move faster, tried to force her left leg to respond as she wanted it to, but it was useless.

They were going to catch her.

She stopped and turned around.

Yes, there they were, coming toward her.

She couldn’t see their faces, not clearly, but she thought she knew the voices.

Mrs. Benson.

That didn’t surprise her: Mrs. Benson had always hated her.

But there were others.

Her parents. Well, not her parents, but those two strangers who had pretended to be her parents.

And someone else — someone she thought liked her. It was a man, but who? It didn’t matter, really. Whoever he was, he wanted to hurt her, too. Their voices were growing louder, and they were coming closer. If she was going to get away, she would have to run.

She looked around frantically, sure that Amanda would come and help her. But Amanda wasn’t there. She would have to get away by herself.

The bluff.

If she could get to the bluff, she would be safe.

She started toward it, her heart pounding, her breath coming in short gasps.

Her left leg was dragging her back. She couldn’t run! But she had to run!

And then she was there, poised at the top of the cliff, the sea below her, and behind her those voices, insistent, demanding — hurting. She glanced once more over her shoulder. They were closer now, almost upon her. But they wouldn’t catch her.

With a final burst of energy, she threw herself off the bluff.

Falling was so easy.

Time seemed to stand still, and she drifted, relaxed, felt the air rush by her, looked at the sky.

She looked down — and saw the rocks.

Jagged, angry fingers of stone, reaching up to her, ready to tear her apart.

Terror finally engulfed her, and she opened her mouth to scream. But it was too late — she was going to die.…

Michelle woke up shivering, her throat constricted with an unuttered scream.

“Daddy?” Her voice was soft, tiny in the night. She knew no one had heard her. No one, except—

“I saved you,” Amanda whispered to her. “I didn’t let you die.”

“Mandy—?” She had come. Michelle sat up in bed, her fear draining away as she realized that Amanda was there, helping her, taking care of her. “Mandy? Where are you?”

“I’m here,” Mandy said softly. She emerged from the shadows of the room, standing near the window, her black dress glistening eerily in the moonlight. She held out her hand, and Michelle left her bed.

Amanda, holding her by the hand, led her down the stairs and out of the house. It wasn’t until they had reached the studio that Michelle realized she had left her cane behind. But it didn’t matter — Amanda was there for her to lean on.

Besides, her hip didn’t hurt at all. Not at all!

They slipped into the studio, and Michelle knew immediately what to do. It was as if Amanda could talk to her silently, as if Amanda were truly inside her.

She found a sketch pad and set it up on her mother’s easel. She worked quickly, her strokes bold and sure. The picture emerged quickly.

Billy Evans, his small body perched on the top of the backstop, balancing himself precariously. The perspective was strange. He seemed to be very high up, far above the figure of Michelle herself, who stood on the ground, her cane forgotten as she stared helplessly upward.

Near her, clutching the support post, was Amanda, a smile on her face, her empty eyes seeming somehow alive with excitement as Billy started to fall.

Michelle stared at the picture and, in the dimness of the studio, she felt Amanda’s hand in her own. They stood together for a moment in silent closeness. Then, knowing what she must do, Michelle let go of Amanda’s hand, tore the sketch from the pad, and took it to the closet. She found what she was looking for easily, though she had turned on no lights. She took out the canvas, that first canvas she had drawn for Amanda, and left her new sketch — the sketch of Billy Evans, with the one of Susan Peterson.

She set the canvas up on the easel, and picked up June’s palette.

Though the dim light washed the colors on the palette to little more than shades of gray, Michelle knew where to touch the brush to find the hues she wanted.

She worked quickly, her face expressionless. Behind her, watching over her shoulder, her hand lightly resting on her elbow, Michelle could feel Amanda watching in fascination, her milky white eyes fixed on the picture, her expression eager. The picture was telling her the story — soon she would see it all. Michelle would show her everything.

Michelle had no sense of time as she worked. When she finally set the palette aside and stepped back to look at the canvas, she wondered why she didn’t fed tired. But she knew, really — it was Amanda, helping her.

“Is it all right?” she asked shyly.

Amanda nodded, her sightless eyes still fixed on the picture. After a few seconds, she spoke.

“You could have killed her this afternoon,” she said.

Jennifer. Mandy was talking about Jennifer, and she was angry at Michelle.

“I know,” Michelle answered quietly.

“Why didn’t you?” Mandy’s voice, silken but hard, caressed Michelle.

“I–I don’t know,” she whispered.

“You could do it now,” Amanda suggested.

“Now?”

“They’re asleep. They’re all asleep. We could go to the nursery.…” Amanda took Michelle’s hand and led her out of the studio.

As they crossed the lawn toward the house, a cloud drifted across the moon, and the silvery light faded into darkness. But the darkness didn’t matter.

Amanda was leading her.

And the fog was coming in.

The wonderful fog that cuddled Michelle, shutting out the rest of the world, leaving her alone with Amanda. Whatever Amanda wanted, Michelle knew she would do.…

June woke up in the darkness, some maternal sixth sense telling her that something was wrong. She listened for a moment.

A cry.

Muffled, but a cry.

It was coming from the nursery. June got out of bed, grabbed her robe, and crossed the bedroom.

The nursery door was dosed.

She distinctly remembered leaving it open — she always left it open.

She glanced at Cal, but he was sound asleep, his position unchanged.

Then who had closed the door?

She pulled it open and stepped into the nursery, switching on the light as she passed through the door. Michelle was standing by Jennifer’s crib. She looked up, her face puzzled, as the room filled with light.

“Mother?”

“Michelle! What are you doing up?”

“I–I heard Jenny crying, and when I didn’t hear you, I came in to see what was wrong.”

Michelle carefully tucked the little pillow in her hands under Jennifer’s head.

Her crying was muffled!

The thought slashed through June’s mind, but she immediately silenced it.

The door was closed , she told herself. That’s why I couldn’t hear her. The door was closed!

“Michelle,” she said carefully. “Did you close the door between here and our bedroom?”