Read The Hangman's Beautiful Daughter Online
Authors: Sharyn McCrumb
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Psychological, #Family
The Hangman's Beautiful Daughter (24 page)
Beside her in his child seat, Morgan Robsart gazed solemnly at the clacking wiper blades diverting the rain into streams at either side of the windshield. "It sure is raining hard," he remarked at one point.
"Sure is," said Laura. "But we'll be all right."
"I know," said Morgan. "If it keeps raining like this, there can't be any fires."
Jane Arrowood was already at the church when Laura arrived. By the time they had got the coffee going in the church's forty-cup percolator, Barbara Givens came in, followed by her sister-in-law. Marynell Weaver, the scoutmaster's wife, arrived at ten, with her four-wheel drive loaded down with sleeping bags and the troop's supply of camping food. Two more owners of four-wheel drives arrived during the course of the morning, bringing preschoolers who were sent off to the Sunday school room to play with Morgan.
"How bad is it likely to be?" asked Laura. She smeared another slice of bread with peanut butter. The metal tray in front of her was piled high with newly made sandwiches.
"It was worse in the old days," said Jane Arrowood. "The TVA put dams on the wildest rivers. Now it's just the Little Dove, which usually doesn't amount to much, and the little creeks that overflow when it rains too hard and too fast. Everyone should be all right if they don't try to drive across submerged bridges. We almost always lose somebody whose car gets swept away in the current. I don't know why people never learn."
Laura thought it over. "There's an unreal quality about it," she said. "People cross a bridge every single day, and then one day the sleepy little creek drowns the bridge. But tomorrow it will be safe again—a two-second drive to get to the other side. What can happen in two seconds?"
"A lot," said Jane. "Other than that, people
ought to be all right. Some of the houses on the
floodplain will have underwater living rooms,
but most of those folks are used to it by now, and they'll have enough sense to get out. I'm expecting the Arnetts to walk in any minute now, bringing the baby, the cat, and the color television. They're used to it."
"Why don't they leave?"
"It's their land. Besides, they know the signs. Lowlanders can smell a flood long before the rest of us know it's coming. If you live next to a creek, you get to know it."
Laura set down the knife. Her eyes were wide. "Suppose you lived by the creek but you didn't know the signs?"
"Then somebody would have to come and get you," said Jane, opening another loaf of bread. "That's why the volunteers are out rounding up boats."
"But suppose they don't reach the house in time?"
Jane Arrowood shook her head. "They do the best they can. That's all any of us can do."
Laura was already untying the apron from around her waist. "I have to go," she said. "When you were talking about people who live in floodplains, I suddenly thought of the Underbills' house. It's not more than a hundred feet from the riverbed. And they wouldn't know to get out."
"We'll tell the first group of rescue volunteers we see," said Jane. "Or I can call Martha at the sheriff's department and have her radio a message to Spencer. Don't you try to go—in your condition."
"I'm the guardian of Mark and Maggie Underbill," said Laura. "They're my responsibility. Besides, it would take too long to wait for the volunteers to show up, or to call the sheriff. Who knows what part of the county he's in? And he may have enough to handle right now. If I go now, before it gets any worse, I can have them here in half an hour. You'll watch Morgan for me, won't you?"
Jane Arrowood sighed in exasperation. "I hope the Lord thinks a lot of you," she said. "At least take one of the four-wheels instead of that dinky little thing you drive!"
Spencer Arrowood felt the chill all the way to his bones. He had spent a long morning navigating rain-slicked roads, trying to gauge the severity of the rising water. In Hamelin the problems were confined to flooded basements and low spots in a couple of residential streets that had turned into ponds. He'd closed the flooded section of those streets with wooden barricades, and then radioed Martha to make sure that the school board had decided to release the county's students early that day. The rain showed no sign of letting up, and he didn't want those school buses waiting another hour to depart. The streets of Hamelin were no problem, but the county roads, some of them gravel surfaced, could be treacherous.
Spencer's inspection of the main county roads and bridges had been punctuated by calls from Martha, with reports of stalled-out cars, and one fender bender. By the time he finished rescuing the stranded motorists, he was soaking wet, and starving, but he still had miles of territory to cover, so he stopped at a country store for a candy bar, and checked in with Martha to let her know where he was.
"I think we'd better get the boats out," he told her. "People in the low parts of the valley are going to be treading water soon, if they aren't already."
"I'm way ahead of you," said Martha. "I asked the radio station to air a request for volunteers. Le Donne and Millie Fortnum are meeting with them at the rescue-squad building. We've got an emergency shelter being set up at the high school gym, and your mother called to say that Shiloh Church is accepting refugees out in Dark Hollow. Anything else?"
"That's fine, Martha," said Spencer, taken aback by his dispatcher's efficiency. "You've done a good job." Martha seemed to be gaining in confidence lately, and she was showing initiative and ability beyond what anyone expected in a dispatcher. He wondered if she had been reading self-help books, or if proximity to LeDonne was giving her strength. Whatever it was, he was pleased.
"I'm heading out to Dark Hollow now," he told her. "Maybe I'll stop in and say hello to my mother. See if they need anything out there."
"Ten-four, Sheriff," said Martha cheerfully. "Get a sandwich while you're there."
If it had been any other errand—a drive to work or a run for groceries—Laura Bruce would have turned back before she had gone a mile. Even in Barbara Givens's four-wheel, she felt frightened. The wind blew ripples of water across the road, forcing her to drive at twenty miles per hour even on the straightaways. She tried not to look at the shining fields and woods, inundated by floodwaters that crept higher and closer to the road with each passing minute.
She put her hand to her abdomen, where the dead child lay. She would not have risked this journey if there had been another life at stake besides her own, but then she would have had to endure the guilt of not going. The odd thing was that she was glad to be out here, despite the danger, the cold, and her own diminished physical strength. She had a mission. She was needed. She had always resented the male characterization of war: that man the warrior would go off to perilous shores and have adventures, while the Penelopes of the world waited at home, safely tending the garden, mending clothes, and putting their lives on hold until the heroes returned. Yet there was Will in a tent somewhere in the Gulf, watching television, playing cards, and trying to drum up a little business for God, while all the adventure lay back home. She could have— should have — waited for the county rescue squad to evacuate the Underhills, but she had been seized with the idea that God meant her to go. It was just like Him to let the trained professional in His service sit around, and then draft some complete amateur to do the job. She smiled into the soggy gloom, and thought of the consoling letter she could write her husband: They also serve who only stand and wait.
By the time she crept around the bend to the Underhills' road, Laura had convinced herself that she was a warrior of the Lord, equal to just about anything except parting the waters. The sight that lay before her dimmed that belief to a flicker. Fifty feet in front of the car, where the road sloped down off the hill and into the bottomland where the Underhills' house stood, there was a swift brown river gliding along where there should have been a road, a bridge, and a yard. Logs, crates, an old car flowed past her, pulled by the current of the swollen river. Two hundred yards away the white farmhouse stood like an island in the newly spawned river, dividing the current with its bulk. The waves were as high as the porch, but the water on the other side of the house seemed shallower, perhaps because it was farther from the riverbed. Beyond the house the land rose upward into a hill that was still well above the flood line. Laura could see a dirt track used by hunters snaking its way up the side of the hill, but there was no way to get to it through the torrent of rushing water in the once placid river.
"Maybe they've had enough sense to get out," she said aloud. "They could go out the back door of the house, and go up the ridge to safety."
She blew the horn, four long blasts, to alert anyone who was in the house that help had arrived—or tried to. An upstairs curtain moved, and she saw a face—she wasn't sure whose. They were still there.
Laura thought for a moment about the roads and ridges of the county back country. What was on the other side of that range of hills? She closed her mind, picturing the roads and the connections between clusters of houses. That must be 283 on the other side, she thought. There's a general store and half a dozen houses somewhere along that stretch of road. How do I get there?
Mentally, she retraced her steps. Go back up the hill and continue on the main road until you get to the 283 turnoff. The bridge there was a high metal span with overhead supports. It would still be well above the crest of the flood, and just past that bridge, the road began to climb onto a plateau between the mountains. They would be far removed from the dangers of the current.
Carefully, she began to back the car up the road. She didn't want to risk turning around on the narrow one-lane road surrounded by the relentless brown tide. Then she would cross the high bridge to 283 and walk over the ridge to the Underhills' back door. God always had to do everything the hard way.
Joe LeDonne was warm and dry in the rescue-squad building, clipboard in hand, and surrounded by a score of people in rain gear, all talking at once. He would rather be anywhere else. Not that he liked water. When he was a kid in Gallipolis, Ohio, LeDonne had heard the old-timers talk about the floods that used to sweep through the town before they built the flood walls. He had learned early on that water couldn't be trusted. In LeDonne's world, not much could.
Most people never seemed to learn to distrust water, though. A little way south of his hometown, there was the Tug River, on the Kentucky-West Virginia border: it would flood every year, driving the same families from the same little bottomland houses. They'd shovel the mud out and move back, and every third year or so, the house would wash away altogether, and they'd build again in the same damned spot. He never could figure out why people were such damned fools as to live in a floodplain, and worse—fool enough to go back again and again.
It wasn't just the folly of it all that annoyed him, though. He had been jumpy and irritable for days. This endless spring rain, and the flooding it caused, took him back to Southeast Asia, where it seemed to rain perpetually. He hated the sound of the rain and the feel of wet socks against his skin. He wanted very much to get out of this building, and start heading up a rescue operation. His dislike of water was nothing compared to his hatred of being bullied by his past.
"Excuse me, Deputy. I heard on the radio that you could use some volunteers."
LeDonne looked up from his clipboard and found himself face-to-face with Justin Warren, the weekend warrior. He was wearing an olive-drab raincoat and combat boots. Behind him stood half a dozen of his "recruits," also decked out in foul-weather gear.
"Stallings here has a boat," Warren said.
LeDonne's eyes narrowed. "You want to join the rescue operation?"
"Sure. It's good experience. Command situation, dealing with danger. Needs discipline and good reflexes. Besides, we're in good shape, and we know the terrain. Tell us what you need done."
Millie Fortnum appeared at LeDonne's elbow. "More volunteers? Good! Come with me."
"Put these guys with my outfit," LeDonne told her. "We'll take a couple of the boats and do evacuations." He turned to Justin Warren. "I thought you might need some supervision. And I believe I outrank you, Warren." He said it slowly and then waited, as if he could say more but wasn't going to.
Justin Warren nodded. "I expect you do."
The records check on Warren had come through clean. He had no criminal record or history of bad credit. He had no military record, either. None. LeDonne had been planning a ride out to Justin Warren's camp to share this news with the sunshine soldiers, but this wasn't the time to go into it. At least this new willingness to help was a healthier pastime than Warren usually practiced. LeDonne wanted to see how he behaved in a real emergency.
"Come on," said LeDonne. "Let's see what they want us to do." A group of volunteers was climbing into the back of a covered pickup truck, ready to be driven out for flood duty. LeDonne saw Vernon Woolwine, still dressed like Paddington Bear, hoisting his bulk over the tailgate, yellow boots waving in the air. For the first time all day, the deputy smiled.
Maggie Underhill turned away from the window in the upstairs hall. She had heard the car horn and looked out, but she could not tell who was there. They couldn't get across, though. The brackish river had come back from the dead. She looked out at the swirling currents eddying among the oak trees in what had been the front yard. It reminded her of something. What was it?
"Who was that?" Mark Underhill stood in the doorway of his room, unshaven and disheveled. "What did they want?"
Maggie twisted a strand of her dark hair. "It was a car, up on the road. I expect they wanted us to come out on account of the water."
He didn't seem to hear her. "Government agents," he said, nodding to himself. "They know that I have the number of the secret bank account. They've come after it."
"They can't reach us," said Maggie. "The bridge is under water."
"I'm going to get the tooth," said Mark. "They might try to sneak into the shed when it gets dark."
Maggie looked out at the wooden toolshed in the side yard under an oak. Water was swirling around it, but it seemed solid enough. "I'll go with you," she called out. He was already clumping down the stairs. She heard the splash as he reached the ground floor. The water was now an ankle-deep stream, the color of coffee with milk. Maggie went down the stairs, still trying to talk to Mark, but he wasn't listening.
The water lapped at the baseboards of the downstairs rooms, and eddied around the chairs. Tin cans, cups, and other bits of flotsam drifted along in the current. Maggie waded into the swirling brown water, holding the skirt of her velvet robe above her knees as she went. Mark splashed over to the front door and pulled it open, ignoring the crest of water that surged inward. He swayed a little, and nearly fell as he lurched onto the front porch. Maggie called after him, but the door slammed behind him, leaving her alone.
Suddenly, the phone began to ring.
With a last look at the door, Maggie made her way through the icy water to the kitchen, and picked up the receiver. She hoped Josh wouldn't see the crusted food on the table, and the empty cans lying about on the countertops. Mark never threw anything away, and lately she hadn't seemed to care. It seemed easier to stop eating.
"Hello, Maggie." His voice was as calm and comforting as ever.
"Hello, Josh. I'm sorry about the mess. I'll clean it up later. Listen, I have to go and help Mark. He's outside, and—"
"No, Maggie. Don't go out there."
"But he just went to the shed, and there's water all over the yard, and—"
"Mark isn't your problem, Maggie. Let's worry about you. If you do as I say, everything will be all right. I'm here. I'll take care of you. I always took care of you."
Maggie pulled a kitchen chair close to the phone, and stood on it. Her feet were freezing. She wanted to ask more about Mark, but she could tell from Josh's tone of voice that he didn't want to talk about it. Just like he never wanted to talk about Mom. "What should I do, Josh?"
"Stay here and talk to me, Maggie. Just keep standing on the chair. The rain can't last forever. Why don't you sing something? A hymn would be nice."
It took Laura Bruce forty-five minutes to reach the other side of the ridge. As she had predicted, there was little evidence of flooding in the higher valley. The ditches beside the road were overflowing, but except for a few sloping patches, the road was clear. When she reached the tiny grocery store in Boone's Run, she stopped, and ran in to ask for directions.
The old man behind the counter looked pleased to see a customer, but when he noticed that she was pregnant, he said, "You oughtn't to be out in weather like this."
Laura nodded. "I'll be in quick as I can. I just need to know where to turn to find the hunters' road that comes out at the Underhills' farm."
The storekeeper shook his head. "Never heard tell of that place," he said.
"Well, do you have a county map?"
He shook his head. "Never needed one. Lived here all my life."
Laura turned to leave when another thought occurred to her. "Wait," she said. "You probably know that farm by its old name. What was it? I know I've heard people say it a dozen times. The Tylers? Tillers?"
"Tilden?" said the old man. "You mean the Tilden place over the ridge in Dark Hollow? Well, there's an old dirt logging road that goes over the mountain, but you don't want to take that in this weather. It's awful steep, and there could be mud slides."
"I'll be careful," Laura promised. "But there are children in that farmhouse, and that's the fastest way to get them out." Seeing the doubt on his face, she added, "My husband is with me. We'll be fine."
"That's all right, then," he said happily. "I reckon a man can handle it. It's down the road about three-quarters of a mile, just past the red barn on the left."
Laura Bruce thanked him and hurried away before he could follow her to the door and see that she was alone.
Three minutes later, she spotted the barn, surrounded by a dejected group of muddy Herefords standing knee-deep in mud. She turned off at the gravel road that twisted through fields and up the wooded mountainside in a series of twists and turns. She would drive as far as she could, as long as there was no danger of getting stuck or sliding off the mountain. She hoped she wouldn't have far to walk. She wasn't sure how long a wooden house could hold against the current, and if the water behind the house was more than knee-deep, she wouldn't be able to get to them at all.
When Spencer Arrowood arrived at Shiloh Church, he was dripping with mud and shivering. The church kitchen and meeting room were filling up with bedraggled people, wrapped in blankets or winter coats. Some of them were drinking coffee or eating a bowl of Barbara Giv-ens's homemade vegetable soup.
Jane Arrowood saw him in the doorway, and the corners of her mouth twitched, but she managed not to laugh. Instead, she picked up a plastic tablecloth and hurried over to him. "I can't have you messing up a good blanket, Spencer." She held it out to him at arm's length. "Go and wash up while I fix you a sandwich. Then you can tell me what happened to you."
"Nothing to tell," said Spencer, shrugging out of his raincoat. He draped it on the back of a chair. "Some fool woman got her car stuck, that's all. I had to put my shoulder to the bumper to get her out." He went over to the sink and washed the mud off his hands and face. "Can you spare a bowl of that soup?"
"That's what it's here for," said Jane. She handed him a bowl and a teaspoon. "How are things out there?"
"We haven't lost any lives yet. Not that I know of. But the rescue squad has started getting people out of some of the houses along the creeks." He sat down on one of the benches, and began to eat the soup. "You've got a good crowd here."
"Yes. They'll have some shoveling out to do tomorrow or the next day, but at least they're safe and warm for now. Barbara has half a dozen little ones in the Sunday school room. She's telling them jack tales. Morgan Robsart is there, Spencer."
The sheriff's spoon paused in midair. "What's he doing here? The pastor's house is on high ground. Oh, of course. Mrs. Bruce is here helping out. Where is she?"
"I was hoping you'd seen her. She went to get the Underhill children."
"How long ago?"
"An hour, I think. Things have been so hectic here."
Spencer stood up. "I'll radio in, and see if the rescue squad knows anything about them. If nobody's gone out there, I'll go after her. What did you let her go for?"
Jane Arrowood sighed. "I hoped she'd have the sense to go for help if the way was blocked."
"Maybe she has," said Spencer. "I'll call and see."
The four-wheel drive made it up the hill to the crest of the mountain, and down the other side to within sight of the Underhill farm. Laura parked in a wide clearing on one of the cuts in the mountain. The ground there was too rocky to get stuck in, and she would be able to turn the vehicle around when it was time to leave. She got out of the car, and began to walk slowly down the mountain. She had the waddling gait of late pregnancy, and she had to work at keeping her balance on the slippery slope. "I'm in no shape for heroics," she said aloud. "You should have thought of that, Lord." The cold rain trickled down her neck, and droplets clung to her eyelashes.
The slope of the hill ended about thirty feet from the back porch of the house. Laura could see that the water covered the backyard, but she wasn't able to tell the depth of it. She was near enough to call out to Mark and Maggie, though. She hoped that they could get across. She cupped her hands around her mouth, and called out Maggie's name. Her voice echoed above the rush of the water. Laura waited. The house looked like a derelict in the bleakness. Its paint was peeling, and there were rust spots on the roof, but it looked sturdy enough to stand against the tide. It would be cold and dark, though. No place for anyone to stay. She called out again. "Maggie! It's Laura Bruce! I've come to get you."
A minute passed. Perhaps two. Then the back door opened a little way, and finally Maggie Underbill stepped out, looking as gaunt as an old woman. She wore a rumpled black velvet robe, and her dark hair lay in tangles about her face. This is my fault, thought Laura. But there's no time to worry about it now. I mustn't frighten her.
Aloud she said, "Hello, Maggie! It's time to leave now. Can you tell how deep the water is between us?"
"I can't leave!" Maggie called out. "Josh is with me."
"Mark, you mean," said Laura, edging a few feet farther down the slope.
"No. Mark went out to the shed, and he hasn't come back." Maggie pointed to the side yard.
Laura looked in the direction she pointed. There was an old tree towering above the water, but no outbuilding. Churning water surged along where the shed had been. Laura closed her eyes for a moment. She mustn't think about that. She must get Maggie out.
"Please come over here, Maggie," she said, straining to keep her voice loud but calm. "We need to go to the church."
"I have to stay with Josh. He takes care of me."
"No, Maggie! He killed everyone else! He's not taking care of you. You have to come with me."
Maggie smiled. "You don't understand," she said. "He did it for us."
Spencer Arrowood knew better than to try to reach the Underhills by the low-water bridge in front of the farm. That would have been submerged hours ago. But he had to drive down there, anyway, just in case Laura Bruce had managed to get stuck or go off the road trying to reach the house. He radioed Martha to let her know where he was, but he didn't ask for backup; everyone else was busy enough with their own rescue operations.
He turned his windshield wipers to a slower speed. Was it his imagination, or was the rain slacking off ? If the downpour would just stop the floodwaters would recede in a matter of hours. If it didn't, they might have to call in National Guard troops to help with the crisis.
He reached the turnoff to the Underhill farm, and started slowly down the incline, searching the brown water for signs of a submerged vehicle. He saw no sign of Laura Bruce in the current or on the road ahead. Perhaps she had gone to phone for help. But he had to see about the Underhills. That meant taking the steel span farther downstream, and crossing the ridge from the other side. He picked up the radio transmitter to tell Martha that he'd be another hour at least.
Laura Bruce didn't know how long she could stand on the muddy hillside in the cold rain arguing with a mad girl, but she couldn't think of any alternative. She could not abandon Maggie Underhill. She wiped the rain out of her face with her forearm, and tried to think of something else to say. Maggie was standing on the covered porch stoop, insisting that Josh would take care of her. She was too far away to be reasoned with. They could only shout across thirty feet of floodwaters. If only she could get Maggie to wade over to her. But, thought Laura, who in their right mind would wade out into a flooded, polluted river?
The idea occurred to her then. It was worth a try, anyhow. After that, the only thing left would be for Laura to try to go across herself, or to turn back and waste an hour or more in summoning help. Laura called out, "Do you still remember your lines from the play? Can you say them now?"
Maggie Underhill looked puzzled. "Which lines?" She had not expected the conversation to veer in this direction.
Laura tried to remember the crucial part. "The lines that begin with 'There's rosemary, that's for remembrance
Maggie Underhill nodded. " 'And there is pan-sies, that's for thoughts
"Good. But can you act it out?"
She watched as Maggie parodied the giving of the flowers to various members of the court. The words of the speech were indistinct in the sound of the waters, but she could hear the change in cadence when Maggie began to sing. "Hey nonny, nonny," the song she sang as she went to her death.
"And then what did she do, Maggie?"
Maggie was already moving forward, though. Down the steps of the porch, and into the water, strewing imaginary flowers as she went. There was a serene smile on her face. It would probably be easier at this point to be the mad Ophelia than to be Maggie Underhill. The losses were fewer and less intense. I'll have to go and get her, though, Laura thought. Ophelia doesn't come out
She could see that the water was only knee-high on Maggie, and that this far uphill from the swollen river, there was no current, just spillover from the channel. No heavy objects carried along by the flood. All the debris was borne by the current farther down the slope, at the front of the house. Laura held out her hands as she stepped off the bank and inched forward into the chocolate water. Maggie Underhill looked up at her and then beyond her to a spot on the hillside. She stopped strewing imaginary flowers into the tide.
"Josh!" she said, pointing to the muddy slope. "He's up on the hill."
Laura turned around. She saw the red four-wheel drive parked in the clearing, muddy to its chassis. She saw bare, wet trees lining the road and clumps of brown grass sticking to the red clay in the hillside. There was no one there. The hillside was as lifeless as the river itself.
It didn't matter, though. Maggie Underhill was walking toward her now, oblivious to the water surging around her. She moved steadily forward, smiling happily. Laura stood still and waited for her to come.
Maggie would have walked past her in her eagerness to reach her vision, but as she drew near, Laura took hold of her, and hugged her. "It's going to be all right now, Maggie," she said. "You're safe."
Maggie Underhill nodded absently. "Josh always sees to it that I'm safe."
Laura held on to Maggie, and they waded out of the flooded yard and began to climb the rain-slick slope. Once Laura fell, but Maggie helped her up. "I didn't really think I was Ophelia," she said. "I used to wish I could think so, though. But way back in my head, I'd know different."
"Good," said Laura. She felt an ache in her abdomen, and she took a gulp of air to counteract the feeling of being pulled inward. Then it was gone. She hadn't done so much, after all. Just a long walk in the rain, and a few minutes in dirty water. Maggie would probably have been all right, anyway, if she had stayed upstairs. But it was over now, and she'd done it. Maybe it hadn't amounted to much, but it was about all she could manage, considering.
"Mark is dead, I think," said Maggie calmly. She balanced herself on a rock, and held out her hand to Laura Bruce, helping her up. "He went out the front door, where it's deep. I almost went with him, but Josh wouldn't let me."
They had reached the car by then. Maggie slid in to the passenger seat, and leaned back, wiping the rain from her cheeks. Laura slumped behind the steering wheel, trying to catch her breath before she had to battle the mountain road. "Why do you think Josh is helping you?" she said between gasps. His name called to her mind the sight of bloodstains on the white walls, and gray matter splattered across the living-room floor. Surely he was a monster, and not a savior. "Didn't he kill your family?"
"Yes," said Maggie. "But he had to. Mark and I understood that. It was the rabbit, really, that made him decide that it had to end. The dead rabbit." Her eyes were glazed, and she looked off into the distance as though she were watching the events take place on a movie screen. "Dad had always beaten us. I never had any short-sleeved outfits, because Mother was always afraid that the bruises might show. But Josh got it worse than the rest of us. He was the oldest, and Dad thought he was a wimp. He wasn't, though. Sometimes he'd take the blame for things that the rest of us did just so Dad wouldn't hurt us."
"Why didn't you tell someone, Maggie?"
"I did once. A teacher. She asked my dad about it, and he took his belt to my back until I bled. After that, I never told."
"What about your mother? Didn't she try to protect you?"
Maggie shook her head. "No. She'd even tell on us sometimes so that he'd have an excuse to hit us. I think she was afraid he'd get mad at her if he wasn't mad at us. I have scars on my back. ... I used to wear a T-shirt, even when I went swimming, to cover the scars."
"Why would your brother get so upset about your father killing a rabbit, though?"
Maggie sobbed. "No. Dad didn't kill the rabbit. Simon did!"
M Simon?" The littlest Underhill. A little blond boy of seven or eight. Laura remembered his face from the family photograph in the den. He looked restless in the picture, and his mother had her hand on his shoulder, trying to hold him still.
"That evening, when we were at play practice, Josh went out to the shed and found Simon torturing the rabbit. Then he knew that it had to stop. Simon was going to be just like Daddy. First animals, and then people. If something wasn't done, it was just going to go on and on. So while Mark and I were gone, Josh took Daddy's gun and shot Daddy and Mother because they hurt us so much and because they had turned Simon into one of them."
"How do you know this, Maggie?" The pain sounded again in Laura's body, but she wouldn't listen. "Was there a note?"
"Josh told us," said Maggie softly. "He was still alive when we came home. He was waiting for us."
Laura shivered. She reached out to touch Maggie's arm, but the girl seemed unaffected by the memory. "Did he try to hurt you or Mark?"
"Of course not!" She was scornful. Such a foolish question. "He protected us. Always. He waited for us so that he could explain why he had to do it. To make sure we understood. He told us about finding Simon and the rabbit, and he said he loved us, and that we would be safe now that Dad was gone. And then he went upstairs and shot himself."
"You let him?"
Maggie nodded. "He wanted to. I wanted to think up a lie about burglars, but Josh said that the police would know better, and then the secret would get out. Before he went upstairs, he made us promise not to tell what happened. He told us to call the sheriff, and to say that everyone was dead when we got home."
"But why? Why would he want people to think he was a crazed killer?"
Maggie Underhill said, "I don't know, but I think he felt sorry for Daddy."
Laura put her hand on Maggie's arm, and they sat in silence for a good while, until Spencer Arrowood tapped on the window of the car, and asked if they were all right.
Laura Bruce looked up at him with a pain-dirnmed smile and said, "You'd better get us both to a hospital."