Comes The Blind Fury Part 13

"Who said it did?" Susan replied. "Except the Pendletons aren't really your parents, are they? You don't know who your parents are, do you?"

"They are too my parents," Mich.e.l.le shot back. She stood up, facing Susan. "They adopted me when I was just a little baby, and they've always been my parents."

"That was before," Susan said. She was grinning now as she watched Mich.e.l.le's anger grow.

"What do you mean, before?"

"Before they had their own baby. The only reason people adopt babies is because they can't have one of their own. So what do your parents need you for anymore?"

"Don't say that, Susan Peterson," Mich.e.l.le shouted. "Don't you ever say that. My parents love me as much as your parents love you."

"Do they?" There was a sweetness in Susan's voice that belied the expression on her face. "Do they really?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" As soon as the words came out of her mouth, Mich.e.l.le wished she hadn't said them. She should just ignore Susan-just get her stuff, and walk away. But it was too late. All the other children were listening to Susan, but they were watching Mich.e.l.le.

"Don't they spend more time with the baby than they do with you? Don't they really love her more? Why shouldn't they? Jenny's their real child. All you are is some orphan they took in when they thought they couldn't have any kids of their own!"

"That isn't true," Mich.e.l.le cried. But even as she spoke, she knew she wasn't as certain as she was trying to sound. Things were were different now. They had been ever since Jenny was born. But that was only because Jenny was a baby, and needed more than she did. It didn't mean her parents didn't love her. Did it? Of course it didn't. They loved her. different now. They had been ever since Jenny was born. But that was only because Jenny was a baby, and needed more than she did. It didn't mean her parents didn't love her. Did it? Of course it didn't. They loved her. Her parents loved her! Her parents loved her!

Suddenly Mich.e.l.le wanted to be home-home with her mother and her father-home, where she would be close to them, part of them. She was still their daughter. They still loved her-they still wanted her. Of course they did! Without bothering to pick up her things, Mich.e.l.le turned and started running down the beach toward the trail.

Sally Carstairs jumped to her feet and started to run after Mich.e.l.le, but Susan Peterson's voice stopped her.

"Oh, let her go," Susan said. "If she can't take a little teasing, who needs her?"

"But that was mean, Susan," Sally declared. "It was just plain mean."

"So?" Susan replied carelessly. "It wasn't very nice of her to throw that octopus at me, either."

"But she didn't know it would scare you."

"She did too," Susan replied. "And even if she didn't, she shouldn't have done it. I was just paying her back."

Sally sank back on her blanket, wondering what to do. She wanted to go after Mich.e.l.le, and bring her back, but it probably wouldn't do any good. Susan wouldn't quit-now that she knew how to get to Mich.e.l.le, she'd just keep at it. And if Sally kept being friends with Mich.e.l.le, Susan would start in on her, too. Sally knew she couldn't take that.

"She sure can run, can't she?" Sally heard the rest of the kids laugh at Susan's question, and looked up. Mich.e.l.le was almost at the foot of the trail. Sally decided that even if the rest of the kids were going to watch, she wouldn't. Besides, she couldn't If she did, she knew she would start crying, and she didn't want to do that. Not in front of Susan.

Susan Peterson's words pounded in Mich.e.l.le's ears as she ran down the beach.

What do they need you for?

Don't they really love her more?

It wasn't true, she told herself. None of it was true. But as she ran, the words seemed to follow her, swept on the wind, poking at her, prodding her.

She readied the trail and started upward.

Her breathing, already labored from her anger and running, came harder and harder. Soon she was gasping, and she could feel her heart pounding.

She wanted to stop, wanted to rest, wanted to sit down, just for a minute, to catch her breath, but she knew she couldn't.

They would be back there, on the beach, watching her. She could almost hear Susan's voice, sweet and vicious: She can't even make it up the trail.

She forced herself to look up, to see how far she had to go before she would be safely at the top, out of sight of the beach.

Far.

Too far.

And now the fog was coming in.

It was just a grayness at first, a slight mistiness that blurred her vision.

But then, as she forced her feet one after the other up the trail, it gathered around her, cold and damp, closing her off, isolating her, leaving her alone, no longer within sight of her tormentors on the beach, but far from home as well.

She must be close to the top. She had to be!

It was like a bad dream, a dream in which you have to run, but your feet, mired in some kind of mud, refuse to move. Mich.e.l.le could feel panic closing in on her.

It was then that she slipped.

It seemed like nothing for a split second-just a slight wrenching as her right foot hit a loose rock and twisted outward.

Suddenly there was nothing beneath her foot to support her. It was as if the trail had vanished.

She felt herself starting to fall through the terrifying gray mist.

She screamed, just once, and then the fog seemed to tighten itself around her, and the gray turned into black....

"Dr. Pendleton! Dr. Pendleton!"

Cal heard the voice calling to him. The terror it conveyed made him drop his hammer and dash into the kitchen. He reached the back door just as Jeff Benson leaped up onto the porch.

"What is it? What's happened?"

"It's Mich.e.l.le," Jeff cried, his chest heaving, his breath coming in heavy pants. "We were on the beach, and she was coming home, and-and-" His voice broke off, and he sank to the top step, trying to catch his breath.

"What happened?" Cal tried to keep from shouting as he stood over Jeff. "Is she all right?"

Jeff shook his head in despair.

"She was on the trail. We were all watching her, and all of a sudden she slipped, and-oh, Dr. Pendleton, come quick."

Cal felt the first rush of panic, the same panic he had felt when he'd seen Sally Carstairs, the panic that was rooted in Alan Hanley. And now it was Mich.e.l.le.

She'd fallen, as Alan Hanley had fallen.

Through his sudden terror he could hear Jeff Benson's voice, pleading with him: "Dr. Pendleton, please-Dr. Pendleton?-"

He forced himself to move, off the porch, across the lawn, to the edge of the bluff. He looked down, but could see nothing on the beach except a cl.u.s.ter of children, gathered together below him.

Dear G.o.d, let her be all right.

He started down the trail, slowly at first, then recklessly, though every step seemed to take an eternity. He could hear Jeff behind him, trying to tell him what had happened, but the boy's words made no sense to him. All he could think of was Mich.e.l.le, her lithe body lying on the rocks at the base of the cliff, broken and twisted.

At last he was on the beach, elbowing his way through the group of children who stood, helpless, around Mich.e.l.le.

Cal knelt beside his daughter, touched her face.

But it was not her face he saw. As had happened with Sally Carstairs, he saw instead the face of Alan Hanley, dying, staring at him, accusing him.

His mind reeled. It wasn't his fault. None of it was his fault It wasn't his fault. None of it was his fault. Then why did he feel so guilty? Guilty-and angry. Angry at these children who made him feel incompetent, ineffectual. And guilty. Always guilty.

Almost unaware of what he was doing, he placed his fingers on Mich.e.l.le's wrist.

Her pulse beat steadily.

Then, as he bent over her, her eyes fluttered, and opened. She looked up at him, her immense brown eyes frightened and filled with tears.

"Daddy? Daddy? Am I all right?"

"You're fine, baby, just fine. You're going to be all right." But even as he spoke the words, he knew they were a lie.

Without pausing to think, Cal picked Mich.e.l.le up in his arms. She moaned softly, then closed her eyes.

Cal started up the trail, his daughter cradled against his chest.

She'll be all right, he told himself. She's going to be just fine She's going to be just fine.

But as he climbed the trail, the memories came back to him, the memories of Alan Hanley.

Alan Hanley had fallen, and had been put in his care. And he had failed Alan-the boy had died.

He couldn't fail Mich.e.l.le. Not his own daughter. But even as he carried her to the house, he knew it was too late.

He had already failed her.

BOOK TWO.

MANIFESTATIONS.

CHAPTER 10.

The darkness was almost like a living thing, curling around her, grasping her, strangling her.

She reached out, tried to struggle with it, but it was like trying to struggle with water: no matter how she tried, the darkness slipped through, flooded back over her, made it difficult to breathe.

She was alone, drowning in the darkness.

And then, as if a tiny glimmer of light had appeared in the blackness, she knew she was not alone.

Something else was there, reaching out to her, trying to find her in the darkness, trying to help her.

She could feel it brush against her, just a faint tickling sensation, at the edge of her consciousness.

And a voice.

A soft voice, calling to her as if from a great distance.

She wanted to answer that voice, to cry out to it, but her own voice failed her; her words died in her throat.

She concentrated on feeling the presence, tried to draw it close, tried to reach out and pull it to her.

Then the voice again, clearer now, though still far away.

"Help me...please help me..."

But it was she who needed help, she who was sinking into the black void. How could she help? How could she do anything?

The voice faded away; the darkness began to brighten.

Mich.e.l.le opened her eyes.

She lay very still, uncertain where she was. Above her there was a ceiling.

She examined it carefully, looking for the familiar patterns she had identified in the cracked paint.

Yes, there was the giraffe. Well, not really really a giraffe, but if you used your imagination, it could almost be a giraffe. To the left, just a little bit, should be the bird, one wing stretched in flight, the other bent strangely, as if it was broken. a giraffe, but if you used your imagination, it could almost be a giraffe. To the left, just a little bit, should be the bird, one wing stretched in flight, the other bent strangely, as if it was broken.

She moved her eyes, just slightly. She was in her own bed, in her room. But it didn't make sense. It was at the cove. She remembered. She was having a picnic at the cove with Sally and Jeff, and Susan. Susan Peterson. There were some others, but it was Susan she remembered as the morning came flooding back to her. Susan had been teasing her, saying horrible things to her, telling her that her her parents didn't love her anymore. parents didn't love her anymore.

She had decided to go home. She was on the trail, and she could hear Susan's voice echoing in her mind.

And then-and then? Nothing.

Except that now she was home, and she was in bed.