It was a hunting knife.
“Should we give it to Earl?"
“Let's ask Fred. But I'l tel you one thing, I'm not leaving it here." Arlene took off the tank top she was wearing over her shirt and wrapped the knife in it.
They closed the trunk and returned to the car through the woods, much faster than they had come.
It was almost 10:30. They had been at the cabin longer than they had thought.
“Look, just drop me at the end of the road and go get Fred."
“Are you sure?"
“So long as I have the flashlight, I'l be fine. I'd probably be fine without it, I've walked this road so many times."
“Al right, but I'm cal ing your house in a little while. I want to be sure."
“That's very sweet, but be real. What's going to happen to me?"
“Do you want to take the knife?”
Samantha shuddered. "No thank you. And tel Fred that I think we should give it to Earl as soon as possible.
Tonight. I think I should tel my mom about it, too."
“Yeah. I'm sure he'l agree. Why do you suppose Duncan didn't come in and blast us for being there? The last time, he yel ed his head off."
“Maybe he planned to come back with his friends and ambush us. Or maybe he didn't know who or how many we were.”
This first alternative left Samantha feeling distinctly shaky.
They were at the end of the Mil ers' road. Arlene stopped the car.
“Good-bye. I hate to do this, except I'm late already—”
Samantha cut her off. "Don't be sil y. Go! It was my idea. If Fred is nice enough to let us have the car, the least we can do is get it back to him on time. He's probably imagining al kinds of things, from crumpled fenders to dropped transmissions.”
Arlene laughed. "Talk to you later.”
The moon was waning yet stil quite ful and bright.
Samantha switched the flashlight off and decided to jog home. It was beautiful and the familiar sight of the dark trees on the opposite shore as she passed the first inlet comforted her. But who would comfort Duncan? The trunk and the candles above it were a virtual shrine to his dead father. She imagined him slipping his skinny arms into the sleeves of that familiar jacket, trying to recapture some of the warmth and security those other arms had provided.
She thought about her own father and what would evoke him most. His handkerchiefs, she decided. Big white squares of the finest cotton. When she was sick with a cold, her nose raw from Kleenex, she used those. They smel ed slightly of the drawer where he kept them—a drawer fil ed with years of Old Spice soap on a rope sets given to him by his kids. She felt tears pricking at her eyes and stopped to speak to herself sternly. "Your father's not dead, Miss Samantha Mil er. Get a grip, girl." She laughed when she realized she'd said it out loud. She started jogging again, her mood elevated as she brought her knees up and down.
She was almost home.
She was almost home before she realized that she wasn't the only runner out that night. Someone dressed in black streaked by her and knocked her to the ground. She screamed, felt a sharp pain on the back of her head, and had time for just one impression before losing consciousness.
Lights. Smal , red twinkling lights.
Nine
The phone was ringing. Pix swung her legs over the side of the bed, shoved her feet into her slippers, and ran downstairs. It must be Samantha needing a ride home.
“Hi, Mrs. Mil er," Arlene said cheerily. "I know it's a little late, but can I speak to Samantha?"
“Isn't she with you?" Pix's chest tightened and her heart began to pound.
“You mean she's not home yet! I left her off at the end of your road about half an hour ago”
Pix dropped the phone and raced up to Samantha's room, cal ing her daughter's name. She had to be there. Pix hadn't heard her come in. Obviously, Samantha hadn't wanted to bother her and had gone straight to bed. Even as Pix opened the door, she knew none of this was true. The room was dark and the bed stil neatly made.
Pausing only to grab her keys from the kitchen counter, she picked up the phone and told Arlene to cal the police—
and the ambulance corps. Then she got in the car and started slowly down the road, searching on either side for Samantha.
The moon was bright; if it hadn't been, she would have missed her. Samantha was lying under a tree, partial y concealed by a stand of large ferns. A few feet farther on, the ground dropped off to a ledge of jagged granite rocks, now nearly covered by the incoming tide.
She ran to her, cal ing, "Samantha! Samantha!" But there was no answer. She was sobbing as she reached her daughter, careful y putting her arms about her. She was warm and Pix could feel her soft breath on her mother's cheek. She was alive.
“Samantha! Oh dear God, please help us!" Pix had no idea what her child's injuries might be, so she dared not move her, but knelt next to her, cradling her, burying her face in her daughter's sweet-smel ing hair. The night air was warm, yet Pix had never felt so cold.
She held her daughter's hand and felt for her pulse. It was steady. Samantha's eyelids fluttered.
“Samantha? Can you hear me?"
“Where am I, Mom? What's going on?" Samantha's voice started as a whisper, then got stronger. She looked about her in agitation. "My head hurts. It was Duncan. His shoes. I saw his shoes. Duncan hit me" She reached her hand to the back of her head and pul ed it quickly away.
“Mom, I'm bleeding! I'm scared! Do something!" She began to cry.
“The ambulance wil be here soon. Try to stay stil ." Pix had not seen the blood. She lay down next to her daughter, with her arm over Samantha's body to keep her calm.
Where was the ambulance! With her other hand, she grasped Samantha's hand, wet with her own blood, tightly.
“Sssh, honey, don't worry. Everything's going to be al right.”
But it wasn't.
After what seemed like several hours, she heard the ambulance siren and tears streamed down her face in relief. Earl was right behind them. He ran toward them.
“What happened?" he asked as the rescue workers rapidly assessed Samantha's injuries.
“I don't know! Arlene Prescott cal ed and said she'd dropped Samantha off at the end of the road. When Samantha wasn't in the house, I came to look for her. She said it was Duncan. She saw his shoes!" The rescue workers were wrapping Samantha in a blanket and moving her onto a stretcher.
“She's had a concussion; we're treating her for shock,"
one of the squad said. "And she has a scalp wound that's going to need some sutures, but nothing seems to be broken. You want to ride with her?”
Pix climbed in the back of the ambulance for the drive over the bridge to the mainland. Samantha seemed to be sleeping. Pix was on one side, a corps member, bless him, on the other.
Duncan Cowley had attacked her daughter. Intending what?
At the hospital, Samantha was taken away before Pix could get out of the ambulance. Earl had been fol owing and gave her a hand.
“I've been in touch with the state police and they're going down to the island to question the boy and his parents. You know she's going to get the best care possible here. I know how hard it is, but she's young and healthy. Everything's going to be fine, Pix.”
Pix did not trust herself to do more than nod and let him lead her into the waiting room, where a nurse promptly put a cup of coffee loaded with sugar into her hand. Arlene and Fred were already there. For a moment, Pix was in the peculiar position of having to comfort Arlene when what she was feeling was anger. Why hadn't she driven Samantha to the door!
“I shouldn't have let her walk home," Arlene wailed.