Through the pounding of her pulse, Pat heard a distant sound and recognized it: the door downstairs crashing back against the wall, as it did when Mark was in a hurry. The cold flame in the doorway flared and was gone, as suddenly as if air had first sparked and then overwhelmed its burning.
She was still on her feet when Mark burst into the room. He hit the light switch as he passed it, without pausing. Pat's eyes closed against the brilliance. She felt her son's arm around her, and pushed feebly at him.
"I'm all right," she said. Her voice gurgled idiotically. "I'm… How is Kathy?"
"She's just been sick," said Mark. "Hey, Kath, hang in there, will you? At least wait till I can get you into the bathroom."
The voice came from behind her. Pat opened her eyes.
Not Mark's arms-Josef's. She recognized the blue-and-brown plaid of his shirt. That was all she could see; her face was mashed against his chest and his arms were squeezing the breath out of her.
"I'm all right," she repeated. "I'm-"
"All right?" Josef held her out at arm's length. His voice was quizzical, his expression calm; only the fact that he was paler than the white background of his shirt betrayed his feelings. "Sit down," he said.
"No, I don't want…" Pat glanced around the room. It was unbelievably normal. There ought to be some traces of that incredible presence-the marks of scorching or destruction. From the bathroom she heard gulping sounds, and Mark's voice, forced to calm: "Atta girl, you're okay now. Cool it, love; gotta get back and see how Mom is doing."
Pat pulled away from the hands that held her.
"Where is Jud?" she demanded.
"Under the bed," Mark answered. "Some watchdog!"
He stood in the door, his arm around Kathy. She looked very small and pathetic; her hair hung in dripping strands, darkened by the water she had splashed on her face. She pulled away from Mark and ran to Pat.
"I told him how wonderful you were," she whispered, her head against Pat's shoulder. "I was petrified. And you were so brave. I don't know how you did it."
"Neither do I," Pat said honestly. "It wasn't me. Something… came into me."
She patted Kathy's shaking shoulders.
"You mean that?" Mark demanded. "Tell me what happened, Mom. Exactly. It's very important."
Pat was tempted to swear at her best-beloved son. She didn't blame Kathy for being sick. Her own stomach felt unsteady. She wanted to lie down and have a cold cloth on her head, and someone holding her hand, telling her how wonderful she was… and a sleeping pill, a very large, very strong sleeping pill that would knock her out for about a year. And maybe when she woke up it would turn out that the whole thing was a nightmare, some neurosis from early childhood…
"Leave your mother alone," Josef said. "She's had enough."
Pat turned on him, pushing Kathy out of her way.
"Don't talk to him that way!"
"I'll talk to him any way I like. He is a… Get your things, Kathy. We're spending the rest of the night at a motel. Tomorrow I'll put that damned house on the market."
"You're not serious," Pat said.
"I have never been more serious." He took her hand, his fingers curling around her wrist like manacles. "You're coming too. Pack a bag."
"Wait a minute." Mark advanced on them, his pallor gone, his cheeks flaming with anger. "Who the hell do you think you are? That's my mother you're talking to."
"You seem to have lost sight of that fact." Josef glared at him.
Mark put his arm around Pat's waist. For a moment she was literally pulled between the two of them, for Josef did not release his hold on her wrist.
"Cut it out," she said. "You are both acting like-"
"Let go of her," Mark said.
"You let go. She's an adult, with a life of her own to live. She can't spend the rest of it coddling some lazy-"
Mark's clenched fist interrupted the tirade. The old man staggered back, his hand covering his face.
For a few seconds they all froze. Mark's arms fell to his sides.
"Cripes," he said, his voice squeaking like that of a twelve-year-old. "Oh, God. I didn't mean-"
Josef lowered his hand. The austere lines of his mouth were blurred with blood.
"Kathy," he said.
"Oh, Daddy, please-"
"Get your things."
Kathy gave Mark an anguished glance. He was still staring in horror at his victim, and did not respond. She lowered her head and ran out of the room. Josef followed.
Mother and son contemplated one another. After a moment of internal struggle Pat held out her arms.
"You goofed, bud," she said.
"I know." Mark gathered her up, buried his head against her shoulder. "Oh, God, Mom-do I know."
II
After an encounter with a visitant from beyond the grave one does not worry about mundane matters, such as a job. Pat fell into bed as if she had been hit over the head with a rock, and did not stir until late the following morning.
Memory flooded back, in all its dreadful detail. Pat couldn't decide which depressed her more, the fear that her house was haunted by a particularly malevolent spirit, or the recollection of Mark's attack on Josef Fried-richs.
Normally when she overslept she was awakened by Albert, demanding his breakfast; but today the cat was nowhere to be seen. Pat got out of bed. She glanced at the clock and then at the telephone, and shook her head disgustedly. No use calling the office. If Mark hadn't already phoned to say she was sick, she was in trouble; and she was in no mood to invent symptoms or listen to reprimands.
She stood in the shower for a long time and dressed slowly, trying not to think about anything. The house was quiet. Perhaps, wonder of wonders, Mark had gone to class. After what had happened he would hardly have the gall to seek Kathy's company.
Sighing, Pat trudged down the stairs, feeling as if the descent took her back into a world of complex troubles. She had no idea what, if anything, she could do to solve even the smallest of them.
The sink was piled with dirty dishes. Pat sighed again, louder, and with more feeling. That was all she needed to start her day. She turned on the burner under the teakettle as she passed the stove and started to take the dishes out of the sink. As she did so her eyes went to the window, and what she saw made her drop a glass.
Not what she saw-what she did not see. The fence was gone.
Pat ran to the back door. The fence was still there, but it was in fragments. Mark had piled some of the wood into a rough heap. He was squatting on top of it like a gargoyle on a cathedral, his back to his mother, his attitude one of profound meditation.
He turned his head as Pat came squelching across the lawn. It was still wet with the rain of the previous night. Her sneakers were soaked before she had taken three steps.
"Hi," he said.
"What the hell-" Words failed his mother.
"Did I wake you? I'm sorry. I tried to be quiet."
"Quiet! What-how-why, Mark?"
"It's our wall." Mark's eyes were steady. He mopped his perspiring brow with his forearm. "Dad put it up; I guess we can take it down if we want."
"Yes, but-"
Mark dismissed her objection with a wave of his hand. Hand and forearm were streaked with bloody scratches, and his shirt-one of his best new shirts, Pat saw- had a jagged tear across the right sleeve.
"They're home," he said, and she didn't need to ask whom he meant. "I saw the car pull in ten minutes ago. I guess they'll be over pretty soon. Sit down."
Pat looked at the seat he indicated-a heap of scrap studded with splinters and rusty nails.
"I certainly will not. Get down from there, Mark, before you sit on a nail or something. You'd better get a tetanus shot this afternoon."
"I had one a couple of years ago."
"Yes, but-" Pat stopped herself. She recognized Mark's technique; he excelled at it, having had years of practice. Get the old lady off on some trivial point and let her rave.