Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 8, No. 7, July 1963

The Epidemic by T. E. Brooks

Sometimes it is difficult to know how to protect the very young from a sickness far more devastating than a virus.

Heat quivered in the town, concentrating in the short business block of brick and concrete. Across the street, the maple trees and green summer grass of the town square breathed humidity into the air, bringing sweat to the faces of the men repairing the bandstand. They worked silently, grimly, covering the scars and discolorations with fresh white paint. A carpenter finished nailing a new step into place, and a man in paint-spattered coveralls — he was the town’s mayor — leaned forward with dripping brush to paint in the fresh wood.

The streets were almost empty, the public places — the theater, the library, the Community Park — all closed. In the residential areas the doors were shut, die front yards deserted. There wasn’t a child in sight. The hot summer day hung muted and motionless. Only the shimmering heat moved and, mingling with it, emanating from behind the grim faces and closed doors, rose the stifling, unwholesome effluvium of fear.

Behind the big white house on Herger Road, Ellie Thompson lay on her back in the grassy hollow between two forgotten maples at the south end of the garden. Her eyes, fixed on a scrap of heaven through the branches overhead, worked in a series of squints — half closing, opening, half closing again — trying to telescope the patch in a long distance focus. She had heard it could be done. It was a trick that was supposed to make things look further off or closer up or something, Ellie wasn’t quite sure. So far, nothing had happened either way. Sky was sky and squinting or just plain looking, it was all the same. She switched to a branch but that didn’t work either. Maybe the branch was too close. Sitting up, she searched the horizon for a better subject. Beyond the low brick wall that marked their own property line was an open field, broken about a quarter of a mile south by the railroad tracks. After that came the row of willows that stretched for miles along the river banks. No single tree wore a separate outline. They were all jumbled together. She reeled in her gaze, pulling back to the railroad track, following it a few yards down the line to the abandoned doll factory. Her gaze fastened on the factory, securing it carefully in her sights. A rapid succession of blinks and squints did no more than blur the edges of the old building. Ellie flopped back in disgust, — plucking a long blade of grass, sticking it between her teeth, chewing desultorily. It was so boring, this epidemic. There was nothing to do.

In the house, Ellie’s mother, preparing dinner, worked with quick, nervous movements! Every few minutes she paused, glancing through the kitchen window for some sight of Ellie in the backyard; Ellie’s blonde hair catching the last rays of sun, the flying remnants of an imperfect cartwheel, a small tennis shoe waggling in the air; anything that told her Ellie was there, safe in the yard. This time she stopped, frozen at the edge of the sink. There was no sign of life, nothing; only the lawn, the vegetable garden, the uncut grass beyond it. Mrs. Thompson felt terror rip through her heart. Gripping the sink, trying to control the fear, she cried, “Joanne!” and felt dismay at the shrill panic she heard in her voice.

“Yes, Mother,” Joanne returned quickly, alarmed, from upstairs.

“Do you see Ellie? I can’t see her anywhere.”

“She’s lying in the long grass, down by the maples. I can see her perfectly from my bedroom window.”

“Oh...” It was inaudible, almost a sob, then louder, to carry upstairs, “Thank you, Joanne. Keep her in sight will you, dear, while I finish dinner?”

Mrs. Thompson felt the adrenalin drain off, felt the weakness, the trembling in its wake. Toward evening the panic always grew sharper, quivering at the edge of her brain, poised to plunge at the slightest provocation through her body. She drew a deep breath and halved the hard-boiled eggs, pushing the yolks out deftly with her thumb. She wished Allan would come home so she could call Ellie into the house.

Allan had worn old work clothes this morning and he would probably be covered with paint when he got home. If Ellie saw him dressed that way, she would know that he hadn’t gone to the office today; she would bristle with curiosity and there would be questions, everlasting questions. Gwen Thompson’s brain, already weighted with fabrications, curdled at the thought of still a new one. What possible reason could she give Ellie for her father’s painting the bandstand in the middle of the “epidemic”?

There was a sound in the garage and Gwen stiffened a moment, listening. Yes, thank God, it was Allan. There was the noise of the car sliding into place, the motor cutting off, the garage door closing. She moved into the service porch, through the connecting door. Allan, white-faced, smelling of turpentine and sweat, smiled vaguely. “Hello, honey,” he said, moving past her, into the little utility bathroom off the service porch.

He looked positively ill. “Allan,” she said anxiously, “Are you all right?”

He mumbled something, soaping his hands at the sink, splashing water on his face. She didn’t understand his answer but she found comfort in her own. “It’s the heat, darling,” she murmured, handing him a towel, “And that awful smell of paint. You’re not used to it.”

“Not the heat or the paint,” he said, his voice muffled in the towel. “You get used to that in a hurry.” He came out from under the towel. “What we weren’t used to,” he said slowly, his gaze inverting, seeing something in his own mind, “was the look of that bandstand when we got there this morning.”

Her eyes widened. “You mean they didn’t have it cleaned up?”

He glanced at her, surprised that she hadn’t realized the full purpose of his day. “No, honey,” he said gently. “That’s what we were there for, to clean it up.”

Horror and incredulity crept into her voice. “You mean little Sharon was... still there?”

“No, of course not, Gwen,” he said quickly, trying to make his voice matter-of-fact. “Sharon was taken to the mortuary last night.”

Her face relaxed a little. “Then it was cleaned up.” She paused, her breath catching in sudden comprehension. “I mean, except for the painting and... and everything.” Abruptly she moved into his arms, holding him tightly. “Oh, Allan,” she breathed, “I didn’t realize. It was all there, wasn’t it? Everything but the poor little body...” She buried her face on his shoulder. “What a hideous day for you!” For a moment they clung together, holding each other in pain and horror and love. Then she lifted her face, moving back a little. “Has Morgan City been called in yet?”

He nodded grimly, unbuttoning his shirt. “That’s what took us so long to get started this morning. We had to stand around and look at it till their Homicide Squad finished up. Backus didn’t even call them till six a.m.”

Her face twisted a little. “That man must be out of his mind. Why, Allan? Why didn’t he call them the first time?” It was a lament.

“He wanted to crack it himself, that’s why. Be a big man.” There was venom in Allan’s voice. “He’s cracked something all right. His political career. Right down the middle. He’ll never be elected to anything again, not in this town. He’ll be damn lucky if there isn’t a third murder around here — his own.” Allan yanked open the shower door, glad for the momentary release of anger.

Gwen picked his shirt off the floor. “Did Morgan City find anything new?”

He pretended not to hear, groping into the shower, starting to turn on the faucets. She reached out, touching his arm, staying the motion. “It’s all right, Allan,” she said softly. “I have to know. What did they find?”

“The murder weapon,” he said.

“What was it, Allan...”

“Harvey Coleman’s trumpet. Remember, it disappeared after the last band concert.”

She nodded, waiting, gripped in a sudden, abhorrent fascination.

“They found it under the bandstand steps. It was dented and twisted...” He broke off, bending down to unlace his shoes. “They think it’s the: same weapon that killed little Barbie Jean.”

“Allan,” she said, “Was Sharon... Was her hand...?” She stopped, swallowing, the question stuck in her throat.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “It was gone. They found it under the steps along with the trumpet. They found Barbie Jean’s hand, too. Late this afternoon. In the park.”

“Oh, God, Allan...” The fascination was gone, leaving only the horror. She felt herself beginning to tremble again. “They’ve got to catch him,” she breathed. “They will, won’t they, Allan? The Morgan City police will catch him, won’t they?” Looking down at her, a tenderness swept through Allan. She seemed suddenly young, as young and as vulnerable as Ellie. He lifted her chin in his hand. “They’ll catch him, honey,” he said. “Eventually. I wish I could tell you not to worry, but I can’t. We’ve got to worry until it’s safe again, until this maniac is hauled in.” He paused a moment, frowning, then he reached into the shower, twisting the faucets. “I think,” he said, raising his voice over the noise of the water, “that we’d better tap the savings and send you and the girls on a little trip somewhere until this whole thing is over.”

Instinctively, Gwen shook her head. “We can’t,” she said. “We just can’t.”

“I think we have to.” He dropped the rest of his clothes on the floor and climbed into the shower, thrusting his head back out abruptly. “Where’s Ellie now?”

“She’s in the yard. Joanne’s been keeping an eye on her. I’ll call her in now. I was waiting for you to come home.”

Gwen scooped up the rest of the dirty clothes and moved out of the bathroom, back toward the kitchen. In the service porch, the cries broke through to her. It was Ellie’s voice, shrill with excitement, coming from the yard. “Joanne, look! It’s a fire, it’s a fire! The doll factory, it’s burning!” Gwen raced to the kitchen door, stopped by the sight across the fields, the peach-colored sheet of flame leaping from the doll factory. Her heart gave a lurch, her eyes pulling away, following the sound of Ellie’s voice. It was all right. Ellie was down by the wall and Joanne was with her, her arm around Ellie’s shoulders, gently coaxing her back toward the house.

Gwen turned, hurrying for the telephone. Thank heaven for Joanne. She’d been wonderful through this whole thing. She wasn’t acting like a teenager; she was acting like a woman. Blinking through quick, senseless tears, Gwen dialed the fire department, her chest heaving with sudden thanks that at least one of her children was safe, too old to be prey for a maniacal killer who attacked only little girls.

The fire trucks were screaming into sight when Allan, pulling on a fresh tee shirt, hurried into the yard. “Where’s the fire?” he shouted. Then he caught sight of the blazing doll factory and breathed, “Good Lord...”

Two engines turned in at the forsaken wedge of gnarled road that led to the doll factory, and finally the fire chief’s car, and then there was abrupt silence as the sirens were turned off and the procession bumped the rest of the way mutely, in a strange, soundless vacuum.

Gwen was the first to speak. “That’s the whole fire department, Allan,” she murmured anxiously. “What if there’s a fire in another part of town? Wouldn’t it be better to just let the old factory burn down?”

“Not with this wind picking up,” Allan replied. “It’ll spread if they don’t get it under control.”

Ellie said, “It happened just when the train went by. The train whistled and then wham! There was this great big blast of fire.”

“Probably a train spark,” her father answered. “There might have been some old chemicals still around.”

“It’s beautiful,” Joanne breathed, watching a new jet of flame stab the sky.

“It sure is,” Ellie agreed reverently. She wished that the eye squinting thing worked. All she could see against the blaze were the little shapes of firemen bobbing around the big trucks. She couldn’t see the hoses or the water or anything. If she could just get a little closer... Without much hope she said, “Can I go a little closer and watch?”

“No, you may not,” her mother replied flatly. “You know perfectly well you’re forbidden to leave the yard.”

It was her mother’s tone of finality that triggered Ellie’s impulse to protest. “But it’s very educational,” she countered plaintively. “I never saw a fire put out before. You want me to have an education, don’t you?”

Ellie’s father turned to her, his face stern. “Under no circumstances, Ellie, educational or otherwise, not for fire or emergency or any other reason, are you to leave this yard. Do you understand?”

Ellie’s nostrils flared under the bite of sudden tears. “You don’t have to get mad at me,” she retorted accusingly. “Besides, there’s nobody else going. How can I catch an epidemic if there’s nobody even there to catch it from?”

“There are the firemen, Ellie,” Joanne put in kindly.

“Then why don’t they catch it from each other?”

There was a pause, then solemnly, “Because they’ve already had it.”

Gwen cast a wry look at her husband and reached for Ellie’s hand. “Come on, Sweetie,” she said. “Dinner’s almost ready and you can watch the fire from the table while we eat.”

A few hours later when the fire department was getting ready to leave, and only a glowing arch remained where the flames had been, Ellie turned disconsolately from the living room window. “It’s almost out,” she said sadly. There, was nothing to do again. It was even worse thinking about tomorrow. There would be nothing to do all day long. Suddenly inspired, she said, “Daddy, will you play me a game of chess if I promise to sleep late in the morning?” If she stayed up late tonight and slept instead in the morning, tomorrow wouldn’t last nearly so long.

Behind his newspaper, Allan heaved a sigh of resignation. “All right,” he replied patiently. “If Mother’s agreeable to your staying up, I’ll play. But only on one condition...”

“I won’t cry if I lose,” Ellie broke in ecstatically. “I promise I won’t cry. Okay, Mamma? Do I have to take my bath first or can I wait till after?”

“Better first,” her mother smiled. “You’ll be too sleepy after.”

“Okay. I’ll hurry.”

When she was gone, Gwen looked at her husband. “Allan,” she said, her voice troubled, “do you think we ought to tell her the truth?”

He shot her a quick look. “What do you mean?”

She got up restlessly and moved to the window, staring out at the cathedral-like arch still glowing from the doll factory. “It’s just that I don’t think this is going to work much longer. I don’t think we should have used an epidemic as the reason in the first place.” She turned from the window, facing him. “Allan, it’s been hell this last week keeping her constantly in sight every minute of the day, never really sure she wouldn’t wander off. I know how you feel about it, but if we told her the real reason she’d understand. She wouldn’t be constantly nagging to go somewhere, always poking around the limits of the yard.” She sat down opposite him, her eyes pleading. “It’s a big yard, Allan. I worry even when she’s in it. If we told her the real reason, she wouldn’t even leave the house. She’d be safe.”

Allan stared at her, an angry flush rising in his face. “Gwen, have you lost your mind? Ellie’s eight years old. You just don’t tell an eight year old things like that. How does it sound? Ellie, come over here, I have a little current events item for you. There’s a killer at large. Two of your classmates, little girls you’ve known all your life, grown up with, well, they’ve been murdered. Some maniac’s on the loose and nobody’s caught him yet, so you’d better stay in the house. Stick around now, close, or he’s liable to murder you, too.” Allan slapped down the newspaper. “Gwen, for heaven’s sake!”

She was shaking her head, trying to stop him. “Not that way, Allan, please... Don’t be cruel. We wouldn’t have to tell her that way.”

“There isn’t any other way. No matter what we tell her, no matter how pretty we say it, that’s what it is and that’s what she’ll live with!”

A small, futile sound caught in Gwen’s throat. She turned her face away. Allan moved to her side, his anger draining off. “Honey,” he said gently, “you’re just upset. You wouldn’t even consider telling her this if you weren’t.”

She looked at him, feeling the panic rise again, bubble near the surface. “Yes I would, Allan,” she breathed. “It’s better to have Ellie terrified than murdered.” They heard the thumping of Ellie’s feet then, the slapping of slippers on the stairs. Allan hugged her briefly, reassuringly. “It’ll be all right,” he said quickly. “As soon as Ellle’s in bed, we’ll make some kind of plans to get the three of you out of here until this whole thing is over.”

A moment later, Ellie, buttoning her robe on crooked, padded into the room. “Boy, this’ll be the first time I ever beat Daddy! I got my system worked out perfect.” She groped around her knees for the missing button to fasten into the remaining buttonhole.

Gwen called her over, unbuttoning the bathrobe, starting all over again. “You missed the one. at the top,” she said.

Allan, setting up the chess set, raised his head. “I understand this system of yours is for stalemate.”

Ellie nodded. “It works fine, too. I won Joanne easy today.”

Her father looked disapproving. “Ellie,” he said, “You don’t win when you stalemate.”

“I know,” she said, cheerfully, “But it’s better than losing. Thank you, Mamma.” The buttons were in sequence now and Gwen rose, giving Ellie a parting kiss on the cheek.

“Wish me luck, Mom,” Ellie called after her.

In the kitchen, Gwen stood motionless for a moment. Joanne had been an angel, letting Ellie stalemate a chess game. Poor Joanne. She’d been cooped up all week at home, too, helping to keep track of Ellie. It wasn’t fair to Joanne... Gwen reached for the coffee pot. Fair, she thought bitterly. What a silly word. It wasn’t fair to Sharon or Barbie Jean, either. The thought laced a shiver up her spine and she pressed against the stove, trying to still the sudden jarring in her body. Then abruptly, giving up the struggle, her shoulders heaved and silently she tipped her face into her hands and wept.

During the night a storm moved in, threatening the heat wave. The sky was overcast the next morning, the hot air heavy with unshed rain. At breakfast, Joanne pushed the damp hair from her forehead. “You could drown in this weather,” she said.

“I can’t eat, Mom,” Ellie said, pushing her food away. “It’s too hot.” Summer had never been too hot before. Usually — when there wasn’t an epidemic — she set out right after breakfast with her bathing suit and a towel and lunch in a brown paper bag, to spend the day with the other kids at the swimming pool in the park. Now the park was closed and two of the kids were already sick with the epidemic and maybe they would even die... Her thoughts drew up. “Did Sharon die yet?” she said.

No one answered for a moment, then her mother, whose face suddenly looked very white and tired, said, “I haven’t heard from Sharon’s mother in a few days, Ellie. Perhaps I’ll call her today.”

“I wish you would, Mom.” It saddened Ellie to think of Sharon sick. The weather saddened her, too, and her mother’s pale face. A sudden fear clutched Ellie. “Mamma,” she said, “Are you sick?”

Allan, feeling again the swift rise of anger against his own helplessness, said brusquely, “Mother’s not sick, Ellie. Mother’s tired and Worried. You’ve worn her out this week trying to keep an eye on you. If you’d just be willing to accept things and stop complaining, I don’t think she’d be so tired.”

Ellie’s sadness amalgamated, fusing into a great contrite lump in her throat. “I’m sorry, Mamma,” she said remorsefully.

Gwen glared at her husband. It was enough that Ellie was miserable. Why did he have to make her guilty, too? Indignantly, she snapped, “For heaven’s sake, Allan, it isn’t Ellie’s fault!”

Allan swung around, looking carefully at her. “It isn’t my fault, either,” he said tersely. There was a moment of charged silence. Joanne and Ellie glanced at their parents, at each other, at the food on their plates. Gwen saw their faces and felt her heart go soggy, felt the tears push up behind her eyes. “Allan,” she said quickly, reaching out, touching his hand, “forgive me. I’m just jumpy, I guess...”

“We’re all getting on each other’s nerves,” he said quietly. He turned to his daughters. “Look, girls, I’ve tried to make reservations at the Lake, but they can’t take you and Mother on such short notice. I’m going to try again from the office this morning. If I can find a place that can take you in the next day or so, I’ll be able to get you out of here. If not, we’ll just have to make the best of this till it’s over. Now it’ll make things a lot easier on everyone,” he added pointedly, looking at Ellie, “if we all decide to cooperate.”

Ellie bobbed her head, blinking rapidly to hold back the tears. “I already decided, Daddy,” she said. “I’ll cooperate, honest. I’ll cooperate on everyone.” They smiled and Ellie promised herself solemnly that she wouldn’t bother anyone the whole day.

Ellie trailed her mother around the house all morning, doggedly assisting with the housework, putting dishes away half-dried, blundering through the bedmaking, finally, to Gwen’s relief, retiring with a dust cloth to the living room. Outdoors, the skies were still gray and the heat was even thicker now, almost wet. At ten o’clock, the phone rang for Joanne. Ellie, carefully working the dust off the carved legs of an end table, overheard the conversation and ran to her mother in the kitchen.

“Mamma, it’s someone over at Crestline asking Joanne to go swimming. Joanne said she couldn’t go because she had to help you take care of me. She doesn’t have to take care of me, Mamma. I can take care of myself, honest. Do they have an epidemic at Crestline?”

Gwen, peeling vegetables at the kitchen sink, paused, hearing the entreaty in Ellie’s voice. Poor little Ellie. She felt responsible now for everyone’s misery. The call must be from Kathy Mills. Kathy’s father had moved to Crestline last year. It would be an opportunity for Joanne to get out of the house, have a little fun. And Ellie really was cooperating. Gwen felt that Ellie, for the first time, was ready to accept the Quarantine. She turned from the sink, drying her hands and hugged Ellie briefly. “No, honey, there’s no epidemic at Crestline. Come on. Let’s go tell Joanne before Kathy hangs up.”

It was a barbeque party. Joanne would be spending the night at Crestline! Gwen talked with Mrs. Mills. Kathy’s brother would pick up Joanne after lunch and bring her home tomorrow. When Gwen got off the phone, Joanne hugged her hard and Ellie, beside herself, hugged them both.

There was a sudden festivity in the house; the bustle of packing, digging but the suitcase, ironing Joanne’s best cotton, sewing a button on her tennis dress... A dozen times Joanne said, “Mother, are you sure you won’t need me?” or “I just know it’s going to rain,” and each time her mother answered with a variation of, “No, dear, I won’t need you,” and “It won’t matter if it rains. They’re having the party on a covered deck.”

The sense of festivity lingered through the goodbyes, thinning out abruptly, following Joanne as she drove off with Kathy’s brother. Ellie darted down the porch steps, into the yard, keeping the car in sight as long as she could. When it disappeared she turned, looking suddenly bereft, and trudged back up the steps. Gwen gathered her close, holding her tightly for a moment. “Joanne’s going to have a lovely time,” she said. “Shall we make some lemonade and maybe have a game of chess?”

Ellie remembered the promise she had made herself. All week long her mother had done things with her. Now the ironing bag was full — Mamma had to fish through a huge bundle to find Joanne’s cotton — and the mending was piled up... Ellie shook her head. “No,” she said slowly, “My system’s no good anyway. Daddy beat me easy last night. I got to work on it.”

“Well,” her mother said comfortingly, “Let’s at least make the lemonade.”

The afternoon wore on, quiet, muffled with the summer stillness that comes before a storm. Gwen moved with her mending basket to the side porch where she could keep an eye on Ellie in the backyard. Ellie, fiddling with her pocket chess set down between the maples, listened to the stillness. Even the tiny insect noises were gone. Everything was hushed, expectant, waiting for the rain. There was only the sound of her own movements and the occasional squeak of springs as her mother shifted positions on the glider.

After awhile there wasn’t even the squeak of springs. Ellie raised her head, motionless for a moment, listening to the silence. Then, wedging the chess set into her pocket, she stood up and walked back to the porch.

Her mother was asleep, her thimbled finger still crooked behind the needle. In her lap, the mending rose and fell with the soft, deep sounds of exhaustion. Ellie tip-toed over, cautiously slipping the needle from her mother’s fingers, sticking it into the little red pin cushion on the lid of the mending basket. Then she turned and tip-toed back to the edge of the porch.

From the top step she had a full view of the doll factory, the burned-out arch black now, a mysterious, giant half moon against the red brick. There was no one in sight, not on the streets or sidewalks or in the fields beyond the house. You really couldn’t catch an epidemic if there was no one to catch it from. And besides, the fire would have burned all the germs at the doll factory. That was the way you sterilized things, like with a needle when you took out a sliver.

Ellie hitched her shoulders under the thin straps of her sun suit. Her mother really wouldn’t mind because of the doll factory being so sterilized and everything. Besides, she would only stay a minute. Her mother probably wouldn’t even wake up.

She took the steps quickly, quietly, hurrying across the lawn, past the maple trees and over the low stone wall at the edge of their property.

The open fields were cooler than the yard and the gloom was different out here. There was no canopy of leaves overhead to double the shade, only the even, murky overcast from the clouds above. A wonderful sense of freedom gripped Ellie; it was the first time in over a week that she had set foot from the yard. She began to run, creating her own breeze, feeling it lap through her long, straight hair. The field was full of ruts and pot holes, and each time she stumbled and kept her balance she laughed wildly, privately, jubilantly, until at last, as she neared the factory, she tripped over an edge of concrete and fell down. The chess set. flipped out of her pocket, the pieces scattering over the broken paving and Ellie sat up, hugging her knee, rocking with pain.

A voice, soft and articulate, drifted past her ears. “Did you hurt yourself, little girl?”

Ellie jumped, her head pivoting, turning toward the sound. He sat just a short distance away, under the charred arch that led to the factory basement.

Ellie smiled wanly. “I sure did,” she said. “I banged my knee bone.”

“I thought,” he said admiringly, “that you did well not to tumble much sooner. I’ve been watching you clear across the field and it looked like splendid fun.”

“It was,” Ellie replied matter-of-factly, “till I hurt myself.” She rose, limping, to gather the chess pieces. The man reached out, picked something off the ground, transferring it to his other hand. “Have you broken your toy?” he asked.

“It’s not a toy exactly,” Ellie said. “It’s a game and I can’t find one of the pawns.” She poked through the long grass that pushed up between the cracks in the paving.

“Is this it?” he said, extending his, arm.

She rose and moved, toward him, seeing the tiny pawn in the palm of his hand. She lifted her head, smiling into his face. “Thank you,” she beamed, starting to take it. “How did it get way over here I. wonder...” Her hand touched his and she broke off abruptly, giving a small involuntary jerk, starting to draw away. He didn’t move and she peered down into his upturned palm, feeling a small burst of shock. His hand was fat and perfectly rounded and stiff looking and it had a pinkish gray color. She bent a little closer for a better look. The pinkish gray color was a glove. He had slowly raised his other hand for her to compare. It was nothing like this one. It was thin and bony and it wore no glove. She looked at him, frowning. “Why are you wearing just one glove?” she said.

“To cover an artificial hand,” he answered. He did not move.

“What’s an artificial hand?”

“It’s a hand that’s manufactured to look like a real one.”

“Where’s your real one?”

“I lost it in an accident when I was a boy.”

“I’m sorry,” Ellie breathed. She was genuinely saddened.

He looked vaguely disconcerted. “Don’t you want your pawn?” he said.

Ellie had forgotten the pawn. She dipped now into his artificial hand and scooped it out, returning it to its little case. “Do you play chess?” she asked.

“I used to,” he replied tonelessly. “When I was in England.”

“What were you doing in England?”

“I lived there. I taught school.” Ellie made a wry face. “School, ugh. What kind of school?”

“A girl’s school.”

“I’ll bet you’re glad you don’t do that any more.”

“No,” he said, his voice gradually animating, “I rather liked it. I wish I could go back.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Because... well because sometimes I’m rather sick.”

Ellie recoiled. “Is it the epidemic?” she said in alarm.

“Epidemic? What epidemic?”

“You know, the one that’s going around.” He looked confused and she elaborated. “It’s catching. Everybody gets it. Is your sickness catching?”

“No, my sickness isn’t catching. No one can have it but me.”

Ellie relaxed. “That’s good,” she said, settling down beside him. “Do you want to play chess?”

“Do you really know how?” His voice was flat again. “Most little girls your age don’t know how to play chess.”

“I’m not very good but I think I can stalemate,” she answered.

“Stalemate!” He gave an odd little laugh. “Very crafty. Little girls are always very crafty. All right, set up the board.”

She hesitated, her gaze traveling slowly from his real hand to his artificial hand. For a moment she looked troubled, then in a swift, decisive movement, she thrust one arm behind her back.

His real hand shot out, grabbing her other wrist. “What are you doing!”

“Just putting my arm behind my back.”

“Why?”

“So we’ll be even.”

He frowned, his whole face suddenly twisting. Still tightly gripping her wrist, he turned away, his shoulders starting to move a little, rocking gently.

Ellie stared for a moment, dismayed. Then she reached out, patting his arm. “Don’t feel bad about your hand,” she said softly. “It’s all right. I like you anyway. I like you even better because of your hand.”

He turned back, facing her, his upper lip beaded with sweat, a bright red tracing the spidery network of veins in his eyes. “I like you, too,” he said in a thick, coated voice. She felt his fingers loosen on her wrist and then with a quick, sharp movement, he jerked his hand away.

“Get out of here,” he muttered, so low that she thought she had misunderstood him. She waited a moment, uncertainty climbing into her eyes.

“I said get out of here!” It was a yell, high-pitched and frenzied, almost like the voice of a woman. He thumped the ground, with his hand, his face distorting, parting his lips flat against his teeth. “Get out of here, get out of here...”

Ellie scrambled to her feet.

“Get out! Get out! Get out!”

The cries of rage and anguish followed her across the fields, echoing through her skull, louder than the roar of her own pulses. Stumbling, falling, pushing to her feet, she ran, sobs of terror and heartbreak pulling at her throat. She hurtled the low brick wall and raced into her own yard.

“Mamma, Mamma!”

Her mother was instantly awake. Ellie clattered up the steps and fell into her arms. “He screamed at me, Mamma, and told me to go... He told me to go...”

“Who told you to go! Ellie, what are you talking about?”

“The man, Mamma, the man with the hand...”

Ellie’s words dissolved then and her face crumpled and her mother dragged her, sobbing and shaking, into the house.

Ellie didn’t see the human dragnet that converged on the doll factory. She didn’t see the police officers or the patrol cars or the man as he was driven up the gnarled wedge of road past her house. She didn’t even remember that there was lightning and rain and thunder all through the night. She only knew that the next morning, the heat wave was broken and the yard glistened in the sun, and right after breakfast she set out with her bathing suit and towel and lunch in a brown paper bag to spend the day at the swimming pool in the park.

Passing the old factory road, she glanced down at the burned-out archway. Her mother had explained about strangers and how you never knew which ones were sick in their minds so you should stay away from them all. Ellie was quite sure though, that if his mind had been well, he wouldn’t have chased her away. She looked down, kicking morosely at a stone. If his mind had been well, they could have played chess every day.

From behind, she heard Stacy Patterson’s voice calling to her. “El-lie... Wait up...”

Ellie turned, waving vigorously.

Stacy caught up and they walked side by side, swinging their lunches. “Boy, is it ever good to see you,” Ellie said.

“Me, too,” Stacy breathed fervently. “What’d you do all week?”

“Nothing. All I did was play stupid old chess.”

“Me, too. Only I played Monopoly. With my stupid old brother.”

“Did you win?”

“No.”

“Me either. I didn’t even stalemate.”