Nightshade

CHAPTER 24

ON ANY OTHER day, Becky Adams would have gone directly from her final period geometry class to the room in the basement where Mr. Addington taught photography and the darkroom was located. There, she would have either checked out a camera to take pictures for either the school newspaper or the yearbook, or spent an hour or two in the darkroom.

“I don’t understand it,” her father had said when she decided to sign up for Mr. Addington’s advanced class this year after taking a summer school course from him. “Why would a pretty girl like you want to hide behind a camera or in a darkroom?” Though she hadn’t even tried to answer his question, Becky knew exactly why she liked photography: Until now, she’d never felt like she was a genuine part of the school. Everybody else — everybody she’d grown up with — had lots of friends and were involved in all kinds of things: sports teams, the cheerleading squad, the band or the choir. Everyone else seemed to have found a place to fit in. But it wasn’t until she discovered photography that Becky had found her own place: even though she still wasn’t a part of any of the groups in the school, she could at least photograph them. But the best hours were the ones she spent in the darkroom, where she didn’t have to try to fit in with anyone else.

Today she was supposed to have photographed the football team for the yearbook, but that had been cancelled, and Becky knew why: it was because of the bruises on Pete Arneson’s face. That, and the fact that no one wanted to be in the picture with Matt Moore.

All day long she had overheard the gossip. It seemed as if everywhere she went — in the classrooms, in the halls, in the cafeteria, even in the library during her fifth period study hall — everyone was whispering about what Matt had done. By the time the final bell rang, all Becky wanted to do was get away from it. But while she was getting her books out of her locker she couldn’t help overhearing Jessica Amberson talking to Tammy Brewster.

“I’m not going to go anywhere by myself. Nowhere at all!” Jessica was saying. “I can’t believe I used to want to go out with him.” Her eyes widened as she thought of the possibilities. “My God, Tammy, it could be me Matt murdered instead of Kelly!”

Becky slammed her locker shut so hard that Jessica and Tammy jumped as if she’d stuck a pin in them. “Nobody knows Matt did anything!” she told them. “And I don’t care what anyone says, I don’t believe he hurt Kelly, or his grandmother, or anyone else.”

Tammy fixed Becky with her most patronizing look. “Well, if you’re so sure he didn’t do anything, why don’t you just go with him right now?” Tammy tipped her head toward the front doors, and Becky turned around just in time to see Matt push them open and hurry down the steps, his head down.

“Maybe I will!” she shot back. Turning away from Jessica and Tammy, she hurried down the corridor, through the door, and outside. Matt was already across the street, and she called out as she started down the steps. “Matt, wait up!” He didn’t turn around — didn’t seem to hear her at all — and Becky broke into a jog, crossed the street, and caught up with him before he reached the corner. Finally he turned to look at her.

His face was pale and his eyes were clouded with suspicion — and anger.

“What do you want, Becky?” he asked, his voice as guarded as his expression.

“I thought maybe we could walk together. I mean, at least as far as my house.” When Matt made no reply, she nervously went on. “I mean, if you’re going that way.”

Matt’s eyes narrowed. “What did you do, take a dare from Jess and Tammy?”

Becky gasped. “No! I — ” But then she hesitated. In a way, wasn’t that exactly what she’d done? If she hadn’t heard them talking about Matt, would she be here right now? She was about to turn away when she remembered all the times people had turned away from her, and how bad it had always made her feel. But Matt had never turned away from her. Maybe they weren’t as close as when they lived across the street from each other, but unlike everyone else, he’d never been mean to her. And right now she knew he must be feeling as she had most of her life. In fact, he must be feeling a lot worse: at least no one had ever accused her of killing anyone. “I don’t think you did anything,” she said.

A frown creased Matt’s brow. “How come you’re so sure?”

Becky shrugged. “I just am. You wouldn’t do anything like they’re saying you did.”

Matt started walking again, and when Becky fell in beside him, he made no objection. It wasn’t until they’d come to the corner of Burlington Avenue that he spoke again, his voice so low that Becky could hardly hear him. “Do you think it’s possible to do something and not remember it?”

“You mean like — ” She hesitated, then finished her question. “You mean like kill someone?”

Matt didn’t answer for a moment, then shrugged noncommittally.

Becky remembered reading a book once, about hypnotism, and how even when someone was hypnotized, they wouldn’t do something they really didn’t want to do. But if Matt had been angry at Kelly — really angry —

No! she thought. He wouldn’t! Not Matt!

“I don’t think so,” she finally replied. “I think if you did something that bad, you’d remember it.”

Matt stopped walking and turned to face her. The anger she’d seen before was gone, replaced by pain and confusion. “But what about all those people you hear about? The ones who suddenly remember the awful things that happened to them when they were little kids?”

They were across the street from Becky’s house now, and she glanced uneasily toward the curtained window of the small living room, wondering if her mother was looking out, watching her. “I don’t believe it. I think if something terrible happens, you remember it. Especially if you did it yourself.” She thought she saw a glimmer of hope flicker in Matt’s eyes. “You didn’t do anything, Matt,” she said again. “You couldn’t have. I’ve known you my whole life, and I just know you couldn’t have done anything like what everybody’s saying.” Impulsively, she put her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. “Maybe nobody else believes you,” she said. “But I do.”

As Becky’s arms tightened around Matt, he hugged her close. “Thanks,” he said. “And I don’t care what anyone else thinks. You’re better than all the rest of them put together.”

Her eyes suddenly filling with tears she didn’t want Matt to see, Becky pulled away from him. “I’ve got to go,” she said. “See you tomorrow.”

Before Matt could reply, she was gone, running across the street and disappearing into her house. He was still looking at her front door when a movement at one of the windows caught his eye. He thought for an instant that it might be Becky, but then knew it wasn’t.

It was her mother, and even through the glass and across the distance that separated them, Matt could read her thoughts as clearly as if she’d shouted them at him.

Killer… murderer…

The words echoed in his mind, and suddenly he was running, fleeing down Burlington Avenue, trying to escape the awful accusations that were ringing in his head.

But there was no escape.

Not now.

Not ever.

* * *

JOAN’S EYES FIXED on the blinking red light on the answering machine as if it were an alien creature — vaguely familiar, but at the same time utterly incomprehensible. Why should it be flashing? Didn’t it only go on if someone had called her? And no one had — she’d been home all day — never left the house at all — and the phone hadn’t rung.

Why would it? No one wanted to talk to her anymore.

“No one ever wanted to talk to you, Joanie-baby,” Cynthia whispered. “They wanted to talk to me. Don’t you remember? The phone was always ringing, but it was never for you. It was always for me.”

“Shut up,” Joan whimpered, pressing her hands over her ears as if to shut out the relentless voice of her sister. But it was useless — Cynthia’s voice held her in its thrall.

“Everything was for me, Joanie-baby. Everything.”

The red light kept blinking, and as Joan stared at it, it took on an ominous look. Ominous, but at the same time mocking. As mocking as her sister’s laughter.

“You’re afraid,” something whispered. “You’re afraid to listen. Afraid to hear what might be there.”

Her sister’s voice?

Her mother’s?

No! It was only a machine! It had no voice, couldn’t possibly be speaking to her. But the whole house seemed filled with voices now. They seemed to be coming from everywhere. “No!” she blurted, though there was no one there to hear her. “I’m not afraid! I’m not!”

As Cynthia’s throaty laugh boiled up out of nowhere, Joan stabbed at the flashing button with a shaking finger, and a moment later heard Trip Wainwright’s familiar voice.

“It’s Trip, Joan… Look, Gerry Conroe might come out there, and I don’t think you ought to talk to him. He’s got some nutty idea that you’re not Matt’s mother. It’s nonsense, of course, but there’s no reason for you to have to listen to it. So if he shows up — and if you’re there — just don’t even answer the door. And call me when you get this, okay?” An uncertain silence followed, as if he were wondering what to say next, and then nothing.

For a moment Joan stood frozen, her eyes wide, staring at the machine as if it were a cobra that had just struck her. Then she heard her sister’s voice again.

“He knows, Joan. He knows everything!”

“No!” Joan shrieked, again clamping her hands over her ears. “He doesn’t know anything! He doesn’t!”

“Stupid!” Now it was her mother’s voice jabbing at her. “Cynthia was always the smart one! Why did she have to die? Why couldn’t it have been you? Then everything would be the way it should be!”

“No,” Joan wailed again. “No! It’s not true! I won’t hear it!”

Then she heard another voice: Matt’s voice.

“Mom?”

She spun around, half expecting him not to be there at all. But there he was — her perfect son. She started toward him, her arms outstretched, needing to feel him, to touch him, if only to prove to herself that he wasn’t just another phantom like the voices that were torturing her. But he drew back, his eyes clouding, his face paling.

“Mom?”

Joan caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass front of a display case. The image was hazy, but for an instant it seemed as though she was looking not at herself, but at Cynthia. She felt an awful sense of vertigo then, as if she were dropping away into a bottomless pit from which she might never emerge.

She reached out to Matt again, struggling to speak, searching for her voice, but he seemed to be pulling farther and farther away from her.

She was going to lose him — lose it all — lose everything she’d ever wanted —

Then a sound broke through the confusion in her mind, and the illusion that a moment ago had held her in its grip fell away.

The doorbell!

Don’t even answer the door.

But she had to answer the door. If she didn’t, Matt would. And then — “Go upstairs,” she said, “and let me take care of this!”

Matt stared at his mother. Her face was streaked with makeup — garish makeup — the kind street whores on television wore. And what was she talking about? What was she going to take care of? What was happening?

“It’s Kelly’s father!” she told him as she started toward the front door. “You don’t want to talk to him, do you?” She was close to Matt now, and his nostrils filled with the powerful scent of the perfume she wore.

The perfume he’d smelled so many times before.

His aunt’s perfume.

“Do it!” his mother commanded him. “Go upstairs!”

As if acting under the volition of some force outside himself, Matt started up the stairs. But as he heard the front door open and Kelly’s father begin to shout, he froze.

“Who is he, Joan?” Gerry Conroe demanded. “Who is Matt?”

“He’s my son!” Joan replied.

Conroe’s expression, already contorted with a mixture of exhaustion, frustration, and fear, hardened. “Don’t tell me that!” His voice trembled as he hurled the words at her: “I know he’s not your son, Joan! I don’t know who he is, but I know who he’s not. So you tell me — what the hell is going on here?” Joan covered her ears to shut out his furious accusations. “What is it, Joan? Did Bill find out Matt’s not your son? Did he find out where he really came from? That’s why he left, isn’t it? He was through with you, and he was through with Matt! So Matt shot him!”

“No!” Joan cried. She was cowering now, trying to push the door closed, but Gerry Conroe held it open. “No… no…”

“Tell me,” he said. “Tell me, Joan. Tell me the truth!”

Something broke inside her then, and when she spoke again, her voice had taken on a strangely childish tone. “I don’t have to!” she insisted. “I don’t have to tell you anything I don’t want to, and you can’t make me!”

Finally she succeeded in shoving the door shut, but even through the heavy mahogany, she could still hear Gerry Conroe’s voice: “I’ll find out, Joan. I’ll find out the truth!”

Then her eyes fell on a mirror and locked onto the reflection in the glass, and she no longer heard him. It was a reflection not of her, but of her sister, and as Joan stared at it she knew what had to happen.

Cynthia, once again, had to die.

But it would be different this time.

This time she would not only kill Cynthia, but destroy her.

* * *

“WHO IS HE? Who is Matt? Tell me… tell me the truth…”

The words hung in the air, pinning Matt to the spot. What was he talking about? He knew who his mother was — she was standing in the entry hall, looking at herself in the mirror! Then, as he watched, she turned away from the mirror and looked up at him.

Except she wasn’t looking at him. She was looking at something else — something behind him. But except for the two of them, the house was empty! “Mother?” he said uncertainly.

She was starting up the stairs now, coming toward him, but her eyes — bloodshot and made larger by the garish makeup — were still fixed on something beyond him. As she drew closer, Matt finally snapped out of the paralysis induced by Gerry Conroe’s words. Instinctively, he backed away, then turned and hurried up the rest of the stairs. Without thinking, he went to his room, closed the door, locked it.

Who is he? Tell me the truth!

The words hammered at Matt. What had Mr. Conroe been talking about?

Then he heard his mother’s voice, coming from beyond the heavy wooden door he’d locked a moment ago.

“I’ll kill you… this time I’ll really kill you!”

Matt’s heart pounded, and a terrible hopelessness rose within him.

Guilty…

He must be guilty!

Mr. Conroe thought so. So did Dan Pullman. He was pretty sure Trip Wainwright did too. Otherwise, why would the lawyer be so worried about what he might say to Mr. Pullman?

And now even his mother thought so.

Maybe he should just unlock the door and go out in the hall and face it. Face his mother.

Face everything.

He reached for the key, turned it, and pulled the door open a few inches.

The hall was empty, and silent.

Where was she? Where had she gone? “Mom?” he breathed, so softly the word was lost in the silence of the house. Then he heard a voice, muffled, barely audible at all.

“He’s mine! He’ll always be mine!”

Drawn toward the voice, Matt moved down the hall until he was standing outside his aunt’s room.

“He’s not yours,” he heard his mother say. “You gave him to me!”

Matt heard the sound of laughter then, but there was no joy in it. It was a harsh sound, a cruel sound. “Never! You took him! You took him like you took everything else! You did what you wanted to do… ”

And as the sound of the second voice came through the closed door, it echoed out of Matt’s memory —

… what you want to do.

Out of his dreams —

… do what you want to do…

Out of his nightmares —

… what you want to do…

His aunt’s voice — he was hearing his aunt’s voice! But that wasn’t possible — she was dead — she’d been dead since before he was born!

He backed away from the door, stumbling to the head of the stairs.

The terrible echoes from his nightmares tumbling through his mind, he started down.

* * *

THE MASCARA FROM her eyelashes streaking her cheeks, her makeup smeared, the scissors from her mother’s sewing box clutched in her hand, Joan fairly shook with rage as she faced her sister. “You can’t take him back!” she screamed. “It’s too late!”

“I don’t have to take him back!” Cynthia replied. “I never gave him to you in the first place!”

“Liar!” Joan screeched. She raised the scissors high, then plunged them deep into Cynthia’s cheek, slashing through skin and flesh until the point stuck in the bone beneath.

Cynthia only laughed. “You stole him. You stole him like you stole my whole life. No wonder Mama hated you.”

Joan jerked the scissors free, then slashed again. “She loved me! She always loved me! She only punished me because she loved me!”

“You were nothing,” Cynthia shot back. “You were stupid, and ugly, and no one ever wanted you. Not me, not Mama, not Bill, not anyone!”

The terrible mocking laugh rose again, and once more Joan slashed at her sister’s face. But the voice went inexorably on. “You can’t have it, Joan. You can’t have my life and you can’t have my son! I’m taking it back! I’m taking it all back!”

Suddenly Joan was back in New York, back in the apartment where Cynthia had hidden herself away to have her baby. Even when she’d gone into labor, she refused to go to a hospital, refused even to let Joan call a doctor…

* * *

“MAMA WILL FIND out,” she insisted. “Mama will find out, and then she’ll hate me! She’ll hate me the way she hates you!”

“But what if something happens?” Joan begged. “What if something goes wrong?”

“Nothing will go wrong,” Cynthia said. “I’ll have the baby, and you’ll get rid of it, and then I can go home.”

But something did go wrong — right after the baby had been born, something went terribly wrong.

Cynthia started to bleed.

“I’m going to call a doctor,” Joan insisted, but Cynthia shook her head and pointed at the baby.

“Not until you get rid of it.”

Joan looked down at the tiny child in her arms. “I can’t. I can’t hurt him. I can’t — ”

“He’s not yours,” Cynthia hissed. “He’s mine. I’ll decide what to do with him.”

Joan backed away, holding the baby closer. “Let me have him,” she pleaded. “Let me be his mother.”

Fury and venom spewed from Cynthia’s tongue as freely as the blood that was flowing from her womb. “Never! He’s mine, and he’ll always be mine!”

“But you don’t want him!”

“And you can’t have him!” Cynthia pulled herself up, her arms stretched out as if to snatch the baby away from Joan. “He’s mine, and he’ll always be mine!” Spent, Cynthia flopped back against the pillow, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. As Joan watched, her face grew paler, her breathing more shallow.

A moment later her breathing stopped and she lay still.

Joan stood staring at her sister, holding the baby close to her breast. What should she do? Should she call a doctor?

Too late.

The police?

What if they took the baby away?

Go away. Just take the baby and go away.

The idea seemed to come out of nowhere, and at first she dismissed it. But then she thought about it.

No one knew who Cynthia was. She had taken the apartment — a grubby, furnished room in a building filled with drug addicts and whores — under another name. She’d even gotten identification under that name. “After I get rid of the baby, I’ll just go home,” she told Joan. “The person who lives here will just cease to exist, and I can go back to my life. But you can bet I won’t get pregnant again!”

Now, as Joan stood staring at her sister’s body, she tried to think of a reason not to simply walk away from the dingy room, as Cynthia had intended to do. No one knew she was here — even people who might have seen her had no idea who she was. She held the baby tighter, gazing down into its perfect face. “Everything will be all right now,” she whispered. “I’ll be your mother, and I’ll love you. And your grandmother will love you too.” And Mother will love me now, she thought. When she sees the baby, she’ll love him, and she’ll love me too. She edged toward the door. It would work! She’d take the baby, and in a few months — just long enough so no one would wonder why she hadn’t looked pregnant when she left — she would go back home. Everything would be perfect! Her mother would love her, and the baby would love her.

But a few minutes later, as she was leaving, she thought she heard her sister’s voice: “It won’t work, Joanie-baby. You can’t be me. You can never be me.”

* * *

“I CAN BE you!” she screamed, raising the scissors yet again. “I can! I can!” Over and over the scissors slashed into the portrait until, like everything else that had been Cynthia’s, it lay in tatters on the floor. Her rage finally spent, Joan turned away from the destruction she’d created and went back to Cynthia’s vanity table. “I can be you,” she said. “I can.”

She cleaned away the smeared makeup, then set to work once more. But as she applied the makeup this time, she worked quickly and efficiently.

As quickly and efficiently as Cynthia herself…