Second Child Part 24

D'Arcy?

But D'Arcy wasn't real, she told herself once more. D'Arcy was only a story, and a friend she'd made up.

Taking a deep breath, she put the wig on her head and let the long blond hair cascade down over her shoulders to frame her face.

And now, in the mirror, she was looking at a stranger.

But it was a stranger who was familiar to her, a stranger whom she had met before.

She picked up the brush on her vanity and began stroking it gently through the ma.s.s of blond hair.

And with every stroke, she felt the personality in the mirror, the personality that was not her own, gaining strength inside her...

Teri pulled the front door open, smiling at Brett Van Arsdale, who was wearing a black matador's costume trimmed in a pink that matched her dress almost perfectly. She grinned at him and pulled the door wider. "How did you know?" she asked. "Did someone tell you what I was wearing?"

Brett c.o.c.ked his head. "Maybe I'm psychic."

Teri rolled her eyes, but then as she looked outside at the empty black Porsche sitting in the driveway, her grin faded. "Where's Jeff?"

For a split second she thought a guilty look flashed through Brett's eyes, but then he shrugged. "He got sick," he said. "He called me half an hour ago and said he was barfing all over the place."

Teri's eyes narrowed. "If you're making this up-" she began.

Brett held up both his hands in a protesting gesture. "Hey, is it my fault if Jeff got sick? I got him to ask Melissa, didn't I? And that was the deal-if I got him to ask her, you go with me. But if he got sick, what am I supposed to do? I mean, I can't make him go, can I?"

Teri thought quickly. How was she going to get Melissa to go to the dance if Jeff was standing her up? She could already see the tears streaming down Melissa's stupid cheeks. She'd probably throw herself on the bed and have a tantrum or something. But then, as she thought about it, the answer came to her.

It would be just like the story.

She grinned at Brett. "Do me a favor, okay? I'm going to tell her that something happened and that Jeff's going to meet us at the club. If I don't, she won't come."

Brett snickered. "So what if she doesn't come?" he asked. "n.o.body'll care."

"Oh, yeah?" Teri asked, her grin turning into a sly smile. "The way she looks tonight, n.o.body at the club's going to want to miss her. Just wait here."

She hurried up the stairs to Melissa's room, already working out the details of the story she would tell her half sister.

But when she got there, Melissa's room was empty.

Quickly, she searched the second floor, then went up and looked in the attic. But Melissa seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth. At last she went back downstairs where Brett was waiting by the door.

"She's gone," she said. "She must have heard us talking and taken off."

"Taken off?" Brett repeated. "Where would she go?"

Teri rolled her eyes once more. "Who knows?" she said. "But you know Melissa-when something gets to her, she runs away."

"Yeah," Brett agreed, his grin widening again as he opened the door and led Teri down the steps to the Porsche. "And maybe this time we'll get lucky. Maybe this time she won't come back."

Teri said nothing, but as the Porsche sped down the driveway, she glanced back at the house.

And, as she had on the night she'd taken Blackie's body out to the pottingshed, thought she saw a flicker of movement in one of the attic windows.

But she'd looked in the attic and Melissa hadn't been there.

Or had she?

CHAPTER 19.

Jeff Barnstable lay on his back staring at the ceiling. The television on his desk was on but he was oblivious to it, concentrating instead on the rock music blaring directly into his ears from the headset of his Walkman. His right foot moved in a steady rhythm, keeping time to the beat, and every now and then his arms swung wildly as he smashed at an imaginary percussion set.

The tape came to an end, the last chord fading away, and Jeff reached for another one, glanced at the label, then tossed it back on the night table. Getting up, he wandered over to the window and gazed out into the gathering dusk. In the distance the lights of the Cove Club were beginning to glow brightly on the tip of South Point. A small frown furrowed his brow as he imagined his friends all dancing to the music of a live band.

Still, when he'd awakened this morning and thought of actually taking Melissa Holloway to the dance, just the idea of it had almost made him sick to his stomach, and by the time he'd made up his mind to follow through on Kent Fielding's idea of pretending to be sick, he wasn't even sure it was a lie anymore. Now, though, an hour after the time he was supposed to have picked up Melissa, he felt fine.

In fact, maybe he'd change his clothes and go to the dance after all. By then it would be too late to go get Melissa-knowing her, she'd be in the middle of a crying fit anyway and wouldn't want to go even if he showed up at her house.

He grinned as he imagined himself showing up at her door, all dressed up, maybe even with a bunch of flowers from his mother's garden. And there she'd be, her eyes all red and swollen, staring at him. She'd probably slam the door in his face, and then he'd get credit for actually trying trying to take her to the dance. But what if she were just sitting there, waiting for him? Then he wouldn't have any excuse at all for getting out of it. to take her to the dance. But what if she were just sitting there, waiting for him? Then he wouldn't have any excuse at all for getting out of it.

The soft buzzing of his parents' party, still going strong downstairs, suddenly increased as his bedroom door opened. He turned around to see his mother, standing with her back against the jamb, her face set in an expression of disapproval that always meant she'd caught him doing something wrong.

"Feeling better?" Paula Barnstable asked, her voice neutral but her eyes betraying her anger at her son.

Jeff started back toward the bed, doing his best to look sick again. "I-I just needed some fresh air," he stammered.

"It seems to me," Paula said slowly, "that perhaps you need some fresh manners, as well."

Jeff dropped down onto the bed. "I'm not feeling so good-" he began.

But his mother didn't let him finish. "I suppose I should have known you were up to something when you said you didn't feel well this afternoon. It isn't really like you to skip a party, is it?" Jeff glanced uneasily at his mother but said nothing. "How do you think I felt when Phyllis Holloway told me how nice it was of you to have asked Melissa out tonight?" Paula went on. "Aside from the fact that I knew nothing about it, I also knew you were up here, 'sick.'" The last word flicked from her lips like a whip, and Jeff cringed, knowing he was indeed in trouble.

"But I was was sick," Jeff began again. sick," Jeff began again.

"I don't want to hear it, Jeff," she told him. "I don't want to know what led up to this, and I don't want to hear any excuses. What I want to know is if it's true. Did Did you invite Melissa to the dance tonight?" you invite Melissa to the dance tonight?"

"Y-Yes, but-"

"Then you'll go," Paula informed her son. "I can't imagine why why you invited Melissa, but I can tell you right now that since you did, you will take her. Aside from the fact that there's nothing wrong with Melissa that getting out from under her mother's thumb wouldn't cure, there's the matter of simple good manners." Her voice dropped, a sure sign that she was angry. "You don't make a date with no intention of keeping it, Jeff. It's not only rude, but it's cruel, and no matter what you or anyone else thinks of Melissa or her mother, you have no right to be cruel to her." you invited Melissa, but I can tell you right now that since you did, you will take her. Aside from the fact that there's nothing wrong with Melissa that getting out from under her mother's thumb wouldn't cure, there's the matter of simple good manners." Her voice dropped, a sure sign that she was angry. "You don't make a date with no intention of keeping it, Jeff. It's not only rude, but it's cruel, and no matter what you or anyone else thinks of Melissa or her mother, you have no right to be cruel to her."

"But-"

Paula shook her head. "No buts," she said. "If I'd known you had a date tonight, I'd have called the doctor this afternoon. And if you'd been sick enough to warrant it, I'd have called Phyllis and Melissa myself and explained the situation. But now," she went on, her voice dropping further, "if you're really sick, I'm sorry for you. Because you're going to get off that bed, get dressed, and go get Melissa. You're going to take her to that dance, and you're never going to leave her side. And if you don't, believe me, you're going to have a very lonely summer, because there will be no more parties, no more days at the club, no more days on the beach. You'll sit here and think about what it means to go back on your word." Without waiting for her son to reply, Paula turned and left his room, silently closing the door behind her.

Jeff sat on his bed for a moment as if paralyzed, his mother's words echoing in his head. He should have known he'd get caught-he'd been stupid even to think he could get away with it. Sighing, he pulled himself off the bed and went to his closet. It was too late to figure out a costume now. He'd just have to wear a sports jacket and make the best of it.

But he could already hear Kent Fielding laughing at him when he showed up with Melissa on his arm. As he finished dressing a few minutes later, though, another thought occurred to him. He'd made a deal with Brett Van Arsdale, and if he had to make good on his part of it, then Brett had to make good on the rest of it.

Pausing as he went out the front door to drain a nearly full drink that someone had left on the table in the entry hall, he headed along the trail toward the club to get the Porsche from Brett Van Arsdale.

Cora lifted the heavy tray of hors d'oeuvres, still covered with a layer of Saran Wrap, then backed through the kitchen door into the butler's pantry. She nearly dropped the tray as she turned around in the cramped s.p.a.ce, but recovered herself and went on into the dining room where she added the tray to the three others already on the big oaken table that Tag had lengthened to its full twenty-four feet earlier in the evening. She paused for a moment to catch her breath, then began arranging the silverware in the difficult crescent pattern her mistress always insisted upon-and always inspected to be certain it was perfect. Momentarily, she wished she'd taken Tag up on his offer to help her this evening, but quickly decided she'd made the right decision-her grandson worked hard enough during the week without having to spend his Sat.u.r.day night setting up a party he couldn't even go to.

She glanced at the French doors to the terrace, reminding herself to turn on the lights before she went back to the kitchen, and was about to begin arranging the napkins, when she thought she heard a sound from upstairs. She paused in her work, her eyes automatically gazing upward as if she could see through the floor.

The sound came again, barely audible, and a frown creased the old woman's brow. The house was empty-she'd seen the mister and missus leave long ago, and heard the roar of Brett Van Arsdale's Porsche as it sped up the drive just before she'd come in to start setting up the after-dance party the Holloways were hosting.

So the house should be empty.

Her frown deepening as the faint sound came again, she abandoned the napkins and walked into the foyer, mounting the stairs a moment later. Coming to the second-floor landing, she paused, listening, and then heard the sound again.

It was still coming from above, in the attic.

A moment later she was certain she knew the answer. It had to be Tag, taking advantage of the fact that Mrs. Holloway was gone to search the attic for the missing dog once again. "I just think he must be up there," he'd told her only that afternoon. "If Melissa says she saw him, I believe her."

Cora had done her best to talk him out of it, explaining once more about Melissa's tendency to sleepwalk. "I'm not saying she was lying," she'd finished. "But sometimes she has dreams that are so vivid she thinks they're real."

But apparently she hadn't convinced the boy, and now, as the sound she'd heard before-a sound that was now clearly that of footsteps-echoed from above, she started toward the attic stairs.

At the top of the flight she found the door standing ajar, but the lights were off. What was Tag doing? Hunting through the attic in the dark? But it was almost nighttime now, and even the windows in the dormers were all but indistinguishable in the darkness of the attic.

"Tag?" she called. She reached for the light switch, but as her eyes adjusted to the darkness in the chamber beneath the roof, she saw a faint glow of yellowish light coming from the far end. Her lips compressing into a thin line of annoyance, she flipped the switch and started through the attic.

The pool of light from the single bulb faded quickly as she moved away from it, but she could still make out the flickering light ahead of her. It seemed to be coming from the little room where she'd found Melissa a couple of times, sound asleep on the cot which was almost its only furnishing. At last she was in front of the room's door. Like the door to the attic itself, it was standing slightly ajar. She reached out and pushed it open, fully expecting to see Tag, looking guilty, turn to face her.

Instead she saw a figure in a long white dress standing at the window, staring out into the quickly gathering darkness. She gasped, her hand automatically going to her breast as her heart fluttered at the strange vision in the room.

The figure turned, and for a moment Cora felt as if her legs would give way beneath her.

In the flickering glow of an oil lamp, a face appeared-a face as pale as death-framed by long blond hair that dropped almost to the eerie figure's waist.

Instinctively, Cora reached out to steady herself against the doorjamb. And then, as the strange specter picked up the oil lamp and moved toward her, she recognized the face.

"Melissa?" she asked.

The figure stopped moving and its head tipped slightly.

"What on earth are you doing?"

"I'm going to the dance," Melissa replied.

Cora's eyes narrowed slightly, for there was something odd about Melissa's voice. It wasn't that it didn't sound like Melissa-just that it was different.

"The dance?" Cora repeated. "But didn't the boys come for you an hour ago? I heard the car-"

"I wasn't ready," Melissa said. "But now it's time."

Melissa moved toward her once more, and instinctively Cora drew back slightly, for again there had been that strange note in Melissa's voice.

Melissa brushed past her, but instead of turning toward the bright pool of light around the attic door, she went the other way, toward the long-disused servants' stairs.

Cora followed close behind her, and a moment later Melissa started down the steep flight that led eventually to the kitchen. "Melissa? Are you all right?" Cora asked when they were downstairs. Melissa was standing quite still, her eyes scanning the kitchen, her expression oddly puzzled. As Cora spoke, she turned once more, and this time she smiled. But it wasn't quite Melissa's smile, just as the voice with which she spoke wasn't quite Melissa's voice.

"I'm fine," she said. "Isn't it a perfect night?"

Cora took a step toward her. "Something's wrong," she said. "You don't sound right. And what are you got up as? My Lord, you're pale as a ghost-"

And suddenly she understood. It was the costume party! And Melissa was going as D'Arcy. The tension in Cora's body broke and she chuckled softly. "Well, aren't you a sight, though. All got up in that dress. When I first saw you, I almost fainted dead away. My goodness, I hope n.o.body sees you on the beach tonight. You'd scare the life right out of them." She moved closer to Melissa and held out her arms, but instead of accepting Cora's embrace, Melissa moved toward the door.

"Don't," she breathed. "It'll get wrinkles in my beautiful new dress." Setting the flickering oil lamp on the counter, she smiled once more at Cora, then stepped out the back door into the night.

Cora, nonplussed by Melissa's last words, hurried to the door. New dress? What was she talking about? The dress was ancient. And her voice!

It hadn't sounded like Melissa's voice at all. It had sounded older, somehow. And curiously toneless. She came to the back door and peered out into the darkness. Melissa, already halfway across the lawn, had all but disappeared from sight, and all Cora could see of her was an indistinct blur of white floating against the black background of the night. She hesitated for a moment, wondering what to do.

Should she call Mrs. Holloway at the Barnstables'?

She discarded the idea instantly, knowing what her mistress's reaction would be to being called away from a party simply because Melissa was acting strange.

She would be furious, and she'd take it out not only on her, but on Melissa, too.

Besides, maybe there wasn't anything wrong with Melissa at all.

Maybe she'd just been using her imagination, and was trying to act the way D'Arcy herself might have that night when she'd gone to a dance at the club. In her mind, Cora ran over the details of the legend she'd heard for the first time nearly fifty years ago, when she'd originally come to Secret Cove.

If it was true that D'Arcy Malloy had really lived in this house, then the room in the attic might well have been hers. And she was supposed to have been seventeen or eighteen that night almost a hundred years ago.

Cora smiled now as she remembered Melissa's face. With the pale makeup, the makeup that had given her face that strange ghostly cast, she might have pa.s.sed for seventeen.

And her voice had taken on a more mature tone as well.

Yes, that was it.

Melissa, caught up in the spirit of the costume, was playing the role of D'Arcy as well as wearing the clothes.

And she's doing a pretty good job of it, too, Cora added to herself as she went back to her work. She sure fooled me-for a minute I'd have sworn she really was was D'Arcy. D'Arcy.

Jeff Barnstable twisted the key and listened to the Porsche's powerful engine leap into life. He gunned the motor a couple of times, dropped the transmission into low, and released the hand brake. Popping the clutch, he stamped down on the accelerator and the tires emitted a satisfying shriek as they lost their traction for a second. The car shot forward, accelerating rapidly as it roared up the drive toward the highway. He was doing nearly fifty when he came to the tight curve that would take him onto the road skirting the cove, and when he spun the wheel, all four wheels suddenly tore loose from the pavement. Instantly, he corrected his steering and the tires caught again. He slowed down as he came to the main highway, turned and headed down the road that led around the cove and eventually into the village. He came around another tight curve, then gunned the engine once more as he hit a long straightaway, the speedometer peaking at eighty-five before he began to slow for the turn into the Holloways' long driveway. Less than two minutes after he'd left the club, he stopped the car on the gravel drive in front of the house. Leaving the engine idling, he ran up the steps to the porch and rang the bell.

When nothing happened, he rang again, then heard Cora Peterson's m.u.f.fled voice calling out from inside the house. "Hold your horses. I'm coming." The porch light came on and the door opened. Cora looked out at him, opened the door wider, but said nothing.

"Is Melissa here?" Jeff asked. "I came to pick her up."