Chapter Twelve

I returned to my car and backed off. The station wagon shot into the drive, tires squealing, while Mrs. Reddy remained on the porch, watching me. Bravely I thumbed my nose at her and drove off.

It was after eight o’clock as I started for the farm, although it seemed darker than it ought to be at that time with daylight saving and on an early autumn night. The country along there is heavily wooded, and although there are a few other farmhouses, none of them seemed to be lighted that night.

It was only about a mile and a half to the Caine farm, but that night it seemed much farther than that. I was driving fast but carefully. The road was dry and level most of the way, and without many turns in it. I should’ve reached the farm in under five minutes, but I didn’t, or at least it seemed that I didn’t.

There were no other cars traveling in either direction, an oddity, because the road, although unpaved beyond the Caine farm, is a much used route to Cainesville. I was nervous, and grew more so when I couldn’t find familiar landmarks. Both sides of the road were in complete darkness now. The only thing I could see was the macadam road in front of me.

I kept glancing every few seconds at the seat beside me, half-­expecting the man to be there, although reason told me he couldn’t be. For one thing, if he and Duff were the same person and Duff wasn’t with me, then neither could the man be. But how did I know Duff wasn’t with me? He could have hidden in the back of the car while I was in the Weber house.

I turned to look at the back seat, but it was impossible to see anything back there. Surely much more than five minutes had passed now and I still wasn’t home. I slowed down a bit and tried to read my watch, holding it beneath the dashboard light, but the minute hand didn’t seem to have moved at all.

Then I heard the voice—definitely heard it—it wasn’t in my head. It was a man’s voice, not Duff’s voice, and not much like his voice as I had heard it in the kitchen either. This time it was less guttural and more resonant, and the sound rose and fell as though borne on a wind. “Maggie . . . Maggie,” it called and sometimes it was loving, beseeching, and sometimes it was a question as though the caller was seeking me. “Maggie? Maggie?”

Now I saw him. He was riding beside me on a black horse, coming abreast of me now and then—unbelievably considering the speed of the car—pulling ahead. The horse was savage-­looking, with wild red eyes and foam flying from its mouth. I pushed hard on the gas pedal. The horse and its rider fell back, but it was only seconds before the horse’s head was up to my window again.

The man was in uniform, although it wasn’t quite the uniform of the photograph. Now his dark blue coat was torn and mud spattered. His boots were even muddier and the badge on his black slouch hat was green with tarnish.

He was hunched over the neck of the racing horse, gripping the reins tightly, but he wasn’t watching the road. He was watching me and grinning. The voice kept calling my name, but his lips weren’t moving.

I prayed for another car to appear in his lane or mine, but the road remained empty except for the two of us. The speedo­meter said eighty-­five, then ninety and still he kept up. It was impossible, I knew. I’ve ridden a lot of horses myself and I knew no horse could run that fast. It was impossible, too, that I hadn’t reached the Caine farm. At that speed I should’ve been there in two minutes or less.

The next time I looked he was pointing with a gloved hand, not at me but at the side of the road ahead of me. I turned away and looked back and he was still pointing. He was insistent now, no longer grinning, but jabbing his finger as though he wanted me to go in that direction.

I thought he was pointing to the farm lane. I still couldn’t see anything on either side of the road, but I took my foot off the gas pedal and braked, preparing to turn. Immediately the horse and rider shot ahead, led me for a moment, and then, maybe forty yards away, he wheeled the horse to face me. He was still pointing, to his left now, and a bit in front of him.

As I was about to turn the wheel—was, in fact, in the act of turning—I noticed, unexplainably, the aspirin bottle that the girl had given me in the afternoon. I reached over and took the bottle from the dashboard ledge, and then straightened the wheel quickly, heading straight at the man and horse.

I heard the horse scream as he reared. His legs and belly filled the windshield—then there was nothing. I braked to a stop a few yards beyond and sat there trembling uncontrollably for several minutes.

The night had cleared. After a while I looked in the rearview mirror, and although I could see through the rear window now, there was no sign of the horse and its rider. If I had hit them—as it seemed I had to have done, although I had felt no collision—I must have hurled them off the road.

I opened the door and looked back. A few yards behind me—surely where he had wanted me to turn—was a bridge with a rickety iron railing and a twenty-­foot drop to the creek that bordered the Caine farm.

When a car came up behind me, braked and swerved and its driver leaned out and cursed me, I managed to start the Plymouth and drive the remaining couple of hundred yards to the Caine house. I got out and left the car near the front door. I couldn’t bring myself to drive it out to the barn where it was usually parked.

Franny heard me and opened the door while I was fumbling with the key.

“What’s that in your hand, Mother?” she said.

I couldn’t speak for a moment. “The key,” I said finally.

“No, the other hand.”

It was the aspirin bottle. I put it in my coat pocket. “It’s just an old bottle that was in the car,” I said.

“Why are you trembling?”

“Cold.”

“It’s not that cold, is it?”

“Maybe I’m catching something. Where’s Duff?”

“Upstairs. Dad’s in his room writing.”

“Has Duff been in the house all evening?”

“As far as I know. I’ve been here in the living room most of the time, so if he came down he must have done it very quietly. Oh, by the way, you had a call from Gainesville, from Father Jackson. He left his number. Golly, you’re really going in for religion in a big way, aren’t you.”

I didn’t answer her, but went out to the kitchen and turned on all the lights. Then I bolted the back door and sat at the kitchen table for a while until I had regained some composure.

I wondered if he was in the house now. If he wasn’t, would bolted doors keep him out? What should I do then? Get myself a crucifix or a Bible? I already had the holy water. Had that saved me or was it my own instincts?

Shit, I thought, absolute shit. I took the bottle out of my pocket, opened the door of the wood stove and threw the bottle in. Then I sat frightened, certain I had brought calamity on myself.

After a while I went to the telephone and dialed the number on the pad. Mrs. Guenther answered and summoned Father Jackson.

“It occurred to me that I might have seemed abrupt this afternoon,” he said.

“It’s all right.”

“My apologies anyway.” He laughed. “Your daughter told me you were visiting the enemy camp.”

“Did she tell you what happened to Stephanie Weber?”

“No.” And then after I told him, “My God, I didn’t read the paper or watch the six o’clock news tonight from Ashland. Did the police ask any questions about your boy?”

I turned to look for Franny, but she had apparently gone upstairs. “There is no problem in that area right now,” I said softly. “It seems that Duff’s movements can be accounted for by the Webers and Mrs. Reddy. He apparently spent the evening with them.”

“Maybe you’d better keep him away from that house.”

“You’re the second person tonight to tell me that. Emil Weber was the first.”

Father Jackson was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I think we ought to get together and talk about this some more, Mrs. Caine. I’d really like to help you, if I can, even though I don’t think there’s anything supernatural about your difficulties.”

“You should’ve been with me tonight,” I said and hung up. Instantly I regretted it and wondered if I should have told him about what I had seen. Then I decided that really would have convinced him I was crazy.

Was I? Was it some sort of suicidal impulse that had almost caused me to drive my car into the creek and also run it into the ditch when Duff was with me? Was I trying to conceal my motive by imagining I saw the General?

I looked in on Jack. He was in bed, propped up with pillows and scribbling on his legal pad.

“Hi,” he said, not even looking at me. “Everything all right?”

“Fine,” I said and went upstairs. I’d be far better off unmarried, I thought. For one thing, I wouldn’t be at the Caine farm.

And, for another, I wouldn’t have Duff. Would that be good? Pass on that. Was he home? Did it matter? Based on what had happened in the past, he could have been away and come in without my knowing it. Then suddenly I remembered that he was afraid of horses, had always been afraid of them. Franny could ride as well as I could, but we could never get Duff on a horse. As far as I knew, it was his one phobia.

Feeling somewhat better, I paused by his bedroom. There was no sound and seemed to be no light. Then the door opened and he looked out.

“Did you want something, Mama?” he asked.

“I was just wondering if you were in bed. Did you go out tonight?”

“No, Mama, did you?”

“Yes, I went to see the Webers and Mrs. Reddy. I wanted to express my sympathy.”

“I hope you expressed mine too.” He seemed completely sincere.

“I didn’t, but you can phone them if you like.” Then something compelled me to say, “I wonder if the Sheriff knows about what happened between you and Stephanie.”

“You didn’t tell the deputies?” He was shaken now.

“No, but someone else may have. Stephanie could’ve mentioned it to someone in her family.”

“Well, they wouldn’t—”

“How do you know they wouldn’t?”

“They would realize I couldn’t help—” He backed into his room and tried to close the door.

“What couldn’t you help, Duff?” I put my foot in the doorway. “Did you see Stephanie last night, Duff? You know I won’t tell anyone. Did you see her and have an argument with her?”

There was a long silence and then he whispered, “I don’t know, Mother. I just don’t remember.” He kicked at my foot until I pulled it away and then he closed the door.

“Duff,” I called as softly as I could. “Duff, are you sure you weren’t outside a little while ago.”

He didn’t answer. After a moment or two I went into my bedroom. Franny was in bed studying her geography.

“Feeling better?” she asked brightly. “No,” she decided, “you don’t look better.”

“After I get some sleep I’ll be all right,” I said. I sat on the edge of the bed, desperately afraid. I was sure now that I was going to be the next one in the house to die.

“I must say we get more sleep here in the country than we ever did at home. Couldn’t we get a TV set, Mother?”

“I suppose so. Ask your father.”

“I wonder why Aunt Hannah never had one.”

“Maybe she and Mrs. Reddy entertained each other.”

Franny giggled. “I wonder what two old ladies like that would have to talk about.”

I wondered too. And the more I thought about Mrs. Reddy, the more I wondered about Aunt Hannah. Was it possible she didn’t know what Mrs. Reddy was, especially when outsiders like Father Fogarty were well acquainted with Mrs Reddy’s activities? Maybe it was because of Mrs. Reddy, and not the General, that she had given the money to Father Fogarty for the building of his shrine.

“Don’t just sit there, Mother,” Franny said. “Get ready for bed.”

I did so, going out to the bathroom, which was between our room and Duff’s, and returning quickly. Then I locked the door.

“Do you think that’s really necessary, Mother?” Franny grumbled. “It seems kind of silly to me. What kind of prowler would want to break into an old house that doesn’t even have a TV set?”

“Maybe that’s a good reason for not having one,” I said. “A roof antenna might make an isolated farmhouse more tempting.”

I turned off the overhead light, leaving only the bed lamp lighted. Then I went to the front window to open it and raise the shade. He was outside on the front lawn.

I checked a scream and turned to look at Franny. She had snuggled down with her back to me.

“What are you looking at, Mother?” she asked drowsily.

“The moonlight,” I said. I thought later that I should have told her, should have called her to the window to certify my sanity, but I didn’t want to frighten her. Also, I should have gone immediately to Duff’s room to see if he was still there, but I was afraid to do that.

When I looked out again, the man was closer, not thirty feet away. There was enough moonlight to make him clearly visible. He was still in the same uniform and he wasn’t grinning or leering at me now, but watching me gravely.

I was as frightened as before, but something compelled me to remain by the window. I pulled up a chair and sat down, and when I looked again, he had moved even closer. Franny called me two or three more times, and each time I answered that I was coming to bed. Finally she went to sleep.

I must have sat there for an hour or more, watching him as he watched me. Gradually I began to realize how handsome he was. His face was long and thin, with high cheekbones and deep-­set eyes. Without the beard it was much like Duff’s face.

“What do you want?” I remember whispering once, forming the words with my lips.

If he could read the question, he didn’t answer it.

He began to seem more slender now too, and younger. This man I could imagine as the heroic cavalry leader; I thought he must have looked like this when he entered the army, before the tribulations of war had their effect on him. The man I had seen before was gross and he shambled when he walked. This man, I knew, would be graceful in everything he did.

After a while, still in the chair, I went to sleep and dreamed things I will not repeat.