Friday was not a working day for her, but it was for most of the residents of Magnolia Drive. The street was dark and quiet when she turned off the highway, with only a few squares of lighted windows burning against the dark. The drive curved. Not until she neared its end did she see something that made her foot move instinctively from gas pedal to brake.
Normally Halcyon House was as dark as the other houses on the street by this time of night. Now lights began to blaze out, one after the other-first the big oriel in the master bedroom, then the windows of the upper hall, then the fanlight over the front door, as if someone were running through the house pressing the light switches as he went.
Pat glanced at the clock. It was after one a.m. She looked then at her own house. Everything was normal there; Mark had left the porch light on for her, as he always did when she was out late.
Her car had just had its spring tune-up, courtesy of Mark. The engine purred softly. When the first scream tipped through the night, there was no louder sound to combat it.
Pat was out of the car before the sound died. In fact, she was through the gate and halfway up the walk before it stopped, as abruptly as if it had been cut off. It was a terrible sound-wordless, but requiring no words-a peremptory demand for help. And the voice had been that of a woman.
The ground-floor windows of Halcyon House were open to the spring air. No wonder the voice had carried so well. As Pat bounded up the porch steps, taking them two at a time, the scream came again. She threw her weight against the door and was somehow not surprised when the heavy portal yielded.
III
The mind works far more quickly than conventional measurements of time can reckon. Pat's mind had already painted a picture of what she expected to see; the reality was so like the vision that she was momentarily paralyzed, as a dreamer would be to find his dream a reality.
The hallway of Halcyon House, the duplicate of her own, was as wide as a normal room, with the carved walnut balustrade of the stairs rising at the rear. The hardwood floor, dark with age but freshly waxed, re-llected the bulbs of the antique crystal chandelier. On the floor, practically at her feet, was a tableau that might have come out of
Popular Detective
, or some other sensational sex-and-violence tabloid.
Kathy's fair hair spilled like shining water across the dark floor. Her thin blue nylon nightgown was twisted around her hips and her slim bare legs thrashed, kicking the floor. Friedrichs knelt beside her, his hands on her shoulders. As the door burst open he looked up. His face was ashen, bleeding from scratches that marred one cheek, and his expression was so distorted that Pat scarcely recognized him. For a moment the hope flashed through her mind that the man attacking the prostrate girl was not that girl's own father, but a stranger, an intruder… But the shock of black hair was Friedrichs', the heavy shoulders and hard, bruising hands…
Her paralysis could not have lasted more than a second or two. She saw the marks of fingers white against the girl's blotched cheeks, and knew why the scream had been cut off so abruptly. Kathy drew a long, choking breath and again cried out. Her father struck her across the mouth.
Pat launched herself like a missile, all one hundred and ten pounds of her body, straight at Friedrichs. He wasn't expecting it; he went over backwards, hitting his head with an ugly thud, and Pat gathered the sobbing girl into her arms. Kathy fought her at first. Pat quieted the flailing hands by pressing them against her body, cradling the golden head on her shoulder and talking as she had talked to Mark years ago when he had had a bad nightmare. "It's all right now, it's all gone-no one can hurt you, I'm here, I'll not let it hurt you…" Kathy's body finally relaxed. Her light bones and quivering muscles felt no heavier to Pat than Mark's eight-year-old body had felt, so long ago.
When the girl's gasps had subsided to low, moaning breaths, Friedrichs sat up. Pat eyed him warily. She was still so shocked and angry it was hard for her to speak, but she knew what tone she must adopt. Very calm, very firm.
"Just what is going on here?" she demanded.
"I wish to hell I knew." Friedrichs fingered the back of his head and winced. "How did you get-no, never mind that. Is she all right?"
"No thanks to you if she is." Pat clutched the girl lighter and tried to move away from Friedrichs, no easy task from a squatting position, with a now limp weight encumbering both arms.
Friedrichs' eyes blazed. He made an instinctive move forward. Seeing Pat's equally instinctive withdrawal, he sat back and took a deep breath. His shirt was crumpled-the sleeves rolled up, the neck open. His thick wavy hair stood out around his face, unkempt and uncombed. One of the deeper scratches on his cheek oozed blood. He needed a shave. He looked like a drunk who had been in a brawl. But when he finally spoke his voice was quiet and controlled.
"Okay, I know what you're thinking, and in all fairness I can't blame you for leaping to conclusions. The important thing-"
"Leaping to conclusions!"
"Just hear me out, please. The important thing is Kathy. She ought to see a doctor immediately. I don't suppose there's a physician in the country who makes house calls, and I'm equally certain that you would scream your head off if I tried to touch her; so perhaps I could impose on you to drive her to the nearest hospital."
Pat stared at him, openmouthed. Her heart was still thudding so hard that her chest ached, but the cool reason of Friedrichs' speech impressed her against her will. Kathy was a dead weight against her shoulder. She was breathing almost normally now.
Friedrichs went on, "I'm going to stand up and move back out of the way. If you like, I'll go into the library and you can lock me in. Only-for God's sake, Mrs. Robbins, do something for her right away. If you can't carry her, maybe… maybe your son…"
That last appeal affected Pat more powerfully than anything else the man had said. Surely Friedrichs would not have asked for Mark's help if he hadn't cared more for his daughter than for his reputation. So-as Jerry used to say-so maybe your premises are wrong, kid.
"I think she's all right," Pat said slowly, tilting Kathy's head back so she could see the girl's face. It was relaxed in the peace of deep sleep. A little too deep, perhaps… Pat looked at Friedrichs, who had risen and was backing away. His eyes were fixed on Kathy's face, and his expression… "Are you telling me you didn't attack the child?" Pat demanded.
"I was sitting up in bed reading when I heard her scream," Friedrichs said. "Not really a scream-not then-more like a choked, gurgling moan-a horrible sound. I froze for a second. The next thing I heard was a crash from her room, and then the sound of her footsteps running like a crazy thing. By the time I got out of my room she was halfway down the stairs. I turned on the lights as I followed; that slowed me down. She went in a headlong rush, stumbling and sliding. I thought sure she'd break her neck. I didn't catch up with her till she reached the front door. She had the chain off and the key turned-"
"So that's why the door was open?"
"That's why. When I touched her she let out the most god-awful yell and turned on me like-" Friedrichs touched the scratches on his cheek. "I had to grab her hands, hold her, or she would have run straight out of the house in her nightgown. She-she didn't know me. Her eyes were absolutely empty of recognition-empty of everything except mindless terror. I guess I lost my wits too, it was so damned awful… I tried to stop her from screaming, the sound cut right through me, and then I remembered they slap people sometimes, when they get hysterical…"
The damp night air was cool on Pat's arms and cheeks. Friedrichs was sweating. Great clammy drops stood out on his forehead.
Pat came to a sudden decision. If Friedrichs was faking that look of agonized love and concern, he was a better actor than Olivier. And he was right; Kathy's needs came before any other issue.
"Close the door," she said. "Then we'll get her to bed." Friedrichs obeyed, circling Pat and Kathy with the cau-tion of a leper. Pat's fingers sought the girl's pulse. Strong and steady. Now that her nerves were settling down she found the incident more and more unbelievable. What had gone on in this house tonight?
"Here," she said brusquely. "I can't carry her. You'll have to do it."
Their hands touched briefly as she transferred Kathy's limp weight to her father's arms. His fingers were as cold as ice. Pat followed him up the stairs and along the hall to Kathy's room, the equivalent of the one Mark occupied in her house. It had the same deep bay window and fire-place, and it was decorated in a frilly, flowery style suit-able for a girl much younger than Kathy. The dainty wallpaper and matching drapes, the canopied bed and white-painted furniture would have looked pretty if the room had not been such a mess. Papers were strewn about, books had been thrown from the shelves flanking the fireplace, and the bedsheets trailed onto the floor.
Pat touched the light switch and an overhead chandelier flooded the room with brilliance. She picked up the lamp lying on the pillow, a serviceable reading lamp with a bronze base, and restored it to the bedside table. Fried-richs put the girl on the bed. Pat bent over her, checking pulse and respiration again, lifting an eyelid. A blank blue orb stared back at her.
"She seems to be all right," Pat said slowly.
"A doctor-"
"I'm a nurse, you know. I don't think she's in any immediate danger." Pat tucked blankets around the girl's body and straightened. Friedrichs stood on the other side of the bed, his arms hanging limply. Pat was conscious of an unwilling surge of sympathy.
"Look," she said. "If what you told me was the truth- and I'm beginning to think maybe it was-well, there's one obvious explanation for what happened. Are you sure you want the publicity of a doctor and a hospital?"
"Publicity?" Friedrichs stared at her. The perspiration on his forehead was a slick, shiny film. Large drops ran down his lean cheeks. "What do you mean?"
"Drugs. Her behavior suggests one of the hallucinogens."
"No," Friedrichs said. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. "No. You mean LSD, something like that? She doesn't take drugs."
"Will you search her room?"
"No. I've never done a thing like that. I wouldn't insult her so."
Pat felt a wave of utter exhaustion, partly physical but primarily emotional. She had been through this before, too often, when she had worked briefly at a local hospital. Six months of night duty in the emergency room had been enough; she had quit and found a job as an office nurse. There were tragedies in that job too, but not like the hospital. It wasn't the blood and mess, or the pain of seeing a life slip through one's hands, a nurse got used to that. But she couldn't get used to the young people, mangled and smashed in needless car crashes, staggering drunk, or spaced out on some drug. Some of them had looked as young and innocent as the girl on the bed. And the parents had usually reacted just as Friedrichs was reacting- "Oh, no, not mine. I know there's a problem, but my child never…"
"You must search," she said. "In justice to her."
Intuitively she had touched the right note. Friedrichs thought it over for a moment and then, without a word, turned to the dresser drawers.
The harsh, unpleasant job took quite a long time. Friedrichs hated what he was doing; his mouth was a thin line of disgust. After a while Pat said, "Shall I…?" and the lawyer nodded silently. So Pat searched the adjoining bathroom-hamper, medicine chest, even the tank of the commode. She didn't enjoy the task either, but it was easier for her than for the distressed father. She found nothing except the usual patent medicines and cosmetics.
Then a sound from the bedroom sent her running back to Kathy. The girl was twisting uneasily and muttering in her sleep. Her eyes were still closed. Pat bent over Kathy. She could not make out distinct words. Then Kathy's eyes opened. They moved around the room, passing over her father as if he had been a piece of furniture. Then she saw Pat; and the light of normal, sane intelligence transformed her face.
"Mrs. Robbins… What-"
"Thank God," Pat said, the worst of her fears removed. "How do you feel?"
"Tired. I'm so tired…"
"Kathy. Did you take anything?"
"Is something… missing?" Kathy asked.
"No, I didn't mean that. Pills. Did you take anything like that?"
"No." Kathy's hand moved, groping. Pat took it in her own and the girl's slim fingers tightened on hers. "Don't go away. Stay here. Please."
"Of course, if you want me. But you must tell me-"
"Thank you…" The words trailed off in a long sigh. Kathy slept again.
Still holding the girl's hand, Pat caught Friedrichs' eye.
"Is she-"
"She's sound asleep," Pat said. "It looks like normal sleep. Mr. Friedrichs, it's up to you. I'm not going to advise you, but-"
"If she were yours?"
"I'd let her sleep it off, and see how she is in the morning."
Friedrichs nodded. He looked like a man who had just finished running twenty miles.
"I have no right to ask this, but-could you stay?"
"I have no intention of leaving. Didn't you hear me promise?"
"I heard you. But I didn't expect…" He sat down quite suddenly, not as if he had intended to do so, but as if his knees had given way and there just happened to be a chair behind him. Pat freed her hand from Kathy's grasp and started toward him, but Friedrichs shook his head. "I'm all right. Why don't you lie down on that chaise longue, where she-she can see you if she wakes. Would you like some coffee?"
"Yes, thanks. And have some yourself-with plenty of sugar."
"I'm all right," Friedrichs repeated. "I'll get the coffee. Is there anything else you would like?"
The meticulous formality of the speech sounded so incongruous that Pat smiled unwillingly.