Title: There's Someone For Everyone
Author: Scribe
Fandom: Friday the 13th movies
Pairing: None this chapter
Rating: NC17
Summary: Once upon a time there was a strange little girl, and no one understood her
Archive: Yes. Tell me where, give credit and a feedback address.
Feedback: poet77665@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: I did not create Jason Voorhees, and I don't own him, nor the Friday the 13th concept. I derive no profit from this effort. I mean nothing but respect for the creators and owners, and the actors who have portrayed him. Kudos to Kane Hodder, who actually manages to ACT under that freakin' hockey mask. DAMN, he's a big dude. I may be wrong, but he strikes me as the sort who might get a kick out of this sort of story.
Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver
Warnings: This rating is for over all themes, and possible 'necrophilia' in a later chapter. But let's face it, people, this is the most active corpse you're ever likely to run into.
Notes: Those of you who follow my work may not find this to be your cup of tea, but the story planted itself in my mind, and will not go away. The germ came to me years ago when some dolt made a comment about a recent Ft13th movie along the lines of, "That isn't possible. The dude is dead." Well, if you want to be technical, nothing since about II is possible, right? It's called suspension of disbelief, and you better bring a freakin' ton of it to a Ft13th movie. I do not expect to have any graphic sex, but the rating is for theme and atmosphere, since many people have HAIRY problems with anything that even approaches necrophilia. I do, too, when it involves desecration of a corpse, but let's face it--this is JASON. Anyone does anything to him he doesn't like, they're instant cannibal tartar.
More notes: Autism symptoms--Slow or delayed language development. Lack of facial expressions or gestures. Inappropriate repetition of sounds, words, sentences, or whole conversations. (This symptom may be immediate or delayed.) Avoidance of eye contact Inability to recognize social cues or other people’s feelings. "Tunes out" the world. Preoccupation with specific parts of an object. Highly intolerant of a change in routine.
From a page about the history of autism, discussing a pioneer in the recognizing the problem--Hans Asperger -- http://www.ama.org.br/autism-history.htm. "Asperger included cases that showed severe organic damage and those that shaded into normality. Nowadays, the label "Asperger's syndrome" tends to be reserved for the rare intelligent and highly verbal, near-normal autistic child." Daphne falls into this category.
Notes: I am basing this story on a Ft13th timeline found at http://www.houseofhorrors.com/fridaytime.htm This is on an excellent horror site, http://www.houseofhorrors.com/ The House of Horrors. I also found out that the original movie was filmed in New Jersey, so that is where the story now takes place.
There's Someone For Everyone
By Scribe
Part One: A Strange Little Girl
1966
The man looked up blearily, wincing at the croupy wail of his toddler daughter. "Can't you shut that kid up? You know I have to work tomorrow. She's not cutting another tooth already is she?"
"She's sick, okay?" The mother bounced the fretful little girl. "I'm worried about her. She had a play date with Marla Wallace's' girl a few days ago, and Doreen is sick, too. I think we'd better take her to the emergency room."
"Can't it wait till tomorrow?"
"I don't know. Let me take her temperature."
He fell asleep while she took the hacking, crying baby into the bathroom to get the thermometer. Suddenly he was being shaken roughly. "Goddamn it, I said..."
"Get up! Get up, you son of a bitch! My baby has a temperature of 103, and I didn't even keep the goddamn thermometer in the whole three minutes." His wife's voice rose above the baby's shrieks. "You're taking me to the hospital RIGHT NOW!"
At the hospital they tried to make her sit in the waiting room and fill out forms. She had screamed and cursed, thrusting the still shit smeared thermometer under the admitting nurse's nose. The woman had laid her hand on the wheezing little girl's forehead, then snatched her from the mother's arms and hurried down the hall, calling for a doctor.
A few minutes later Daphne Breman was wrapped in a thin blanket to keep her thrashing under control. A nurse supported her as she lay in a tub of water, chipped ice floating about her, and fans blowing breezes that ruffled her damp, sandy curls. The doctor was talking to the distraught mother. The father, yawning hugely, was sitting in the corner, sleepily filling out paperwork. "I don't know yet what it is, Mrs. Breman, but I can make a good guess. Has she been around any other children with similar symptoms?"
"The Wallace girl, but she didn't seem all that bad."
"She's right down the hall. Has Daphne had her vaccinations yet?"
"No. I was going to do that next month."
The doctor rubbed his face. "Damn. It's no doubt, then--She's got measles." He patted the woman on the shoulder. "We're going to do what we can for her, Mrs. Breman, but she's a very sick girl."
The waiting begins. The father returns home for another hour or so of sleep before he goes in to work. The mother doesn't try to persuade him to stay. He's proved his uselessness in her eyes by even CONSIDERING leaving while their baby is so sick.
The minutes tick by, turning to hours. The mother insists on staying with little Daphne, and the
over-worked ER nurse allows it. Elsie Breman grimly holds her daughter in the water, feeling the chilly liquid turn first tepid, then warm with her daughter's body heat.
The first convulsion strikes at 4:37 am. Daphne goes rigid in her mother's hands, blue eyes glazed and staring. She trembles from head to foot, then thrashes violently. As she screams for help, it is all that Elsie can do to keep her daughter from slamming her tiny head into the basin edge. It is almost over by the time the doctor and nurse have raced into the room. The baby is fussy and frightened, but seems to be unharmed. The doctor soothes Elsie, telling her that seizures are not uncommon for a baby with a high fever. Indeed, it isn't rare for children to suffer one unexplained
convulsion in their lives. "As long as its just one, we don't need to worry."
At seven am. Elsie must take a trip to the lavatory. The day shift ER nurse assures her that Daphne will be fine during the few minutes that will take. See? The baby is sleeping quite peacefully. So peacefully that the nurse, with Elsie gone, decides that it is safe to change the water in the tub. She is wrong.
Daphne convulses again just as the woman is lifting her from her bath, and the nurse is not ready. Tiny but sturdy arms and legs shoot out at odd angles, stiffening, and one bare foot drives against the nurse's starched white bosom with sickeningly painful force. Elsie is entering the room just as the woman drops her child. She screams as the baby falls against the exam table, then drops to the floor with a meaty splat, and continues to jerk and twitch. The doctor, right behind her, scoops up the child and begins a frantic examination as he shouts for security to come and pull the enraged mother off the woefully outclassed nurse.
The fever goes down to normal range within another four hours, but Daphne Breman remains unconscious for two days. She has a hairline skull fracture, a dislocated shoulder, and severe bruising. She convulses six more times before she finally opens her eyes to find her mother hovering over her. By that time her father has already contacted a personal injury lawyer.
1968
They were having dinner in a nice restaurant, and Simpson Breman knew that had to mean that they wanted to deal. He'd been paying attention in court, he'd seen the jurors as staring at his daughter as she sat, dull-eyed, in his wife's lap. He'd recognized the horror and pity caused by the tiny helmet she had to wear in order to avoid further head injuries if she fell. Simpson stared at the two lawyers--one representing the hospital, the other the ER doctor's malpractice insurance company. "My daughter has epilepsy. She can't go a week without a seizure, and it's not one of those nice, discreet little petit mal ones, either. We're talking falling down, jerking and twitching, foaming at the mouth. If we don't shove something between her jaws, she might bite her own
tongue off. The doctors don't know how she'll end up, but their best guess is that she's going to be slow. She'll never have a normal life, she'll always need to be taken care of, and all you're offering is a million?"
"Mister Bremin, there is no proof that the epilepsy was caused by the fall," protested the junior lawyer. "Several experts have stated that it could have been caused by the fever, and they all agree that the doctor and hospital did everything in their power to..."
"She's going to need to be taken care of," said Breman flatly. "Someone's got to provide for it, and I'm not going to be able to afford it. If you don't, she'll have to go into a state home. You really think that the jury is going to look at that little girl, look at her grieving mama, and NOT hold you responsible?" The lawyers were silent. "Two and a half million. I'm not a greedy man. You know damn good and well that if it goes to the jury they're liable to award two or three times that amount."
"And we can appeal," said the senior lawyer. "You wouldn't see a penny till your daughter was a grown woman."
Breman shrugged. "She could stay in the state home while we went through the appeals." He smiled nastily. "And then they'd award us even more for our suffering and mental anguish."
The senior lawyer stared at him. It was very seldom he met an opponent who was just as cold-blooded as he was. This man was willing to warehouse his daughter in order to win what he thought was his due. He sighed, and said, "One and three-quarters."
Simpson Breman's smile widened. "You know, usually I can only afford a beer. I need to study up on wines." He reached for the wine list. "We can negotiate."
1970
"Elsie, it's time for her to go to kindergarten, okay?"
"She doesn't HAVE to go, Sim. It isn't required by law."
"Look, the case worker says that she can, so she SHOULD, and if you think that I'm gonna risk having them question that settlement, you're crazy." Elsie glared at him. "Damn it, she's going to have to learn how to deal with the world sooner or later."
"But not now. I don't see why we can't have a... a tutor for her the first couple of years."
"WHY? They have a perfectly good public program."
"You are SO damn cheap, Simpson! That's why you want to send her out to school--it's free, and it will get her out of your way."
"Christ, Elsie, if that was what I wanted, I could have placed her in a home when we got the settlement."
"No, you couldn't," she said quietly, "because you know I would have killed you."
They stared at each other for a long moment. "Okay, no kindergarten, but I'm telling you you're going to regret it. The kid is going to have enough to overcome as it is without you isolating her even more."
1972
Elsie clutched Daphne's hand tightly as they sat in the car. "There it is, baby, you see? That's your
school. Now, I know that it's big, and scary, but you have to be a brave girl for mama."
Daphne said nothing, her tiny hand warm and limp in Elsie's. The girl was staring at the toes of her shoes, studying the bright, unmarred curve of the toes. Mama had insisted on buying her lots of new clothes for school. As usual, Daphne had allowed her mother to dress her like a doll. She was perfectly capable of dressing herself, but saw no point in insisting on it. She saw little point in insisting on anything--or interacting with the world at all. It would be years before psychologists would widely recognize her condition for what it was--borderline autism, a disassociation from society. She even felt little contact with the physical world around her. Often it surprised her that she was able to affect things around her.
Elsie sighed. "Lord. I managed to hold them off an extra year, but I can't stall any more. The law says you have to be in some sort of organized educational plan, and your sorry Daddy won't spring for home tutors. We're going to go in now, baby. I'll take you to your room." They got out of the car, Daphne waiting patiently till her mother came around the car and opened her door. As they walked into the long, low building, Elsie said, "I've talked with them, honey. I've told them how special you are, and how careful they'll have to be of you. I've given the nurse your medicine, and she'll give it to you at lunch. Don't you let them forget, now! Daphne, are you listening to me?" She stopped. Daphne continued to study the floor, eyes meticulously tracing the pattern of the tiles. Elsie touched her daughter's face, waiting till the girl's eyes drifted up to her. "What are you going to do at lunch."
"Clean the plate, plate the clean, clean it all. Take my meddy, gulp, gulp, gulp, pill gone," Daphne said quickly, her voice a toneless chant.
"That's right. You have to take your meddy. You don't want the shaking to come back."
"No, no, no go. Shaking, waking, very scary, no. What about my hard hat? Where's that?" She looked back at the floor. "No rug, hard floor, floor hard. Bang the head, make me dead."
Elsie winced. "You haven't had a seizure for a long time, baby. Just... just if you start to feel funny, lay down on the floor, before you FALL down, okay?" Daphne's attention had drifted to a poster that showed a cheerful group of bland boys and girls, industriously working at their school desks. "Daphne!"
"Lay down, stay down."
"That's right." As they started walking again, Elsie muttered, "Special needs class, my ass. My baby isn't stupid--she's just different."
1975
"She HATES it, Simpson!"
"Elsie, I seriously doubt that she even notices what's going on around her."
"How can you say that? You've seen the work she brings home from school. She's a GOOD student--she's SMART. Her teacher admits it; she says that Daphne doesn't belong in her class. Simpson, she's reading four years over her grade level. Her teacher gave her a junior high mathematics text book, and she's worked half the problems in it, with practically NO mistakes."
"Okay, so she isn't retarded--INTELLECTUALLY. Socially, that's another matter. I've talked to the teacher, too, and I hear what you shut out. Daphne doesn't INTERACT, Elsie. She might as well be alone in that class room."
"And why not? She doesn't BELONG there. The other students know it, and they resent her. I've seen how they treat her. Simpson, she comes home with spitballs in her hair. She has scabs on her knees from where they trip her."
"Children have accidents. They play..."
"You just got through telling me she DOESN'T INTERACT, Simpson--you can't have it both ways."
He sighed. "She falls down."
"THAT ISN'T HER FAULT! And she HADN'T been falling down for a long time before we put her in school. It's getting more and more often now. The doctors warned that stress could bring on seizures, change her body chemistry so that the medication wasn't as effective."
"CHRIST! What fucking stress? Elsie, the girl is a STONE. She's a lump, she doesn't feel ANYTHING. I don't think she's said five words to me in the last month unless I prodded her." Elsie stared at him, and the genuine hatred he saw shining in her eyes startled him. He knew that Elsie was stubborn and unrealistic where Daphne was concerned, but he tried again. "Honey, you're going to have to face facts--she's not normal--she never will be. They have folktales about
changelings--where a baby is stolen and something inhuman that looks just like it is left in its place. That's sort of what happened with Daphne. The disease and the accident stole the daughter we should have had, and left us with..."
They were standing in the hall, and the living room was dark, save for the flicker of the television. Daphne sat on the floor before it, face tipped up, blank eyes fixed on the screen. She'd sit like that for hours, watching whatever unfolded with equal interest--or lack of interest. News, comedy, cop shows, variety, cartoons... It all washed over her. Or so Simpson Breman thought. He didn't realize that, in actuality, it was all absorbed.
"It left us with THAT."
"She isn't a THAT--she's your DAUGHTER, you asshole."
He scowled. "I'd get more affection and recognition from a goddamn Chia Pet. She stays in the school." He walked away, intent on getting a drink. He didn't really NEED an excuse to drink, but if he ever felt he did, he had an excellent one sitting in the living room.
1977
"Oh, GOD, Simpson, you CAN'T send her to that public junior high! She'll only be in the special room for two classes a day. She'll have to deal with those little monsters the rest of the time. It's bad enough as it is, but she'll be around older children--teenagers. And they're VICIOUS to the different ones--you know that."
"She's doing all right. She doesn't complain."
"Maybe SHE doesn't, but her teacher has noticed it. Even the other student's in her class tease her unmercifully, and the so called 'normal' ones... Have you seen what Bobby Barclay wrote in her workbook? Filthy devil! I wanted him to be suspended, but they say they can't prove he did it."
"He must like her."
She stared at him in disbelief. "I think that's the stupidest statement you've ever made. And I suppose that the pinches mean he wants to go steady? She has blue marks on her arms."
"He's probably just trying to get a reaction out of her." Simpson was pouring himself another scotch. "God knows I'm tempted sometimes."
Elsie's eyes were like ice. "You know what would happen to you if you did."
He slammed the glass down on the table, liquor slopping out onto the shining veneer. "God DAMN it, woman, I'm getting sick of you threatening me!" He pointed at her. "Keep it up, and I'll leave your ass--you AND that breathing lump in there. No one with a grain of reality in their soul would blame me."
Her voice was silky. "What's wrong, Sim? Is your 'secretary' getting impatient?"
He snatched his coat from the closet. "I'm getting out of here. I'm going somewhere I can have a little peace, and be around someone who cares about ME for a change."
"Be sure to wrap your dick in plastic before you stick it in that swamp between her legs!" she shrieked as he stormed out. She went to the table and tossed off the drink he'd left, then went into the living room and sat on the couch behind Daphne. Her daughter never turned, never acknowledged her, but it didn't bother Elsie. She knew that Daphne was aware of her. "What are you watching, baby?"
It was some old black and white movie. On screen there was a bizarre cacophony of blaring music and the sound of bells. The image of a horrifically beautiful woman, hair a towering frizz of white streaked black, dark stitches laddering her neck, lurched on the screen. Her long body was swathed in flowing white--what could have been a wedding gown, or a shroud. "Ah, Bride of Frankenstein. That's a good one. Isn't it, honey? Do you like it?" Daphne's head moved a fraction of an inch--up, then down. "It's a classic."
She watched the end of the show with her daughter, watched as the Creature's heart was broken yet again, as his last hope of any love or kinship was dashed. Watched as his intended mate shrieked and hissed in horror. A tear trickled down the Creature's ashen face as he ordered the 'normal ones' away, his deep voice wrenching with pain and anger. "You live. We belong dead." Then he pulled the switch, and the laboratory exploded.
There was another minute or two, a totally unnecessary shot of the two protagonists escaping, assuring the far-in-the-past audience of the prerequisite 'happy ending'. Everything of significance had already happened, though.
"Dead."
Elsie was a little startled, though not as much as her husband would have been. Daphne DID speak of her own volition, though not often. "What, baby?"
"Dead. We belong dead. Dead long, long dead, belong. You live. We belong dead."
Daphne often fixated on a word or phrase--repeating it, switching it around, and working out variations. Elsie sometimes thought that it resembled some examples of 'stream of conscious' writing. It was as if Daphne didn't have the mental screen that most people did, and whatever ran through her mind, spilled from her lips.
It usually ran its course in a few seconds. Not this time. Daphne continued. "Dead. Long dead, long to be. Be dead. Dead, deadly live. You live dead. Dead."
Elsie began to feel a trickle of unease. Another movie, Night of the Living Dead, was just starting, a young man and a blonde woman bickering in a car as they drove through a cemetery. "Oh, I DON'T think so." Elsie got up and went to the television, changing the channel. "That's enough of that morbid stuff, huh, doll? How about, oh, a nice comedy? Look, there's Jerry Lewis! Let's watch him, okay?" Daphne stared silently at the brightly colored, antic activity on the screen. "Okay, Daphne?" Daphne nodded. Relieved, Elsie went to sit down.
"Mommy?"
*She so seldom talks to anyone directly,* thought Elsie. *That's got to be a good sign.* "What is it,
baby?"
Daphne didn't turn her head, didn't move, never took her eyes from the screen. "Dead is better."
1980
The ninth grade students thronged the hall as school let out for the day. Most of them were eager to get home, but many of them lingered in the halls, gossiping and giggling, making plans for the weekend. Daphne Breman moved among them silently. Daphne shuffled along, long, dull blonde hair drifting free from the too young barrettes her mother had carefully fixed that morning. The strands, fine as baby hair, floated about her thin, pale face. She had both arms folded around her books, clutching them to her chest, and her eyes were fixed on the floor. As she walked, she watched her own feet. She should have often run into other students, but they were used to moving around her by now, and she could avoid them, almost as if she had some internal steering device--radar, or sonar.
Then she bumped into someone directly in front of her. She knew that an apology was expected, but she didn't bother with it. She simply stepped aside, to move around the obstacle. But it moved with her, blocking her way. Patiently, she stepped back, trying to go around the other side, but the student moved, blocking her again. Daphne started to repeat the little dance, but a hard hand came down on her shoulder, shoving her back against the wall. "Hey, Daffy."
The voice was familiar. She sifted rapidly through images, and found the one that fit. Robert Barclay, fifteen, her own age, tall, broad, blond, with small, pale eyes. She didn't respond to him, simply waited. Something unpleasant was going to happen--it always did with Bobby Barclay. Others were gathering around, nudging each other and snickering, ready to enjoy the show. Tormenting Daphne 'Daffy' Breman was always good for a few laughs.
Bobby loved an audience, and he knew that he'd come up with something entertaining this time. "Say, Daffy, I heard my Mom readin' a kiddie story to my little brother. It was the Bremin Town Musicians. You've heard that, haven't you? Sure you have--you read all the time, and it's about your level. Anyway, it's about a rooster, a donkey, and a cat who travel together, right? Well, hey, I was just thinking--it's got YOUR name on it! So tell me, Daffy, which one are you--the cock, the ass, or the pussy?"
There was a burst of raucous laughter, and Daphne felt several harsh pokes. Someone said, "Shit, what's the point? She doesn't even understand."
"Dead," Daphne whispered.
"What did you say, retard?" asked Bobby. Daphne wasn't expected to make any response.
She didn't raise her voice. "Dead. Better dead. Dead is better."
The chuckling died down uneasily. Someone said, "Why the hell do they let these fucking nut jobs come to school with us normal people? Why are we wasting our time with her?"
They started to drift away. Bobby muttered. "Stupid bitch. You ruined my joke." He knocked the books out of her arms, then kicked them down the hall. She squatted slowly to retrieve them. Bobby looked up and down the hall. It had emptied quickly--there was no one in sight. He reached down and grabbed the girl's ass, squeezing roughly, then shoved. Daphne sprawled on her face. Her dress rucked up, showing a long expanse of pale, bare thigh, and just a wisp of panties. Bobby blinked, eyes crawling over the girl, then he shook his head. "Fucking psycho bitch." He planted his foot on her ass and shoved her back down as she started to rise, then turned and moved away rapidly, trying to ignore the thickening at his crotch.
When Daphne was sure that the boy was gone, she finished getting to her feet. A teacher came out just as she was rising, and hurried over. "Daphne, are you all right?" She didn't receive a response, but hadn't really expected any. She quickly scanned the silent girl, and saw no injuries. "My, you're a clumsy soul, aren't you? Let me help." She helped the girl gather her school things. "Is your mother coming for you? Yes, of course she is. You usually wait at this door, right? I'll walk with you."
Mrs. Breman was just getting out of her car when they reached the door. Her expression tensed. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing, Mrs. Breman. Daphne just tripped, that's all."
Elsie gave her daughter a fast once-over, gimlet eyes cataloguing every detail. She knew EXACTLY how her daughter had looked when she'd been deposited here this morning. "Tripped, huh? You want to tell me how the hell that footprint got on her ass, then?"
The teacher looked, this time noticing the gray, dusty outline of a sole on the girl's dark dress. "I... Mrs. Breman, I didn't see anyone DO anything to her."
"You people never do," she snapped, putting an arm around Daphne and urging her into the passenger side of the car. "All of you!" She got in the car and started it with a vicious jerk of the key, squealing her tires as she pulled out. "I swear to you, baby, that's the LAST straw! I'm taking you out of there. If he won't pay for you to go to a special school, or have a home teacher, then by God, I'll just keep you home. I'll spit in the judge's eye if he says you have to go back."
~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~**~*~*~**~
The hitchhiker thought that it would be a safe ride. The middle aged woman looked so bland, so normal, with her graying ash blonde pixie cut, and her bright smile. Annie chattered brightly about her new job, how she was looking forward to cooking for the campers at Camp Crystal Lake, how much she loved children... She didn't see the coldness creep into the woman's eyes, didn't see the way her strong hands tightened on the wheel of the jeep till the knuckles were starkly
white. No, she suspected nothing till the woman drove past the turn off to the camp, then ignored her protestations.
Annie grew panicked, finally seeing the madness that lurked behind the now stiff, painful grin. The woman wouldn't respond to her demands, then her pleas, and finally Annie realized that there was danger here--real danger. That was when she dived from the car. She hurried through the woods--limping and battered, terror rising sour in her throat, listening for the sounds of pursuit.
She thought she might get away, and then the woman was just suddenly THERE. Annie didn't even have time to scream or beg. The heavy hunting knife slash once, slicing across her throat. It was so quick, so sharp, that Annie didn't even feel any pain. She didn't know she was dying till the warm, wet flow ran down her chest, starting to soak into her blouse.
Pamela Voorhees stood over the girl for a few moments, watching as the red gush slowed to a trickle, then stopped. She held the knife ready, in case it should be needed again, but the girl was still, staring up at the sky with eyes that were already looking dusty.
Pamela bent and wiped the knife on the girl's jeans. She had to keep it clean--it was going to be needed. She walked back through the trees to the road. They were opening Camp Blood again. She had work to do.
~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~**~*~*~***~
Simpson Breman had used some of the settlement to invest in stocks, and they'd done well. He didn't HAVE to work these days, so he didn't. He spent most of his time in town at various clubs and bars, complaining bitterly about his bitch wife and imbecile daughter, threatening at least once a night to 'just LEAVE their asses'.
He didn't keep a steady woman--hadn't since his 'secretary' had finally realized that he wasn't going to risk losing a dime of the money that had been awarded after his daughter's tragedy. Simpson had never really gotten over the fact that SHE had dumped HIM, and now his opinion of women was even lower than before. He'd go with this one or that one for a week or two, maybe a month, but he was determined never again to invest anything of himself in a woman. They just weren't worth it, and he had two prime examples.
They were both out of the house when he got up around 3 o'clock and staggered into the kitchen in search of a hair of the dog that bit him. Elsie had stopped trying to dispose of his booze. She had begun drinking it herself about a year ago out of sheer frustration that she couldn't persuade him to take Daphne out of public school. It had become a point of sheer stubbornness on his part. He knew that his daughter was an outcast at school, but he wasn't about to admit he was wrong at this stage of the game.
Simpson stood at the kitchen sink, staring out the window as he drank his whiskey. The view was lovely--a small, green clearing, ringed by thick trees. He hated it. He would have preferred to live in town, maybe even in one of the big cities. But Elsie wanted to live somewhere that Daphne could wander around without having to worry about running into someone who might harass her. She'd made noises about divorce. Back then, about two years ago, Simpson hadn't been entirely sure that she wouldn't be able to hurt him financially, so he'd caved on this. It was a good investment, after all. Lakefront property was valuable.
He'd about had enough, though. He'd been looking into divorce statistics for this state. There was no such thing as alimony, or community property. If he just paid court ordered child support regularly, that would be all that was required. And from what he'd heard, the judges had a really low estimate of what was needed to support a child. Besides, Daphne would be of age in three years, and any payment would stop then, anyway. *Just give me one more reason, bitch,* he thought as he drained his glass. *Just one more.*
He heard the front door open, and scowled. He'd been hoping to be out of the house before they returned. He heard his wife *of course it's her. That damn kid never speaks unless you fucking DRAG it out of her, and then it's mostly nonsense* Elsie was saying, "Don't be sad, darling. I've had enough of this shit. How you can get such good grades in that sort of atmosphere I'll never know, but you could do so much better if you didn't have to deal with those hooligans. I'll just..."
She trailed off as she entered the kitchen. "Starting a little early, aren't you, Simpson?"
"Don't YOU start, Elsie. What's got your mouth running now?"
"What is it ever?" Daphne had put her books down on the kitchen table. Now Elsie took her shoulder and gently turned the girl around. She pointed. "Look at that."
Simpson eyed the dusty shoeprint on his daughter's backside. "Huh. Someone finally decided to motivate her."
"How can you talk like that?"
Daphne had seated herself at the table, an opened book before her. She was slowly writing something on a sheet of paper, eyes moving from the paper, to the page, and back again. She always did her homework, never needing anyone to remind her, or help her with it. That puzzled Simpson. It went against his assumption that Daphne was barely functional, and it irritated him still further, because to him it indicated that the girl COULD be a lot more normal, if she wanted to.
Simpson moved to pour himself another drink. "Will you just cool it, Elsie? Shit happens. Daphne is
going to have to learn to deal with a lot of shit, the way she is."
"Sim, she doesn't HAVE to deal with it! I thought that was the whole point of winning that settlement--that my baby could have a GOOD life, protected from the world." Simpson shrugged. Elsie's brow lowered. "You don't give a damn about her. All she is to you is a valuable nuisance."
Simpson snapped, "And you aren't even a VALUABLE nuisance! I've had just about enough of your shit, Elsie. Don't push me."
"We're taking her out of that school, and that's final," Elsie ground out.
"I told you--I'm not shelling out for any 'special' school."
"You cheap bastard! I just wish I had my name on the account."
"Well, you don't, Elsie." He laughed nastily. "You were so busy worrying about the turnip over there that you didn't insist on any provisions, so that means I'M the one who controls it all."
"You are UNNATURAL. If you won't pay for a proper school, I'm taking her out and keeping her at home. I can teach her, and..."
"NO FUCKING WAY! With her in school I at least have a LITTLE time away from her."
"You have some nerve. You're never HERE to be bothered by her."
"I don't HAVE to be here! She fucking bothers me no matter where she is. Just knowing that she's out there, somewhere--staring--it's enough to make me sick."
"You don't deserve her, you..."
"You got that right! I never deserved to have either one of you inflicted on me, and I've had ENOUGH!"
Their voices were rising. Neither noticed it, but Daphne hunched her shoulders a little as she continued to write, her eyes never straying from the paper. She looked oblivious, but she heard--she heard every word. Daphne had a hard time realizing that she could have any impact on the world around her, but she wasn't oblivious, no matter how blank she seemed.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
They were dying at the camp--one by one. It was so laughably easy. They were confident in their own immortality, these youths. It never occurred to them that there might be death lurking in this place of innocent fun. But then, they didn't know it's history, did they? She wanted to think that if they had, they would have had the decency to leave it in peace, let it rot and fall away.
They would wander away from each other, and she would just pick them off. Her hunting knife served her best, but she'd used whatever came to hand. That time she was under the bed--she hadn't been sure that the knife, as long as it would, would penetrate the mattress and still go deep enough--but the arrow had been close to hand, and it had worked admirably. And then that one in the lavatory... She'd picked up the axe from the woodpile outside. The girl had used her pretty face to lure others into irresponsible acts, so she had destroyed it, splitting it.
The rain didn't hinder her--she liked the rain. It hid, it washed away traces.
There were still more of the councilors to take care of, but she needed to take care of the one who'd started this. Steve--he was the one who was trying to open the camp, trying to tear open her wound and rub salt in it. Steve had to pay. He was out in the rain, trying to ready things--ever the good entrepreneur. Pamela touched the knife at her hip. Steve next.
~~~***~****~*****~*****~*****~****~~~~
"That's IT, bitch! I'm leaving you, and I'm getting a divorce."
"Fine, terrific! Why not? You haven't been a husband or father for years. I'll be happy to have you out of the house."
"Yeah? Well, don't get attached to the idea. I'm gonna sell the house."
"You CAN'T. This is our home."
"Too fucking bad. Find an apartment in town for you and the vegetable. I never wanted to live out here in the boondocks, anyway."
"Simpson! YOU CAN'T SELL THE HOUSE! Daphne and I have to have somewhere to live."
"You can bed down in an alley for all I care. As for HER," his voice was contemptuous. "She can go into the state home. That's what they're there for."
Elsie's voice rose into a shriek. "NO!"
"Oh, YES! Who do you think they're gonna listen to, Elsie--you, or me? I'm the one who foots the bills, and you..." he laughed. "You've made LOTS of friends, with the way you snap and snarl at everyone over her. This is how it's gonna be--I'm leaving. I'll get hold of my lawyers and get them to start the sale on the house the same time they start drawing up the commitment papers for Daphne. You should have a few weeks to find something for yourself--place to live, some sort of job. I'd suggest you get something close to the state mental warehouse, so you can visit her regularly." He started out of the room.
"WHERE ARE YOU GOING?"
"To pack. I'm leaving NOW, Elsie. Like I said, I've had enough."
Elsie screamed. She snatched the glass he'd left on the counter and threw it on the floor. It smashed. The act of destruction didn't help--it didn't calm her at all. It only fed the anger and fear that was boiling up inside her. She cleared the counter, throwing down canisters, toaster, bottles of cleansers--anything she could reach. With each destruction her rage spiked higher and hotter. The thought that Simpson was in their bedroom, packing, calmly preparing to destroy her life and, more
horribly, the life of her child pushed her even further.
She snatched the near empty whiskey bottle. This time, though, she threw her missile at the wall
instead of the floor. It smashed just over Daphne's head, and liquor and glass showered down on the silent girl. It brought Elsie back to rationality--at least partially. "Baby!" She rushed over, falling on her knees, ignoring the sting of cuts washed by alcohol. "Daphne, honey, I'm sorry! I didn't hurt you, did I? Baby, you know I wouldn't hurt you, I'd never hurt you. I just want to take care of you and keep you safe."
Daphne carefully lifted the paper she'd been writing on. Acrid liquid dripped from it, smearing the ink. She'd have to rewrite it. Her mother was babbling to her. "I try, Daphne, I try so hard, but now your father..." She was sobbing. "He's going to send you away, and I don't know what to do. I don't know how I can stop him." Her voice rose in despair. "I don't know what to do!"
"Mommy?"
The girl's voice was level, calm. Elsie's instincts kicked in. Any time, ANY time that Daphne interacted with her, she gave her complete attention. "What is it, darling?"
Daphne slowly pushed bits of glass away. She pulled a fresh sheet of paper from her notebook and laid it on a dry section of the table. Picking up her pen, not looking at her mother, she said, "Dead is better." She began writing.
Elsie stared at her daughter in silence, her mind whirling. Suddenly, it all made sense.
There was a chef's knife laying on the floor by her knees, thrown there when she'd emptied the drain rack. Her hand closed over its handle, and she stood slowly, her eyes going to the kitchen door. The room was very quiet. She could hear Daphne breathing, the faint scratch of her pen on paper, and beyond that... Beyond that the sound of Simpson in their bedroom, moving about, packing... ruining their lives.
Threatening Daphne.
"Yes, baby," she whispered. "Sometimes dead IS better." She smiled grimly. "And he says you aren't smart."
She left the room.
~~**~**~***~***~***~***~***~***~***
Steve lay on the ground, staring straight up into the rain. Droplets sheeted off his glasses. He had been so surprised. Surprised at first to see Pamela out in the rain, and then so much more surprised by the cold steel sliding into his belly. "You shouldn't have done it," she muttered. "You should have just left it, Steve. I tried to warn you, but you wouldn't listen. If you hadn't brought THEM here, they wouldn't have died. I didn't want to kill them, but I HAD to--for what they did to Jason. For what they might have done to other helpless little ones."
She wasn't thinking much about concealing what she did. She wasn't thinking much at all, actually, but it seemed like a good idea to get him somewhere that he wouldn't be found easily. She bundled him into her jeep. She was a strong woman, strong when she needed to be. A woman could be VERY strong, when she was doing something for her child.
She chose to dump him on the other side of the lake. He might go days, weeks, even years without being discovered. All she really wanted was a few more hours to take care of the others at the camp. Surely once they were killed, any subsequent owners would realize how foolish it would be to reopen this hellhole.
She was dragging him deeper into the trees when she heard something. She dropped her burden and listened. Through the steady patter and drip of rain, she heard a heavy, repetitive thunking sound. She'd worked in her garden enough to recognize the sound of someone using a shovel. Pamela slipped quietly through the trees, tracing the sound.
There were three of them under the tree. The woman was almost knee deep in a pit, working steadily to throw up damp clods, her hair plaster over her face in dark streams. The girl was sitting with her back to the tree, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around knees, staring off into the wet dark. The man... The man was stretched out on the ground, and there was a stillness about him that could never be achieved in life.
Curious, Pamela stepped out into the clear space, her hand on the haft of the knife at her belt. The woman saw her immediately and stopped. She jerked the shovel up, holding it across her chest defensively. She noticed that the blonde woman who had entered the clearing was staring at Simpson's body--and she had a knife. "Oh, God," she moaned. "I should have known."
Elsie was surprised at how calm the woman's voice was. "What have you done?"
Elsie swallowed. There was no chance she could explain away the corpse that lay beside the grave--the grave that SHE had been digging. All she could hope for was a little understanding. "My husband. I didn't WANT to do it, but he..." She pointed, finger stabbing toward the girl *a child, really* sitting nearby. "Daphne. He was going to send her away--his own DAUGHTER. He was going to send her to one of those awful places where they'd just lock her away, and maybe they'd abuse her. She'd be caged like an animal. I couldn't let that happen, don't you understand? She's my baby, and he was going to take her away."
Pamela looked more closely at the girl. She wasn't... irregular, like her beloved Jason, but still, it was apparent that she wasn't 'normal'. Pamela took in the blank expression, the unfocused eyes, the seeming total unawareness. She nodded slightly to herself.
Elsie had continued to speak, babbling. "I had to stop him. I'm all she has, and I have to protect her. This was the only way, and now I'm going to jail, and they'll take her anyway. Oh, God, I only wanted to keep her safe, and I've hurt her by trying!"
"It's going to be all right." The gentleness of the woman's tone cut through Elsie's near hysteria. She fell silent, staring at the stranger. The woman smiled a smile of complete understanding, and agreement. "You had no choice. I know what it is to be a mother, and see your child hurt. You wouldn't stand for it." Her voice became soft. "How brave you are. But I don't think you were ready for this. You need help. Let me help you." Elsie studied her. Could she trust her? Surely this stranger would wait until Elsie and Daphne were gone, then notify the police. But Elsie looked into the woman's eyes, and felt a spark of recognition. Two savage, protective mothers shared a moment. Elsie nodded.
"Take Daphne home," said Pamela. "It's cold, and wet. She should be home in bed. Take her home and tuck her in. I'll take care of," she lifted her chin toward the body, "that. Never fear."
"I... I don't want to make trouble for you. They might think you were involved."
Pamela laughed. "Dear lady, believe me--that is the least of my worries."
~~*~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**~***~*~*~***~*~~
Elsie left her there, with Simpson. She took Daphne back to the house, and fixed her supper. While the girl ate, then finished her homework, Elsie Breman cleaned the kitchen, removing any trace of her previous rage. The bloodied sheets in the bedroom were stuffed into a large suitcase, along with most of the rest of Simpson's clothes. The case went into the trunk of Simpson's car. The car went into the lake, and Elsie carefully swept away the tread marks as the car rolled slowly deeper and deeper beneath the water.
Finally, around dawn, she went into Daphne's room and crawled into bed beside her peacefully sleeping daughter. She held her child and closed her eyes. Somewhere nearby there were sirens. She tightened her grip on Daphne. *I should be worried. They could be coming for me, but somehow I don't think they are. I wonder what else has been going on to bring the police to Crystal Lake?*
Part Three: Something Nasty At Crystal Lake
1980
The Next Morning
Elsie must have been more exhausted than she'd thought. When she awoke, the shadows thrown by the sunlight streaming through the bedroom window indicated that the morning was far advanced. She was alone, and the rumpled sheets beside her were cold, holding no lingering body heat. She got up, wincing at the dull, burning ache in her back and shoulders. Elsie Breman had never been physically active, and last night... The clots of earth she had spaded up had been heavy, soggy with rain, and the car had at first been reluctant to move down the incline into the lake. She'd had to push, straining against the back grill till it gathered enough momentum to keep it rolling into the deep water.
*A hot bath--that's what I need,* she thought as she shuffled from the bedroom. *A good, long soak with Epsom salts.* The house had two bathrooms, the master one having a deep, comfortable tub, and the smaller having a shower. Simpson had always resented any time she spent in the large bathroom, beyond the bare minimum needed to tend to the elimination of waste. Even if he DIDN'T need the facilities himself, he'd griped if she spent a few moments fixing her hair or makeup, and any bath over ten minutes was cause for a bitch session. Elsie smiled. That wouldn't be an issue now.
She was pretty sure where she'd find Daphne--the television was droning quietly in the living room. Still, she checked. Daphne was dressed, sitting in her usual place on the floor. An open box of Cap'n Crunch was cradled in the space between her crossed legs, and her hand moved, slowly but steadily, ferrying tiny golden squares to her mouth. Elsie frowned, ready to scold her gently, ready to tell her that pre-sweetened cereal, straight out of the box, was a snack, and not breakfast. Then she noticed the nearly empty glass of milk sitting beside the girl's knee, and she smiled. *Milk and cereal--breakfast. Huh, my baby isn't stupid.*
Satisfied that Daphne was fed, and would be safely occupied for a while longer, she went for her bath. She soaked for almost an hour, letting the steamy, medicated water slowly soothe her aches. At last, freshly dressed and feeling much more human, she got her own breakfast and joined her daughter in the living room. Elsie took her usual position on the couch behind Daphne, sipping a cup of coffee. After a moment, she leaned forward and affectionately ruffled her daughter's hair. "Good morning, dear. Are you watching your cartoons?" Most teenagers Daphne's age had given up watching Saturday morning cartoons, preferring to spend the time congregating with their friends at malls or fast food hangouts, generally being a nuisance, or getting into trouble. Not her Daphne.
There was no response, but that didn't trouble Elsie. She continued to drink her coffee and nibble toast while she watched Scooby Do and his group of mystery solvers racing about, trying to debunk the ghoul of the weekend. She shook her head, glancing at Daphne. Simpson liked to claim that Daphne was oblivious to everything, but Elsie knew that her daughter had as many likes and dislikes as any other teenager--she just didn't express them as vehemently--Daphne liked anything scary or horrific. As a goopy, green sort of thing lumbered after a scrambling Shaggy, Mrs. Breman said, "Daphne? Honey, you know that's all nonsense. There aren't any such thing as monsters." Daphne's only response was a slight tilt of her head, her sheaf of indeterminately blonde hair lengthening on one side. Satisfied that she had been heard, Elsie returned to watching the program.
The bright animation disappeared, showing a simple printed message that said LOCAL NEWS BULLETIN. Suddenly the screen was filled by a close-up of a woman who would have been recognizable as a newscaster, even without the microphone--it was something about the carefully moussed hair and the Serious-with-a-capital-S expression. "This is Candace Thomerson, reporting live from Crystal Lake, here in New Jersey. I'm standing just outside the police barricades that have been erected around the central area of Camp Crystal Lake. Behind me," she gestured, as the camera's focus pulled back to show the background, "you can see the hubbub of activity that has swarmed over this once peaceful little resort since early this morning. Details are still sketchy, but from what we've been able to gather, there has been some sort of..." she paused dramatically, "well, I guess the only word for it is 'massacre'."
The wedge of toast, butter soaking in, making it soggy, dangled forgotten in Elsie's hand as she stared at the screen, letting the words and images wash over her. "...owner's abandoned jeep first alerted police that something... sole survivor, found floating in a boat... hysterical young councilor told a jumbled tale of horror and death... private sources say that the killer was a woman, and herself met her death at the hands of... no identification yet, as the body was decapitated..."
There were grainy video clips, all shot from a distance--a smashed window, the remaining shards of glass smeared with what could have been blood, a queasy looking officer coming out of a washhouse carrying what looked like a plastic swathed axe, various black plastic body bags being carried, or laid out on grass that was bright and wet, last night's rains still not burned away by the sun. And then... An ambulance crew on the shore of the lake was loading a sheet draped body into another body bag. There should have been a lump at one end--the head--but past the spread of the shoulders the sheet draped smooth. As they lifted the body, an arm dropped, dangling loosely. As the attendants quickly tucked it back out of sight, Elsie saw that it was clad in white wool knit.
She remembered. Last night in the streaming darkness... The desperation, the strain as she tried to chop a hole in the earth deep enough to put Simpson beyond the discovery of animal or man, Daphne sitting against a nearby tree, rocking, rocking... And the white blur moving out of the shadows, and a soft, almost wondering voice saying, "What have you done?"
The reporter was droning on about speculation, suspected motives, and the tragedy of so many young lives cut short. "No," Elsie whispered. "No, she... she was good. She was a MOTHER." There was no one there to see her expression harden, any tiny spark of sympathy dieing. "She must have had a good reason."
The knock on the door startled her so badly that she brushed against her cup, cool coffee spilling out to flow across the waxed surface of the side table. For a moment she stared toward the front door. No one ever came here. She glanced quickly at Daphne, but the girl remained as always, attention fixed on the television. The reporter was trying to talk to deputy, and having little success. Elsie got up and went to the front door. She checked to see that the chain was secured, then peeked through the spy hole. The view was distorted, but the dark brown uniform and tan Stetson hat were easy to recognize--they matched the outfit of the man currently telling the reporter, more or less, to fuck off till an official statement was released.
Deputy Robert Sherwood ("Don't you fucking DARE call me Robin!") was about to lean on the bell again when he heard the sound of a lock disengaging. The door opened a slit, and a woman peered at him through the crack. She gave him a gimlet examination, and he didn't blame her. A person had to be careful, living out here, and with what had just happened across the lake. "Good mornin', ma'am."
"Can I help you, officer?"
"Deputy Sherwood, ma'am." He cocked his head, hearing the distant mumble of a television. "Ma'am, have you been watching the local stations?"
"I just got up." She turned her head a fraction, as if looking back at the television, then looked at him again. "Are you here about what happened over at the camp?"
"Yes, ma'am, that's it exactly. We're making the rounds of the few houses that are out here at the lake, trying to see if anyone saw or heard anything last night." He shrugged. "We're not having much luck."
"I wouldn't think so. Not many people live out here year round, and the vacation season won't start for another couple of weeks."
"Ma'am... uh, Miz...?"
"Breman, Elsie Breman." She hesitated. "Would you like to come in and have a cup of coffee, Deputy?"
Sherwood almost wilted with relief. He'd seen something of the carnage over at Camp Crystal Lake, and he really felt like he needed a good, stiff belt--but coffee would help. "That would be most welcome."
She opened the door. "The kitchen is back here."
As they walked back, Robert glanced into the living room, and noticed the teenage girl sitting cross-legged on the floor. He was a little surprised that she never took her eyes off the screen. In his experience, most teenagers were VERY aware of any officer of the law. He paused in the kitchen door as Mrs. Breman took a mug from a row of hooks and began to pour coffee. "Is that your daughter?"
"Daphne, yes."
"Why don't we have her come on in, so I can talk to both of you at once?"
Elsie set the mug down on the table. "No, I don't think so."
Robert fought down the urge to sigh. Not ANOTHER protective parent. "Ma'am, it's vital that we get all the information we can."
"Daphne can't help you, Deputy. I doubt I can, either, but I'm willing to try."
"Look," Robert tried to keep his voice reasonable, "if she was a tiny child it would be different--I wouldn't bother her unless it was ESSENTIAL--if there was no other recourse. But she's a teenager, ma'am. She could see or hear things, and understand what they might mean. She could be a witness, and..."
"No," said Elsie firmly. "It isn't that I don't want to co-operate, but I promise you, Daphne would be of no help. Yes, she's a teenager, but..." she hesitated, biting her lip, then said softly, "Deputy, she's... 'special'. Do you understand?" He gave her a blank look, and she sighed. "Have a seat."
He did, and she left the room. A moment later she returned, leading the girl by the hand. The girl *A young woman, really. She must be at least fifteen or sixteen.* shuffled slowly at her mother's side, eyes fixed on the floor, head tipped down so that her long, pale brown hair fell forward, half obscuring her face. Mrs. Breman said quietly, "Daphne? Daphne, baby, this man is a police officer. His name is Deputy Sherwood. Say hello." There was a moment of silence. "Daphne."
"Hello, hello, hello." The voice was a monotone. "Hell, hell, bell, swell, tell. Tell a secret, never, ever, sever. Hello, jello, mellow, bellow. Yell, yell, yellow. Hello."
Elsie put her fingers under the girl's chin, tipping it up gently, and Robert got his first clear look at her. He winced. She wasn't ugly. In fact, she might have been pretty--if there had been even a spark of expression on her face. The blue eyes were directed toward him, but they seemed to be looking THROUGH him. It wasn't really as if she was seeing something else--it was more like he had disappeared, and there was nothing there for her to see. He felt the fine hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Elsie said, "Now do you understand?"
He had to clear his voice before he could speak. "Yes, ma'am. There's no need to bother her."
Elsie smoothed the girl's hair, tucking a strand back behind her ear. "Go watch TV, honey. It sounds like that bulletin is over, and I think Fat Albert will be on soon." She turned the girl around, and Daphne shuffled off toward the living room. A moment later the noise from the television shifted to bright music, accompanied by a cheerful, booming, "Hey, hey, hey! It's Faaaaaat Albert! And I'm gonna sing a song for yooou..."
Elsie got a cup of coffee for herself and joined him at the table. "She's not stupid, Deputy, but... but the world doesn't impact on her much."
"You don't need to explain to me, ma'am. You were home all night?"
"Yes. I picked Daphne up from school, and we came right home, and didn't step foot out of the house from then till now. I have to tell you, I can't recall seeing or hearing anything that might relate to that horrible business across the lake."
"Are you sure, ma'am? Sometimes sound travels over water."
"Deputy, there was a storm last night. I didn't hear anything that sounded any different from the usual sounds of bad weather--rain, wind, and thunder... And we were watching police shows last night. Lots of shooting."
"We don't believe any shots were fired. There was a target rifle near one of the bodies, but it doesn't appear to have been used."
Elsie shrugged. "There was screaming, and car chases, too. Lots of screeching tires and crashes. No, I didn't hear anything unusual. And I keep my shades drawn at night. We're rather isolated out here, and I have a teenage daughter. I don't want to risk any hooligan creeping around, peeping in windows."
"Well, if you didn't, you didn't. What about your husband?"
Elsie paused, mug halfway to her lips. "My husband?"
"You are married?" He looked contrite. "I assumed, with your daughter... I hope I haven't put my foot in it. You aren't, um, widowed?"
She smiled. "No. I may be divorced soon, though. I think my husband left me last night."
"You think?"
"Well, when I came back with Daphne he wasn't here. His car, and most of his clothes are gone. I suppose he might just be off on a binge somewhere." She made a disgusted noise. "God knows he's done it before--shacked up with some tart. But he always comes back. I suppose there's no reason to doubt that he won't this time." Her eyes suddenly went wide. "Unless..." She looked at Sherwood anxiously. "I was listening to that broadcast. Did they say that they think the murders might have begun as early as yesterday afternoon?"
"We think so. We located the body of a young woman who was hired as a camp cook, a couple of miles from the camp turn-off, and she appears to have died a number of hours before the others."
Her expression was puckering. Elsie Breman was giving one of the finest performances of her life. "That would have been right about the time that he was alone here, and the murders happened so close, so many of them. You don't suppose..."
The deputy saw where she was going, and said quickly, "Now, Mrs. Breman, don't start worrying before you have to. There's very little chance that his being gone is connected to what happened at the camp. After all, you said that his clothes and car are gone." She nodded. "And he's done this sort of thing before?"
"Well, yes... But the coincidence..."
"That's probably just what it is--a coincidence," soothed the deputy, thinking, *Lord, that would be all we'd need--a hysterical woman convinced that a philandering husband has been killed, while we're up to our eyeballs in REAL murders.*
"You haven't... haven't found his body, and are just trying to break it to me gently?"
He stared at her, wondering what sort of opinion she had of local law enforcement. "There's only one un-identified body, and that's a female. Stop fretting, Mrs. Breman. Just wait a little while. He's likely to come wandering in sometime later today." He smiled hopefully. "I'll bet he brings flowers in apology." Elsie gave him a cynical stare that made him blush. He stood up, taking his hat in his hand. "There's no need for me to bother you any longer. If you remember anything else, get in contact with the sheriff's department."
She was following him to the front door. "What about my husband?"
It took an effort to keep from rolling his eyes. "They don't even file missing person reports on adults unless the individual has been unaccounted for at least twenty-four hours. If he still hasn't crawled home in a day or two, go ahead and make a statement to the local PD, and they'll put out a bulletin on him."
"It doesn't sound like you expect much to happen."
Robert hesitated on the front step. He thought of the woman's silent, staring daughter in the front room, and saw the tension in the mother's eyes. He said, "Honestly, ma'am? From what I've heard this sounds like a simple case of a man running out on his responsibilities. It's sad, but it's common, and the police tend to reserve most of their time for working on criminal cases." He remembered what he thought had been pain in her voice as she spoke of her husband's previous short desertions. "They very well may not put forth too much effort on what's probably nothing more than some irresponsible asshole taking a vacation without giving any thought to how he'll worry his family." He tipped his hat respectfully as he started toward his waiting car. "I'm sorry."
Elsie closed the door, carefully resetting the locks, then leaned back against it, closing her eyes as a sense of relief washed over her. *I'm not.*
Part Four: Life Goes On
1981
Deputy Robert Sherwood finished the last bit of paperwork on that girl who'd been caught shoplifting in the pharmacy. He shook his head. He really wished that asshole Teagarten hadn't insisted on pressing charges. The girl had been sixteen, and had ended up crying hysterically, begging them not to tell her parents, offering to pay them double, triple what the item cost when she got her allowance, but no--Teagarten wanted to make an example of her. *He's sure going to do that, but not the way he intends.* He shook his head disgustedly, saying, "Over an EPT. It's pretty obvious that poor girl had plenty to worry about as it is."
He tossed the form into his basket, then stretched in his chair, sighing. Lois, who handled dispatch and reception, gave him a sympathetic look. "He's a jerk, Sher. He'd have complained to the Sheriff, the Mayor, and the City Council if you hadn't done it. At least this way maybe it'll stay in the kid's family instead of being spread all over Crystal Lake."
"We can only hope. I didn't like the way she was shaking when she saw that it was her dad who came to pick her up instead of her mother." Lois winced. "Yeah, he has a bit of a rep in the barrooms. It's rumored that his wife and kids wear more bruises than can be easily explained. I pulled him aside and had a little talk with him before he took her away. I mentioned that if that child had so much as a hangnail, and didn't have at least two witnesses to her snagging it, then I was going to come looking for him." He shrugged. "If she's lucky, maybe they'll send her out of state to her grandmother."
The bell over the door jingled, and Robert and Lois looked up. Both of them barely managed to stifle a groan as they saw the two who entered. The woman put an arm around the slender teenage girl and shepherded her toward the counter. Robert knew there was no chance of avoiding this, so he resigned himself. He got up and went to the counter to meet them. "Hello, Mrs. Breman." He turned his gaze to the girl.
It had been a year since he'd first met Daphne Breman. The teenage years were a time of rapid physical change, but the previous twelve months seemed to have left no mark on Daphne. She was still slender and pale, and there was something curiously unfinished about her features. Her blue eyes were fixed on the counter, and he imagined that she was tracing the grain in the wood, totally absorbed in lines and patterns. *She probably finds the world around her confusing. Something regular and unchanging, inanimate, would be soothing to her.* He said gently, "Hello, Daphne."
Elsie squeezed her daughter's arm softly. "Say hello to Deputy Sherwood, dear." She continued staring. She squeezed again. "Daphne."
Daphne's eyes drifted up. "Hello, jello, mellow, bellow."
Robert smiled at her. "You're in fine rhyme today, Daphne." He looked at Mrs. Breman. "She's looking well."
Elsie gave her daughter a fond glance. "She's been much more at ease since I got permission to home school her." She smiled proudly. "She's already tested at a twelfth grade level. I'm talking to the education board about getting permission for her to take her GED in a couple of months. They really don't want to okay it before she's seventeen, but there's no rules against it, so I'm going to insist."
Robert had to wonder sometimes if all the work that got turned in to the authorities was done by Daphne alone, but he supposed it was possible. He'd heard of autistics who were capable of incredible mental feats, even if they COULDN'T deal with society. He only hoped for her sake that there weren't any oral exams required for a degree.
Elsie said, "Has there been anything?"
Robert told himself, *Don't be irritated with her. It's her husband. If it was my wife, I wouldn't give up.* "No, Mrs. Breman. I'm sorry."
She stared at him silently, then said, "I'm telling you again--he didn't run away."
"His clothes were gone," said Robert logically. "His car was gone. His girlfriend..." he hesitated, glancing at Daphne, then lowered his voice. "The
woman said that he'd been talking about leaving."
"Leaving her, maybe."
"What is making you hold on to the idea that he's dead?"
She gave him a small, cold smile. "Because I know my husband. He was a greedy bastard, Deputy. If he'd run off, he would have found a way to take the money from Daphne's settlement with him. And before you can say it, yes, he'd have been that heartless. All we were to him were nuisances. Quite frankly we're both better off without him."
"Then why does it matter if he's dead or just gone?"
"I want to be rid of him permanently, and legally. If he's alive, I'll divorce him. If he's dead... well, I wouldn't mind."
"Dead is better." Daphne's voice was a monotone.
A heavy silence fell on the room. Lois was gazing at the girl with a sort of fascinated horror, but Robert's look was more sad dismay. He said quietly, "Mrs. Breman... have you had someone... look at Daphne?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Detective--of course I have." She stroked the girl's hair. "Doctors of all kinds, psychiatrists. They all tell me the same thing.
Aside from the epilepsy--" she looked up at him almost fiercely, "and that's getting BETTER! She hasn't had a seizure in months. Aside from the epilepsy, she's a very healthy girl."
"But... mentally?"
Her tone was razor sharp. "I TOLD you! She's not just of normal intelligence, she's SMART. She had an intelligence test--God, how those doctors love to test her--and do you know how she scored? One hundred and twelve, Deputy. The tester said that he had to pay more attention to the oral responses, but she was one of the brightest people he'd ever run across."
"All right, I can accept that. But what about emotionally?" Elsie glared at him. He had been dealing with this woman and her daughter for a year now, and he felt compelled to try to get through to Elsie Breman. She was stubborn where it came to her daughter, reluctant to admit that there was a problem. "Mrs. Breman... she's just... she's just in her own little world."
"And what the hell is wrong with that? I'd like to know just what's so appealing about THIS world, Deputy Sherwood. Disease, crime, violence, rape, war... I've protected her as much as I can, but the world hasn't been very kind to my girl. She's different, yes, and people never let her forget that. She was tormented every day at school. They'd trip her, and put spitballs in her hair, and call her foul names. I can't blame her for not wanting to have anything to do with this world."
"But you have to realize that this world may someday have a lot to do with her. Mrs. Breman... Don't slap me, but you're moving into middle age..."
She smiled tightly, "That's fairly tactful. I'm fifty-four. Daphne was a late baby. Simpson was so supportive. He even admitted that she was partially his fault, since he should have known I'd be too stupid to remember to take the pill."
Robert fought down his embarrassment and continued. "You're fifty-four, and she's sixteen. You'll be almost sixty before she hits her majority. Mrs.
Breman, I wish you a long and healthy life, but you can't COUNT on it. You have to face the fact that there's probably going to come a day when you can't take care of Daphne."
Her eyes glittered. "I'm not a fool. I realized that a long time ago. But I know what you're suggesting--an institution. That's what Simpson wanted. He'd have shut her away somewhere, and never given her a second thought."
"Look, I know that they've had pretty grim reputations, but things have gotten a lot better. Some of the private ones are..."
"A cage is a cage, no matter how plush. I won't have it!" Her voice was rising. She caught a glimpse of Robert's face, and took a deep breath. "I'm
taking care of things. I'm speaking to a lawyer, and he says that there should be no problem in having me declared executor of our assets." Her lip curled. "Simpson had it tied up, but there is legal recourse if someone disappears. I'm teaching Daphne all she'll need to know to take care of herself..."
"Look, no one would let her..."
She over rode him, "And I'll be setting up a trust. I'll appoint a guardian for her, someone in social services, who knows how these things work. I've talked to them already, and they say that if she can demonstrate life skills, she can live on her own, with someone to check up on her, and take care of bills. It can be done. It will be expensive, but..." again she smiled, "that's why the money was awarded--to assure Daphne's future."
"You sound like you've put a lot of thought into this."
"She's my child. What else do I have to concern myself with? You'll let me know if you hear anything about Simpson?"
He nodded, then said wryly, "Though I expect I'll hear from you before you hear from me."
"You're probably right."
She turned and went to the door. Robert would have laid money that Daphne would simply remain standing, staring at the counter, till someone physically urged her to move. But without a word or touch from her mother, the girl turned and followed her, eyes still downcast. Lois and Robert watched as Elsie opened the door, let her daughter pass through, and followed her.
When the door shut, Lois expelled a long breath. "That poor kid. She doesn't stand a chance."
Robert shrugged, going back to his desk. "She's got one damn fine mama tiger watching over her."
"But it's like you said--what's going to happen to her when her mother is gone? The world will eat her alive."
"I don't know, Lois," he said as he sat down. "I might be wrong."
"I don't see how..."
"I was on relief duty once. We went through a place after a tornado had passed. That thing had leveled barns and brick houses, felled light poles, and billboards. I saw a dozen trees with trunks twice as big around as I was torn up by the roots, and in the middle of all this there was a mimosa sapling." He circled his thumb and forefinger. "This big around. It was standing as firm as ever. There were a couple of broken branches, but you know what? There were still blossoms on the tree--like bunches of deep pink feathers."
"That's interesting, but what does it have to do with this?"
"Sometimes the ones who look weak or soft can fool you." He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "It's a crazy world, and sometimes it can go flat fucking INSANE. Who's to say that being a little bit crazy to start with isn't an advantage?"
~~**~**~~**~~**~~
1984
Bobby Barclay was never in a good mood at work. The fact that he actually HAD to work was enough to piss him off royally. And if he HAD to work, surely his father could have given him a job around his office, maybe answering phones, or filing papers, or stuff. Something that befitted his inherent coolness--not bagging groceries at the Crystal Lake Market. As he so often griped to his friends, it wasn't as if his father wasn't rich enough to give him money pretty much any time he asked. Instead he gave him some sort of drivel about learning responsibility and becoming self-sufficient. Personally, Bobby thought this was a crock. He wasn't forced to try to subsist on the minimum wage and tips he got for hauling groceries. This was lucky for him, since he was generally so surly and careless that he seldom GOT tips.
Today he was sullenly counting down the minutes till he could take a break, sneak off for a smoke of something a little stronger than Virginia tobacco. He dropped a can of soup in on top of a loaf of bread, then glanced toward the front doors. "Oh, crap," he sneered to his friend Shawn, who was working at the next station. "Doesn't this just top off the day?"
"What?" Shawn was just a little poorer, a little denser, and a little less handsome than Bobby, so Bobby liked to keep him around.
"Look. It's Daffy Breman and her daffier mother." He tilted his head, and Shawn followed the direction. Elsie Breman was watching as Daphne slowly worked a cart free of the always tangled lines. "I can't believe she's trying to teach that retard how to shop." He laughed. "I wonder what she'll buy? Cat food and ketchup, maybe, with a side order of marshmallow fluff. It might be kind of cool to do you're own shopping. I'd get nothing but beer, and chips, and shit."
"I been in here a couple of times when she shopped," said Shawn. "She buys stuff like my mom. You know, vegetables, 'n fruit, n' milk, n' bread... What my mom calls staples. That's weird. I thought staples were those little wire things you held papers together with."
"Her mom has to load the cart for her."
"Nuh-uh. She does it all herself, an' she doesn't use a list."
"Well, her mother TELLS her what to get.
Shawn shook his head. "I've been around them when I was out facing shelves. Her mom only gave her instructions once, and that was just to tell her that she got it cheaper and with more stuff when she bought two small boxes of mac an' cheese instead of the 'budget' size. You know, she was right. I checked prices an' product weight, an'..."
"Shut up, Shawn. My dad's lawyer is friends with Breman's lawyer, and he says she's trying to fix it so the kid can live on her own if she dies. It's sick. That little head case ought to have been locked up a long time ago. She should be eating fish sticks with her fingers in a place where ALL the doors lock."
A man and woman walked past the check out stands. Each of them were pushing carts that were overflowing with groceries, and the man was consulting a long list. He said, "One of those jokers got hold of the list."
"What makes you think so, Chris?" asked the woman.
The man sounded amused. "Because beer and condoms have been added to the 'staples' section."
When they had passed, Bobby snorted. "Shit, it's Holt again. What kind of a numb nuts is he--opening Camp Blood again?"
"He isn't," volunteered Shawn. "They're on the other side of the lake, and he's training camp councilors, not actually operating..."
"Yeah, yeah--whatever. The guy buys enough groceries to break the back of a pack mule, then has the nerve to only tip five dollars."
Clarinda, the plump, forty-ish woman who was working the register, gave Bobby a jaundiced look. "Shut up, Barclay," she said bluntly. "You're a for shit bag boy. The only reason you're still here is because the manager owes your old man. You've ruined so much product with you're crappy bagging that you'd be paying US if the boss deducted it from your salary."
"Fuck you, cow," he snapped.
She smirked. "In your dreams, you little snot. One of these days you're going to step in shit so deep that even your family's money can't buy you out of it, and I'm going to laugh my ass off."
"Yeah? With the size of your ass, you're gonna be laughing a long, long time."
"Maybe I'll quit by the time you grow a pair of balls." Bobby grabbed his crotch. "God, I'm impressed."
"Barclay!" Bobby turned to find the shift manager watching him coldly. "If I see another display of vulgarity like that, you're out of here."
He sneered. "My father would..."
"Unless your father is holding candid kiddie porn photographs of the store owner, he'll listen to what I have to say. Now go wash your hands. Oddly enough, a lot of people object to having their food handled by someone who's just been touching his fly."
Bobby walked away, muttering obscenities, but he waited till he was out of earshot, and kept them under his breath. In the employee restroom, back by the dairy case, he ran his hands under cold water, then wiped them on his ass, smirking. Very pleased with himself, he stepped back out into the store.
Daphne Breman was standing in front of the dairy case, one hand on the cart handle, as she stared at the ranks of cartons. Bobby stared at her, remembering all the good times back in junior high. She'd been pretty much the perfect target. No one was inclined to protect her, and though she wasn't too frightened to complain to the teachers, she just flat didn't COMMUNICATE, so it was all good. After her mother had taken her out of school, he'd had to find other victims, and though their whimpers had been enjoyable, they somehow didn't match Daphne's passive endurance. She was just sort of an abuse sponge. If she'd stayed within reach, there was no telling how far it would have gone.
There was no one in sight. Elsie Breman usually brought Daphne in during the quiet times. Bobby scanned the aisle dairy aisle, then the cross aisle, and there was no one in sight. He sidled over to the girl, coming up from the side, and a little behind. He studied her for a moment. She wasn't all that much different--a little taller, her hair a little longer. He noticed that her complexion was pale and smooth, untouched by the blemishes that most of the girls her age had to fight. Her blue eyes were still blank, but they were the color of a pale summer sky. Bobby realized, much to his surprise, that Daphne Breman was rather pretty. Oh, she wasn't drop-dead gorgeous, the sort he figured he deserved, but she definitely wasn't homely.
"Hey, Daffy," he said softly. No response, but he hadn't expected one. Her hand reached out slowly and she plucked a half-gallon of 2 percent milk from the shelf, turning her eyes upon it. "You remember me, don't you, Daffy? Bobby." He poked her shoulder. "C'mon, I was in class with you for a couple of years. Hey, too bad you didn't stick through high school. You'd have been a cinch to win Girl Most Likely to Take Thorazine." He chuckled at his own joke.
Daphne placed the carton in her basket, and turned her eyes back to the shelves. This time, if you could judge from the general direction of her gaze, she was considering orange juice. Bobby studied her closer, letting his eyes drop down to assess her body. He grinned nastily. "Speaking of jugs, you grew a nice set of tits." He was reaching toward her breast. His voice was sarcastic as he said, "Does your mama let you date?"
"If you touch her, I'll have you put UNDER the jail, you pervert." The voice was cold.
Bobby flinched, and looked around to find Elsie Breman standing at the end of a nearby aisle, a jar of pickle relish in her hands. The woman's expression was stiff, and Bobby was a little shocked to see the depth of hatred in the woman's eyes. He'd never been hated. Feared and disliked, yes, but this was actual loathing. Bobby held up his hands, palm out in a gesture of innocence. "You got the wrong idea, lady. It's not what you think. I was just giving the girl a compliment."
"If that's your idea of a compliment, I suppose I should be grateful. I doubt that with a line like that, you'll ever manage to reproduce."
"No need to be hostile," he said sullenly.
Daphne was putting a carton of orange juice in her cart. Elsie went to her, touching her arm. "Daphne, darling, you're through here. What's left?
Daphne?"
"Bread," the girl said. "She said bread, bread and butter." She reached into the case and took out a box of margarine.
"Good girl. You remembered that when I didn't. But go get the bread now."
"Bread, head, red, dead." She paused. "Dead is better." She rested her other hand on the basket handle and pushed it away slowly, turning into an aisle farther down.
"You need to do something about her," said Bobby. "I'm serious, lady. She's sick."
"If you're an example of what's considered normal, then thank God my girl is special," growled Elsie.
She tossed the jar at Bobby. He jumped back with a yelp of alarm, but the container didn't come close to hitting him. It landed about a half-foot from
his feet, shattering in a pungent spray of green sludge and shattered glass. "You bitch! You're just as crazy as your daughter. You TRIED to hit me."
"If I'd tried, you'd have a gash in your head right now." She raised her voice. "Oh, dear! Manager? Manager, clean up on the dairy aisle." She lowered her voice and said, "Leave her alone, Bobby. There are consequences to bad acts. You just haven't learned that yet--but you will." She followed Daphne, leaving Bobby to swear as he went for the broom and mop bucket.
Part Five: Dawning Infatuation
1982
Dawning Infatuation
Janice Hogan looked up as the door to the Crystal Lake Public Library opened, and she smiled. It was two of her best patrons--the Bremans, mother and daughter. Both women were carrying a stack of books. She went to meet them at the return section of the front counter. "Hello Elsie, Daphne."
"Good day, Janice." Elsie deposited her books, then relieved Daphne of her burden and deposited them, too. "Has that newest spy thriller I asked about come in?"
"Not yet, but probably by Friday, but I do have some good news. Millicent, watch the check-out desk, would you?" The junior librarian nodded. "Come with me. I'm just so excited about this." She led them to an area at the back of the main room, and gestured proudly at three boxy machines, lined up on individual desks. "We finally got our microfilm equipment. Now we can start transferring all our back issues of newspaper to film. We'll be able to buy microfilm of many other papers, since they'll be so easy to store."
Elsie nodded her approval. "That's a fine idea. Daphne likes to read the news, and she just races through the local paper."
Janice didn't comment. For the last couple of years, Elsie had been dropping Daphne off at the library when she had business, or errands to run. The girl spent hours reading the newspaper, magazines, and books, stirring from her seat only to choose new reading material, or visit the restroom. Janice couldn't help but wonder if the girl was actually reading. She seemed to turn the pages more quickly than a normal reader would, and Janice had a hard time believing she actually ABSORBED anything.
Now Elsie patted one of the machines. "She'll really enjoy these. Daphne," she touched her daughter's shoulder. Daphne continued to stare at the wall, but she tilted her head slightly, like a dog contemplating something interesting. "Daphne, listen to me." Elsie's voice was firm, and the girl turned her head to look at her--or at least TOWARD her. "I have to go to see the lawyer, then I'm going to have my hair done, and do a little shopping. I'll be back to pick you up before the library closes. Pick out a few books for me."
"I can do that for you, Elsie," Janice offered.
"That's not necessary. Daphne knows what I like, and she enjoys picking things out for me."
*Does she?* thought Janice doubtfully. *I've never seen any indication that she enjoys anything--or dislikes anything for that matter. But Daphne DOES pick out thrillers and spy novels whenever Elsie asks her to choose her books. She must be taking her mother's tastes into account, because Daphne never touches spy novels herself. Mysteries, detective stories, and horror by the ream. Not a single romance or young adult novel--just death and gloom.*
Elsie was continuing. "You be sure to eat your lunch around twelve or one. I don't want to find out that you haven't eaten again. And be sure to drink all the milk. You need the vitamins. I won't let you stay here alone if you don't take care of yourself. Do you understand?" Daphne didn't respond, and Elsie raised her voice a notch. "Daphne."
"Eat lunch, munch a bunch. Good for me, have to be. Stay well, swell. Repeat, eat, eat. Take care."
Elsie nodded, patting her arm. "That's right, dear. I want my little girl to be strong and healthy."
Daphne's eyes didn't flicker. "Dead is better."
Janice gasped, but Elsie said calmly, "Don't let that upset you. You know how sometimes you get a tune stuck in your head and just can't get rid of it? That's how it is with Daphne." Elsie kissed her daughter on the cheek and whispered, "Dead is better for some people, baby, but not you. You're going to live a long, long time. Mama promises." She smiled brightly at Janice. "I'll be back before five." She bustled out.
Janice was tempted to hurry back to work. The girl was harmless, of course, and Janice felt a little ashamed of the uneasy feeling she got when Daphne stayed at the library for extended periods. Daphne was slowly pulling a backpack off her shoulder. Janice knew from past visits that it would hold a couple of sandwiches, chips, a dessert, and a thermos of milk. Daphne would go sit on the front steps at noon, slowly consuming her meal, oblivious to the other patrons who passed in and out of the library. *She reads, she chooses books, she eats her lunch, she reads. If a senior citizen did the same routine I wouldn't think twice about it. Why does she get on my nerves?* "Daphne, do you want me to show you how to use the viewer?" No response. "I have to go back to work, but just ask if you need any help."
She went back to the checkout desk, moving in beside Millicent. "Sometimes I wish we had a mall. Maybe Mrs. Breman would leave Daphne there sometimes."
"Are you kidding?" said Millicent. "She wouldn't dare leave that poor feeb in such a public place. It wouldn't be safe. She obviously can't think enough to take care of herself."
"Don't be so sure of that. Look at what she's doing now."
"She's just getting something out of her backpack."
"She's getting her wallet, and she's putting it in her skirt pocket. Remember last week when that woman had the fit because someone hooked her checkbook out of her purse? Well, Daphne may not seem very bright, but she has enough sense not to leave her money unattended." Millicent's eyes widened, and she watched the silent girl more closely as Daphne moved off into the stacks. "You know what I think? I don't think she's stupid, or even simple. I don't think it's that she CAN'T communicate with us, but that she won't." She stared after Daphne. "I think she just doesn't like us very much."
"Us?"
"The human race, Millie."
Daphne wandered... no, wandered was the wrong word. She seemed to drift, but there must have been a purpose behind her movements. Now and then she'd stop and stare at the shelves before her. After a moment her hand would drift up, then come down with a book. "What creeps me out," whispered Millicent to Janice, "is that she doesn't always reach up to the section she's looking at. She can be staring straight ahead, eye-level, and she'll take down a book from above her head, or one from down below her waist. She's just grabbing them."
"No," said Janice. "Wait and see--she'll have picked nothing but spy stories for Elsie, or some murder-something for herself. I'm not sure how she does it. I mentioned the same thing once to a friend who's had psychology training, and he said something about her being able to take in a wider spectrum of things than most people. You know, like we'd look at a mural and we'd see what was in front of us very well, but the details off at the ends or in the corners would be just vague impressions to us. He said it sounds like she sees the whole picture clearly."
"Whatever. It's still weird."
At noon Daphne brought the books she'd chosen to the checkout desk. While Millicent opened the books, Daphne took out her wallet and removed her library card. Millicent held out her hand for it. Daphne, eyes fixed on the counter, laid the card down, adjusting it carefully so that it lay square with the edge. Millicent glanced down at the card, then up at the girl. Daphne was tracing one finger along the swirls of the marble pattern on the top. *Huh. Too good to hand it to me, huh? Well, we're not busy. I can wait as long as you can.*
She stood. Daphne stood. The seconds ticked by. Janice, who had gone back into her cubbyhole office, glanced out the door casually, and went back to work. A minute or so later he glanced out again, and the tableau hadn't changed. She frowned slightly, and read a few more lines on the report she was studying, then looked up again. Still the same. Daphne was slowly sliding a fingertip on the countertop, making arcane patterns. This wasn't unusual--she often did such things, sinking into her own peculiar world. But Millicent...
*She's just standing there staring. Oh, and that's a MULISH look. She's glaring daggers at Daphne. What's going on?* She got up and walked out to the front, trying to determine what the problem was as she approached. Millicent didn't seem to be having any trouble with the scanner--the stamper was lying readily at hand, the books were piled, open. If Daphne didn't have her card, why didn't Millicent just issue her a temporary one? *But there's the card. What on earth...?* Millicent folded her arms, and Janice suddenly knew. *Oh, for heavens sake. It's a pissing contest, and I'll be damned if Millicent isn't about to lose to little Daphne Breman.* "Millicent, what's the problem?"
The start was tiny, but it was there. "No, no problem. I was just... uh..." Janice gave a 'go on' gesture. Voice sullen, she Millicent reached for the card, saying, "I guess my mind wandered." She began to check out the books.
Daphne had been staring at her finger as she rubbed it over the smooth finish of the counter. Now her chin tipped down a little more, her long, medium blonde hair swinging forward to half conceal her face. The expression was only barely there, the tiniest upturn of the lips, but it WAS there. It was a mere flicker, and it was gone before anyone saw it, but it had existed. That afternoon Daphne didn't drink the thermos of milk her mother had packed. Instead she went into the lobby, to the vending machines, and purchased a soda.
After lunch she went back to the microfilm area. There was a filing cabinet filled with boxes of neatly labeled film rolls. Daphne opened the drawer for the previous year and took out a box, then went back to the machines. Janice had gone home early, and Millicent settled back with a sour sense of anticipation to watch the girl struggle with the operation of the machine. She wasn't going to step in unless the materials seemed in danger of being damaged. Let her get frustrated. Daphne sat and stared at the machine for almost ten minutes, still as a statue. Then, slowly but surely, she threaded the film, started the machine, and began to read the microfilm. Millicent, irritated, and surprised, said, "Well, I'll be damned."
She hadn't bothered to modulate her voice, since there was no one else in the library. Who was there to hear her? At the machine Daphne whispered to herself, "Maybe, maybe, maybe."
Millicent stiffened. "What? Did you say something?"
Daphne didn't look around. "Maybe baby. Damn, ma'am, maybe. Someday."
Millicent gaped. She felt the urge to go around the counter and smack Daphne Breman's pale face. Then the girl turned her head slightly. The blank, fogged gaze fell on Millicent, and a chill ran up her spine, despite the bright, late afternoon sunlight outside, when Daphne said tonelessly, "Dead is better." She turned her attention back to the microfilm, slowly advancing it. Millicent found that she'd backed up against the wall, as far from her single patron as she could get. She stayed there until another patron, a middle aged woman looking for the latest by Danielle Steele, came in. Instead of directing her to it, Millicent eagerly led her to it.
Daphne paused at one section of film and stared at it for a long time, advancing the thread in minute increments. Then she reached into her backpack and took out a tablet and a pen, beginning to write in small, letters, not much bigger than newsprint.
Elise returned at four-thirty, hair shining and freshly coiffed, now nearer to her daughter's blonde than her previous drab brown. She came up behind Daphne, and said, "Mommy's here, sweetheart. What are you doing?" She examined the nearly full sheet of paper, then glanced at the image in the microfilm reader. "You're copying it? Yes, you won't be able to use the Xerox machine on these, will you? What lovely, neat writing--but you've always been a careful girl. What's so interesting?" She peered closer.
The projected image was a page from a year old newspaper. There was a picture taking up the upper right quarter of the page--a pretty girl with short, shaggy blonde hair. The caption underneath said ALICE HARDY, and the headline over the article said Where Is Alice? Elsie scanned the first paragraph quickly.
//1980 was a bad year for Alice Hardy, though some might argue that she had remarkable luck. In a veritable massacre, eight people died at Camp Crystal Lake--one of them the alleged murderer of the others. Alice Hardy, found incoherent but physically unharmed, was the sole survivor. She struggled with nervous collapse, but according to all accounts, had made a remarkable recovery. She seemed to be well on her way to getting on with her life. Then, it seems, tragedy found her again.//
//In 1981, Alice Hardy disappeared. The police have withheld details, but it's widely believed that gruesome evidence found in her apartment points to foul play. Can it be that the Camp Crystal Lake killer had the patience and determination to track down the only person to escape their first murderous attack?//
Elsie Breman's faint smile tightened to a rictus, and for a moment her eyes were as blank as those of her daughter. She was remembering. The scent of rain and freshly turned earth... and blood, seemed to fill her nostrils. She could almost hear a gentle voice saying, *I know what it is to be a mother, and see your child hurt.* She closed her eyes. *You need help. Let me help you.*
*But she died--didn't she? They said that the silly bitch who survived chopped her head off. Why are they bringing this up again?* Farther down her eyes caught a phrase--//An investor from out of state, Paul Holt, has decided to open a councilors training camp just across the lake from the place that has earned the eerie name of 'Camp Blood'...//
"Fools," muttered Elsie. "Daphne, this will still be here tomorrow. We ought to get home. Finish that paragraph, and we'll go." As Daphne continued printing, Mrs. Breman stroked her hair. "Did you finish your lunch today?"
Millicent was walking back to the front, and couldn't resist the chance to do Daphne a bad turn. "She didn't drink her milk."
Mrs. Breman gave her a short glance. "She didn't?"
"No, she didn't touch it. She bought herself a soda instead."
"She did?" Millicent was surprised by Mrs. Breman's bright smile. She hugged her daughter, saying, "Oh, good girl, Daphne!" Looking back at Millicent she said proudly, "That was her own decision. She made the choice to purchase something for herself, without being prompted. She has to have those skills to live on her own eventually." She hugged Daphne again. "I'm so proud, baby."
Daphne calmly finished copying the last few words, then put away her supplies, rewound the film, returned it to its box, shut off the machine, and put the box in the return tray. Millicent thought numbly that if all the library patrons were that careful, her job would be a lot easier. But somehow the girls' gesture didn't feel considerate. It felt more like a demonstration--like she was saying 'Don't underestimate me. I see and know more than you could ever imagine.'
Somehow the thought that there could be a sharp, willful mind behind that blank face was very, very disturbing.
Chapter Six: The Legend Takes Hold
It started raining as they made their way home. The clouds had rolled in so thick that it was as if evening had come early. The downpour was sudden and thick, so heavy that the turn-off to the counselors' training camp was almost invisible. The wipers couldn't keep up, and Elsie had slowed to a crawl, sitting forward to try to make out the road ahead. She didn't notice her daughter slowly turn her head, then wipe fog off the inside of the window, and press her forehead against the chilled glass. Daphne's eyes locked on the barely seen dirt road, and stayed with it till they were past. The sign that had once marked the road had fallen. It still leaned precariously against its post, but was half hidden by brush. It had been pocked by bullet holes, like most signs in rural areas, but the number of holes was perhaps higher than most. Though the paint had faded and flaked, the words were still legible--CAMP CRYSTAL LAKE.
As they parked before their house, Mrs. Breman sighed, "Nasty, nasty day, Daphne. You carry the books, and I'll hold the umbrella over you." She got out, opening the umbrella, and hurried around to the passenger side of the car. She opened the door, holding the umbrella over Daphne as she climbed out, her arms loaded with books. Elsie turned to start toward the house, waiting for Daphne to begin walking, so she could keep her under the umbrella's shelter. But Daphne didn't move right away.
She just stood, staring out at the wet woods. Night was falling, and it was darkening rapidly under the overcast sky. The shadows between the trees were deep. Elsie followed her daughter's gaze, and her mind drifted back to another rainy night in the woods. She looked at Daphne questioningly, wondering how much she remembered of what had happened. She couldn't remember her daughter once looking at the figure shrouded in the blood-stained sheet--not during transportation, or later, when it was laid out near her while Elsie worked frantically with the shovel. No, she hadn't looked at it--but Elsie knew better than anyone that didn't necessarily mean that Daphne hadn't been AWARE of it. She touched her daughter's arm. "We have to go inside now."
Daphne rocked forward on her toes, leaning slightly toward the woods. Her daughter liked to walk, daylight or dark, rain or clear, and Elsie usually allowed it. They were isolated enough that she could be fairly sure her daughter wouldn't run into anyone. The only close neighbors were the Parkers. They had a girl about Daphne's age--Chris, she believed her name was. Elsie had seen the girl out walking occasionally, and had considered making the effort to introduce herself. Daphne didn't seem bothered by her lack of friends, but Elsie knew that having someone, even an acquaintance, if not a friend, could come in handy some times.
But those few times she'd seen the girl, Chris had reacted like most of the others around Crystal Lake. Her eyes had skittered quickly away from Elsie and Daphne, passing over them in nervous flicks that told Elsie that the girl was quite aware of them, but would rather pretend that she wasn't. Elsie had decided she could rot in hell along with the rest of them.
Elsie wanted to get Daphne inside, so she made her voice firm. "No, Daphne. Go inside." Daphne still didn't move. Elsie bit her lip. For the most part, Daphne was a dream of obedience, but sometimes... Sometimes Elsie could sense a hard, stubborn core in her girl, and this was one of those times.
Perhaps distraction would be more effective. "I bought you something special, dear. Remember those scrapbooks you were looking at the last time we went shopping together? They had them on sale, and I bought you two of them. You can start putting your little clippings in them tonight."
Daphne's head lifted a fraction, then she turned and began to make her way to the house. Relieved, Elsie followed alongside, careful to keep the umbrella over Daphne, never worrying that she was herself getting soaked.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
"Chris, where do you think you're going?"
Chris winced. She'd hoped to be able to slip out the back, letting her father think that she was upstairs in her room. Figures Dad would suddenly decide he needed a snack, just when she was about to ease out. "I'm just going to go out to the pier."
"In this weather? I don't think so."
She was supposed to meet Mark, her current boyfriend, out at the boathouse for some serious making out. In fact, she was considering letting him get to third base tonight. She thought the idea of the rain pattering down on the tin roof of the boathouse was kind of romantic, even if the place always DID smell a little moldy. "I... think I might have forgotten to pull the boat up far enough. With this sort of rain the lake level might rise enough to float it." A lame excuse, but she hadn't bothered to think up a better one in advance.
"Well, that's just too bad. If that happens you'll have to borrow or rent another one and go hunt for it, but you're not going out tonight."
"Dad..."
Her father was usually very easy-going, but his voice turned hard. "That's final, young lady. You know I don't like you roaming around out there in the dark even in fine weather." He glanced toward the kitchen window, looking out into the wet dark. Chris was a little surprised by how old his eyes looked. "You never can tell what's out there. I'd have moved us away from here years ago, if I could have afforded it, but..." He trailed off.
"C'mon, Dad, you're not still thinking about what happened a couple years ago, are you? That was a freak occurrence, and the murderer was killed--everybody knows that. We can't let something that's over and done with affect..."
"No, Chris. Go back to your room."
Chris thought about protesting, telling her father that she was old enough to take care of herself and make her own decisions, but his expression stopped her. Instead she frowned and made her way to her room, making sure that every movement broadcast her displeasure.
Upstairs she threw herself down on her bed, pouted for a few minutes, then got her phone and called Mark, hoping that he hadn't left home yet. He picked up on the second ring. "Yeah?"
"Yeah, what?" she teased. "Have I reached the party to whom I am speaking?"
There was a snort that could have been a laugh, or a sound of irritation. "Hey, Chris. You know better than to expect Emily Post etiquette when you call me. What's up?"
"I'm glad I caught you before you took off for the boat house."
"Oh, yeah, that's supposed to be tonight, right?"
Chris blinked. "You forgot?"
"Um..."
"If it's THAT unimportant to you..."
"No, no. You know how I feel about you, babe. It's just that it's raining like a bitch out there, and my parent's aren't about to let me borrow the car. I'd have to come on my bike. Maybe we ought to just postpone it till some other time, huh?"
That had been what Chris was going to suggest, but Mark's willingness to give up their tryst rankled her. "No, I don't think so. We'll just have to meet a little later than we planned. My Dad will be going to bed soon, and it'll be no problem to sneak out. That'll give you plenty of time to get up here."
"Chris... It's really raining out there."
"You keep telling me that you burn for me. Well, if that flame can be doused by a little rain, it can't be all that hot. If you don't show up tonight, you can just forget about doing any kindling in the future." She hung up, thinking smugly that ought to settle things.
Mark stared at the receiver, listening to the buzz. He glanced out the window, watching the rain sheet against the glass. After a moment he sighed. "Fuck you, Chris. Or rather, DON'T fuck you." He hung up. *No piece of ass is worth pneumonia. Maybe I'll give Linda Carleton a call tomorrow.*
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Elsie Breman finished washing the supper dishes while Daphne sat at the kitchen table, working with her new scrapbooks. She had carefully arranged a handful of photographs in one of them, repositioning the selection a dozen times, making various symmetric patterns. When she was satisfied with the lay out she methodically printed out captions for each photo--who was in it, place, and date. Elsie had looked over her shoulder a few times. Each label was accurate, and printed so neatly that it might as well have been typed. Daphne trimmed each label carefully and affixed it below the appropriate picture, then laid the cling film cover over the page, working it down till it sealed almost seamlessly, without a single bubble or wrinkle.
Then she sat with the second book. She ran her hands over every millimeter of the cover, tracing the design of leaves and vines printed there, fingering the binding. She opened it and went over each page the same way. Studying them as carefully as if they were already filled with mementos and memories.
Later Daphne shuffled past her, on the way to her bedroom. She had her scrapbook folded in her arms, cradled as carefully as if it were a baby. Once her bedroom door shut, Elsie relaxed a little. She could never completely relax till she knew Daphne was safely tucked away.
Elsie had gotten down her bottle after finishing her chores. She sat in the living room, watching television, and consumed several strong scotches. This was her usual pattern. Though the number and strength of the drinks had been increasing steadily she was always careful to stop when she was still capable of putting herself to bed safely and neatly. After all, it wouldn't do for Daphne to get up some morning and find her mother passed out on the couch (or God forbid, the floor), sloppy drunk. After the nine o'clock news she shut off the television, wavered into her own bedroom, and went to bed.
Ten minutes after she settled her head on her pillow, Elsie was snoring softly. A few minutes later her bedroom door opened silently. Daphne stared into the bedroom. The hall bathroom light was always left on, and the thin light that seeped into the hall moved past Daphne, just letting her see her mother. She watched the older woman for a short time, expression no more animated than it ever was. Elsie never moved.
Daphne closed the door as quietly as she had opened it. There was a poncho hanging on a hook beside the kitchen door, and she donned it, then slipped out. Once outside she stood for a moment, listening and looking without seeming to do either. Finally she moved off into the woods, her path slanting subtly toward the lake.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Chris listened as the door to her parents' bedroom shut. There was the sound of voices as either her mother or her father turned up the volume on their bedroom television. *Thank goodness Dad's a little hard of hearing,* she thought. *That noise should be enough to cover for me going out.* It had occurred to her that the television would likely be off, and the house dead silent, when she was ready to return, but she didn't feel like worrying about covering her arrival. At this moment all that mattered was getting out, succeeding in what she wanted, despite her father's wishes. She'd worry about consequences later. She hadn't tried to slip out at night before, but judging from how easy it seemed to be this time, she would in the future. She made it downstairs without a hitch.
She snagged her windbreaker from the peg beside the kitchen door and slipped into it quickly. It looked a little dowdy for a romantic rendezvous, but it was still raining. Better a dowdy windbreaker than the delicate blouse she'd chosen to wear ending up plastered to her, like she was engaging in a wet T-shirt contest.
The noise the kitchen door made opening was a little too loud to suit her. She decided she didn't want to risk shutting it, then opening and shutting it again when she returned, so she left it very slightly ajar. As she headed down toward the lake she thought, *It shouldn't be a problem. After all, there's no one roaming around up here, looking to break into anything.* She snickered to herself. *Well, no one but Mark, and I KNOW what he wants to break into.*
She walked off into the night, thinking of the dark, close confines of the boathouse. It was going to be like she and Mark were the only people left alive in the world.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
The table before him held a dozen or so candles, all different sizes, shapes, and colors. The guttering flames lit the interior of the shack fitfully, and
the jumble of mixed scents (pine, sandalwood, bayberry, vanilla, musk...) made the air seem thick. He'd obtained them the same way he'd obtained all his scant furnishings--stolen from the houses he'd broken into around the lake during the last year or so.
He was staring attentively at the shriveled object that the candles surrounded. His mother was talking to him. She often talked to him at times like these, when it was dark and rainy. Jason listened to the papery whisper, nodding. Perhaps the sounds issued from the dry, wrinkled lips of the mummified head, perhaps he spoke them himself in an altered voice, unaware that he did so, or perhaps they merely echoed in his own mind. Since there was no one else there to hear, what did it matter? What did it matter, since the result would be the same?
Jason got up and went out into the rain.
Jason went hunting.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
The straight path to the boathouse would have taken her within view of her parents' window, so Chris decided that she'd cut through the woods. She giggled to herself as she shuffled through the piles of damp leaves, planning her upcoming session with Mark.
*He's not getting any tonight--not after balking about coming out. Nope, he'll just have to wait for the good stuff. Besides, I'm not having my first time in a grody old boathouse. His parents go on out-of-town trips sometimes. We can do it then, or he'll have to cough up the cash for a nice motel room in the next town over. I can tell Mom and Dad that I'm spending the night with Terri--she'll cover for me...*
There was a noise, and she stopped. For an instant all her preoccupation drained away, and she was very aware of where she was, just how dark and isolated it seemed. It only lasted for an instant though, as an idea struck her. Mark must've decided to try to tease her. "Mark? Is that you?" No answer. "Oh, come on, Mark. I'm onto you now." Silence, save for the sound of raindrops on leaves. Just as suddenly as her assurance had arrived, it began to fade. "Mark, c'mon, it isn't funny." There was the snap of a twig. "I swear, if you don't come out right now you aren't getting ANYTHING tonight."
A figure stepped out of the trees a few yards ahead of her, and she felt a stab of relief. "Mark, I swear that you..." Her voice died as it began to move toward her. Mark wasn't much taller than she, and he was a thin, almost reedy boy. Whoever this was was much taller, with thick, powerful shoulders. And Mark would never dress like this man. He was wearing tacky coveralls, and...
She stumbled back, beginning to scream just as the big hands moved toward her throat.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
There was a crash downstairs, and Melissa Parker jumped, grabbing her husband's arm. "You can't tell me you didn't hear THAT! It sounds like someone is trying to break down the back door."
Edward Parker frowned, remembering the encounter with his daughter. "Or maybe someone let their temper over ride their better judgment. I'll go check."
There was a second bang as he got out of bed, and his wife said, "That almost sounds like when we used to get a loose shutter at the old house, but we don't have shutters here."
"No, but we DO have a headstrong teenage daughter," he said grimly, "who is about to be in a world of trouble if she's done what I think she's done."
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Jason felt his fingers sinking into soft, warm flesh. The girl's scream choked off, and she began to thrash and claw at him. He ignored her pitiful efforts, barely feeling them. He could hear his mother whispering to him. Yes, this was one of Them--the neglectors, the callous, the self-involved. She was the sort who had left him alone, let him die.
He HAD died--in a way. That was one reason why the stories that circulated about him in the area were so confused. He'd drowned. His mother had dragged his limp, blue-tinged body out of the water at the lake's shore. She had screamed and beat at him, her fragile hold on sanity shredding. Then she'd tried the technique she'd seen the lifeguard trying to teach the careless, giggling teenage councilors who should have been watching her baby. She pressed her lips to Jason's slack, cool ones and blew in, then pumped frantically at his chest, then blew into his mouth again.
After endless moments a gush of fetid lake water fountained up, and Jason drew in a whooping breath. She'd snatched him up and taken him to the tiny, isolated cabin they'd shared, rather than returning to Camp Crystal Lake, where they had been staying the last few weeks. The next day he was missing, and his muddy sneaker was found lapping against the shore. They dragged the lake, but found nothing.
In public, his mother skirted hysteria during this time. Her rage grew as the teenagers who had been given the responsibility of watching Jason were no more than scolded. They claimed that Jason had slipped away while they were busy.
Busy. Yes, she knew what they had been busy with, oh yes, she knew. She told Jason this as she nursed him. She detailed what had kept them so preoccupied while he was struggling in the cold, cruel lake water. She told him just exactly what they deserved. Later, she told him how she had meted out justice, how she had ensured that no one would ever again use the camp where such a tragedy had been allowed to happen. No more children would be put at risk. She wouldn't allow it.
She died keeping that vow. At least she died as most people would perceive it. Jason realized, vaguely, that there were things about his world that were different from the one inhabited by most people. He felt this, but didn't spend any time worrying about it. Survival took up most of his time, especially after his mother could no longer care for him. But now...
Now Mother had told him that it was time for him to take up her mission, and so he would.
Beginning with this one.
She was weakening, scrabbling hands moving more slowly as she scratched at him. He could feel the life draining out of her. It wouldn't take much more.
He'd never be able to say what it was that drew his attention away from his prey. A sound? A slight shift in atmosphere? Perhaps it was just that odd, instinctive feeling common to so many people--the feeling that someone was watching him. He looked up, eyes scanning the surrounding trees.
Someone was standing nearby, and he knew that this was wrong. They should be doing something--screaming, running, rushing to the defense of the girl who was going limp in his hands. But they just stood, as still as the trees around them.
Jason considered snapping his victim's neck so that he could go after this new arrival, but just before he did the girl collapsed completely, becoming a weight in his hands. Equating this with death, he casually dropped her, and turned his attention to the intruder. It would be easy to dispatch them, too. No one knew the woods like he did, and it would be easy to chase them down when they fled. But they didn't run. That puzzled him, and he slowed as he approached.
It was another girl, he saw. She was about the same age as the one he'd left lying back on the ground--and she was just as still. His steps slowed as he neared her, and he took a moment to actually look at her.
She was draped in a poncho, the slick, dark material covering her from her head to her knees, nothing revealed but the oval of her face. Wisps of blonde hair were plastered against her pale cheeks. She stared straight ahead. She was looking in Jason's direction, but she gave no indication of actually SEEING him.
Jason stopped before her, and regarded her silently. He was no more than a foot away, looming over her, but still she didn't react. She didn't move, she didn't blink, her breathing didn't even speed up. Jason cocked his head, puzzled. What was wrong with her? He started to reach for her, and still she didn't move, or make a sound.
But someone spoke.
*Like you. Oh, Jason, my baby, she's like you. She's different. She's special. She's not like Them, Jason.*
Jason's arms lowered slowly.
*I've seen her before, Jason--seen her on a night like tonight. A night of rain and death. Her mother loves her, and protects her--like I do for you. Mercy, Jason. Yes, this one deserves mercy.*
Jason reached out. One finger ghosted down the girl's cheek. She paid no more attention to it than she did the raindrops following the same course. Jason turned away from her, ignoring the body of the other girl, and went back into the woods.
Daphne stood for a moment. Slowly, very slowly, her hand drifted up and touched her own cheek. She blinked, then turned and began to make her way home.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Edward Parker found the kitchen door open, banging in the moist wind. He stared at it, feeling anger bubble up inside. Chris' windbreaker was gone from it's accustom place, and he knew exactly what had happened. His stubborn daughter had decided to sneak out.
He was half tempted to just lock the door and let her spend the night outside (since he was fairly sure she wouldn't have remembered to bring a key, if she'd left the door open like this). But his protective instincts were stronger than his anger at being defied. He slipped on a pair of boots and his own raincoat, and went after her.
She'd said something about the pier earlier, so he headed for the lake. He didn't take the direct route, though. He knew that, while his daughter apparently was experienced enough in sneaking around to get away Scot free, she might still be clever enough to take some form of precaution. He made his way through the trees, trees that would have blocked his line of vision from his bedroom.
He almost stumbled over her. He was practically stepping over her when he realized that the form on the ground wasn't a mound of leaves, or a fallen log--but a body. He dropped to his knees, rolling the limp form over onto its back, and screamed in sudden fear and anguish when he recognized his daughter. "CHRIS! Oh, my God, Chris! Baby!"
He clutched at her, then shook her. Her head lolled, and in the faint glow of moonlight that filtered through the clouds he saw dark smudges on her throat. "No, Chris! Don't be dead." There was a low, whimpering moan, and he saw her eyelids twitch. She was still alive!
Edward Parker gathered his daughter up into his arm and stumbled back toward his house, shouting for his wife to call an ambulance.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Daphne entered her home as quietly as she'd left it. Just inside the kitchen, she took off her muddy shoes, and wiped up the prints she'd made. Then she used a hand towel to wipe most of the moisture from the poncho before hanging it up. It would be dry again before morning. Finally she wiped her shoes clean with paper towels, discarded the paper, and went back to her bedroom.
She turned on her lamp, sat on the bed, and took a sketchpad from her bedside table. After carefully sharpening a pencil, she began...
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Elsie got up a little earlier than usual, and took a shower to clear away the cobwebs. She wondered if there was going to come a time when something as simple as a shower wouldn't be enough to wipe away the results of a previous night's drinking, but she didn't wonder about it for long. She knew that as long as her drinking didn't adversely affect Daphne, she wouldn't be stopping.
As she often did, Elsie stopped to look in on Daphne before going into the kitchen. Daphne was sleeping peacefully. Elsie leaned in the doorway, watching her. At times like this, she could pretend that Daphne was just like any other child, that she might soon awake, and fill Elsie's day with chatter about school, clothes, boys...
Elsie noticed that there were several crumpled pieces of paper in the bedside wastebasket, and Daphne's sketchpad was sitting askew on her nightstand--a blunt pencil on top of it. Elsie smiled. Daphne was quite a good artist. Oh, she was sure that a critic would say that her art was nothing but representation, with no true expression, no passion. Mechanical, Elsie had heard Daphne's art teacher say years ago. Of course the woman hadn't dared to say that to ELSIE.
What would it be this time? You never knew what would strike Daphne's fancy. She'd done sketches of flowers, but she'd also drawn meticulous images of boxes of washing powder, and the television. Elsie tiptoed over and opened the pad, but the pages were blank. Whatever had been drawn had been removed. She considered taking the paper out of the wastebasket, but she knew the crinkling would awaken Daphne, and if the girl hadn't wanted her to see what was on the paper, she just shouldn't look.
As she was leaving, though, Elsie caught sight of the new scrapbook. It was sitting on Daphne's bookcase, in a carefully cleared spot. Curious, Elsie went over and picked it up, opening it.
It wasn't empty anymore. There was a single picture neatly centered on the first page, but this wasn't a photograph. Now Elsie could see what Daphne had felt inspired to create. It was dark, most of the white space filled in. No wonder the pencil had been dulled. It was almost abstract, at first, but Elsie studied it.
It was a night scene--somewhere in a forest--and it must have been raining. The area at the top of the page gave the impression of moving clouds, with rain slanting down. At first Elsie thought it was just a view of trees, but then she saw that there was a figure in the midst of the trees.
It was unmistakably male, tall and broad. There were no real details discernable, but somehow it exuded an aura of... Elsie shivered. She didn't like looking at it, but she forced herself to look more closely, wanting to see the face. Perhaps then she'd understand the feeling of dread.
She'd never know if that was the case, because there WAS no face. The figure appeared to be wearing some sort of hood, a shapeless blur shrouding his head, with only a rough hole torn open around the area of the eyes. As for the eyes... That area was, again, shadowed. *But,* Elsie thought uneasily, *it's as if I stared at it long enough, I might be able to see in--and he'd be looking back out at me.* Her eyes dropped to the neat caption just under the picture.
She shut the book quickly, putting it back on the shelf. *It means nothing. That's just how her mind works, is all,* she thought anxiously. She hurried out of the room, forcing herself to focus on the mundane tasks of beginning her day, trying to forget those three neatly printed words.
Dead is better.
Chapter Seven: Pushing Toward Independence
1984
"Sheriff Sherwood."
Robert Sherwood had been about to unlock his cruiser. He paused, back to the speaker, and closed his eyes for a moment in irritation. *Careful, Robert,* he cautioned himself. *You're in an ELECTED position now. Gotta keep the public happy.* He schooled his expression into pleasantness and turned. "Mrs. Bremin, hello." He looked past her. "And Daphne. My, Daphne, you're looking nice today."
He was a little surprised to realize that he meant what he'd said. Daphne was wearing a pale blue skirt that reached just to her knees, and the calves below the hem were smooth and shapely. If a man were inclined to contemplate such things, he'd probably decide that the legs above were just the same. Robert was glad when he remembered that Daphne was now eighteen. He'd have been very uncomfortable having such thoughts about a minor.
She also wore a butter yellow blouse that draped gently over a firm bosom, the color making her blonde hair look more golden than dishwater. Her expression was still blank, but Sherwood realized that he'd seen expressions not much different than that on dozens of magazine covers and cat walks.
"She picked out the clothes herself," said Mrs. Bremin, a hint of pride in her voice. "And they were on sale, too. She's learned how to dress nicely, but also how to be practical. Sheriff Sherwood... You know what I'm going to ask."
He sighed, nodding--then thought about what she meant, and shook his head. "No news, Mrs. Bremin. I'm sorry. It's been four years."
"And if I understand correctly, a person isn't presumed dead till they've been missing for SEVEN years, Sheriff. Even then there's still a body to be found, don't you agree? Surely you can understand that I want some sort of closure. I'd like to see his worthless carcass--dead, or alive." She noticed his wince, and one corner of her mouth curled up bitterly. "He wasn't much of a husband when he was here, but the way he skipped out on his responsibilities gals me. I'd very much like to haul him up on child abandonment charges, and bleed him for every cent of support I can get." She gave him a severe look. "Can I assume that as Sheriff, you'll be even MORE dedicated to locating him?"
Robert rubbed his hair tiredly. "Mrs. Bremin, we've helped you file the missing person report. We helped you contact the FBI. I study every report about unidentified bodies that comes through the office. I don't know what else I can do."
She sniffed. "Just remember that as an elected official your obligations to your constituents is higher than ever."
"Yes, ma'am. I'll remember that." He was looking past her. "Mrs. Bremin, Daphne is wandering off."
She glanced around. "No, she isn't. She's going in the sporting goods store. She's been looking in the window every time we come to town for the last few months. I think she's finally made up her mind about something."
Sherwood frowned. "About what?"
Elsie gave him a mildly surprised look. "About a purchase, of course." She went into the store Daphne had just entered.
Robert thought about just getting into his cruiser and leaving one of his most persistent aggravations behind, but his curiosity was aroused. What on earth could Elsie Bremin mean about Daphne deciding to buy something? Letting her pick clothes off a rack was one thing--Elsie just had to make sure she was in the right size section. Against his better judgment, he followed the women into the store.
There was a rack of bicycles on display before the front window. Daphne was standing there, staring at them, with Elsie beside her. A clerk bustled over and addressed Elsie. "Can I help you?"
Elsie gestured at Daphne. "Not me--her."
The clerk gave Daphne a doubtful look. He'd noticed the girl window-shopping before. *Window-shopping is too complicated a word for it,* he thought. *I figured she might as well have been staring at a display of toilet tissue for all the animation in her expression.* "Miss?"
Daphne's hand drifted out and settled on the seat of one of the bicycles--a nice mid-priced six speed. "How much money, funny, honey-bunny."
The man blinked. "How...? Do you mean how much does it cost?"
Elsie snorted, and Robert found himself saying, "Well, maybe she didn't phrase it like an English major, but -I- could tell what she meant."
"Let me check." He read a tag on the bike and jotted a product number down on his pad, then went to the check out stand.
Sherwood said, "You're going to buy Daphne a bicycle?"
"No, Sheriff--Daphne is apparently going to buy HERSELF a bicycle, provided the cost suits her," Elsie corrected him.
"Is that wise? I mean, has she ever ridden before?"
"No, but there's plenty of level ground around the house for her to practice. I'm sure she can learn without too much trouble."
"Mrs. Bremin--she's epileptic."
"She's on medication," snapped Elsie. "God, you people can never get past that, can you? She hasn't had a seizure in ages. But that's why I think it's a good idea that she get a bicycle. She'll never be able to have a driver's license, and there will come a time when I can't drive her around. With a bicycle, and perhaps a little wagon to pull behind, she'll be able to get around quite well. We live close to town, and the roads aren't busy."
He stared at her. "I can't believe you're serious."
She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them. "I'm not going to live forever, and I swear..." her tone became fierce, "I SWEAR that they are not going to stick my baby in some sort of government run warehouse or group home when I'm gone. We're not rich, but I've set up a trust fund so that she'll have the means to live on her own. I just have to be sure she has the skills. Being able to get back and forth on her own to shop and run errands is a big part of that."
The clerk came back. "This model comes to 69.34, tax included."
Daphne stood silently for a moment, hand on the bicycle. Then she patted the seat. "Buy. Try buy my bike." She turned and started toward the register.
Feeling something very close to astonishment, Robert said, "Well, you heard her--she wants to buy it."
"But I can't sell her the floor model," the man protested.
"You have one boxed up, don't you?" said Elsie.
"Yes," said the man. "But it's not assembled."
"Then we'll assemble it." Her tone became blunt. "Do we look incapable of following instructions?"
"Uh... no, ma'am."
"Then hurry up. Don't keep my daughter waiting."
The clerk looked over to find that the blank faced girl was at the counter, and was slowly filling out a check. He hurried up and said, "Look, lady, maybe you should get your mother to buy this for you. I need ID to take a check, and..." Daphne laid a Department of Motor Vehicles Identification Card on top of the check, never raising her eyes to the man. "Oh. Okay, then." He started to ring up the purchase. "I'll get that item and carry it out to your car for you."
Elsie was watching the transaction with grim satisfaction. Robert shook his head. From what he'd heard, this girl should have spent a short life drooling and rocking in some institution. Here she was, making a fairly substantial purchase, just as capably as anyone else he knew. He looked over at Elsie. *And that has to be mainly due to her mother. Elsie just isn't going to let her baby be ignored, passed over, or exploited. Hell, makes me wonder what that girl could have accomplished if she'd been born with a full set of God's gifts.* "You going to need any tools to put that together, Mrs. Bremin? I have a box out in the cruiser if you want to borrow anything."
She gave him a sharp look, but recognized the respect in his tone. "No, Sheriff." She smiled. "Two women living alone--we've had to learn to take care of ourselves as a matter of survival. We'll be all right--but thank you."
Robert Sherwood watched as the clerk finished the sale, then he helped carry the box out to their car. When he asked if they'd be able to get the box into their house, Elsie told him, a little tartly, that there was nothing to prevent them opening up the box and making several trips, was there?
He watched as they drove away. *She wants Daphne to be able to live on her own.* He shook his head. *I'll be damned if I don't think she might actually be able to do it.* He noticed a teenage boy standing on the other side of the street. Robert recognized him--Bobby Barclay. Yes, he'd had dealings with Bobby before--underage drinking, vandalism, shop lifting, DUI. All had been dealt with by... you couldn't even call it a slap on the wrist--it had been more of a pat. Yes, Bobby was a prime example of too much money and power directed at protecting someone who didn't deserve it.
Robert watched him narrowly. *But I think ol' Bobby would have turned out nasty no matter what sort of upbringing he'd had. It's just that he'd be in jail by now if his family was poor.* Robert suspected Bobby of a few things a bit worse than what had been sealed in his juvenile record a few months ago. There were rumors that he wasn't as gentle or considerate with some of the girls as he might be, but he was shrewd enough to confine his rougher activities to girls who had no credibility in the eyes of most of Crystal Lake.
A month ago Robert had caught Bobby and his girlfriend getting out of Bobby's car at the local hamburger joint. The girlfriend's eyes were red, her face damp, and she was wiping a fresh trickle of blood from a slightly swelling nose. When Robert asked her about it, she'd looked away and said that Bobby had stopped suddenly--she hadn't been wearing her seatbelt and had smacked into the dash. Bobby had smirked, and said she was lucky that she hadn't busted her skull. Robert had walked him a few yards away and told him, quietly and coldly, that Bobby had better consider the fact that he was no longer a juvenile. "And that means that your little cloak of invisibility is GONE, Barclay. Your daddy was looking pretty fed up the last time he bailed you out, too. Think about it. You might be less of an embarrassment to him if you were doing some time instead of getting into fresh trouble."
Now Robert's eyes narrowed as he watched Bobby watch the Bremin car pass. *No, he's not watching the car pass--he's watching DAPHNE pass.* The passenger side window was open. Daphne was sitting as straight as usual, but her head was tipped to the side. A sheaf of her yellow hair was caught by the breeze, and it drifted and waved out the window, glinting in the sunlight. Her pale blue eyes were, as always, fixed on the middle distance, as if looking at something only she could see.
Bobby Barclay stared, wetting his lips. His eyes followed the car till it turned the corner. He finally turned away, and his eyes caught Robert Sherwood's hard stare. For a moment the younger man paused in apprehension. Then he straightened a little, smirked, and swaggered away.
Robert looked up the street, and thought about Daphne, eventually living along. *She might be able to do it, but it might not be such a good idea, considering what we have wandering around Crystal Lake.*
END PART 7