He was gone. I couldn't quite believe it, and yet it was what some part of me had been waiting for all night. I checked the rooms on the third floor, then quickly dressed and hurried down to the kitchen. The door to the outside was locked, but the deadbolt undone, indicating that Patrick may have exited from there. I debated whether to wake the family. A search party might find him faster, but creating that kind of scene would make things worse for him. I thrust my feet in my boots. I would find him myself. I had to.
Checking my pocket for keys, I opened the door and stepped into the brittle cold. A day of March sunlight had melted the surface of the snow, but the dipping temperatures of the clear night had frozen it again, making an icy crust that glimmered in the moonlight. Hanging low in the west, the moon cast long shadows and darkened the craters of footprints, confusing the paths that converged at the back door. Had he gone to the pool? Taken the steps down to the bay? No, it was the pond that drew Patrick. I took off.
The hardened snow made it difficult to run, my feet sinking in at odd angles, my toes catching in the crust. Having circled to the front of the house, I cut across the gardens and suddenly found a fresh trail, Patrick's prints-at least prints small enough to be his. Reaching the drive that ran between the house and the main road, I saw another set of prints in the slushy, cindered snow. A cat's. November. It was as if the cat had instantly appeared and disappeared, leaving no trace of where he had come from or where he had gone on the other side of the plowed road. Then l realized that the animal was light and had probably walked on top of the frozen snow.
Patrick's tracks ran through the orchard and around the barn. I raced across the last stretch of snow toward the pond. The tall ring of evergreen trees that surrounded the pond rose up dark and silent, a forbidding circle. I entered the trees, following the short path that wound through the cedar and pine and emerged several meters from Patrick. He knelt at the pond's edge. A collection of small branches lay piled in front of him like an offering. The cat, sitting close to him, turned his head to see who had come into their circle.
My teeth chattered, not from the weather, but from the cold, otherworldliness of the scene. Shadows cast by long fingers of pine stretched across the pond's dull white ice. Near the center, the circle of dark water that never froze shone like a black moon. Patrick seemed a part of this unearthly place, as if he had stepped over the line that divided the colorful world of the living from the stark shades of death.
I walked quietly toward him. 'What are you doing?'
He didn't turn his head, didn't act as if he had heard me. He was striking matches, one after another; they must have been wet, for none of them would light. I could see the thin flannel of his pajama pants beneath his snow jacket. He wore shoes rather than boots. His head and hands were bare.
I knelt next to him. 'What are you doing?' I repeated.
'This will keep us warm,' he said.
I touched the pile of sticks. 'Are you making a fire?'
'Don't be afraid. It won't melt the ice.'
His voice. sounded both strange and familiar. It wasn't the slightly high pitch Patrick used when he was trying to convince me of something, but the low, demanding tone of Ashley when she had insisted that I believe her.
'You can't believe what the grown-ups say,' he went on. 'They tell you things just to scare you.'
The tingle started low in my spine and ran to the base of my skull. I had had this conversation before.
'They lie to you.'
'Who does?' I asked.
'Everyone. They lie because they want you to do something.'
'Not always,' I argued.
'They want to hurt you.'
'Who does?'
'They hate me, Katie!'
I pulled back. Patrick's fists were clenched with fury. He was no longer just hearing a ghost-he was speaking her words, he was feeling her emotions.
'Patrick, look at me.'
He abruptly turned his back, then rose and walked over to November. 'They don't know your name,' he whispered to the cat. 'No one knows it but me.
No one can touch you but me.' His fists relaxed as he pet the animal, then he glanced in my direction. 'We'll get warm, and then we'll go skating.'
'No, Patrick.' I said, walking toward him. 'It isn't safe.'
Kneeling again, I took his face in my hands and turned it toward me. His eyes were open, but I felt as if I were looking into the eyes of a plastic dollunblinking, glittering circles, eyes that did not physically see me.
I shook him lightly. His eyes rolled back in his head, then his lids closed. Panicking, I pulled them open with my fingertips. All I saw were the whites.
'Patrick!' I cried. 'Wake up!'
I let go, and his eyelids closed. I shook him, terrified that I was losing him. 'Come back, Patrick! Stay with me-stay awake!'
I shook him again, harder than I meant to.
He opened his eyes, gazing blankly at me for a moment. Then his eyes widened. He wrenched away from my grasp. 'You can't hurt me!'
He scrambled to his feet, stepping on the cat. November squealed. Patrick rushed toward the path through the woods.
I stood up, bewildered, and glanced around the pond. 'Show yourself, Ashley!' I cried out angrily. I dare you!'
I ran after Patrick and caught up with him outside the ring of trees. I followed at a short distance, wary of getting too close. I would wait till he stopped, I thought, wait till whatever frightened and drove him away from me ceased in his mind. But when we reached the road he veered suddenly, turning away from the house toward the cemetery. At its iron gate, I grabbed him and held him tightly against me.
'Stop, Patrick.'
He fought me.
'Patrick, be still.'
His resistance lessened.
'It's Kate! I'm trying to help you.'
At last he sagged against me. I was almost afraid to let go and look in his eyes, afraid I'd set him running again. I slowly eased down next to him. 'How are you doing?'
He looked ghastly in the pale moonlight. 'I don't feel good.'
'I know you don't.' I removed my jacket and put it over his. 'Climb on my back. I'll give you a ride.'
He climbed on and placed his arms around my neck. 'Where's November?' he asked.
'I think he stayed back at the pond. He'll be all right.'
I stood up, holding on to Patrick's legs, massaging them as I walked toward the house, trying to warm them. I carried him piggyback all the way up the main stairs. When we reached his room, I laid him on his bed. I quickly pulled off his wet pajamas and gave him a dry set along with a woolly pair of socks.
'Better?' I asked as I tucked his quilt around him.
He nodded. I gently rubbed his cold cheeks and ears. He lay there for a long time with his eyes wide open, his body absolutely still. When his eyes finally closed, I turned off his alarm clock, then tiptoed to the stairs connecting our rooms, planning to turn off my own alarm and fetch my quilt. It would keep me warm while I sat by Patrick's bed. At the top of the steps, I found the door to my room shut. Opening it, I felt a rush of frigid air. I quickly closed the door behind me, cutting off the draft so it wouldn't blow closed the door to Patrick's room. Then I saw my window and backed up. The upper half was shattered, jagged pieces of glass hanging from its wooden frame. Shards glittered like ice on the floor.
I walked toward the window, glass crunching beneath my boots. I knew what was outside the dormer, but I couldn't believe what I was seeing and I had to be certain. At the cottage there had been a tree for Ashley to climb when she'd thrown my doll through the bedroom window, smashing it inward. Here-just as I had thought-there was
