stopped near a large boulder that stood precariously balanced above the beach.
“Here,” Amanda breathed. “It was right here …”
Michelle looked down to the beach below. They were directly above the spot where only a month and a half ago she had picnicked with her friends. At least, they had been her friends at the time.
Now the beach was empty; the tide was out, and the litter of rocks, worn smooth by centuries of flowing water, lay exposed to the threatening afternoon.
“Look,” Amanda whispered. She was pointing to the far edge of the beach, where the retreating sea had laid bare the shelf of tidepools. Michelle could make out two figures, indistinct in the rain.
One of them she recognized at once: Jeff Benson. And the other one — who was the other one? But suddenly she knew it didn’t matter.
Jeff was the one.
It was Jeff Amanda wanted.
His words rang in her ears, and Michelle knew Amanda was listening to them, too.
“He’ll come this way,” Amanda purred. “When the tide comes in, he’ll come this way. And then.…” Her voice trailed off, but a smile wreathed her face. She kept one hand on Michelle’s arm, but with the other she reached out and touched the boulder.…
June was still sitting by the telephone when Cal and Josiah Carson arrived.
She heard them come through the front door, heard Cal calling to her.
“In here,” she replied. “I’m in here.”
Her voice was dull, and she was pale. He went to her, kneeling down by her chair.
“June, what is it? What’s wrong?”
“The studio — it’s in the studio.”
“What is? Has something happened? Where are the kids?”
June stared at him, her face uncomprehending. “The kids?” she echoed. Then it hit her. “Jenny! My God, I left Jenny in the studio!”
Her torpor was gone. She stood up, but a wave of dizziness struck her and she sank back into her chair. “Cal, I can’t do it — I can’t go out there. Please, go out there, and take Dr. Carson with you. Bring Jenny back with you.”
“You can’t go out there?” Cal asked. His expression reflected bewilderment. “Why not? What’s happened?”
“You’ll know. Just go out there, and look. You’ll see.” The two men started out of the room, but June stopped them. “And Cal? The picture — the picture on the easel: I didn’t paint it.”
Cal and Josiah exchanged an uncomprehending look, but when June said nothing else, they started for the studio.
They could hear Jenny crying before they were halfway there. Cal broke into a run. He dashed inside, glanced hurriedly around, but ignored everything except his daughter. Scooping the howling baby into his arms, he cradled her against his chest.
“It’s all right, princess,” he crooned, “Daddy’s here, and everything’s going to be fine.”
He rocked her gently for a moment, and her howling quieted. Only then did he look at the painting on the easel, the painting that June had made such a point of saying she hadn’t done.
He stared at it, frowning slightly. At first, it made no sense. And then he realized what it was — a woman, dying in the act of making love, her expression a combination of rapture and — and something else. But what was it?
“I don’t get it—” he began, his voice puzzled and uncertain. But then he saw the expression on Josiah Carson’s face, and his words faded in his throat.
Carson was staring at the picture, a look of comprehension slowly taking shape on his face.
“So that’s it,” he whispered. That’s what happened.”
Cal stared at the old doctor. “Joe, what is it? Are you all right?” He took a step toward Carson, but the old man waved him aside.
“She’s done it,” he said. “Amanda finally saw her mother, and she killed her. A hundred years later — she killed her. Now she’ll be free. Now we’ll all be free.” He turned to Cal. “It was right that you came here,” he said quietly. “You owed it to us. You killed Alan Hanley, so you owed it to us.”
Cal looked wildly from Josiah to the picture, then back to Josiah. “What the hell are you talking about?” he shouted. “What’s going on? What is it?”
“The picture,” Carson said softly. “It’s all in the picture.
“I–I don’t understand—”
“I’m trying to tell you, Cal,” Carson said. His voice was reasonable, but a strange glint shone in his eyes. “That woman — it’s Louise Carson. She’s buried out in the cemetery. My God, Cal, June went into labor on her grave — don’t you remember?”
“But that’s not possible,” Cal said. “How would June know—” Then he remembered:
Cal moved closer to the painting, studying it carefully. The paint was fresh, barely dry. He stepped back again. Only then did he realize that the setting of the picture was the studio. It gave him an eerie feeling. His gaze left the canvas to sweep over the room. He was vaguely aware of Josiah Carson, behind him, muttering indistinctly.
“She’s here,” Carson whispered. “Don’t you understand, Cal? It’s Amanda. She’s using Michelle. She’s here. Can’t you feel it? She’s here!”
He began laughing then, softly at first, then louder and louder until Cal could stand it no longer.
It was as though a spell had been broken. Carson shook himself, then glanced once more at the picture. With an odd expression of victory on his face, he started for the door. “Come on,” he said. “We’d better get back to the house. I have a feeling things have just begun.”
Cal was about to follow him when he saw the stain on the floor. “Jesus,” he whispered.
It was as it had been the day they moved in. Reddish brown, thick, caked with dust, almost unidentifiable. But it had been cleaned up. He remembered it clearly, remembered June, on her hands and knees, chipping at it.
And now it was back.
Once more, he looked at the painting. The blood, dripping from Louise Carson’s wounded breast, gushing from her open throat.…
It was as if somehow the past, so clearly depicted on the canvas, was alive again in the studio.
Tim Hartwick and Corinne Hatcher arrived as Cal and Josiah Carson returned to the house. June, still pale, hadn’t moved from her chair in the living room. The group gathered around her.
“Did you see it?” June asked Cal. He nodded. “I didn’t paint it,” June repeated.
“Where did it come from?”
“The closet,” June said vacantly. “I found it in the closet a week or so ago. It — it was only a sketch then. But today, when I went out there, it was on the easel.”
“What was?” Tim broke in. “What are you talking about?”
“A picture,” June said softly. “It’s in the studio. You might as well go look at it — it’s what I wanted you to see.”
Mystified, Tim and Corinne started out of the room, but paused as the telephone rang. Though June was closest to the phone, she made no move to pick it up, and it was Cal who finally answered.
“Hello?”
“Dr. Pendleton?” The voice at the other end was shaking.
“Yes.”
“This is Bertha Carstairs. I–I wonder, is Joe Carson there with you?”
Cal frowned slightly. “Yes, he is.” He looked questioningly at Carson, half-expecting him to refuse the call. But Carson seemed to be himself again, as if the strange scene in the studio had never happened. He took the
