Nightshade

get this, okay?” An uncertain silence followed, as if he were wondering what to say next, and then nothing.

For a moment Joan stood frozen, her eyes wide, staring at the machine as if it were a cobra that had just struck her. Then she heard her sister’s voice again.

“He knows, Joan. He knows everything!”

“No!” Joan shrieked, again clamping her hands over her ears. “He doesn’t know anything! He doesn’t!”

“Stupid!” Now it was her mother’s voice jabbing at her. “Cynthia was always the smart one! Why did she have to die? Why couldn’t it have been you? Then everything would be the way it should be!”

“No,” Joan wailed again. “No! It’s not true! I won’t hear it!”

Then she heard another voice: Matt’s voice.

“Mom?”

She spun around, half expecting him not to be there at all. But there he was — her perfect son. She started toward him, her arms outstretched, needing to feel him, to touch him, if only to prove to herself that he wasn’t just another phantom like the voices that were torturing her. But he drew back, his eyes clouding, his face paling.

“Mom?”

Joan caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass front of a display case. The image was hazy, but for an instant it seemed as though she was looking not at herself, but at Cynthia. She felt an awful sense of vertigo then, as if she were dropping away into a bottomless pit from which she might never emerge.

She reached out to Matt again, struggling to speak, searching for her voice, but he seemed to be pulling farther and farther away from her.

She was going to lose him — lose it all — lose everything she’d ever wanted —

Then a sound broke through the confusion in her mind, and the illusion that a moment ago had held her in its grip fell away.

The doorbell!

Don’t even answer the door.

But she had to answer the door. If she didn’t, Matt would. And then — “Go upstairs,” she said, “and let me take care of this!”

Matt stared at his mother. Her face was streaked with makeup — garish makeup — the kind street whores on television wore. And what was she talking about? What was she going to take care of? What was happening?

“It’s Kelly’s father!” she told him as she started toward the front door. “You don’t want to talk to him, do you?” She was close to Matt now, and his nostrils filled with the powerful scent of the perfume she wore.

The perfume he’d smelled so many times before.

His aunt’s perfume.

“Do it!” his mother commanded him. “Go upstairs!”

As if acting under the volition of some force outside himself, Matt started up the stairs. But as he heard the front door open and Kelly’s father begin to shout, he froze.

“Who is he, Joan?” Gerry Conroe demanded. “Who is Matt?”

“He’s my son!” Joan replied.

Conroe’s expression, already contorted with a mixture of exhaustion, frustration, and fear, hardened. “Don’t tell me that!” His voice trembled as he hurled the words at her: “I know he’s not your son, Joan! I don’t know who he is, but I know who he’s not. So you tell me — what the hell is going on here?” Joan covered her ears to shut out his furious accusations. “What is it, Joan? Did Bill find out Matt’s not your son? Did he find out where he really came from? That’s why he left, isn’t it? He was through with you, and he was through with Matt! So Matt shot him!”

“No!” Joan cried. She was cowering now, trying to push the door closed, but Gerry Conroe held it open. “No… no…”

“Tell me,” he said. “Tell me, Joan. Tell me the truth!”

Something broke inside her then, and when she spoke again, her voice had taken on a strangely childish tone. “I don’t have to!” she insisted. “I don’t have to tell you anything I don’t want to, and you can’t make me!”

Finally she succeeded in shoving the door shut, but even through the heavy mahogany, she could still hear Gerry Conroe’s voice: “I’ll find out, Joan. I’ll find out the truth!”

Then her eyes fell on a mirror and locked onto the reflection in the glass, and she no longer heard him. It was a reflection not of her, but of her sister, and as Joan stared at it she knew what had to happen.

Cynthia, once again, had to die.

But it would be different this time.

This time she would not only kill Cynthia, but destroy her.

* * *

“WHO IS HE? Who is Matt? Tell me… tell me the truth…”

The words hung in the air, pinning Matt to the spot. What was he talking about? He knew who his mother was — she was standing in the entry hall, looking at herself in the mirror! Then, as he watched, she turned away from the mirror and looked up at him.

Except she wasn’t looking at him. She was looking at something else — something behind him. But except for the two of them, the house was empty! “Mother?” he said uncertainly.

She was starting up the stairs now, coming toward him, but her eyes — bloodshot and made larger by the garish makeup — were still fixed on something beyond him. As she drew closer, Matt finally snapped out of the paralysis induced by Gerry Conroe’s words. Instinctively, he backed away, then turned and hurried up the rest of the stairs. Without thinking, he went to his room, closed the door, locked it.

Who is he? Tell me the truth!

The words hammered at Matt. What had Mr. Conroe been talking about?

Then he heard his mother’s voice, coming from beyond the heavy wooden door he’d locked a moment ago.

“I’ll kill you… this time I’ll really kill you!”

Matt’s heart pounded, and a terrible hopelessness rose within him.

Guilty…

He must be guilty!

Mr. Conroe thought so. So did Dan Pullman. He was pretty sure Trip Wainwright did too. Otherwise, why would the lawyer be so worried about what he might say to Mr. Pullman?

And now even his mother thought so.

Maybe he should just unlock the door and go out in the hall and face it. Face his mother.

Face everything.

He reached for the key, turned it, and pulled the door open a few inches.

The hall was empty, and silent.

Where was she? Where had she gone? “Mom?” he breathed, so softly the word was lost in the silence of the house. Then he heard a voice, muffled, barely audible at all.

“He’s mine! He’ll always be mine!”

Drawn toward the voice, Matt moved down the hall until he was standing outside his aunt’s room.

“He’s not yours,” he heard his mother say. “You gave him to me!”

Matt heard the sound of laughter then, but there was no joy in it. It was a harsh sound, a cruel sound. “Never! You took him! You took him like you took everything else! You did what you wanted to do… ”

And as the sound of the second voice came through the closed door, it echoed out of Matt’s memory —

… what you want to do.

Out of his dreams —

… do what you want to do…

Out of his nightmares —

… what you want to do…

His aunt’s voice — he was hearing his aunt’s voice! But that wasn’t possible — she was dead — she’d been