down stairs and pushed open the door. It was much as before—the bed mussed, some dirty clothes in the corner, the candles placed about. Samantha had come armed with several bobby pins.
“I'l try to open it and you stand guard”
She directed the beam of light on the lock and wiggled the bobby pin around, trying to press down on the catch.
The first pin snapped and she tried another with greater success.
“It's open!”
Arlene came quickly to her side and they raised the lid slowly.
A heavy smel of incense made Samantha sneeze.
The black robe was on top and they lifted it away apprehensively. Underneath were some books, magazines, and several large photograph albums. There were also more clothes.
“This is real y weird. Why would he keep his clothes locked up?”
Samantha thought she knew why and she found she had a lump in her throat.
“These aren't his clothes. They're his father's. Look at this Nautica sailing jacket. It would be huge on Duncan.”
At the bottom of the trunk was a box with a man's watch, some cuff links, and a bunch of birthday cards—al from Duncan to Dad.
“And the albums are probably ful of pictures of him,'
Arlene said. 'I can't believe it, but I'm actual y feeling sorry for the creep.”
The albums did have pictures, starting with Duncan as a baby and his young parents, smiling and looking straight into the camera with the confidence they would al live forever that a moment like this brings.
“Let's put it back. It's too sad.'
“Sssh,' Arlene said, and grabbed the flashlight, clicking it off.
Samantha heard it, too. Someone had jumped off the porch and was running into the woods.
They went to the window, but al they could see were some tiny red flashing lights disappearing into the darkness.
“Let's get out of here before he comes back!”
They hastily put the things into the trunk, trying to remember exactly where everything had been. Some of the books were about the supernatural, but the magazines were mostly back issues of Hustler. As Arlene refolded what must have been Mr. Cowley's gown from some graduation, something fel from the pocket and onto the floor with a clunk. Samantha trained the light on it.
It was a hunting knife.
“Should we give it to Earl?'
“Let's ask Fred. But I'l tel you one thing, I'm not leaving it here.' Arlene took off the tank top she was wearing over her shirt and wrapped the knife in it.
They closed the trunk and returned to the car through the woods, much faster than they had come.
It was almost 10:30. They had been at the cabin longer than they had thought.
“Look, just drop me at the end of the road and go get Fred.'
“Are you sure?'
“So long as I have the flashlight, I'l be fine. I'd probably be fine without it, I've walked this road so many times.'
“Al right, but I'm cal ing your house in a little while. I want to be sure.'
“That's very sweet, but be real. What's going to happen to me?'
“Do you want to take the knife?”
Samantha shuddered. 'No thank you. And tel Fred that I think we should give it to Earl as soon as possible.
Tonight. I think I should tel my mom about it, too.'
“Yeah. I'm sure he'l agree. Why do you suppose Duncan didn't come in and blast us for being there? The last time, he yel ed his head off.'
“Maybe he planned to come back with his friends and ambush us. Or maybe he didn't know who or how many we were.”
This first alternative left Samantha feeling distinctly shaky.
They were at the end of the Mil ers' road. Arlene stopped the car.
“Good-bye. I hate to do this, except I'm late already—”
Samantha cut her off. 'Don't be sil y. Go! It was my idea. If Fred is nice enough to let us have the car, the least we can do is get it back to him on time. He's probably imagining al kinds of things, from crumpled fenders to dropped transmissions.”
Arlene laughed. 'Talk to you later.”
The moon was waning yet stil quite ful and bright.
Samantha switched the flashlight off and decided to jog home. It was beautiful and the familiar sight of the dark trees on the opposite shore as she passed the first inlet comforted her. But who would comfort Duncan? The trunk and the candles above it were a virtual shrine to his dead father. She imagined him slipping his skinny arms into the sleeves of that familiar jacket, trying to recapture some of the warmth and security those other arms had provided.
She thought about her own father and what would evoke him most. His handkerchiefs, she decided. Big white squares of the finest cotton. When she was sick with a cold, her nose raw from Kleenex, she used those. They smel ed slightly of the drawer where he kept them—a drawer fil ed with years of Old Spice soap on a rope sets given to him by his kids. She felt tears pricking at her eyes and stopped to speak to herself sternly. 'Your father's not dead, Miss Samantha Mil er. Get a grip, girl.' She laughed when she realized she'd said it out loud. She started jogging again, her mood elevated as she brought her knees up and down.
She was almost home.
She was almost home before she realized that she wasn't the only runner out that night. Someone dressed in black streaked by her and knocked her to the ground. She screamed, felt a sharp pain on the back of her head, and had time for just one impression before losing consciousness.
Lights. Smal , red twinkling lights.
Nine
The phone was ringing. Pix swung her legs over the side of the bed, shoved her feet into her slippers, and ran downstairs. It must be Samantha needing a ride home.
“Hi, Mrs. Mil er,' Arlene said cheerily. 'I know it's a little late, but can I speak to Samantha?'
“Isn't she with you?' Pix's chest tightened and her heart began to pound.
“You mean she's not home yet! I left her off at the end of your road about half an hour ago”
Pix dropped the phone and raced up to Samantha's room, cal ing her daughter's name. She had to be there. Pix hadn't heard her come in. Obviously, Samantha hadn't wanted to bother her and had gone straight to bed. Even as Pix opened the door, she knew none of this was true. The room was dark and the bed stil neatly made.
Pausing only to grab her keys from the kitchen counter, she picked up the phone and told Arlene to cal the police—
and the ambulance corps. Then she got in the car and started slowly down the road, searching on either side for Samantha.
The moon was bright; if it hadn't been, she would have missed her. Samantha was lying under a tree, partial y concealed by a stand of large ferns. A few feet farther on, the ground dropped off to a ledge of jagged granite rocks, now nearly covered by the incoming tide.
She ran to her, cal ing, 'Samantha! Samantha!' But there was no answer. She was sobbing as she reached her daughter, careful y putting her arms about her. She was warm and Pix could feel her soft breath on her mother's cheek. She was alive.
“Samantha! Oh dear God, please help us!' Pix had no idea what her child's injuries might be, so she dared not move her, but knelt next to her, cradling her, burying her face in her daughter's sweet-smel ing hair. The night air was warm, yet Pix had never felt so cold.
