Demon Child (8 page)

    “I'm so used to hearing the cleats of riding boots that you managed to sneak up on me this morning.” He smiled. “I didn't hear you until you were in the kitchen.”

    She knew he was wondering whether she had missed his phone conversation by moments-or whether, perhaps she had heard it while waiting on the stairs. What would he do to her if he knew the truth? Anything? Or was she misinterpreting all this?

    “You didn't hear me nearly break my neck on the stairs?” she asked. It surprised her how swiftly a lie had formed itself in her mind.

    “You hurt yourself?” he asked, though he did not seem as concerned as he might have.

    “Oh,” she said, “now I know you're putting me on. You heard, and you're teasing me about it. These darn slippers have extra toe room. One of them bent under and nearly pitched me down the last five steps. I kept my feet, but not without some clattering.”

    He relaxed visibly. “Get yourself a new pair. Or borrow another pair from Cora if your feet match. Those stairs are steep enough to make an accident permanent if you tripped near the top of them.”

    “I'll ask her what size she wears,” Jenny said.

    He finished his coffee, rose. “If you'll excuse me, I have some affairs to attend to in town, before Dr. Hobarth's arrival. If he gets here before I'm back, he gets the walnut-paneled room on the east wing.”

    “He's staying then?” Jenny asked.

    “That's one of the benefits of Brucker wealth. We can have the head-shrinker come to our couch instead of going to his.” He smiled. It was a winning, boyish smile, but she could not be assured by it. “Seriously, though, we expect two or three weeks here ought to do it. He's one of these modern psychiatrists who use hypnosis to make the subject recall things he wouldn't ordinarily want to. With a child Freya's age, it won't take him very long to examine her past memories. Especially under the intensive daily sessions he plans. Besides, Cora was adamant. She won't send Freya away from the house again. The doctor had to come to us, or there wasn't going to be any doctor. Fortunately, Malmont persuaded Dr. Hobarth that the case was unique enough to warrant such an expenditure of his time. I think the fee we offered had something to do with it as well.”

    “Do you think that a psychiatrist is what Freya needs? Do you think she'll be helped?”

    He watched her a moment, his expression clouding from a rather forced good humor to a dark uncertainty. But he spoke with stern assurance. “Of course she'll be helped. Of course it's psychological, Jenny. What on earth- Do you mean you're beginning to swallow some of this supernatural drivel that Cora dotes on?”

    “No, no,” she said.

    But she was not sure whether she had accepted the existence of curses and werewolves or whether she believed more in modern psychiatric medicine.

    “You've been reading some of Cora's books, I gather,” he said.

    “A couple of them yes”

    “My stepmother is a wonderful woman,” he said. “But she was always one for simple explanations. The occult, spooks and spirits, always appealed to her. If you believe in the supernatural, then the complex workings of the world can be made to look simple. You can say evil is the result of the work of bad spirits and ignore the complex nature of evil in men. When father died, she got stuck on such things even more. I try to dissuade her. It's not very healthy to believe a thousand different silly superstitions.”

    “I guess not,” she said.

    “No guessing about it.”

    She did not respond. She felt as if he were trying to bait her into some sort of argument. She could see his temper flaring a little, though she could not understand his constant readiness to argue. Was such edginess a more important sign of psychological instability than even Freya's long and unexplained comas?

    “Even the twins have heard the rumors,” Richard said. He swayed a little on the balls of his feet, as if he had laced even his early morning coffee with a touch of brandy.

    “Do you know who told them?”

    “I wish to the devil I did!” He smacked one fist into the open palm of his other hand.

    “They say no one told them. They say that they just know that Freya is a werewolf, possessed.”

    Why was she holding him here, prying at him with statements and questions, when all she really wanted was to be away from him? Did she think she could learn something from his reactions? What? And if he made a slip or reacted to something in a strange way, how would she interpret it? How could any of this shed light on his phone conversation which she had overheard?

    “That is nonsense,” he said. “But it shows you just how unhealthy such stuff is for young children. If Freya has actually come to believe this simple-minded sort of explanation for her comas, then Dr. Hobarth's work is going to be a dozen times more difficult.”

    With that, he turned and left the house through the rear door. He walked to the garage where he kept the maroon Corvette, and a moment later he drove away, his foot rather heavy on the accelerator.

    She longed to say: “I know one thing which was not superstition, Richard. That talk on the telephone, just minutes ago, about killing and about drugs. That was real. That was not my over-worked imagination or a bunch of silly superstitions I've gotten from Cora. That was real. But how would you explain its meaning, Richard? What would you say? Huh?”

    But she dared not speak any such thing, no matter how much she might wish to.

    

    Dr. Walter Hobarth was tall, dark and handsome- just the sort of man that every gypsy fortune-teller spoke of when making promises to her female customers. Slightly more than six feet tall, he weighed near a hundred and ninety pounds. His sedentary profession had not caused him to fatten at the waist or to lose the agility and grace of youth. He was, perhaps, thirty-one or thirty-two, an intriguing combination of the distinguished doctor and the easily-amused youth with some adventure still left in his soul. His eyes were blue in startling contrast to his dark complexion and his brown hair. He spoke softly but clearly and with conviction. And when he smiled, his cheeks dimpled.

    Jenny first met him at dinner that Saturday evening and was impressed immediately. The general air about the table had been magically transformed and was far more pleasant than it had been on any previous occasion since she had arrived. Partially, that was attributable to the suspension of the argument between Cora and Richard. Partly, too, they all felt better with the knowledge that at least something concrete was being done about Freya's condition; even Cora, who did not hold much with psychiatrists, seemed relieved-as if she could not be blamed for something that had been taken out of her hands. But the friendliness and good cheer were not, Jenny thought, merely the result of the altered circumstances. Walter Hobarth had more than a little to do with the fine humor that infected them all.

    Hobarth was witty and amusing, and he seemed to have an interesting anecdote for every topic of discussion that arose, entertaining them without seeming to dominate the conversation. He would have made, she thought, the perfect guest on one of those late-night television talk shows. Even if he had not been so interesting to listen to, he could have held an audience with those cool, bright blue eyes.

    From time to time, she remembered the things Richard had said on the phone this morning, the things she had overheard from the stairs. That talk had been about killing and drugs. Or had seemed to be. It was always difficult to judge the import of a conversation only half heard, and she had no idea what the person on the other end of the line had said. And now, sitting at this heavily-laden table, listening to Hobarth recount a story from his college days, Richard seemed nothing more than the quiet, charming cousin who had reassured her during that time of crisis seven years ago -the same rather dashing figure who had escorted her from the bus terminal only a few days earlier.

    When she caught her attention wandering in this way, she forced herself to listen to Hobarth. Whatever Richard was involved in, she wasn't going to let him spoil this evening, the brightest spot in her life for many weeks.

    Later, alone in her room, mulling over the evening, she felt that the good doctor had paid special attention to her. If his manners had been good with the others, they were excellent with her. If his eyes had gleamed when he spoke to Cora and Richard, they positively glowed when he addressed her. If his quiet appreciation of Cora's beauty had been genuine, his regard for Jenny had been enthusiastic.

    Or was she fantasizing?

    She frowned, looking down at her nails, her mind drifting in a thin haze. A gun might have been fired next to her ear, now, without engaging her attention.

    She did not approve of women who faced the world with a false optimism. It was never good to pretend that things were better than they actually were. A woman should be a realist. The romanticists were the ones who turned around, smiling, and discovered disaster creeping up on them. But if you always expected disaster, you were not disappointed when it came to you. And if you got a better break than you thought, it seemed like the most marvelous of blessings.

    So what about Dr. Walter Hobarth?

    Any woman, she thought, would be somewhat overwhelmed by such a gentleman, a man who combined good looks with an education, wit and charm. Aunt Cora must have felt that Hobarth had paid
her
special attention. Even Anna surely would forget her kitchen long enough to sigh at the sight of Walter Hobarth. Whether he was aware of it or not, he could hardly affect a woman negatively.

    Still, on the chance that he had been paying special attention to her, she would have to take better care of her fingernails and pay more attention to the way she dressed.

    She laughed, breaking the odd trance that had settled over her. As long as Dr. Hobarth was around, the women of the Brucker estate were going to be uncommonly well-groomed and graceful!

    She spent half an hour on her nails.

    She gave her hair a hundred strokes with her brush, a beauty habit she had gotten out of lately.

    She slept well that night.

    She did not dream.

    

    She saw Hobarth three times on Sunday. Every time, she felt herself losing hold of that hard-headed common sense she had acquired in the past. She felt warm when she spoke with him, and she was filled with an unexplainable giddiness that was not like her.

    The first encounter was in the kitchen, Sunday morning. He was sitting at the large worktable with an enormous breakfast spread out before him. His platter had three fried eggs, half a dozen strips of bacon, and three slices of buttered toast. There was a pot of steaming coffee on his right, a plate of danish pastries on his left, and a serving plate of buttermilk hotcakes directly before him.

    “So Anna has gotten hold of you!” Jenny said, laughing.

    Hobarth grinned, dimpled his cheeks. “Fortunately, I don't have to lie about the quality. It's all excellent.”

    “And you sit down right here,” Anna said. “I never can get you to eat a decent breakfast. But that doesn't mean I've given up trying!”

    Jenny took the chair to Hobarth's left while the older woman hurried back to the stove and the refrigerator and embarked upon a second cooking spree. She was humming a currently popular song, eager to whip up more hotcakes and eggs. She absolutely delighted in her skill with food.

    “Will you start today?” Jenny asked. “With Freya?”

    “One o'clock,” he said. “I talked to her last night before supper. Tucked her in and told Frank and her a bedtime story. We seemed to hit it off very well.”

    “I would imagine so,” Jenny said. She knew he would be wonderful with all children. But on top of that, Freya was after all a female. And Hobarth was the sort to enchant girls and women from one to one hundred.

    “Oh?”

    She blushed and felt stupid for it. “You were so entertaining last night,” she explained. “I imagine you tell a children's bedtime story as well as you tell dinnertime anecdotes.”

    “Did I talk too much?” he asked, cutting his eggs with the edge of his fork.

    “No, no! Last night was one of the most enjoyable dinners we've had here since I came.”

    By the time Anna had brought Jenny's breakfast, Hobarth was finished with his own. He had another cup of coffee and talked with her while she ate, a courtesy that pleased her.

    Or was it just a courtesy? Was he paying her special attention?

    Think negatively, she told herself. There's much less room to be hurt that way.

    She saw him, late in the afternoon, after his first session with Freya. She was down by the woodline, behind the house, watching the squirrels that skittered from tree to tree. He came up and sat beside her with such stealth that he startled her, but not the squirrels.

    “How did it go?” she asked after they had watched the squirrels for a time.

    “She's tight, like a drum. Very keyed up little girl. I think it was very wise to get professional help for her now, before her condition could deteriorate.”

    “Cora thought love and attention could make the difference.”

    Hobarth frowned, shook his head. “It's more complicated than that. Her fears, her neuroses, if you wish, are too deeply ingrained. I had her hypnotized today, for almost an hour and a half. It was only a preliminary probe, of course. Still, I couldn't find even a chink in her armour; she actually believes this curse business.”

    “How do you mean?” Jenny asked, though she felt pretty certain that she knew exactly what he meant.

    “Even under hypnosis,” Hobarth said, “she sticks to the story of the werewolf.”