Gallows Hill (3 page)

"I was thinking of maybe getting a job," Sarah told her.

"I'd rather see you out doing things with friends."

"What friends?" Sarah snapped. "All my friends are in California!"

"There are plenty of nice kids here who could be your friends," Ted said. "Kyra stopped by my office today with Eric Garrett. He told me he asked you to help with the Halloween Carnival and you turned him down."

"Why would he come to you about that?" asked Sarah.

"He wanted my help in getting you to change your mind."

"Well, you can't," Sarah said. "I don't want to run the fortune-telling booth."

"Are they going to have a fortune-teller?" Ted seemed surprised. "I would have expected the school board to have raised an objection."

"Well, I think it sounds like fun," Rosemary said with enthusiasm. "Sarah, with your background in drama you could do that beautifully! And I know just the thing you can use for a crystal ball!"

"I don't want to be in the carnival," Sarah said stubbornly. "Is this what you called me out here for, or is dinner ready?"

"Your mother and I are going out to dinner," Ted said. "It's the four-month anniversary of the day we met."

"You're more than welcome to come with us—" Rosemary began.

"Another time," Ted interrupted. "Tonight is a special occasion, a celebration for the two of us. There's plenty of lasagna left over from last night's dinner."

"That's fine with me," Sarah said sarcastically. "It would be a shame to let dried-out lasagna go to waste."

She turned on her heel and started back to her bedroom.

"Sarah—" her mother called after her.

"Rosie, don't," Ted said, cutting off the plea. "You know she's only trying to wreck our evening. You mustn't keep letting yourself be manipulated this way. Our kids have got to adjust to the fact that our relationship is important to us and that we have to be allowed time alone together to cement it."

You're the one who's wrecked things, Sarah longed to fire back at him. Rosemary and I had a great life back in Ventura!

She choked back the words, however, and kept on walking, knowing that nothing she said would have any effect on him and not wanting to upset her mother any' more than she had already. Once back in her bedroom, she left the door open to prevent any accusation from Ted that she was in there sulking. Turning on the light and taking a seat at the desk, she set about doing her algebra assignment.

She could hear her mother and Ted getting ready for their night on the town, as if eating at a Pine Crest restaurant were something to get excited about. The toilet flushed, water gushed through the rattling shower pipes, and her mother's hair dryer buzzed in harmony with Ted's electric razor. Finally the preparations were completed, and Sarah could hear the two of them arguing out in the living room about whether or not her mother should come back to say good night and tell her how many minutes to microwave the lasagna. As always, Ted won. The front door shut with a firm click, and a few minutes later Ted's car roared to life outside her window.

When the sound of the engine was finally lost in the distance, Sarah felt a release from tension that left her as limp and exhausted as if the stress had been physical. She considered heating up dinner—it was past seven-thirty—but she didn't feel hungry enough to make the effort.

By now she had finished the algebra, and with no other class to study for except American history, which she liked to postpone until bedtime so that she could read herself to sleep, she was faced with an evening as empty as the afternoon had been. The only thing she could think of to do was watch television, which she seldom did these days since the TV set was in the living room and it made her uncomfortable to sit there with her mother and Ted cuddling on the sofa like teenagers.

Now, with the house to herself, Sarah switched on the set and was flicking the dial in an aimless exploration of channels when the telephone rang. She was tempted not to answer it since she was sure it wasn't for her, but when it kept on ringing persistently, she gave in.

"Hello," she said, her eyes on the flickering TV screen.

"Is that you, Sarah?" The voice was all too familiar.

"Your father's not here," Sarah said. "They're out for the evening."

"I'm not calling Dad," Kyra said. "You're the one I want to talk to. Eric says the reason you won't do the fortune-telling thing is because I'm part of it."

"He told you right," Sarah said. "That shouldn't surprise you. You and I aren't exactly the best of friends."

"No, we're not," Kyra conceded. "But Eric and I are. We've known each other all our lives, and he's a cool guy, and I don't want to let him down. As for you and me, like it or not, we're stuck with the disgusting fact that our parents are having a—a—" She paused, and then with obvious distaste forced out the word—"relationship. So what do you say we try to make the best of it?"

For a moment Sarah was too surprised to respond. This overture was the last thing she had anticipated, and she couldn't imagine what lay behind it.

"It'll get your mom off your back," Kyra continued hurriedly, as if she was afraid Sarah was going to hang up on her. "She keeps bugging you about getting involved in school activities. I bet this would make her happy."

"What do you care if my mother's happy?" Sarah asked suspiciously.

"I don't," Kyra said. "But you do. And you know as well as I do that she's not going to find much happiness here."

There was a moment of silence as Sarah struggled unsuccessfully to come up with an appropriate retort. As much as she hated to admit it, Kyra was right. Rosemary, who was obviously a victim of middle-age insanity, had sacrificed the career and friends of a lifetime to follow her heart to a little town filled with narrow-minded bigots and take on the dubious role of a married man's "lady friend." Even if Ted did marry her, she would never be accepted here. The most she ever could hope for would be simply to be tolerated.

As that thought took form in her mind, Sarah found herself struck by a feeling of such abrupt and intense foreboding that it was as if a black void had opened directly in front of her. In that instant of dislocation, as she fought to maintain her equilibrium and keep from tumbling headfirst into the pit of darkness, a voice seemed to shout directly into her right ear.

"Guilty as charged!" it bellowed. "Away to Gallows Hill!"

"No!" Sarah heard herself whimper. "I didn't really mean it!"

"Poor little Betty," another voice said more gently. "The child is too frightened to remember."

Betty does remember, and she's sorry! She never should have done it!

For an instant the chasm gaped wider, and then the illusion was gone as if it had never been. With a gasp of relief, Sarah found herself safe again in the living room, where the only activity was on the television screen and the only voice was Kyra's, tinny and tiny at the other end of the phone line.

"You didn't mean what?" it was asking. "Does that mean you've changed your mind?"

"Yes," Sarah said. "I guess so. But for Rosemary's sake, not yours. I couldn't care less how 'cool' you think Eric Garrett is."

She replaced the receiver in slow motion and sat down on the sofa, feeling as if she had served a short stint in the Twilight Zone. Whatever had caused her to have such a bizarre hallucination? Gallows Hill, she thought, what a horrible name! Why did it seem so familiar, as did the name Betty? Had she read or heard about something like this on television?

"That's what I get for not eating," she told herself shakily. "Low blood sugar can make people dizzy and disoriented."

It was not until she was standing at the microwave, watching the plate of lasagna rotate behind the glass, that she fully realized what she had agreed to.

What have I let myself in for? she thought with dismay.

Like it or not, she had committed to playing a fortune-teller.

CHAPTER THREE

The carnival officially started at seven P.M. The gym doors opened to a flood of miniature clowns, pumpkin heads, and fairy princesses accompanied by their parents. The high-school crowd, most of whom considered themselves too cool to wear costumes, arrived slightly later in groups or as couples, plunking down their one-dollar admission fee at the door and glancing about admiringly at a room that could no longer be recognized as a gymnasium.

Sarah had been startled herself when she arrived a little after six to find that the members of the Carnival Committee had been able to alter the atmosphere of the room so completely. Streamers of orange and black crepe paper crisscrossed the ceiling; maliciously grinning jack-o'-lanterns lined the window ledges; and a bubbling cauldron filled with dry ice projected a churning cloud of steam. The bleachers had been disassembled and moved out to make room for a variety of booths ranging from games of chance to those selling homemade candy and bake-sale items. An area at one side of the room had been roped off for a cakewalk, and on the other side a stuffed dummy dangling from a gallows marked the entrance to a plywood spook house.

The fortune-telling tent was positioned against the back wall, flanked on one side by a Pop a Balloon and Win a Prize game and on the other by a Kiss the Spider Lady booth. The tent was made of sheets, dyed black for the occasion, with a large, hand-lettered sign that challenged the faint-hearted, DARE TO ENTER AND LEARN YOUR FUTURE FROM THE INCREDIBLE MADAM ZOLTANNE!

When she stood at the entrance to the tent, Sarah could see Kyra on the far side of the gym, seated next to the Bite an Apple on a String booth. She was dressed as a ghost. The costume totally concealed her identity, and in her hands there was an unlit jack-o'-lantern.

Eric, outfitted as a circus ringmaster, seemed to be everywhere at once, checking on details and troubleshooting last-minute problems. He paused to speak briefly to the ghost and then crossed the gym to Sarah.

"You look great!" he said in a low voice, glancing around quickly to make sure he wasn't overheard. "I can't see the earphones at all."

"Is Kyra miked yet?" Sarah asked him.

"The microphone's in the jack-o'-lantern." He reached over to make an adjustment in the angle of the sign. "You haven't told anybody about our gimmick, have you?"

"Who would I tell?"

"I thought maybe your mom or Mr. Thompson."

"I promised you I wouldn't," Sarah said stiffly.

"I like a girl who can keep a secret," Eric said approvingly. "You're going to be the hit of the evening."

Sarah was not nearly so optimistic. When the gym doors opened to admit the first rush of early arrivals, she stepped back into the tent and took her seat in a chair behind the small circular table that held her crystal ball. She adjusted her scarf and waited. Time went by, and nobody entered. The room beyond the tent flap was filled with voices and laughter, and she could hear loud popping sounds as people broke the balloons in the booth next door.

Finally, when she had just about accepted the fact that the evening was over for her before it had even started, the curtain parted and a girl with long blond hair stepped into the tent.

"Hey! You really do look like a Gypsy!" she exclaimed in surprise.

"I am Madam Zoltanne," Sarah told her, experiencing a rush of unexpected stage fright. She had seen the girl around campus, running with the jock crowd, and she knew she was one of the cheerleaders, but she didn't know her name.

The girl handed over her ticket and paused uncertainly.

"What do I do now?" she asked.

Sarah motioned her into the chair across from her. The girl sat down gingerly, as if expecting the bottom to fall through, while Sarah gazed down into the ball, trying to act as if she saw something fascinating in its depths. The earphones beneath her headgear remained stubbornly silent, and she was struck by a wave of panic. What if the radio wasn't working?

Then, to her relief, the earphones crackled into life, and Kyra's voice burst upon her eardrums.

"That's Cindy Morris. Her dad's the minister at Pine Crest Community Church. She's adopted, but nobody's supposed to know it. She bleaches her hair, and she used to wear braces. When she was little, she had a grubby old baby doll named Dorcas that she dragged around with her everywhere."

Sarah stared into the ball, trying to assimilate the shotgun torrent of splattered information. She decided to start with the basics.

"Your name," she said softly. "I see a round letter. It must be an O—no, it's half an O—the letter is C. Cindy is the name, isn't it? I can't quite see the last name, but it does seem to be a bit longer than the first name, and it seems to me that the two middle letters are the same."

"Morris," the blond girl said. "I'm not surprised you know that. Everybody knows the cheerleaders."

The statement was offered as a challenge, but Sarah ignored it.

"Morris," she repeated. "Yes, that's what it is—Morris. But there's something wrong with the letters. They keep shifting around. It's like they're not sure they belong there—as if there was a time when your name was something else."

"I don't know what you're talking about," the girl said nervously.

"Maybe I'm wrong. Things aren't always what they seem. If you did have another name, it was at a time when your smile looked different and your hair was darker."