Punish the Sinners (36 page)

“I don’t know,” Balsam said carefully. “I guess I’d have to say that I do. In fact, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. The control thing. It sounded as though she thinks she’s a victim of some kind of mind control.” Peter’s expression grew intense, and his voice took on a note of urgency. “Is it possible? I mean suppose, just suppose, that a group of people was trying to exercise its will on others. Without the others knowing what was happening. Could it be done?”

Why doesn’t he say it? Dr. Shields wondered. Why doesn’t he say he’s thinking of the Society of St Peter Martyr? Aloud he said:

“Who knows? I suppose anything’s possible. But I’d say it’s highly improbable. I don’t think anything of the sort is going on.”

“Something’s going on,” Peter stated.

“Of course it is,” Dr. Shields agreed. “Answer this: Are they all friends? Judy Nelson? Karen Morton? Janet Connally?”

“Close friends. And there’s one more in the group. A girl named Penny Anderson.”

“Then it’s pretty obvious what’s happening,” Dr. Shields said. “It’s called a suicide contagion.”

Peter Balsam had heard the term before, but wasn’t sure what it meant. “A what?”

“Suicide contagion. Put simply, the urge to self-destruction passing from one person to another. It’s not unusual, in fact. But it almost always happens in an institutional environment. Read ‘hospital’ for that And it’s almost always restricted to teen-aged girls. There’s
even a term for them—’Slashers.’ In some places, it’s gotten so bad that entire wards of teen-age girls have had to be put under physical restriction to keep them from cutting themselves.”

Balsam’s eyes widened in surprise. “But what causes it?”

“It’s a hysterical condition,” Dr. Shields explained. “As far as I know, though, it only occurs in hospitals, and the victims are always pretty unstable types to begin with.” He paused, considering. “But what’s happening up at St. Francis Xavier’s sounds like a suicide contagion to me.”

“But couldn’t it be something else?” Peter Balsam felt himself grabbing at straws. “You said they were called slashers. That certainly fits Judy Nelson and Karen Morton. But what about Janet? She didn’t cut herself.”

Dr. Shields shrugged expressively. “I don’t know. Until today, I hadn’t even considered the possibility of a suicide contagion. Now, I have to. But mind control? I don’t think so.”

When he left the psychiatrist’s office a few minutes later, Peter Balsam felt more alone than ever. Alone, and frightened …

   “The whole thing sounds too bizarre to be believed,” Margo said.

“It is too bizarre to be believed,” Peter said, “but it’s happening.”

Margo fell silent, thinking. Dr. Shields had already told her Peter’s story. But Dr. Shields had gone further, and Margo decided it was time to tell Peter about it.

“You should talk to Dr. Shields about the Society,” she said. “Since he already knows about it.”

“He knows about it? How?”

Suddenly Margo felt guilty, as if she had betrayed a trust But she hadn’t talked to the psychiatrist to betray Peter; only to gain some insight

“I told him,” she said. “I’ve been talking to him a lot lately, about you … about us.”

“And about the Society?” It was almost an accusation.

“Of course about the Society. Peter, the Society has been a pretty big thing between us.”

“How much did you tell him?” Peter felt embarrassed, as if a private part of him had been exposed for public scrutiny.

“Not much,” Margo hastened to assure him. “As little as possible, really.” She smiled at Peter wryly. “I guess I didn’t want him to think we were both crazy.”

“Is that what you think?”

“You know it isn’t.” Hurt edged Margo’s voice and Peter was immediately sorry. Before he could apologize, the telephone rang.

“It’s for you,” Peter said a moment later. “Your boss. He sounds upset”

Margo took the receiver and carried on a one-sided conversation. Though she said very little, Peter knew something was wrong. Her complexion turned chalky. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, she hung up and turned to him.

“It can’t be …”she began.

“What—?”

“Penny Anderson. They found her half an hour ago. Peter, she’s dead.”

“Oh, Jesus.” Peter sank back into his chair, and buried his face in his hands. Then, forcing himself, he looked up at Margo again.

“How?”

“She—she cut herself. At the school. In the restroom.”
Margo was already gathering her things together. “I have to go to the hospital. Leona’s there—she’s in pretty bad shape—and Dr. Shields says there are other people there, too. All of them suffering from all kinds of strange symptoms. He says it’s hysteria, and it seems like it’s all over the place.”

Peter pulled himself together. “I’ll go with you.”

“No!” Margo said the word too sharply, and immediately regretted it. Dr. Shields had warned her. Some of the people were saying the whole mess was Peter Balsam’s fault; whatever she did, she mustn’t let him come to the hospital with her. “I—I’d rather go by myself,” Margo stammered.

T see,” Peter said, the situation suddenly becoming clear to him. “Yes, I suppose I should stay here.” He looked mutely at Margo, and she wanted to go to him, hold him, stay with him.

Instead, she turned, and hurried out of his apartment.

   Peter washed the dishes, then tried to read. He tried the television next, then turned it off and went back to his book. Finally he went to bed. But before he turned off the lights he made sure to lock and bolt the front door. Then, as an afterthought, and feeling silly, he moved a chair in front of the door as well.

lust before he turned off the lights, he wondered whether he’d taken the precautions to keep others out, or himself in. But he put the thought out of his mind, and went to bed.

He woke up the next morning more tired than he had been the night before. He felt restless, and sweaty, as if he’d been running all night. He’d had bad dreams. Dreams about the Society of St. Peter Martyr.

In the dreams he’d been back in the rectory, back with the priests, and they had been doing things to him.
Things he didn’t want to think about. He’d tried to keep it from happening but there were six of them, and only one of him, and they could do anything they wanted to. Anything. And they did.

He lay in bed, thinking about the dream, then decided to put it out of his mind. He rose from the bed, threw on a robe, and went into the living room.

The chair had been moved away from the door.

The chain hung loose.

The door was unlocked.

Peter tried to tell himself it wasn’t true, that he must have done it himself, in one of the restless periods during the night. But he knew he didn’t remember it No, something else had happened.

Something unspeakable.

He went quickly to the bathroom and dropped the robe from his shoulders. His back was covered with the strange red welts.

Marilyn Crane hadn’t slept all night. She covered a yawn as best she could and seated herself at the table. Her father didn’t even glance up from his paper, but her mother surveyed her critically. Marilyn wondered what she’d done wrong now.

“Dressed for school?” Geraldine asked.

Marilyn looked at her curiously. Was today a holiday? She searched her mind rapidly. “Shouldn’t I be?” For some reason she felt vaguely guilty.

“I don’t see why,” Geraldine Crane said a little too sharply. “You’re not going.”

“Of course I’m going to school,” Marilyn protested.

Geraldine set down the frying pan she had been holding and faced her daughter.

“Not today,” she said. “Not after what happened yesterday. Imagine, that poor child lying there all afternoon. It must have been terrible.” She clucked her tongue, her head bobbing sympathetically.

Terrible for whom? Marilyn wondered. Certainly not for Penny Anderson. Why did everyone worry so much about what happened to people when they were already dead? It wasn’t as if Penny had been in pain. Penny’s face appeared before her again, the eyes wide open, the features frozen. Penny had looked almost happy.

Marilyn kept her thoughts to herself. After all, nobody knew she had seen Peony.

“But I want to go to school.”

Her father lowered his newspaper and looked at her curiously.

“I’d think you’d want to stay as far away from there as possible,” he remarked. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter, There isn’t going to be any school today, at least not at St Francis Xavier’s. I don’t know what they’re doing at the public school.” He shook the paper out again, prepared to drop the subject but Marilyn didn’t want to let it go.

“Just because of Penny?” The newspaper went down again, and at the stove Geraldine froze.

“Just
because of Penny?” her father repeated, emphasizing the first word. “Marilyn, she killed herself.”

It was the first time anyone had actually used those words, at least in front of her, and they echoed in her ears.
“Killed herself
…
lulled
herself … killed herself
.…” Until that moment it hadn’t been real for her. Now it was. Penny had killed herself. By her own hand. Penny was
dead
. Marilyn looked from one of her parents to the other, then, wordlessly, left the table. A few seconds later they heard her tread on the stairs. Geraldine glanced toward the ceiling, as if her eyes could bore through the plaster and wood, and detect what was happening in the mind of the girl above. Then she shifted her gaze to her husband, whose interest was back on his newspaper.

“Bill,” she said quietly, “something’s wrong.”

He looked up at her, faintly annoyed. “You’re just catching on?”

Geraldine ignored the sarcastic tone. “I’m not just talking about Karen and Penny,” she began.

“And Janet Connally, and the Nelson girl,” her husband interjected.

Tm talking about Marilyn,” Geraldine said.

‘There’s nothing wrong with Marilyn.” Bill’s nose was buried in the paper again. “Just growing pains.”

“I don’t know,” Geraldine protested. “I think it’s something more.”

“If something’s bothering her, shell tell us about it Greta always did. Why should Marilyn be any different?”

Geraldine shook her head now, as if trying to jar loose a thought that was nagging at her. “They aren’t the same. They’re really quite different And something’s happening to Marilyn. Maybe I should talk to Monsignor about her.”

Bill Crane turned the page of his newspaper. “Good idea. Why don’t you do that?”

   No one had told him school was canceled for the day. He had simply arrived at St Francis Xavier’s to find the place deserted. The sisters were nowhere to be seen. Monsignor Vernon, if he was around, wasn’t in his office. Peter had started to check his mail, then changed his mind. What if there was a message there? A message from the Monsignor? Better not to check at all.

He hurried down the hill, aware of the strange silence that had fallen over Neilsville. Everywhere he looked, there were clusters of people, talking softly among themselves, and looking up now and then, suspiciously, as if by quick furtive glances they would be able to catch a glimpse of the evil in their midst.

Peter felt the glances piercing him. They were looking at him, and wondering. Nothing much had ever happened in Neilsville until he came along. But since he had arrived, things had started going bad. How long
would it be before the entire town became infected with whatever it was that was infecting the girls from St Francis Xavier’s? The only thing they could pinpoint was the outsider. Peter Balsam. The stranger. Not to be trusted.

As he passed each group the silence deepened, and he could sense that he was the focus of it
Then
, after he passed, the talk would begin again, the heads drawn more closely together, lips dose to ears, but the eyes, always the eyes, following him as he made his way down Main Street

As soon as he got to his apartment he called Margo.

“Peter? Is that you?” He hadn’t spoken, and was pleased at the anxiety in her voice. He tried to mask his fears about the night before.

“Want to go for a ride? I’ve got the day off.”

“I didn’t sleep all night—” Margo hesitated.

“Who did? But they canceled school, and I decided to go see the Bishop. I was going to borrow your car, but why don’t you come with me?”

She almost refused, almost told him she was going to spend the day in bed. But she didn’t

“I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes,” she said. Then, as an afterthought: “Are you going to take the tape?”

“I—I don’t know,” Peter hedged. “I hadn’t thought about it.”

A silence, then Margo’s voice, very confident

“You don’t have to tell him one of the voices is yours,” she pointed out pinpointing his hesitation. “The only voice that’s recognizable is Monsignor Vernon’s.”

What she said was true, but still he hesitated, wishing there was some other way. He knew there wasn’t Without the tape, how could he expect the Bishop to believe him? He made up his mind.

““I’ll be waiting,” he said. “With the tape.”

He hung up the phone, and opened the bottom drawer of the desk. He reached into the back of the drawer, groping for the tiny cassette. His fingers couldn’t find it. He pulled the drawer out further, and felt again.

He was still searching when Margo arrived twenty minutes later. All the drawers had been emptied, and he was methodically going through their contents, though he knew it was useless. As soon as Margo saw what was happening, she knew.

“It’s gone, isn’t it?”

Peter nodded mutely.

“Was it hidden?”

Again, he nodded. “But no one searched for it. They knew exactly where it was.” Margo’s face clouded: was he accusing her?

“Only one person knew where the tape was,” Peter went on. He looked at her with an anguish that tore at her. Whatever he was going through, he wasn’t accusing her.

“Who?” She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.

“Me,” Peter said bitterly. “Pm the only one who knew where that tape was. So I must have taken it myself.”

He told her about the night before, about locking himself in and chaining the door. Then about putting a chair in front of the door, to be extra sure. Then about the dreams, the dream in which he had been at the rectory, been back with the Society.