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The following day brought a fresh onslaught of rain and the arrival of Mrs. Baylock. She was Irish and outrageous, pulling up to the front gates of Pereford and announcing herself as the new nanny.
"Why don't you just leave us alone at first? Let us get acquainted in our own way." "He's a little shy with new people." "Not with me, he won't be, I can assure you of that."
The Thorns retired to the drawing room where Katherine called the agency and confirmed Mrs. Baylock's credentials. She was well qualified with high recommendations, the only confusion being that their files showed she was presently employed in Rome. It was likely, however, that her situation had changed without being entered in their files, and they would clear that up as soon as the agency manager who no doubt sent her to the Thorns, returned from his four-week holiday.
As the woman watched him, her chin began to tremble as though she were standing before an object of incomparable beauty. The child heard her faltering breath, his eyes opening slowly to meet hers. He stiffened and sat upright, edging back toward the pane. "Fear not, little one," she whispered in a faltering voice. "I am here to protect thee."
Chapter Four
He felt "eyes" upon him, he said, as though he were being watched from the thickets. When he confessed this to his wife, she laughed, telling him it was probably the ghost of King Henry the Fifth. But Horton was unamused, refusing to enter the forest ever again.
Mrs. Baylock, often took Damien there, finding God-knows-what to amuse him with for hours at a time. Horton also noticed, on helping his wife sort through the laundry, that the boy's clothing had a great many dark hairs on them, as though he had been playing with an animal.
It was true that Mrs. Baylock was a devoted governess and that the child had come to love her as well. But it was disquieting, even unnatural, that the boy preferred her company to that of his own mother.
Thorn's own work was all-consuming; his job in London put him in a pivotal position in dealing with the oil crisis, and the President relied more and more on his feedback from informal meetings with the Saudi Arabian oil sheiks. A trip was planned to Saudi Arabia in the weeks ahead, and he would be going alone since the Arabs took the presence of a wife in a touring entourage as a sign of weakness in a man.
He could see the forest from there, and it was unmoving, like a single entity in slumber. Yet it was not slumbering, for he felt somehow as if it were staring back. They kept a pair of binoculars on the porch for bird watching; Thorn went out and got them, raising them to his eyes. At first all he saw was darkness. And then he spotted the eyes, gazing back. Two dark, glowing embers reflecting in the light of the moon; close-set, yellow, they were riveted on the house. It made him shudder and he lowered the binoculars, backing inside.
There was nothing. Not a sound. The two glowing embers were gone. Turning, his bare foot stepped on something soft and wet, and he sucked in his breath, stumbling to one side. It was a dead rabbit, still warm, its blood staining the grass where the head should have been.
He lifted the stiffened body, pointing to it with distaste. "The head's what they leave, not what they take. Whatever killed this did it for fun."
"I don't like that forest much, sir. And I don't like Mrs. Baylock taking your boy in there." "Tell her not to," replied Thorn. "There's plenty to do here on the lawn."
"It's not that I don't follow orders," she said indignantly, "it's just that I expect to receive them direct." "I don't see what difference it makes," replied Thorn, and he was surprised at the anger that flashed in the woman's eyes. "It's just the difference between a great house and a small house, Mr. Thorn. I get the feeling here that no one's in charge."
In his cramped six-flight walk-up in Chelsea, Haber Jennings was awake, gazing at the growing gallery of Thorn portraits that adorned his darkroom wall.
And then there were the pictures of the birthday party: Katherine watching the nanny, the nanny in clown costume, all alone. It was the latter photograph that most interested him, for above the nanny's head there was a kind of blemish, a photographic imperfection that somehow added to the portent of the scene. It was a fleck of faulty emulsion, a vague haze that hung over the nanny, forming a halo around her head and neck.
He found that Katherine had come from Russian immigrant parentage and that her natural father had died by his own hand. According to a back issue of the Minneapolis Times, he had leaped from the roof of a downtown Minneapolis office building.
Katherine held tightly to Thorn's hand, the release of emotions having created an intimacy that had long been absent in their relationship. She was vulnerable now, and as they stopped by a stream her tears came again. She spoke of her fears, her fears of losing Damien. She said that if anything happened to him, she would not be able to carry on.
"I fear the good because it will go away … I fear the bad because I'm too weak to withstand it. I fear your success and I fear your failure. And I fear that I have little to do with either. I fear you'll become President of the United States, Jeremy … and you'll be saddled with a wife who isn't up to it."
"More than anything, Jeremy. To go where it's safe. To be where I belong."
"He's not attached to me like a child is to his mother. Were you attached to your mother?" "Yes."
"He's too young for church. He'll just cause a fuss." There was something in her tone and manner, perhaps too calm and innocent as she openly defied her, that set Katherine's teeth on edge.
"Get him dressed at once;" said Katherine. "Excuse me for speaking my mind, but do you really expect a four-year-old to understand the gibberish of a Catholic wedding?"
"You will have my son dressed," she said tightly, "and in the car in five minutes time. Or you can start looking for another job." "Maybe I'll do that anyway." "If you choose." "I'll think about it." "I hope you do." There was a tense silence, then Katherine turned on her heel to leave. "About going to church …?" Mrs. Baylock said. "Yes?" "You'll be sorry you took him." Katherine left the room; within five minutes, Damien appeared, dressed and ready, at the car.
"Can't we get around this, Horton?" he asked. "No, sir," Horton replied, "but if you don't mind, I'd like to speak my piece about Mrs. Baylock."
"I think she's a bad influence," said Horton. "She's got no respect for the rules of the house." "What rules?" asked Thorn. "I didn't want to go into specifics, sir." "Please." "Well, for one thing, it's accepted that the staff eats meals together and takes turns washing the dishes."
"She never eats with us," continued Horton. "She apparently comes down when we're all finished and takes a meal by herself." "I see," said Thorn, feigning concern. "And she leaves her dishes for the morning help to do." "I think we can ask her to stop that" "It's also expected that after lights-out the staff stays inside," continued Horton, "and I've seen her on more than one occasion in the small hours of the morning going into the forest outside. It was still dark out. And she was definitely walking quiet so no one would hear." The Thorns pondered all this, both puzzled. "Seems strange …"
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"She uses the telephone and she calls long distance to Rome."
"She was openly defiant today," said Katherine. "You want to dismiss her?" "I don't know. Do you?" Thorn shrugged. "Damien seems to enjoy her." "I know." "That counts for something." "Yes," sighed Katherine. "I guess it does." "You can let her go if you want." Katherine paused, gazing out the window. "I think perhaps she'll go on her own."
But the child's eyes began to widen, and they were not focused on the people but on a point high above them; the towering spires of the church. "There's nothing to be afraid of, Damien," said Thorn. "We're just going to a wedding."
Thorn glanced at Katherine, directing her eyes to the child. His face was stony, his body tightening as the crowds slid away and the cathedral suddenly loomed into view.
"What is it, Damien?" "He's frightened to death."
As the boy turned, his lips went dry; the panic welling up within him as he began to pant, his face draining of color.
As the child began to scream in terror, a crowd gathered around to watch their desperate struggle. Trying to help, Horton raced from the front seat, grabbing Damien and trying to pull him out the door. But the child had become an animal, shrieking as his fingers dug deep into Katherine's face and head, ripping a handful of hair.
And as the limousine sped away, the child's struggling slowly ceased, his head falling back in utter exhaustion.
When they arrived at Pereford, they took Damien to his room and sat with him in silence as he stared out the window. His forehead was cool, so there was no need for a doctor. But he would not look at them; fearful, himself, of what he had done.
"There's somethin' wrong," said Horton to his wife.
"Ever looked into them eyes?" asked Horton. "It's the same as lookin' into an animal's. They just watch. They wait. They know somethin' you don't know. They been someplace you never been."
"I don't like it," he said darkly. 'I'm thinking we should leave."
"He had a checkup just last month. There's nothing wrong with him. He's never been sick a day in his life." Thorn nodded, pondering it. "He never has, has he?" he remarked curiously.
"I mean … no measles or mumps … or chickenpox. Not even a runny nose or a cough. Or a cold."
The secret was still there. Down in the pit of his stomach. It had never left him, in all these years, but mostly, he had felt justified about it; guilty for the deception, but soothed by all the happiness it had brought.
Inside he longed to tell her, have it out in the open. But it was too late. The deception had gone on too long. She would hate him for it. She might even hate the child. It was too late. She must never know.
There was Sister Teresa, Father Spilletto, and Father Tassone. Only they knew. It was for their consciences alone. In darkness of that long-distant night they had worked in feverish silence, in the tension and honor of having been chosen. In all of earth's history it had been attempted just twice before, and they knew that, this time, it must not fail. It was all in their hands, just the three of them, and it had moved like clockwork, and no one had known. After the birth, it was Sister Teresa who prepared the impostor, depilating his arms and forehead, powdering him dry so he would look
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The child was not yet dead and made a sound within his crate as it was being put onto the truck. Quickly removing the crate, Tassone returned with it to the hospital basement and himself made certain that no cry would ever come again. It had shaken him. Deeply. But he had done it, and that was all that mattered.
It was pitch black inside and the air seemed to ring with silence. Thorn felt his way toward the stairs. There, he groped for a light switch, and finding none, proceeded silently upward, until he had reached the landing. He had never seen the house this dark, and realized he must have been outside, lost in thought, for a considerable time. Around him, he could hear the sound of slumbered breathing, and he walked quietly, feeling his way along the wall. His hand hit a light switch and he flicked it, but it did not work; he continued on, turning a bend in the long, angular hall. Ahead he could
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"He won't be any trouble," assured the woman. "We're only going to feed him scraps …" "I don't want him here," snapped Thorn. She gazed at him with surprise. "You don't like dogs?" "When I want a dog, I'll choose it." '"The boy's taken quite a fancy to it, sir, and I think he needs it."
"I shouldn't, sir. You've enough on your mind …" "I said I'd like to hear it." "Just that the child seems lonely." "Why should he be lonely?" "His mother doesn't seem to accept him."
Thorn gazed down at the massive animal and shook his head. "I don't like this dog," he said. "Tomorrow take him to the pound."
Mrs. Baylock's face hardened and Thorn turned away. The woman and the dog watched him move away down the long hall, and their eyes burned with hatred.
