Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 8, No. 7, July 1963

The Epidemic
by T. E. Brooks

Sometimes it is difficult to know how to protect the very young from a sickness far more devastating than a virus.

* * *

Heat quivered in the town, concentrating in the short business block of brick and concrete. Across the street, the maple trees and green summer grass of the town square breathed humidity into the air, bringing sweat to the faces of the men repairing the bandstand. They worked silently, grimly, covering the scars and discolorations with fresh white paint. A carpenter finished nailing a new step into place, and a man in paint-spattered coveralls — he was the town’s mayor — leaned forward with dripping brush to paint in the fresh wood.

The streets were almost empty, the public places — the theater, the library, the Community Park — all closed. In the residential areas the doors were shut, die front yards deserted. There wasn’t a child in sight. The hot summer day hung muted and motionless. Only the shimmering heat moved and, mingling with it, emanating from behind the grim faces and closed doors, rose the stifling, unwholesome effluvium of fear.

Behind the big white house on Herger Road, Ellie Thompson lay on her back in the grassy hollow between two forgotten maples at the south end of the garden. Her eyes, fixed on a scrap of heaven through the branches overhead, worked in a series of squints — half closing, opening, half closing again — trying to telescope the patch in a long distance focus. She had heard it could be done. It was a trick that was supposed to make things look further off or closer up or something, Ellie wasn’t quite sure. So far, nothing had happened either way. Sky was sky and squinting or just plain looking, it was all the same. She switched to a branch but that didn’t work either. Maybe the branch was too close. Sitting up, she searched the horizon for a better subject. Beyond the low brick wall that marked their own property line was an open field, broken about a quarter of a mile south by the railroad tracks. After that came the row of willows that stretched for miles along the river banks. No single tree wore a separate outline. They were all jumbled together. She reeled in her gaze, pulling back to the railroad track, following it a few yards down the line to the abandoned doll factory. Her gaze fastened on the factory, securing it carefully in her sights. A rapid succession of blinks and squints did no more than blur the edges of the old building. Ellie flopped back in disgust, — plucking a long blade of grass, sticking it between her teeth, chewing desultorily. It was so boring, this epidemic. There was nothing to do.

In the house, Ellie’s mother, preparing dinner, worked with quick, nervous movements! Every few minutes she paused, glancing through the kitchen window for some sight of Ellie in the backyard; Ellie’s blonde hair catching the last rays of sun, the flying remnants of an imperfect cartwheel, a small tennis shoe waggling in the air; anything that told her Ellie was there, safe in the yard. This time she stopped, frozen at the edge of the sink. There was no sign of life, nothing; only the lawn, the vegetable garden, the uncut grass beyond it. Mrs. Thompson felt terror rip through her heart. Gripping the sink, trying to control the fear, she cried, “Joanne!” and felt dismay at the shrill panic she heard in her voice.

“Yes, Mother,” Joanne returned quickly, alarmed, from upstairs.

“Do you see Ellie? I can’t see her anywhere.”

“She’s lying in the long grass, down by the maples. I can see her perfectly from my bedroom window.”

“Oh...” It was inaudible, almost a sob, then louder, to carry upstairs, “Thank you, Joanne. Keep her in sight will you, dear, while I finish dinner?”

Mrs. Thompson felt the adrenalin drain off, felt the weakness, the trembling in its wake. Toward evening the panic always grew sharper, quivering at the edge of her brain, poised to plunge at the slightest provocation through her body. She drew a deep breath and halved the hard-boiled eggs, pushing the yolks out deftly with her thumb. She wished Allan would come home so she could call Ellie into the house.

Allan had worn old work clothes this morning and he would probably be covered with paint when he got home. If Ellie saw him dressed that way, she would know that he hadn’t gone to the office today; she would bristle with curiosity and there would be questions, everlasting questions. Gwen Thompson’s brain, already weighted with fabrications, curdled at the thought of still a new one. What possible reason could she give Ellie for her father’s painting the bandstand in the middle of the “epidemic”?

There was a sound in the garage and Gwen stiffened a moment, listening. Yes, thank God, it was Allan. There was the noise of the car sliding into place, the motor cutting off, the garage door closing. She moved into the service porch, through the connecting door. Allan, white-faced, smelling of turpentine and sweat, smiled vaguely. “Hello, honey,” he said, moving past her, into the little utility bathroom off the service porch.

He looked positively ill. “Allan,” she said anxiously, “Are you all right?”

He mumbled something, soaping his hands at the sink, splashing water on his face. She didn’t understand his answer but she found comfort in her own. “It’s the heat, darling,” she murmured, handing him a towel, “And that awful smell of paint. You’re not used to it.”

“Not the heat or the paint,” he said, his voice muffled in the towel. “You get used to that in a hurry.” He came out from under the towel. “What we weren’t used to,” he said slowly, his gaze inverting, seeing something in his own mind, “was the look of that bandstand when we got there this morning.”

Her eyes widened. “You mean they didn’t have it cleaned up?”

He glanced at her, surprised that she hadn’t realized the full purpose of his day. “No, honey,” he said gently. “That’s what we were there for, to clean it up.”

Horror and incredulity crept into her voice. “You mean little Sharon was... still there?”

“No, of course not, Gwen,” he said quickly, trying to make his voice matter-of-fact. “Sharon was taken to the mortuary last night.”

Her face relaxed a little. “Then it was cleaned up.” She paused, her breath catching in sudden comprehension. “I mean, except for the painting and... and everything.” Abruptly she moved into his arms, holding him tightly. “Oh, Allan,” she breathed, “I didn’t realize. It was all there, wasn’t it? Everything but the poor little body...” She buried her face on his shoulder. “What a hideous day for you!” For a moment they clung together, holding each other in pain and horror and love. Then she lifted her face, moving back a little. “Has Morgan City been called in yet?”

He nodded grimly, unbuttoning his shirt. “That’s what took us so long to get started this morning. We had to stand around and look at it till their Homicide Squad finished up. Backus didn’t even call them till six a.m.”

Her face twisted a little. “That man must be out of his mind. Why, Allan? Why didn’t he call them the first time?” It was a lament.

“He wanted to crack it himself, that’s why. Be a big man.” There was venom in Allan’s voice. “He’s cracked something all right. His political career. Right down the middle. He’ll never be elected to anything again, not in this town. He’ll be damn lucky if there isn’t a third murder around here — his own.” Allan yanked open the shower door, glad for the momentary release of anger.

Gwen picked his shirt off the floor. “Did Morgan City find anything new?”

He pretended not to hear, groping into the shower, starting to turn on the faucets. She reached out, touching his arm, staying the motion. “It’s all right, Allan,” she said softly. “I have to know. What did they find?”

“The murder weapon,” he said.

“What was it, Allan...”

“Harvey Coleman’s trumpet. Remember, it disappeared after the last band concert.”

She nodded, waiting, gripped in a sudden, abhorrent fascination.

“They found it under the bandstand steps. It was dented and twisted...” He broke off, bending down to unlace his shoes. “They think it’s the: same weapon that killed little Barbie Jean.”

“Allan,” she said, “Was Sharon... Was her hand...?” She stopped, swallowing, the question stuck in her throat.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “It was gone. They found it under the steps along with the trumpet. They found Barbie Jean’s hand, too. Late this afternoon. In the park.”

“Oh, God, Allan...” The fascination was gone, leaving only the horror. She felt herself beginning to tremble again. “They’ve got to catch him,” she breathed. “They will, won’t they, Allan? The Morgan City police will catch him, won’t they?” Looking down at her, a tenderness swept through Allan. She seemed suddenly young, as young and as vulnerable as Ellie. He lifted her chin in his hand. “They’ll catch him, honey,” he said. “Eventually. I wish I could tell you not to worry, but I can’t. We’ve got to worry until it’s safe again, until this maniac is hauled in.” He paused a moment, frowning, then he reached into the shower, twisting the faucets. “I think,” he said, raising his voice over the noise of the water, “that we’d better tap the savings and send you and the girls on a little trip somewhere until this whole thing is over.”

Instinctively, Gwen shook her head. “We can’t,” she said. “We just can’t.”

“I think we have to.” He dropped the rest of his clothes on the floor and climbed into the shower, thrusting his head back out abruptly. “Where’s Ellie now?”

“She’s in the yard. Joanne’s been keeping an eye on her. I’ll call her in now. I was waiting for you to come home.”

Gwen scooped up the rest of the dirty clothes and moved out of the bathroom, back toward the kitchen. In the service porch, the cries broke through to her. It was Ellie’s voice, shrill with excitement, coming from the yard. “Joanne, look! It’s a fire, it’s a fire! The doll factory, it’s burning!” Gwen raced to the kitchen door, stopped by the sight across the fields, the peach-colored sheet of flame leaping from the doll factory. Her heart gave a lurch, her eyes pulling away, following the sound of Ellie’s voice. It was all right. Ellie was down by the wall and Joanne was with her, her arm around Ellie’s shoulders, gently coaxing her back toward the house.

Gwen turned, hurrying for the telephone. Thank heaven for Joanne. She’d been wonderful through this whole thing. She wasn’t acting like a teenager; she was acting like a woman. Blinking through quick, senseless tears, Gwen dialed the fire department, her chest heaving with sudden thanks that at least one of her children was safe, too old to be prey for a maniacal killer who attacked only little girls.

The fire trucks were screaming into sight when Allan, pulling on a fresh tee shirt, hurried into the yard. “Where’s the fire?” he shouted. Then he caught sight of the blazing doll factory and breathed, “Good Lord...”

Two engines turned in at the forsaken wedge of gnarled road that led to the doll factory, and finally the fire chief’s car, and then there was abrupt silence as the sirens were turned off and the procession bumped the rest of the way mutely, in a strange, soundless vacuum.

Gwen was the first to speak. “That’s the whole fire department, Allan,” she murmured anxiously. “What if there’s a fire in another part of town? Wouldn’t it be better to just let the old factory burn down?”

“Not with this wind picking up,” Allan replied. “It’ll spread if they don’t get it under control.”

Ellie said, “It happened just when the train went by. The train whistled and then wham! There was this great big blast of fire.”

“Probably a train spark,” her father answered. “There might have been some old chemicals still around.”

“It’s beautiful,” Joanne breathed, watching a new jet of flame stab the sky.

“It sure is,” Ellie agreed reverently. She wished that the eye squinting thing worked. All she could see against the blaze were the little shapes of firemen bobbing around the big trucks. She couldn’t see the hoses or the water or anything. If she could just get a little closer... Without much hope she said, “Can I go a little closer and watch?”

“No, you may not,” her mother replied flatly. “You know perfectly well you’re forbidden to leave the yard.”

It was her mother’s tone of finality that triggered Ellie’s impulse to protest. “But it’s very educational,” she countered plaintively. “I never saw a fire put out before. You want me to have an education, don’t you?”

Ellie’s father turned to her, his face stern. “Under no circumstances, Ellie, educational or otherwise, not for fire or emergency or any other reason, are you to leave this yard. Do you understand?”

Ellie’s nostrils flared under the bite of sudden tears. “You don’t have to get mad at me,” she retorted accusingly. “Besides, there’s nobody else going. How can I catch an epidemic if there’s nobody even there to catch it from?”

“There are the firemen, Ellie,” Joanne put in kindly.

“Then why don’t they catch it from each other?”

There was a pause, then solemnly, “Because they’ve already had it.”

Gwen cast a wry look at her husband and reached for Ellie’s hand. “Come on, Sweetie,” she said. “Dinner’s almost ready and you can watch the fire from the table while we eat.”

A few hours later when the fire department was getting ready to leave, and only a glowing arch remained where the flames had been, Ellie turned disconsolately from the living room window. “It’s almost out,” she said sadly. There, was nothing to do again. It was even worse thinking about tomorrow. There would be nothing to do all day long. Suddenly inspired, she said, “Daddy, will you play me a game of chess if I promise to sleep late in the morning?” If she stayed up late tonight and slept instead in the morning, tomorrow wouldn’t last nearly so long.

Behind his newspaper, Allan heaved a sigh of resignation. “All right,” he replied patiently. “If Mother’s agreeable to your staying up, I’ll play. But only on one condition...”

“I won’t cry if I lose,” Ellie broke in ecstatically. “I promise I won’t cry. Okay, Mamma? Do I have to take my bath first or can I wait till after?”

“Better first,” her mother smiled. “You’ll be too sleepy after.”

“Okay. I’ll hurry.”

When she was gone, Gwen looked at her husband. “Allan,” she said, her voice troubled, “do you think we ought to tell her the truth?”

He shot her a quick look. “What do you mean?”

She got up restlessly and moved to the window, staring out at the cathedral-like arch still glowing from the doll factory. “It’s just that I don’t think this is going to work much longer. I don’t think we should have used an epidemic as the reason in the first place.” She turned from the window, facing him. “Allan, it’s been hell this last week keeping her constantly in sight every minute of the day, never really sure she wouldn’t wander off. I know how you feel about it, but if we told her the real reason she’d understand. She wouldn’t be constantly nagging to go somewhere, always poking around the limits of the yard.” She sat down opposite him, her eyes pleading. “It’s a big yard, Allan. I worry even when she’s in it. If we told her the real reason, she wouldn’t even leave the house. She’d be safe.”