And when Tar Boston came in, whistling, he wiped his face without taking off his glasses.
"Christ Almighty," Boston said, "she wasn't your damned sister, you know."
Jeff turned away.
"Fuck," Boston said, and kicked at the wall. "It ain't right, you know? It ain't right."
Jeff waited, heard nothing more, and snapped his lock shut and headed for the door. As he reached for the knob, he thought he heard a sniffling behind him. A muffled sobbing.
Jesus, he thought, and turned around.
Tar was leaning against the wall, grinning while he made the sounds of weeping. "Four-eyes," he said, "you ain't half bad, but you sure ain't a man."
Jeff walked over to him, and Boston laughed, lifting his hands to ward off the expected blow. He laughed so hard he didn't see Jeff shift his weight to his left foot, and he didn't have time to duck when Jeff kicked him in the balls.
The yell was strangled, and strangled with it were threats that made him smile as he left, striding across the gym to a martial tune in his head.
He was going to pay for that. Boy, was he ever going to pay for it. But the look on the bastard's face was worth every broken bone he was going to get.
Worth it, in spades.
So why the hell, he thought then, couldn't he get the same courage up to ask Tracey out?
The smile widened. Well ... maybe he could. Maybe he really could. And then maybe he could walk over to Don's and find out what the hell was wrong with the guy's head.
Don heard his mother drive up, heard the front door close, heard muffled voices in the kitchen. The telephone rang. Someone answered. He shifted to lie on his back, hands behind his head. He sniffed, made himself shudder, and heard footsteps outside his door. A soft knocking. The door opened.
"Darling," Joyce said, "are you all right?"
She was beautiful, her hair unbound and flowing over her shoulders, a brightly colored blouse unbuttoned at the throat, a skirt not quite matching and not quite snug around her hips.
He nodded, but only once.
She gave him a tentative smile and sat at the foot of the bed. "It's been rough. I guess, huh?"
He nodded.
She laid a sympathetic hand on his leg and rubbed it absently, looking around the room at the empty shelves, the neat desk. She said nothing about the poster. "It isn't easy, I know. You know someone, and they have to ... to die like that. It isn't easy, believe me."
He knew she meant Sam, and while Sam was his brother, he was only a kid.
Mandy wasn't really his friend, but she was seventeen and he knew her better than he'd ever known his little brother.
Joyce cleared her throat, and her smile was sad, then brave, then gone altogether.
He watched her, and felt sand in his throat. "Mom," he said before he could think and stop himself, "there's something I have to tell you. Over at the school this afternoon I saw—"
"In a minute, dear, please," she interrupted in the way she had that told him she wasn't listening at all. "That was Tracey Quintero on the phone before." She patted his knee, rose, and went to the door.
"What?" He sat up, hands splayed to the sides to give him balance.
"Tracey? Why didn't you tell me?"
"Well, dear, this is kind of hard for you to understand, but she needs someone to talk to, and I think it best she talk to her parents first, don't you?"
"What?" he said, so softly she didn't hear him.
"Grown-ups, they have experience, and they know, most of the time, how someone your age is feeling, like about ... well, like something like this." The smile returned, briefly. "I think, right now, Mr. Quintero will help her more than her friends."
He dropped back again. "What did you tell her?"
"I told her you were sleeping. That you were disturbed by what had happened, and you were sleeping."
"Thanks," he said tonelessly.
Joyce winked at him and left, closing the door behind her.
The room filled with a silence that breathed, in and out, over the beating of his heart, the muffled creak of the bedsprings, the voices that slipped uninvited under the door.
What, he thought to the afterimage of his mother, do you know about what I need, huh? What the hell do you know about Tracey? Jesus, you didn't even know she was Spanish, for god's sake.
"Oh, hell," he moaned, "oh hell, oh hell."
And the hell with them, then. He had given them a chance to help him be a hero, and maybe save some kid's life, but they didn't care. They didn't care at all. One thought he was an asshole who dumped shit on people's porches, and the other thought he didn't know how to help his own friends feel better.
They looked at him and they saw baby Sam.
The hell with them then.
He closed his eyes and felt the nugget still buried in his chest. Warm, red, and every inch of it his.
If they didn't want to help him, if they didn't trust him, then he would do it on his own. He was the one who knew what the Howler looked like; he was the one who could put the killer behind bars for the rest of his life; he was the one who knew it all, and they could all go to hell for all he cared.
How, something asked him then, do you know he's the Howler?
For the space of a heartbeat he blinked in confusion, and for the space of a long breath he didn't know the answer.
Then his eyes narrowed, and his breathing came easy, and it didn't bother him at all when he thought: birds of a feather.
Because in a way it was true. That creep under the bleachers worked under his own rules, and Don had written some new rules of his own. He couldn't speak them aloud, but he knew them just the same, they were written on that nugget, in red, just waiting.
He rolled onto his side, head propped on one hand.
He looked at the poster, and a sigh changed to a whimper. He was on his feet, across the room, gripping the edge of the desk and staring through a fall of perspiration from his brow.
The black horse was gone.
The static scratches had vanished, but the stallion was gone.
He touched the paper, traced the boles of the trees, the swirl of the fog, ran his palm over it, pressed his forehead to it, lifted a corner to check behind it.
The road was empty.
It was gone.
A panicked step took him halfway to the door, but he heard movement outside and ran to the window. The yard was dark and fringed by moonlight, and in the middle of the grass was a shadow. At first he thought it was Chris, coming the back way to see him for some unknown reason; then he squinted and pressed his palms to the pane and felt the glass. It wasn't, it was the same visitor he had seen last week when he'd run, the one who had watched him from the tunnel in the stadium wall.
Unformed. Black. And watching him as surely as if it had a perfect set of eyes.
A drop of ice touched his nape;
His head whipped around and he looked at the poster.
The horse was still gone.
When he looked back, the shadow was gone too.
Suddenly, inexplicably weeping, he backed away from the window, from the poster, and fell onto the bed. He tried to swallow, and couldn't; he tried to call for help, and couldn't; he tried to tell himself that he wasn't crazy, not really crazy, but posters didn't change and black ghosts didn't walk across his backyard at night.
"Help," he whispered. "Somebody. Help."
Chapter Ten
Birds of a feather.
He waited until well past eleven, until he was positive the boards in the hallway wouldn't betray him. Then he dressed in his black denims and crept downstairs, took a flashlight from the hall closet and left the house by the back door.
The night had turned winter cold, and his breath gusted greyly from his lips, wafted back into his eyes. He stood with his hand on the metal knob until his vision adjusted, then moved in a low crouch toward the middle of the yard, the rod of white light bleaching the grass. He searched for depressions, disturbances, something droppe
d by whoever had been there before, whoever had been watching him through his window. He criss-crossed the yard twice and found nothing, did it twice again and decided to try the front, where the moonlight and the streetlamps would give him some aid.
Going back inside was out of the question.
He wanted desperately to convince himself that he hadn't gone crazy. He wanted to find tangible evidence of a prowler—maybe Brian and Tar up to another prank they were going to blame on him—which he could then show to his parents, to prove he hadn't lost his mind when he told them about the poster.
Because he was going to have to. If he didn't, and didn't do it soon, one of them was going to notice and think he'd done something to it and make it too late to protest.
The street was quiet, empty, and even as he watched, many of the lights upstairs and down were switched off to yank the houses back into darkness.
Birds of a feather.
He zipped his jacket closed to his neck and sat on the front stoop, the flashlight on the step beside him. Dampness seeped through his jeans to his buttocks, and he shifted, stood, and walked down to the sidewalk.
This is crazy, he thought, and grinned at the word. Of course it is, because you are, jackass. The poster, the shadow, and thinking you're the same as some murdering bum. Three strikes. Third out. Sanity retired and the ball game's over.
Unless it was true.
Unless he and the Howler were closer than he could ever possibly imagine and somehow his subconscious had tuned in to that fact. And if so, he had to find the man, find out where he hid during the dark hours and bring the cops to him. Be the hero, just like he planned, and then dare his father to ground him again, doubt him, and look at him with those pitying eyes. Dare him to yell because he'd left the house without permission.
Crazy.
He hurried toward the park.
Crazy.
He slipped his hands into his pants pockets, thumbs hanging out, and tried not to come down too hard on his heels. He had to look casual, just out for a late night stroll, in case a patrol car came around and wanted to know what he was doing on the streets when there was a madman on the loose. He couldn't tell them then. He couldn't say that he knew the Howler, because they wouldn't believe him. He had to find him, and his den, and only then would he be able to bring in the troops.
Halfway to the corner a car pulled over to the curb and the passenger door opened. He slowed and glanced in, and caught his breath when he saw Tar.
"Hey, Duck, does your mommy know you're out?"
"Lay off," he said glumly.
"Aw, poor Ducky. Hey, Brian, the Duck says to lay off."
Pratt leaned over from the steering wheel and grinned. "Okay, Mr. Duck. Whatever you say."
Don glared and moved on, and the car followed him slowly.
"Hey, Boyd," Tar said in a loud whisper, "glad to see you found your jacket. Looks good. How'd you get the shit off?"
Don stopped, turned, but Brian drove on, his and Tar's laughter filling the night.
He wanted to raise a fist, but it would have done no good and he would have only gotten into a fight. But it was them, and he groaned because his father would never believe it.
At the corner he stopped again, waited in shadow for a bus to pass, and in waiting considered heading down to Tracey's. She'd be in bed but a pebble against her window might bring her out before her father woke up.
He would talk to her. He would tell her. He would ...
"Shit," he muttered, and dashed across the boulevard, reached the park wall at full speed, and vaulted over without pausing.
A minute passed, and five before he got up from his knees and made his way to the central path. The park was so much his, he knew right away there was no one nearby, no one to overhear and question him, and take him back to the house.
He was alone.
And as he approached the oval and its curtain of white light he knew he was wrong.
There was something out there, out there in the dark.
Something familiar.
He slowed; he stopped; he sidestepped just before the trees fell away, and he squinted into the light.
There, he thought, craning his neck. It was over there, on the other side, not moving, only watching, and when his left hand reached around behind him he realized with a silent curse he had forgotten to bring the flashlight-he had nothing now he could use as a weapon.
Brian and Tar; it had to be them, back to make sure he understood their position. Beating the shit out of him; and when the police came, they would be sleeping soundly in bed and he would have to explain what he was doing in the park.
He backed away.
A hand rubbed at his mouth.
Crazy; if he wasn't crazy before, he was sure crazy now for thinking of this stunt. The poster obviously had an explanation, the shadows were his nerves because of Pratt and his hatred, but this was complete madness.
A swift search of the nearest brush rewarded him with a four-foot length of dead branch. He hefted it, tapped it against his palm, and prayed frantically that he wouldn't have to use it, though against what or who he didn't know.
Then a voice behind him said, "Babyfuck," and a hand grabbed his throat.
Don screamed without making a sound as his hand spasmed and the branch fell from his hand, and before he could attempt to break free, an arm banded hard across his chest, pinning his own to his sides. Brian! he yelled silently; Tar, for god's sake, get the hell off me! But his head was forced back, and when he lowered his gaze from the spin of the treetops, he saw the tweed sleeve, the dried blood, and he knew.
Panic flared and made him hollow. But he was not going to die. Amanda was dead, and Sam was dead, and he was not going to die because he was not anyone else, not just a name on the news; he was Don Boyd, and Don Boyd didn't die. Not yet. God, not yet.
The Howler was too strong to fight, and he had no choice but to let himself be dragged around the rim of the pond, his neck close to breaking, his breathing harsh and shallow, the back of his head hot from the breath that came from the monster's mouth.
"Babyfuck," said Tanker Falwick. "You sure are one stupid baby fuck, boy."
Don swung one leg around and braced a heel against the concrete. The man grunted, and Don whimpered at the pain that blossomed along his spine, but progress toward the dark was momentarily halted.
Falwick whispered, "You wanna bath? Like the whore? You wanna bath, punk?"
A vicious kick to a calf, and Don went down, the fingers whipping away from his throat to grab a patch of hair. His eyes watered, and his left arm was taken by the wrist and bent up along his back.
"Look, you punk!" the man gasped in his ear. "Stop fucking around and look! See that dark shit there? That's blood, pal. Blood. From the whore. Beautiful, ain't it? Must be a gallon of blood there, at least a goddamned gallon. And you know something, punk? They can try for a hundred years, they ain't never gonna get that whore's blood outta there." A cackling laugh, and Don's face was pressed closer to the ground. "Hungry, boy? You wanna lick it, punk? You wanna-''
"Please," Don managed.
"Oh, my, listen to that."
He swallowed phlegm and acid, blinked away the tears, and wondered why he couldn't have been built like Fleet or Tar so he could leap out of the man's grasp, turn, and beat him to a bloody mess where Amanda had died.
Tanker forced his face even closer to the ground, and when his nose touched the cold cement, he shut his eyes tightly.
"Please," he said, less pleading now than commanding.
"Aw, babyfuck, you getting mad at the old sarge? You getting mad at me, punk?"
He was. He didn't understand it, but he was. He was terrified of what was coming, and enraged at his helplessness, and he didn't want to die and there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it, not a thing, just like always.
"I-I won't say anything, honest I won't."
"Aw, the punk's begging. Ain't that nice. They all do, y'know, punk. They all beg at the
end. They think they're hot shit, but they all beg at the end."
Not the end, he thought, suddenly contorting his body in hopes of breaking the hold. But his head shrieked at the pull of hair, and his thigh burst into flame when a heel jammed into it, and his jacket and shirt where the man had gripped them from behind closed around his chest and restricted his lungs.
"They all beg, the little whores, and it don't do any good. Say good-bye, punk. You little white trash shit."
Don gagged as his head was pulled back; his eyes opened and stared, and then he lashed his right hand around and caught Falwick on the biceps with an elbow. The man grunted his surprise, dropped the hold on his hair, and Don jabbed again swiftly, scissoring his legs until he was over on his back, his left arm still behind him but pinning Falwick's arm there as well.
And he saw the man's face.
The same hard-lined face, the same grubby man he had seen under the bleachers.
Falwick spit at him, clubbed the side of his head with a fist, and rose, dragging him up, releasing the bent arm and spinning him around.
Laughing. Coughing. Four times around until he let go with a squeal and Don pin-wheeled into the pond, landed sitting up and shaking water from his eyes.
A mistake! he thought jubilantly; and I can outrun him.
But first he had to outmaneuver him or distract him, and the man in the tweed jacket and fatigue pants was standing right there on the edge, watching him smugly, licking his lips and lightly rubbing his arm.
"You gonna run?" Falwick asked with a sneer. "You gonna try for it, boy? If you are, you better get up, or I'm gonna cut you where you sit."
It was unreal.
It was something happening to someone else in a dream.
It was like ... and Don saw himself on the movie theater screen, rising vengefully from the cold water and lunging to the apron, whirling to plant a foot solidly in the man's chest. A bone snapped. Blood gouted from the man's scabbed lips. Another foot to the stomach, a lethal fist to the chin, and the Howler fell backward, rigid and unconscious, into the pond.
On the screen.
"Goddamn punk," the Howler said in disgust. "You're all the same, you fucking little punks. All the goddamned same. You ain't got no guts. You're baby fucks, you don't deserve to live."
The Pet Page 15
