The Pet

by Charles L. Grant

  "Damn right," Joyce said, grinning, and emptied her glass at a swallow.

  Don was cautious, sniffing the liquid first and wrinkling his nose, swallowing hard against the burning when he took his first sip. He didn't see what all the fuss was about, but he wasn't going to spoil anything by refusing the drink; by the time his glass was empty, the fire in his stomach had been reduced to gentle embers, a furnace in winter that would warm him until dawn.

  He yawned.

  The telephone rang, and Joyce answered, indicated with a thumb it was for her and disappeared into the living room, the cord trailing behind.

  He yawned again as the brief storm ended and Norman poured himself another glass.

  "You'd better go to bed," his father suggested while he toed off his shoes and sat at the table. "School tomorrow."

  "Jeez, don't I even get a day off for good behavior?" He made himself laugh to prove it was a joke. "Besides, Dr. Naugle said I should rest, remember?"

  To his astonishment, his father considered the idea seriously and compromised by telling him they'd discuss it in the morning. He didn't push it; he headed straight for the stairs, blew a loud kiss to his mother, who blew one back absently, and ran up two steps at a time, kicked into his room and dropped onto the bed.

  The velvet box was still in his hand. He switched on the light over the headboard, winked at the panther still licking its paw, and pulled up the hinged lid.

  "God," he said. "Hot damn."

  It was as big around as his palm, heavy and gold, elaborately embossed with the words For Public Service, Donald Boyd. He read them aloud for his friends to hear, then placed the box on his desk. Deliberately not looking at the wall, he turned around and unbuttoned his shirt, kicked off his shoes and trousers, and yanked back the coverlet. He could feel the poster behind him, could feel the emptiness, the fog, the weight of the trees.

  When he switched off the light, he could feel the dark at the window.

  He yawned so hard his jaw hurt; he stretched so hard his leg muscles ached; he closed his eyes, rolled onto his side and punched at the pillow, sighed as a signal for sleep to get a move on, rolled onto his stomach and felt the pillowcase cool against the flush on his cheek. His feet tangled in the sheets.

  The blanket was too warm; the sheet alone not warm enough.

  He went into the bathroom and brushed the brandy's taste from his mouth.

  He stood at the head of the stairs and listened to his parents talking in the kitchen; he listened for almost half an hour and not once heard his name.

  "Way to go," he said quietly as he returned to his room. "Good job, son, we're really proud of you, you know."

  The lamp was still out, and he stood at the window, watching the wind toss the neighborhood under glimpses of the moon that found cracks in the clouds.

  I'm feeling sorry for myself, aren't I? he asked the night sky. Mom worked hard for all this; she doesn't want me to take it away.

  But it was only a gesture, this attempt at understanding, and he knew it, and knew he should feel worse for it. He didn't. He felt as if something had been taken away before he could make it his own, as if something uniquely his had been lost from the moment he had heard Brian's voice sneering in the park.

  He stretched out his right hand, and his fingers caressed the head of the bobcat; up a shelf, to follow the lines of a leopard. His breath condensed on the pane. The clouds reclosed, and there was only a glow from a house a block over, and the dark against dark of the grass and the trees.

  If you're real, he thought then, where are you? Where are you?

  And he didn't move at all when he saw the slanted green eyes that opened slowly, and looked up.

  Chapter Thirteen

  He slept until well past noon, scarcely moving, not dreaming, waking only once, when Dr. Naugle came by on his way home from the hospital to check on what he called his celebrity patient. A soft nervous laugh-his mother standing in the doorway, a light coat over her arms as if she were ready to go out, to get back to the business of celebrating the town. Don's mind was fuzzy, disconnected, and he barely heard the man recommend that another day in bed wouldn't hurt to regain the strength he had lost, more emotional than physical.

  Joyce agreed, and Donald didn't argue; he didn't like the weakness that had infiltrated his muscles, and he didn't like thinking what would happen if he should show up at school and have a fainting spell or require someone's help to walk before the day was out.

  And he didn't like thinking what would happen should he inadvertently mention the horse.

  He slept, then, and this time came the dreams.

  Of the bedroom, whose walls expanded slowly outward, leaving his bed in the center of a cavern with caves in the dark walls, and in one of the caves he could see a shadow, drawing him in, beckoning, calling his name soundlessly and telling him over and over and over again that everything at last was going to be all right; Of the bedroom, through whose window he could see the world from a hawk's lazy perspective, refocus, plunge, and see Ashford, refocus again and see the horse waiting patiently under the maple tree in the backyard, watching his window, waiting for the signal, telling him by his stance that he never need fear again, not anyone, not anything-all he had to do was call and his friend would be there; And of the bedroom at the last, and on his desk the remnants of the nugget that had exploded in his chest. He walked over to it and felt nothing on his soles, blew on the ebony dust and watched it leap into a dervish, a tornado, a tower of black that snapped around him before he could duck away, insinuated itself behind his eyes and showed him the faces of the people at the concert, their eyes bright with laughter, their mouths open like clowns, fingers pointing, heads wagging, elbows nudging neighbors, and feet stamping the ground; it showed him the flushed face of Brian Pratt at the back, hands cupped around his mouth—tell them the giant crow did it!—and grinning malevolently at Tar Boston who lifted both his middle fingers—hey Donald the duck—and turned to Fleet Robinson, who stared sullenly at the one who had stolen his revenge; and it showed him the story of a giant crow, told by a clown who wore black denim.

  He woke at ten minutes to three, sweat covering his face, and he watched the ceiling trap shadows shrinking away from the sun.

  Norman sat in his office, doing little more than going through the motions, waiting, expecting that every time the door opened, Harry would slink in to tell him that the teachers' strike that should have been called the day before had been called for that afternoon. But Falcone had apparently been made aware of the principal's mood and stayed away, for which small favor Norman mentally sacrificed his wife's heart to the heavens.

  Falcone had kissed her. In front of hundreds of people the sonofabitch had laid his hands on her and had kissed her.

  "Jesus," he said. "Jesus."

  The telephone calls were being screened by the secretaries, but enough filtered through to finally lighten his mood by the time the last class had begun. A few reporters from out of town, several board members, enough well-wishers to finally have him smiling.

  Shortly afterward, the mayor called to suggest they not waste any more time but meet as soon as was politically feasible to discuss the man's successor. Anthony Garziana was preparing to retire; he had run Ashford for a dozen years and was tired, looking hungrily toward the day when he could pack up his young wife and family and flee to his carefully built estate on the Gulf of Mexico, outside Tampa. He was unimpressed with the deputy mayor; he liked Boyd's style and the way he had glossed Donald's day with a sheen of his own. That took guts, Garziana had said; Don, Norman told him, had a medal and could be generous.

  Splendid, he thought as he rose to stretch his legs. Jesus, wait until Joyce hears this. She'll be hysterical; she'll have the mayor's house redecorated before the end of the year.

  He grinned and decided to take a walk around his school, left by the private door, and almost immediately collided with Tracey Quintero. She babbled an apology; he took her shoulder and calmed her down, an
d told her sotto voce how proud he was of her.

  Tracey was flustered. "Me? I didn't do anything."

  "You called the police the night ... that night."

  Her face darkened. "I was too late."

  "But you panicked the man, Tracey, you panicked him. You forced him into a mistake, and he paid for it. For that, a lot of us parents are very very grateful."

  Her expression doubted the sentiment, but not by much. She blushed prettily and hurried on, her hands with nothing better to do smoothing her shirt over her stomach, her hips, until she reached the girls' room and pushed in.

  She was alone, and she stood in front of the wall-long mirror and checked her hair, her hem, then turned on the cold water and let it run over her wrists. She should have been in zoology, but a slow-building dizziness made her ask for a hall pass, granted on the condition she return before the bell. It was silly, but she accepted, and after her odd meeting with Don's father, she was more confused than ever.

  Last night she had wanted to remain in the park after the concert, but her father insisted she return home with him. He was embarrassed by all the attention he was getting, and insisted that Thomas Verona should be complimented as well. No one listened. Luis had been at the scene while Verona had been on patrol; Luis had discovered what Donald had done.

  On the night of the Howler's death, she had asked him directly what it was he had seen. There were only rumors, and there was no way to break through the constant busy signals at the Boyds' home telephone. She wanted to know. He wouldn't tell her. She reminded him cruelly that Amanda could have been her if she had tripped, or had turned to use the length of pipe she carried; she could have been the one the school had closed for. He grew angry, but he relented.

  And she didn't believe him.

  Even now, while she straightened her clothes that were fine the way they were, she could not imagine Don clubbing a man to death, not the way her father had described it. A bash over the head, yes; a good smack or two to the temple, sure; but not so hard that the man looked trampled. And when she heard the television newscasters talk about adrenaline rushes and hysterical rage, she still didn't believe it. To do otherwise would turn Don into someone she didn't know.

  Jeff had said Don was changing; and maybe she was too. How could she not, when every night she had the dream—the race down the boulevard, the Howler in pursuit, Amanda spinning as if trapped in an invisible web that held her until the killer dragged her into the park ... while Tracey watched, and screamed, and woke up feeling as if someone had kicked her in the groin.

  Tonight, she resolved. Tonight she would call him, and if she couldn't get through, then she would go over there. No matter what her father ordered, she would go over there and talk to him. She didn't know why, only knew she must, and that more than anything was the root of her confusion.

  "A mess, Quintero," she told her reflection. "Es verdad, you're a mess."

  With a pinch to her cheeks to bring back some color she hurried back into the hall, looked both ways and entered the stairwell. On the first landing she paused, debating whether it was worth returning to class or not, shrugged and hurried up, stepped into the upstairs hall and turned right just as Brian Pratt leapt out at her from the bank of lockers in the corner.

  "Hey!" he said, taking her arm as she made to pass by him.

  "Brian, I've got to get to class, okay?"

  "God," he said, "you could at least say hello."

  "Hello." She shook the hand off and hurried away, glancing back once at him, frowning and thinking that if South won the night game tomorrow and he had anything to do with it, he would be even more insufferable than he already was. Then she remembered Jeff telling her about Don, how he had asked everyone he'd known if she was going with Brian. The thought warmed her, and she rubbed the back of her neck self-consciously, grinned to herself, and turned abruptly at the classroom door.

  Brian was still there, shaking his head.

  She couldn't resist, she blew him a kiss before going inside.

  Brian grinned stupidly and started toward her, stopped when she ducked into the classroom, and shrugged. It didn't matter. She was smitten, another conquest for the Pratt; and this one all the sweeter because word was she was the Duck's girl.

  The Duck.

  Christ, he was going to puke the next time he heard someone mention that queer's name. All goddamn day it had been Don did this and Don did that and Don made the world in seven fucking days and the next thing he was going to do was walk on fucking water.

  One lucky hit on a crazy old man and the Duck was God.

  A shame, man, he thought, because they could've been friends. If the little faggot had only stood up to him that first day, taken one swing at him, they could have been friends. But no, the creep had cried, run crying into the house just like a baby. And Brian had no use for babies.

  All this bullshit he was reading about sensitive men was just that—bullshit.

  Crying never got anyone into the National Football League.

  Yeah, he decided; it was time he made a move on Tracey, and soon. He didn't give a shit that she didn't have any tits; she was after the Duck, and that's all the reason he needed.

  His eyes narrowed and he made an about-face, deciding that his good mood was ruined and there was no sense going to chemistry now. Besides, the Tube was busy piling on the homework, and if he wasn't there, he couldn't get the assignment, and if he couldn't get the assignment he couldn't be held responsible for it. Right now there were more important things to work on, like figuring out how to ace Fleet and Tar out of the glory tomorrow. Ashford North was known in the conference for its defense against the run, which meant in an ordinary game that Boston and Robinson were going to have a field day while Brian was used solely to decoy the opposition.

  But not this time.

  Tomorrow night he was going to show them what he was really made of, and the scouts he knew were in town from the Big Ten were going to get an exhibition of ball handling and running they'd never seen in their lives. With any kind of luck at all he would be beating them and their contracts off with a baseball bat before the first half was over.

  A fist thumped his chest as he took the stairs down two at a time, three at a time, until he was on the ground floor and heading for the weight room on the other side of the gym. Coach might be there, but he wouldn't mind. Brian would tell him Hedley had agreed to his missing class this once, and Coach would believe him whether he believed him or not. Brian was his star. Brian does his job. Get Brian sulking, lose a game or two, and Coach would be teaching kindergarten someplace in Kansas.

  The sharp echo of his mirthless laugh rebounded from the walls, and he swung around the corner, whistling and marching, and stopping dead in his tracks when he saw Mr. Hedley lounging against the gym entrance.

  "Were you by any chance lost, Mr. Pratt?" the short man asked without moving away.

  "Hadda ask Coach something," Brian said easily, trying to contain his impatience.

  "You can ask him after class."

  "He won't be here."

  Hedley's upper lip pulled back. "He won't be here? You mean, he's skipping practice today? The day before the big game, Mr. Pratt?" The man shook his head. "I cannot credit that, Mr. Pratt. And I suggest, if you want credit for the course and a diploma in June, you head back upstairs."

  Brian worked hard to keep his hands from curling into fists. One punch.

  One punch and the little shit would fall apart. And one punch, caution reminded him, would lose him his graduation, entrance into the Big Ten, and his professional career.

  Hedley, by his expression, knew that as well, and it made him angrier to know he could do nothing about it.

  "Two minutes, Mr. Pratt, or I'll turn in a cut slip."

  "Aw, jeez, Mr. Hedley," he said, spreading his hands in appeal, "have a heart, huh?"

  Hedley stared at him so intently Brian thought for a moment the prick had finally figured out who had dumped the shit on his porch, and
was already preparing an alibi. For himself. Tar, the little coward, would have to take care of himself.

  "Two minutes," Hedley repeated and walked off, arms swinging like a sergeant major leading a parade.

  "Little prick," Brian muttered. "Fucking little prick."

  Hedley heard but didn't turn, didn't lose a step. He continued to the stairwell and headed up for his class. A mistake leaving them alone and he knew it; there were too many legal and ethical ramifications. But Pratt had been getting away with too much for too long, and seeing him in the hallway talking with that little Quintero girl had made him furious. A swift order for questions to be completed in the workbook, and he was gone, racing down the center stairs, barely able to control his heavy breathing before the bastard came around the corner.

  Bastard, he thought, and nodded. A fair choice of words. The mother lived alone, most of the time, and there was no telling who could claim fatherhood for that monster. A mental note to see if he could get Candy to reveal the truth, and a wince at the idea that anyone, most of all her, could be named after a confection.

  He grinned, then, and stroked his mustache. What, he wondered, would Brian think if he knew that his flabby little prick of a chemistry teacher was regularly manhandling his mother; what, he wondered further, would the thick-necked grunt do if he knew that among Hedley's collection of glossies in his cellar was a choice set of color photos unmistakably starring her.

  Probably try to wring my neck, he decided, or cut off my balls.

  "Mr. Hedley?"

  He cleared his mind of the image of Brian Pratt frothing at the mouth and replaced it with the more realistic and far more pleasant one of Chris Snowden, standing in front of his door with a pile of books in her arms.

  "Mr. Hedley, you wanted these from the library?"

  He was about to deny it, suddenly remembered the bit of research he'd wanted to do for tomorrow's truncated classes, and nodded, snatched the volumes from her with a curt nod of thanks, and swung open his door as if daring the class to be misbehaving.