Chris stared at his back, and told him silently to go to hell before she wheeled about and headed back for the library on the other side of the building. Though it was excruciatingly boring shifting books from one shelf to another, catering to creeps who needed this author and that reference work, it at least kept her away from teachers for forty-five minutes, kept the males from trying to unclothe her without lifting a finger, kept the females from consigning her to that airhead category all attractive blondes seemed doomed to inhabit from birth.
It also gave her furtive opportunities to do her homework before she left for home, thus enabling her to work full-time on her plan once school was out.
Today she was testing excuses to see which would work the best when she dropped in on the Boyds. She'd thought to learn what assignments Don had missed by staying home, then play the Samaritan by dropping them off, but with classes shortened tomorrow because of the end-of-the-day pep rally that would lead up to the game, most of the faculty wasn't bothering.
Then she had wondered if there wasn't something she could manage from the front office, something she hadn't yet been able to figure out.
In a way the idea of seeing Don was beginning to turn her on. She had heard several graphic versions of what he'd done to the Howler, and even taking it all with a pound of salt, it must have been one awesome battle; and to look at him, you wouldn't think he could step on Brian's shadow without breaking a leg.
Appearances, she thought; it's all in appearances, the one subject she knew better than anyone else.
Probably the simplest thing would be just to go, to say truthfully she was concerned and wondering how Don was feeling, could she see him for a minute, and bring him some false greetings from his friends.
Sometimes, Chris, she thought, you try too hard, you know it? You just try too damned hard.
She pushed, then, on the swinging door, heard a thud and a grunt, and looked up through the narrow wire-embedded glass pane.
Oh, Christ! And her eyes closed briefly when Mr. Boyd pulled on the handle and let himself out.
"Gee, I'm sorry," she said, putting an unthinking hand on his arm. "I'm really sorry, Mr. Boyd, honestly. I wasn't looking. I didn't mean it."
He smiled and rubbed his shoulder ruefully. "I think I'll live, Chris. Don't worry about it."
"Honest to god, I didn't mean it, really."
"All right, take it easy," he told her, laughing easily at her distress that bordered on the comic. "I'm not mortally wounded. I'll survive. Just keep your head up from now on, okay? I'd like to last through the year if you don't mind."
His touch on her shoulder was more a brief caress than a pat, and he was gone, leaving her swearing at herself for botching the first chance she'd had to make some points with the old man. She could have pretended a temporary injury, or fallen against him; and now, when the opportunity almost literally knocked her off her feet, she had blown it.
"Shit!"
"Miss Snowden!" the librarian scolded from behind her desk.
Fuck off, you old bitch, she said silently; at least I've been screwed more than once in the last twenty years.
She stalked to the back of the room, grabbed a cart of books, and set about trying to put them all back before the last bell rang. She would have to stop home first to change her clothes, make them easier to discard should the occasion arise, or at least make them seem as if they were ready for stripping. And the more she thought about it, the warmer she felt, the more electric grew the feeling that circled her breasts and centered below her stomach. It was crazy, but she was going to do something stupid if she didn't get out of here, and do it right now.
A book slammed into position. A second one, four more. Up and down the rows, not caring about the glares she received because she was making too much noise. Not caring about the bindings or the bent pages or the squeaks the wheels on the damned cart was making.
She couldn't get out. She had to stay and be a good girl, and confound her classmates until she had everyone who counted right where she wanted.
"Hey, watch what you're doing!"
She looked up and saw Fleet Robinson's freckled hand in the space where she'd almost tried to jam a history book.
"Sorry."
"No problem, okay?" Fleet winked at her through the gap in the books.
"You going to the concert tonight?"
She looked sideways at the librarian. "Hell, no."
"Neither am I. You wanna see a flick?"
"Hell, no."
He shrugged, but she backed away in a hurry. The invitation had been given pleasantly enough, but she could see Mandy's ghost still lingering in his eyes. That's all he'd talk about, she knew it, and she wasn't about to waste an evening playing earth mother confessor to a jockstrap in mourning.
She backed up another step, saw Fleet's eyes widen in warning, but it was too late. A look around and down as she moved, and she stepped on Norman Boyd's toes.
"Oh god," she groaned.
Norman creased his brow. "It's an assassination attempt, is that right, Miss Snowden?"
"Mr. Boyd ..." She lifted her hands, shook her head, and he touched her shoulder again before taking the book he wanted from the shelf and walking out, this time glancing back to see her watching him, ready to cry. A grin, and he strolled on to his office, not bothering with the fiction of scolding himself this time—he had done it deliberately so he could see her reactions, so he could feel the silk against his fingers.
All perfectly legitimate, unless she was smarter than the credit he gave her.
Trouble, Norm, he cautioned as he entered through the private door; there's trouble in them thar hills if you ain't careful.
The telephone rang, and in a moment he was on the line with Tom Verona, explaining that his son was home on doctor's orders but seemed, all things considered, almost back to normal. No, the boy hadn't said anything about the Howler, nor had he mentioned any nightmares, though, he added, Tom didn't sound very good himself. Verona told him he'd had a restless night. Boyd asked about the beer they had promised themselves, and Verona agreed readily, suggesting tomorrow night after the game, and vowing he'd find the principal somewhere in the stadium when Norm said it sounded good to him. When they hung up without good-byes, Norm frowned at the phone. The man sounded god awful, and he instantly regretted the invitation, it may well be he was in for a night of listening to another man's series of marital problems.
Wonderful, he thought; just what I need when I can't handle my own.
Then the bell rang, and the school emptied, and once all was done and the last letter signed and dropped on his secretary's desk, he headed for home.
The sun was nearly below the treetops, skeletal shadows cracking the pavement before him, and he supposed there was no way he could get out of going to North after dinner to listen to the program of the schools' vocal programs. He'd much rather put his feet up in the den and watch a football game, or a movie on cable, or go across the street to see John Delfield and tease that stupid dachshund and play a hand or four of cribbage.
Or call up Chris and tell her to come on over and get fucked.
He stopped at the foot of the walk, rubbed the back of a hand over his nose, and saw the first of the night's stars pale above the house.
Trouble, he warned again, and didn't quite not run when he heard the noise behind him, something large and slow coming down the tarmac. It sounded like a horse, but he wasn't going to look; for one reason, it was impossible; and for another, it reminded him of the shadow in the puddle he had seen the other day.
Neither one of them belonged; and neither one was friendly.
Adam Hedley stared at the photocopies of the lab reports he had typed himself yesterday morning, and realized with a groan that filled the house that he had made an error. An inexcusable error. A careless error.
In his entire life he had never made such a stupid misstep in procedure.
He held the page up, letting the flickering beam from the projector
fall on the police form, ignoring for the moment the writhings and moans from the screen he'd erected in his cellar and concentrated on the precise language he had chosen for describing the condition of the club Donald Boyd had used to end a madman's mad life.
After he had read it a fourth time, he slapped off the projector and hurried up the stairs. There was no way around it; he would have to go to the station and see if he could find Ronson or Verona, see if either would permit him to run the tests again.
Buttoning a salt-and-pepper overcoat to his neck, he stood on his porch and wrinkled his nose before heading for his car. The stench was gone, but he still smelled it, still felt it, and thought perhaps it was time to find another home.
He would have to call the coroner's office too. If he'd made a mistake, they had as well.
Then he slid in behind the wheel, turned on the ignition, and looked down the street for signs of oncoming traffic.
What he saw was something standing in the middle of the road, down at the far corner, just beyond the reach of the only streetlamp the local hooligans hadn't shattered.
It stood there, and it waited, and for no good reason he could think of, Hedley made a U-turn in the middle of the block and sped off the other way.
After practice Brian lifted weights with Tar, Fleet, and a half-dozen others from the team until long after the dinner hour, took a shower knowing Gabby D'Amato was watching, and sprinted home because something was behind him, pacing him silently and staying hidden in the dark.
Fleet rode home in Tar's battered sedan, looking through the rear window so often, Boston almost threw him out.
Jeff made excuses for the weight session that afternoon. He knew Tar must have said something to Brian about the other day, and he didn't want an Indian club smacked between his legs.
He did his homework, cleaned his room, and each time he passed a window he couldn't help looking out, looking for something he knew was out there, wondering if he should call Tracey and afraid to pick up the phone.
His father called and told him he'd be working late at the office, so he made his own supper, with his back to the kitchen window.
And when the dishes were done, he looked at the telephone and wiped his hands on his jeans, took off his glasses and wiped them on his shirt.
It was dumb.
But he knew that if he lifted the receiver now, nothing would be there, not even a dial tone.
Not even static.
Only a dead spot, like the dead black he saw in the street, something more than shadow, something less than the night.
After supper Tracey tried to call Don. The line was busy, and at a stern reminder of the promise to herself, she set her mouth and shoulders and went downstairs to fetch her coat from the closet. Her mother asked where she was going, and Tracey told her; her father never stirred from his nap on the couch.
"Please," her mother said with a fearful look to the sleeping man, "wait until he wakes up."
"I have to go, Mother. It's something about school. Don has something I need." She took her mother's wrist and smiled. "I need it for tomorrow. Don't worry, I'll be all right."
"I don't know. Maybe you should—"
"Mother, the man is dead. Donald killed him. He's dead. I'll be all right, honest."
She left before the pleading escalated to a command, and took the first three blocks at a run in case her mother changed her mind. Then she stopped and leaned against a tree, breathed deeply a half-dozen times, and shook her head to clear it of the vertigo she felt.
There wasn't much traffic though it was only just seven, yet it felt like past midnight. The air had a feel to it, as if it were weary and hoping the sun would soon give it warmth; the sidewalk felt crisp, with a veneer of ice that cracked and shifted as she walked; and the streetlights were sparkling on their way to the ground, white flecks of whirling mica that made her blink her eyes and look away.
It was cold; and it was silent.
Except for the movement behind her.
He's dead, she told herself as she quickened her pace; he's dead and Don killed him and there's nobody back there.
She looked suddenly; there wasn't.
Four blocks to go and she would pretend to have a headache and Mr. Boyd or Don would give her a ride home.
Dumb, she thought as she stepped into the street; dumb, dumb, dumb. Why don't you just go home and try to call him again? What are you gonna say, you were just passing by? Seven blocks out of your way, and you were just passing by? Gee, Don, I was wondering who you were going to the game with tomorrow. Jeffs already asked me to wait for him after, but he understands if you ask and I go with you. Just passing by, that's all.
She angled to her left, toward the center of the block, intending to turn right at the next corner and save herself a walk past the high school.
And when she reached the center line, she heard the movement behind her again. And the breathing-heavy, slow, something larger than a man moving slowly up on her shadow.
It was the school again, the same thing she had seen down in the lower hall. She felt it without looking, and without looking began to run, mouth open to take the air, arms pumping to propel her. While she leapt over the curb and raced down the sidewalk, listening to it follow her though it stayed in the street.
Rhythmic, pounding, sounding so much like a horse that she had to chance it and take a peek, and saw nothing but a huge shadow moving toward her along the road. A gasp—it's a car without headlights, Trace, don't be an idiot—and she whimpered, ran faster and heard the animal—it's a car!—match her speed.
A second look and she stumbled.
Above the black, in the black, there were two specks of green.
And below it, and moving with it, a flare of green sparks.
Her balance was regained by wind-milling her arms and lifting her knees, and the corner was too far away by fifty yards. She was going to be caught. Whoever was chasing her was going to catch her, and she was going to die now because she didn't die the other night.
She was going to be murdered by a shadow with green eyes.
A sob, please don't panic, and something sent her streaking across a lawn toward an illuminated white door. Up three brick steps, and her finger found the bell, slipped off, and found it again, pressed hard and long until the door swung open and she bulled Jeff aside.
"Shut it!" she demanded, and when he didn't move fast enough, she grabbed it and slammed it and leaned against it, and closed her eyes.
"Trace?"
There were narrow windows on either side of the frame. Jeff pulled aside a white curtain, looked out, and frowned.
"Trace, what's wrong? Was somebody chasing you?"
Chapter Fourteen
Don set his desk chair so that he could look out the window, angled it so he could appear to be studying in case someone came in. Not that anyone would. Norman and Joyce were at the concert, and their return would be loud enough to forewarn him should he need it. Now all he had to do was sit and wait, and he got up only once, when the room's lamp turned the pane black and all he could see was his ghost staring back.
He hurried downstairs and switched on the light over the back door, hurried back up and dropped a towel over the lampshade. The backyard was white now, the grass seeming flat, the trees like ragged gaps torn out of the night; there was a wind blowing, a storm coming, and the houses on the next block were infrequently silhouetted by distant flashes of lightning.
He waited, and pondered the dreams, latching on to an image, turning it, poking at it, casting it away for another until, shortly before nine, he concluded there was nothing he could do about it-the horse was real. And not real. A creation out of something he didn't understand, though he knew that because of what it had done to the Howler it was there to protect him.
Real. And not real.
He looked at his other friends, now tinted in orange from the towel over the bulb, and back to the window.
The horse was not going to let anyone hurt him.
>
The how and the why of it would come later; right now he had to learn more. Real or not, the horse was an animal, and he had to know more about what that animal was, and what control, if any, he had over it, how it would fit into the new Rules he was making.
His lips moved in something less than a smile, and the doorbell rang. He jumped, a hand flat on his chest. A swallow, an embarrassed glance around, and he rushed downstairs, waited for the bell to ring again before pulling open the door.
It was Sergeant Verona, hat in hand and an odd smile, asking to come in.
"Sure," Don said, stepping back and pointing to the living room. "Have a seat."
There were questions, and Don told him he was fine, still a little shaky but planning on going back to school tomorrow. The press hadn't bothered him all night, though he admitted that while it was kind of unsettling seeing himself on television, it was also kind of nice.
"I don't look like a freak," he said, taking his father's chair.
"You think that? That you look like a freak?" Verona was on the couch, the hat turning over slowly.
"No, not really. Maybe I look like a movie star."
"Just don't get used to it, son," the man said kindly. "Tomorrow there'll be another murder someplace, or a factory fire, and they'll forget all about you."
"Good," he said. And: good, he thought, that's real good.
"My mother and father are over at—"
"I know. It's you I wanted to see anyway, if you don't mind. You're not studying or anything?"
"A little. It can wait."
"The branch," Verona said.
Don was puzzled. "The branch?"
"The one you hit Falwick with."
Verona stopped playing with the hat, looked down at one foot tapping on the rug, looked up at Don. His hand slipped a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped it over his face, but Don saw the eyes-they never left him, never blinked.
"This is hard," the man confessed. "I don't know how to say this right, so I'm just going to say it, okay?"
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