He applauded and heard nothing, saw nothing until he realized the others were filing out. Chattering excitedly, making plans for the night, for the next day. Ignoring him because he was a hero on Wednesday and time marches on, like the band marching swiftly to the end of the field to sloppy drum work, out of step, finally falling apart and heading for the exits.
Quickly he made his way against the crowd to the bottom of the stands, vaulted the iron railing down to the track, and ran toward Tracey. He called out. She didn't hear him. He called again and dodged around a handful of team members who laughed when Brian in their midst made a loud quacking noise.
Don't mess with me, Brian, he said silently as he glowered back; don't mess with me, man, or I'll have you dead.
He stopped then and swallowed.
Oh Jesus. Oh God.
"Y'know, I'm beginning to think I'm a jinx."
He stepped back quickly, just able to avoid colliding with Tracey who was trying to juggle her music, disassemble her flute, and open its case at the same time. When he looked blankly at her, she gave him a sour grin and forced the sheets of narrow paper into his hands, put the instrument away and took the music back. Her cap was off and her hair was taken by the afternoon's breeze across her forehead, over her eyes.
The uniform's tunic was unbuttoned at the top and he could see the hollow of her throat, the top of her chest.
"Sorry," he mumbled.
Her head tilted. "You looking for me, Vet?"
"Yes. I ... do you need ..." He bit down on his lower lip.
"You want to walk me home?"
"Please," he said, and she took his arm and led them to the open tunnel in the wall. Others hurried past, and the growling of engines in the street competed with shouts, with laughter, with a few of the band members blaring their trumpets and tubas, the whole sounding less like school just over than a game just ended. No one spoke to them and for that he was glad. He was too busy playing the blind man to Tracey's guide dog, trying desperately to force what he'd thought at Brian out of his mind.
Once through the tunnel they turned up toward School Street, closer now against the press of students, so close that she finally slipped her hand into his.
"So what?" she said, looking at him sideways. "Tar?"
He nodded.
"God, it was horrible, huh? You should've seen my father when he came home last night. If he'd known I knew him, he would have made me stay home. My nerves. He thinks I'm pale and weak and suffer from the vapors every time I cut my finger, and you're not listening to a word I'm saying, Donald Boyd."
"Huh?"
"See?"
He squeezed her hand and shoved them through the dispersing crowd onto the school's front lawn. As they walked toward the plaza, he made several attempts to explain what was going on inside his head, and each time he had to stop because he didn't want her to think he was crazy and didn't want her to say that he should talk to his parents.
Finally he just gave up and accepted her silence as patience for his fumbling.
The flagpole was surrounded by a raised brick wall into which had been dumped earth for a planter. The blossoms were gone, but the frost over the past two weeks hadn't yet killed the stems and broad leaves. Don sat on the edge and Tracey sat beside him, dumping her instrument case and books from her arms, then twisting so she could see him.
They were alone.
The sun was already behind the building and the plaza was coated in chilly shadow. There was no movement in the windows, and the flag above them snapped at the air like cynical hands clapping.
"He wasn't your friend, you know," she said, one finger skating over the top of the bricks, following the riverbed of mortar that held them together. "It's not like it was with Mandy, I mean."
"Yeah, I know."
"I mean, he couldn't stand you, Don, and you probably hated his guts. Especially after last night. So I don't get it. I don't get it."
He looked toward the school, the steps, the lawn, the street. "I killed him."
She slapped his arm, hard. "That isn't funny."
"I know." At the plaza, his thighs, the sky, the trees.
"I ... you didn't, you know. I know you didn't. Even after what he did, I know you didn't take a bat and lure him out into the street and bash out his brains. You—"
A hand butterflied to her lips to silence herself, and he knew she was remembering the Howler and how he died.
Then he heard cleats on the concrete and he stiffened, drew his lips tight, and closed his eyes when a hand took his right arm.
"How do I look?"
"Like a sports store dummy, dummy," Tracey said lightly.
Don looked at the hand, the face, and grinned at Jeff, who was still in uniform and holding his helmet under his arm.
"Coach says we have to wear this crap the rest of the day." Jeff drew himself up and gave them his profile, slightly marred because of the droop of his glasses. "For inspiration to ourselves and others. So that the Ashford North Rebels will tremble when they see us and never forget the demolition they will suffer." He stuck out his tongue. "That is a quote, I swear to god. You going?"
"Sure," Don said. "You playing?"
Jeff's expression turned sour. "Are you kidding? Coach wants to win this one. Why should he play me when he has Brian, Fleet, and ... and the rest of the guys." He looked at Tracey, saw her sad smile, and slumped against the wall, bouncing the helmet lightly on his lap.
"You know, huh?" Tracey said.
"Yeah. Coach gave us the Gipper speech. It sounds lousy when you say'Win one for the Tar.'"
Don said nothing; Tracey laughed nervously.
More cleats, and Fleet passed them. When it was obvious he wasn't going to stop, Jeff called to him, called a second time and shrugged. When Fleet reached the sidewalk, however, he paused and looked over his shoulder. It was clear he was looking at Don, and just as clear he was wondering.
God, Don thought, and only nodded when Jeff stood with a show of puffing his chest and stamping his feet, announcing he had to get home before the men in the white suits dropped their net over his head. A wave, a look to Tracey, and he trotted away.
Sounding, Don thought, just like a running horse.
Tracey looked at her watch.
The school's shadow deepened.
"Don, I have to go. You—"
"No," he said. "Look, Trace, I'm sorry I said anything, okay? I think ... I think I just want to be alone for a while."
Her eyes were hurt though her mouth worked at a small smile. "Sure. And look, I'll give … why don't you call me later, okay? I have to be back here at six, but call me before, all right?"
"Yes," he said, and snapped his head around to look at her. "Yes, I will. It's just that ..." and he waved his hand in the direction Jeff and Fleet had gone.
"It's okay, Vet, don't worry about it. Just don't give me any of that crap about ... you know, all right?" Then, her eyes wide with surprise at herself, she leaned over and kissed him, harder than she thought, clearly not as long as she wanted. "Call, or I'll break your legs."
He grinned as she hurried away, juggling sheet music, books, and case in her arms. But the moment she was on the other side of the street and around the corner, the grin faded by degrees until he felt the pull of skin as his lips turned down.
What in hell was he thinking of, telling her right out like that that he killed Tar? If she didn't think he was crazy, she was as crazy as he was; and if she believed him, she sure as hell wouldn't believe the part about the horse.
He brought a fist down on his leg.
Damn Jeff, anyway! And Fleet! It was his own fault for stopping here. He should have taken her somewhere else, maybe the park, where he could work it all out so it wouldn't sound so stupid, so she wouldn't be afraid to be with him because she was afraid he'd kill her because he was ... oh shit. Shit. Because this and because that and when the hell did it all turn so damned complicated?
He struck his leg again and gathered up his books.
There was a moment, as he faced the school, when he was tempted to go inside and talk to his father. Then Falcone came out and took the steps two at a time. He nodded as he passed, jacket tails flapping and a briefcase in one hand, and half-walked half-ran over the plaza. Don turned toward home, taking a shortcut across the grass, kicking the ground once in a while and only half turning his head when a car raced past.
A book fell. He knelt to retrieve it, but he didn't take his eyes from the car. It was Falcone's, and his mother was driving.
She was wearing dark glasses and there was a dark kerchief around her hair, but he knew it was her.
A panicked look toward his father's office; there was no one in the window.
A stunned look back to the street; the car was gone.
Without thinking he hurried around the corner of the building and down the steep slope to the wall gates. They were still open, and he ran through, dropping his books at the edge of the grass and falling into a rhythm as he began to take a lap. Eyes blinking rapidly. Mouth open. Feet flat. Arms nearly motionless at his side. By the time he was into the first turn, he had recovered enough to bring his knees and arms up, to correct his breathing, to pace himself for a session he knew would last a long time.
The stands were empty.
A white ghost of sheet music flapped across the field like a broken-winged bird.
A glance at the school, and he saw a face in a window on the third floor.
"Fuck you, Hedley," he said between clenched teeth. "Fuck you too, and leave me alone!"
Adam Hedley worked a forefinger across his mustache and turned away from the window with a puzzled grunt. He had intended on staying at school, working on a few papers so he would have nothing to take home over the weekend. There was no sense in leaving since he had to be back by five-thirty in order to take tickets, and he'd already conned sandwiches from the cafeteria to pass for supper until he could get something better after the game.
Boyd changed that, however.
Watching the kid moving like a drunken zombie around the track reminded him of the tests he had run a second time at the station's limited facilities. And the results, which were the same as he'd gotten the first time around. The moment he'd finished, he had hurried to Verona's office, but the man was gone, and Ronson had left town on an extended weekend. He thought of calling the coroner, but discarded the notion almost immediately; he and that prissy little sonofabitch never did get along, and he would be damned if he was going to hand the man his own head, especially on a platter he had made himself. Instead, he had decided to wait until he could speak alone with the detective, to give him his findings and, frankly, pass the buck.
Now he wasn't so sure the buck ought to be passed.
Now he wondered if there wasn't something in there he could use against Norman, especially after the talk about Tarkington Boston's death—remarkably like Falwick's if half the stories were true.
It took him half an hour to clean up the lab to his liking, cursing all the while the students who couldn't read labels and didn't give a damn when they could. He locked the storeroom, the cupboards, and his desk; he switched off the lights and was startled to realize how dark it had become. A check of the windows showed him the clouds that had moved nearer since the rally, obscuring the sun and bringing a false dusk to the roofs of the town.
A gust of wind slapped at the panes, found a crack somewhere and rustled the shades.
He locked the door and dropped his keys into his jacket pocket, ran his palms back along his fringe of red hair, over his bald scalp, and started for the staircase, squinting because there seemed to be something wrong with the fluorescent lights in the ceiling. Dimmer; one of them down there flickering a little. He would have to speak to that cretin, D'Amato, about it. If he wasn't careful, he would trip and break a leg.
A smile flared and vanished.
That wouldn't be so bad. Then he could sue Boyd and retire on his winnings.
The second floor was dark.
When he emerged on the first, he took two steps toward the main office when a door banged open somewhere ahead of him. He paused, listening for the footsteps of a colleague leaving late, or Norman Boyd's voice calling him to join him.
Echoes of the door meeting wall, hollow against the tiles, booming around the deserted corridor.
A look to his left. The back hall was dark, and the one ceiling light burning made the side hall seem as if it were swirling with fog.
A shrug with his eyebrows, and he headed for the main entrance, passed the office, and wondered at the lack of lights in there. Usually, at least the secretaries' area was illuminated all night for the police to check on when they cruised by. Shoddy, he thought as he took the corner into the foyer. Shoddy procedure, and not the way I'd take care of things.
A noise behind him made him stop a shifting of weight more felt than heard.
He looked and didn't like what he saw.
Opposite the foyer were three sets of double doors leading into the auditorium. One of the center doors was swinging shut.
"D'Amato?" he said loudly.
No answer.
The door closed, hissing.
It certainly wasn't any of his affair, but indecision kept him from leaving. Only last year, after a particularly unruly homecoming rally, he had on a hunch used the upstairs doors and stepped into the balcony, and had discovered two students screwing their brainless heads off in the front row. No alarm was raised; he just sidled into the shadows and watched, excited not by the scene but by the spontaneity of what he saw-most of his films at home he could replay in his sleep without missing a frame.
It was possible, then, that after today's emotional charging, someone had gotten a similar idea.
He checked the front, there was no one in the plaza, no car waiting at the curb.
Then, on his toes and breathing shallowly through his mouth, he hurried to the door, took the handle, and pulled it slowly to him, just enough to permit him to slip inside.
Someone was there.
He could barely see across the rows of dark upholstered seats, and the stage lit by a single bulb in its center was perfectly bare save for an old battered couch against the rear curtain-draped wall.
But years of keeping his eyes on classes with his back turned had given him, he knew, a certain honing of a sixth sense, and he knew beyond doubt he wasn't alone in the dark-walled cavern.
Carefully he slipped on tiptoe down the center aisle, stopping at every row to check its length on both sides, ears almost pricked to catch the slightest hint of panting, of clothes rustling, of moans smothered by kisses.
By the time he was ten rows down, he was out from under the balcony's overhang, and he looked to see if perhaps the culprits were up there.
Looked back and saw it standing at the door.
"Jesus," he said, and his voice echoed in the empty auditorium, and came back to him, whispering, almost like a prayer.
Greeneyes, staring.
There was no curiosity about what it was, where it came from, what it was doing here. He turned and ran down the rest of the aisle, swearing at the weight he carried when he swerved to the right and slammed into a chair, stumbled forward, and had to grab the back of the next one to keep from falling. As he did, he was turned around, and the stallion was coming toward him. One step at a time.
Greenfire, flaring.
I'm going to die, he thought, and he didn't know why.
The fear that sent a warm wetness down his legs didn't keep him from running again, not stopping until he came up against the stage apron with a jarring, wind-stealing collision. He swallowed bile, shook perspiration from his eyes, and lifted a leg to hoist himself up. He failed once and whimpered, tried a second time and made it, rolling onto his back, spread-eagled for a moment while the stallion kept walking, out of the dark.
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph."
He looked wildly to the wings as he scrambled to his feet, hoping that D'Amato hadn't locked the doors leading t
o the halls beyond. Squinted at the balcony in case the custodian was there, then looked at the creature that had stopped in the aisle's center.
Its ears were back, its eyes narrow and watching, and there was no chance at all it was a joke and he knew it.
It ran.
One moment it was there, a foreleg pawing the aisle's carpet into green flame, the next its muscles rippled and launched it into a full gallop.
Adam gaped, momentarily frozen.
The stallion filled the air with smoke and flame.
For a reason he never knew, Adam looked up at the bulb that formed his own spotlight, and when he looked down he was partially blinded.
But not blinded enough not to see the stallion in the air, leaping easily from the floor to the stage, gliding, glowing, its mouth opened and teeth bared as its head lunged for his throat.
Adam screamed.
The bulb shattered.
And greenfire in the dark that here and there shone on red.
Chapter Seventeen
Norman was sitting on the porch steps when Don came home. The clouds were still ponderously gathering and the yard was already nearly dark, the streetlamps already on and laying dull silver over the grass and blacktop. The porchlight was glowing a faint yellow as he turned onto the walk hesitantly, unsure why his father should be out here like this-without a coat, his tie off, an empty glass in his hand.
"Hi," Norman said, and patted the step beside him.
"Hi." Don sat, holding his books snugly in his lap. He hoped this wasn't going to be an attempt at a father-and-son night. If it was, he might blurt out what he knew, and then he would learn what his father really thought about him.
"What did you think of the pep rally?"
"It was okay, I guess."
"Roused the troops' blood, I think."
"I suppose."
"Gonna smash North's face in tonight, I bet. Brian looked like he was ready to kill anything that moved."
Don hadn't noticed.
"A shame about Tar. Kid could've been a real star someday. Pratt hasn't got a chance; his head's too big. Boston knew his limitations. You gotta know that to make it big in the world."
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