waiting for her date to show up and take her home. It made him sick, and he refused to go in when Tom had decided he'd had enough of the car's useless shocks. Jarred his kidneys, he said as he slid out and walked away; Quintero only grunted, and rolled down the window to breathe the fresh air.
And heard it in the alley.
He stared for a moment, figuring it was a rummy looking for a place to sleep, looked at the rain, and decided to leave the bum alone.
Then he heard it again, moving away, slowly.
It sounded like someone thumping soft dirt with a shovel.
He glanced at the bar's closed door, then shrugged and pulled his jacket collar up over his neck. He climbed out and touched a hand to his left side to be sure the gun was there, then scowled at the drizzle and moved to the mouth of the alley.
It was dark.
At the back, he knew from rousting Saturday night drunks, was a broken-down wooden fence that led to a backyard. A kid could squeeze through; a grown man would have to swear and climb over.
Wood splintered then, echoing like gunshots, and reflex had him running, revolver in hand, eyes squinting through the mist. But despite the faint light from the street behind and the homes ahead, he could see nothing, not even when he reached the fence and saw the gaping hole.
A tank, he thought; someone's driven a tank through it.
He searched for a culprit, in the alley and the adjoining backyard, and decided it was a drunk in a stumbling hurry to get home.
Another five minutes before he holstered his weapon and headed back toward the car.
And behind him, softly, something moved in the rain.
'It's like going to the same funeral twice a month,' Tracey said to Jeff as they walked down the stadium steps to have lunch. 'She lives in this really creepy apartment, a fourth-floor walkup in the middle of a block that looks like it's been bombed. My father's been trying to get her to move out since Grandfather died two years ago, but she says all her friends are still there and she just won't budge.'
Jeff pushed a forefinger against his glasses to shove them back along his nose, and grinned as they sat, opening their lunch bags and taking out the food. They had bought cartons of milk in the cafeteria, and oranges for dessert, and when they didn't see Don there, they thought he might be outside. Sunday's rain was gone though the clouds had stayed behind, and the temperature had risen as if the sun were shining.
He sighed as he scanned the seats, still dark with moisture. 'Don't see him.'
'Well, he was in math.'
'Did he say anything?'
She shook her head, and a wide fall of hair slipped from behind her ear to cover her eye. 'He looked like hell though. He looked like he hadn't slept all weekend.'
They ate in silence, not close enough to touch, but close enough to sense they were alone out here.
'Trace?'
She looked at him absently, and wondered why he didn't have a girlfriend. He wasn't bad-looking in spite of the thick glasses, he kept his outdated long hair gleaming like a girl's, and when he wanted to be, he was pretty funny in a sarcastic sort of way. She supposed it was because he was third string on the football team, which didn't make him anywhere near a hero, and something less than the fans who crowded the stands at home games. A bad spot, she imagined, and a little silly too.
'Hey,' he said, rapping knuckles on her forehead. 'Hey, are you in there?'
She laughed. 'Yeah.'
'Thinking about Don?'
She shrugged; not a lie, not the truth.
'You going to the concert Wednesday if it doesn't rain?'
'I think so.'
'He ask you yet?'
That's what her mother had asked her that morning, and yesterday night, and yesterday afternoon. But she wouldn't let Tracey call him. It was not the way, she was told sternly; the proper way is for the boy to call first. Only, Maria Quintero didn't know Donald Boyd. Tracey knew he had enjoyed their date as much as she had, and she knew, too, she should have said something to him when he had walked her home. But then there had been the kiss, and the running away.
And as soon as she had realized her mistake, up there in her room, she'd started out again, to stop him from leaving, and her father had walked in from the kitchen. He had been dressed in street clothes, explaining quickly he was working double shifts from now on with Detective Verona, hoping to keep the Howler from striking again in this town.
He hadn't permitted her to leave.
She'd protested tearfully and was promptly ordered straight to her room; it was late, the boy was already gone, and there was the visit to abuela Quintero the following day.
What could she do? The last time she had defied him openly he had taken the strap to her and confined her upstairs for an entire weekend. Her mother, bless her, had snuck food up, and comfort, but could do nothing to gain her release. Luis Quintero had made up his mind.
'He hasn't said boo to me all day,' she told Jeff sadly. 'I don't know if he's mad or what.'
Jeff grinned. 'I think he's scared.'
'Scared? Of what?'
He pointed at her.
'You're crazy.'
Jeff debated only a minute before telling her about Don's asking practically the whole school about her relationship with Brian Pratt. When she protested that there was none, never had been, and as long as there was a breath in her body never would be, Jeff assured her that that's what everyone had told him.
'He was a total loon, you should have seen him.' He chuckled, and drained the rest of his milk in a gulp. 'Put that on top of the detention he had and he was a Space Cadet the whole day.' His head shook in amazement. 'I never saw him like that before. Never.'
'Really?' She didn't bother to feign indifference. Jeff knew her too well. 'Then I don't get it.'
'What's to get? I told you-he's scared shitless.'
'Oh great.'
'Hey, don't sweat it, Trace. By the end of the day, if you wink at him or something, he'll carry your books home in one arm and you in the other.''
She laughed, and felt a blush working on her cheeks. A swallow to get rid of it, a touch to her hair to hide it, and she jumped when the late bell sounded over the seats. Two minutes later she was in the hallway, on her way to Hedley's lab, when she saw Don slumped against the wall outside his history class. She slowed, hoping he'd turn and see her, slowed even more, and finally walked right up to him and jabbed him in the arm. Startled, he pushed away and backed off a pace, his eyes wide, almost panicked, until he recognized her face.
'Hi!' she said brightly.
'Hi,' he replied, not meeting her gaze.
'You're, uh, late for class.'
'Yeah. You too.'
'You going home right after school?'
He lifted a hand. 'I ... I think I'm going to run a little.'
A man's voice called her name, and Don turned away, heading for the staircase.
'I'll see you,' she called softly, and kicked herself when she saw the faces of the class as she rushed to her seat. They knew. She must have it written all over her, from her forehead to her knees. They whispered, someone giggled, and she felt the blush rise again; she cursed then for a full three minutes before the pressure left her chest and her cheeks felt cool again.
The class was endless. And her last class made her feel as if it were Friday and not Monday, and she was almost to the exit with her books cradled against her sweater when she stopped, turned, and collided with Chris Snowden.
