Then she saw the clock and knew she was going to be late. Oh, shit, she thought, threw the towel on the floor, stomped to the doorway, and said, 'I'm going. I'll be back around eleven.'
'I'll be here.'
'Talk to Don, okay?'
He lifted a hand-maybe, maybe not.
Damn you, she thought, and managed to get behind the wheel before she started to cry. Not long, and not loud. Just enough to prove she could still do it, and still cared enough to want to in spite of the daydreams and in spite of Falcone. It wasn't easy; she had admitted weeks ago he meant nothing to her, not even as a port in her private storm. He meant, if she were going to be honest, even less than that lawyer she'd taken up with shortly after Sam had died. That episode had been a search for meaning, or so she claimed, and so Norman said he believed in his forgiving; this was a search for something else, something she couldn't define and was growing weary of trying. What it probably was, she thought bitterly, was a woman on the verge of menopause, looking for her teenaged self in a mirror that lied.
She snorted a laugh at the image and backed out into the street, driving off with the resolve to get home as soon as possible. Maybe then they could talk, the three of them, about what was going on, and what they could do, and how much they really loved each other. They had to. Don's question tonight proved it.
Something moved in the shadows.
'You know my father's gonna kill me,' Tracey said, walking as fast as she could, her shoulders lifted against the cold that had come with Monday's dark.
'God, you're not that late,' Amanda told her. Her long black hair was tied back with a black ribbon, her school jacket open to the night's chill. 'God, you'd think, he was your keeper or something.'
Sometimes he thinks he is,' she said, though with a smile that made Amanda frown and shake her head. 'It's just a pain how old-fashioned he is sometimes, you know? But ... well, he's just afraid for me, that's all. Because of the Howler.'
'Well, for god's sake, that slime's probably a million miles away by now. He can't be stupid enough to hang around, right? Christ, he's probably all the way to Ohio or someplace.' She giggled. 'Damned fuzz can't find the lint on their shoulders.'
'Hey,' Tracey said softly.
'Oh. Sorry.' Without regret, only a shrug and a lengthening of her stride.
'Sure.'
'No, I mean it.'
Tracey waved off the weak apology and readjusted the notebooks she carried in her hand.
Amanda began humming, and cut herself short. 'I wonder if old Tube's gonna be up all night again.'
'Again?'
'Yeah, sure. Didn't you hear Brian today? He said the old fart was up all night yesterday scrubbing his porch. He had one light, a flashlight, and when Brian drove by, he turned it off. I guess he didn't want anyone to see what he was doing. I'll bet he used some of that crap from his lab, y'know? Homemade bleach.' She giggled and mimed a scientist pouring a solution from one beaker to another. 'Maybe he drank some of it. Maybe he thinks it'll give him more hair.'
'All night, huh? No kidding?'
'I'll tell you,' Amanda said, moving closer and lowering her voice. 'I'm glad Fleet wasn't there. With his luck they would have been caught, suspended, and thrown in jail.' She sniffed and looked behind her. 'The old fart had it coming though. He's been busting our asses since school started. I don't think he wants us to graduate.' A laugh, and a slap at Tracey's arm. 'He really hates it that Fleet's getting straight A's, y'know? He thinks Fleet oughta be dumb just because he plays football. Maybe he has the hots for him, y'know?' She laughed again, harder, when Tracey looked away, embarrassed.
The boulevard was empty of everything but its streetlamps and shadows, and it wasn't hard for Amanda to hear footsteps behind her. She looked, and saw nothing.
Tracey saw the move. 'Me too,' she said, and they moved closer to the curb, ready to dash across to the other side should they need to run.
'Dumb.'
'What?'
'This,' Amanda said, nodding to the way they were almost tightroping the curb. 'He's a million miles from here.'
'Sure,' Tracey agreed.
'Besides, I'd kick his balls in if he tried anything with me.'
Tracey nodded, patting the purse she held close to her side. 'I've got a piece of pipe in here. I'd bash his brains in.'
'Pipe?' Amanda was impressed. 'No shit?'
'Dad makes me carry it.'
'Well, hell, sure he does. He's a cop.'
'I don't know if I could use it though.'
'What?' Amanda stopped, staring her disbelief. 'You're nuts, Trace.
You're ... nuts! Of course you can use it! You think you're gonna die, you'll bite the bastard back if you have to.'
Tracey considered, then nodded. 'I guess.'
Another block, and the chill deepened, sharpening the sound of their feet on the sidewalk, giving the light from the streetlamps a sharp, shimmering edge.
They walked arm to arm.
The boulevard was still empty.
'You know what?' Amanda whispered.
'What?'
She looked around and lifted her head. 'The fucker is dumb, that's what!' she said loudly.
'Dumber!' Tracey yelled.
'Dumber than shit!' Amanda screamed.
'Dumbshit!' Tracey shouted, and broke into a fit of giggling that soon had her choking.
And Tanker laughed with them silently, watching as they rushed along the pavement, almost running as they headed toward the park and the shops'
lights beyond and keeping themselves brave by daring the dark. He knew that method well, had used it himself a number of times when he was tramping through enemy territory and didn't want to die.
The difference here was simple-
He hadn't died.
And they were going to.
He kept to the treed islands in the middle of the wide avenue, staying almost directly opposite them, herding them with his presence though he didn't show himself, didn't make a sound, only curling a lip when they almost broke into a headlong dash once the shorter girl stopped choking.
It was tempting, taking two whores on at once, and the shakes were on him bad enough to make his legs cramp and his hair feel as if it were being torn from his scalp. It hadn't been this bad in a long time, and he was glad the clouds had thinned a little, to let out the moon; he was glad, too, of the rain over the weekend. It had kept his friend hidden while he was in that pissant jail, him and a handful of other men, Burns picked up on Saturday night by two cops in plain clothes, one of whom, a dark little creep who looked like a snotty spic, actually looked more frightened than stern. Tanker hadn't tried to run away though, because they didn't know what he looked like, didn't know who he was, didn't know what he had done. He had gone along, acting like he was weak and smaller than he was, saying 'sir' every time he spoke, giving them a phony name, sleeping on their damned cots and eating their damned food, which wasn't all that bad, all things considered.
But this morning he had been released, and cautioned not very gently not to hang around anymore, not at the food joints, or the movie house, or the park, or even the goddamned churches. Babyfuck reasons to run him out of town. Two of the other guys headed directly for the city limits, one for the nearest bar, and Tanker had smoothed and combed and neatened himself up as best he could and stood at the bus stop right in front of the station. He
