unshaven chin. A man who pushed himself back against the wall and waved him away a second time, a third, without saying a word.
'Are you all right, mister?'
Again the dismissal.
'Hey, if you need help or something ...'
The man glowered and Don backed off, looked to the stands for someone to call, looked back and blinked. Once. Slowly.
The red vanished, and he could see again with a clarity that hurt his eyes. But he felt nothing. He only returned to the bleachers and smiled at the man hiding under the seats.
'Fuck off, kid,' the man said.
Don continued to smile, but there was no mirth, no humor, just a grim, silent message that he knew who the man was; he knew, and he didn't approve.
'Damnit, fuck off you punk creep,' the man snarled.
He nodded and walked away, across the grass and up the steps and around the side of the school toward home.
Fantastic, he thought; this is fantastic.
If he wanted to, he could be a hero. He could go right into the kitchen and call the police and tell them that he knew where the Howler was. And if the killer had fled by the time they arrived, he would be able to give them more than just one lousy clue, he could give them a complete description. The first one. The only one. And the Howler wouldn't be so safe anymore.
But when he came into the foyer, he saw his jacket draped over the newel post. He poked at it, then hooked a finger under the collar and flung it over his shoulder.
Boy, he thought, this is a great day. My jacket's back and I could be a hero if I wanted.
He went-to the kitchen to get a can of soda and stopped in the doorway.
His father was at the table, scribbling on a yellow legal pad, looking harried and tired, and not at all pleased.
'Found your missing jacket, I see,' Norman said after a glance up.
'Yeah. Who brought it back?' He opened the refrigerator, got his drink, and hook-shot the pull tab into the garbage.
'Mr. Hedley.'
'Who?'
Norman dropped his pen onto the pad and leaned back. 'Mr. Hedley. You remember him, the teacher? He brought the jacket to my office yesterday morning.'
He didn't understand, and stared at the man until, at last, he began to see.
'You think I did it, huh?'
Norman shook his head. 'No, not really.'
Red again, this time like a wave.
'What do you mean, not really? I didn't do it, if you want to know.' He slammed the can on the counter, ignoring the soda foaming over the sides. 'Jeez!'
Norman puffed his cheeks and blew out. 'Donald, I don't have time to argue. You say you didn't dump that crap on his porch, but he did find the coat on his hedge. And he does think you emptied that bottle in his classroom. He puts two and two together and decides to be a nice guy and come to me first, not to the police.'
'Okay,' he said. 'Okay.'
'And you say you didn't do it. Even after all the grief, and the detentions, you still didn't do it.'
'My god!' he exploded. 'What do you want from me, a written confession?
You want me to take a lie detector test?'
'Donald, that's enough.'
Don almost told him that they were father and son, and there ought to be a little trust in a guy's word now and then.
But he didn't.
He said, 'You're right, Dad. It's enough.'
He walked stiffly to the foot of the stairs, hesitated until he was sure he wouldn't be chased, then hurried up to the bathroom. He filled the basin with cold water and splashed it over his face, soaked a washcloth and ran it around his neck.
But the red wouldn't go away.
It spread across the mirror and faded to a pink pale enough for him to see his reflection; it thumped through his chest until he thought he would explode; it poured into his ears with a roaring like the ocean just after a storm; it swirled around him, drew him in, spun him out and vanished so suddenly he had to grab the edge of the sink before he fell to his knees.
He was sweating, and he was cold, and he draped a towel around his neck and went into his room, closed the door, and stood in front of the poster.
The trees were still there, and the ground fog, and the road.
And the stallion was still partially hidden behind a screen of white lines.
'What's going on?' he whispered nervously, reaching out a cold hand to touch the space where the stallion was fading. 'What's going on?'
Then he sat on the bed and clamped his hands to his face. Quite suddenly he was afraid. Not of what was happening to the horse, but of the madness that must be taking hold of him to make him think it was slowly disappearing. That had to be it. He had to be going crazy. There wasn't a poster in the world that had a picture that disappeared by stages, and there wasn't another kid in the world who talked to a stupid photograph and called it his friend and told it his secrets and asked for its advice. There wasn't anyone like him at all because he was going crazy, and he couldn't even tell Tracey because she had called Jeff and not him.
***
Jeff was scared.
There was some maniac running around town killing off the people he knew, there was a feeling deep inside him in a place he couldn't find that he'd lost his chance to have Tracey, and there was a madman, an unknown person or thing or something else that was taking over the body of who used to be his best friend.
As soon as Don had walked away from him at the stadium, he'd stomped up the steps and back into the school. For a while he stood helplessly in the team locker room, knowing there'd be no practice, but not knowing where else to go. Home was out of the question because his dad was at work; Beacher's was out because he didn't have any money.
What he wanted to do was go to Tracey's. What he wanted was someone to talk to. What he wanted was someone to tell him-as she would, he just knew it-that it was all right to cry when a friend of yours dies.
And he did.
And when Tar Boston came in, whistling, he wiped his face without taking off his glasses.
'Christ Almighty,' Boston said, 'she wasn't your damned sister, you know.'
Jeff turned away.
'Fuck,' Boston said, and kicked at the wall. 'It ain't right, you know?
It ain't right.'
Jeff waited, heard nothing more, and snapped his lock shut and headed for the door. As he reached for the knob, he thought he heard a sniffling behind him. A muffled sobbing.
Jesus, he thought, and turned around.
Tar was leaning against the wall, grinning while he made the sounds of weeping. 'Four-eyes,' he said, 'you ain't half bad, but you sure ain't a man.'
Jeff walked over to him, and Boston laughed, lifting his hands to ward off the expected blow. He laughed so hard he didn't see Jeff shift his weight to his left foot, and he didn't have time to duck when Jeff kicked him in the balls.
The yell was strangled, and strangled with it were threats that made him smile as he left, striding across the gym to a martial tune in his head.
He was going to pay for that. Boy, was he ever going to pay for it. But the look on the bastard's face was
