Because he was going to have to. If he didn't, and didn't do it soon, one of them was going to notice and think he'd done something to it and make it too late to protest.
The street was quiet, empty, and even as he watched, many of the lights upstairs and down were switched off to yank the houses back into darkness.
Birds of a feather.
He zipped his jacket closed to his neck and sat on the front stoop, the flashlight on the step beside him. Dampness seeped through his jeans to his buttocks, and he shifted, stood, and walked down to the sidewalk.
This is crazy, he thought, and grinned at the word. Of course it is, because you are, jackass. The poster, the shadow, and thinking you're the same as some murdering bum. Three strikes. Third out. Sanity retired and the ball game's over.
Unless it was true.
Unless he and the Howler were closer than he could ever possibly imagine and somehow his subconscious had tuned in to that fact. And if so, he had to find the man, find out where he hid during the dark hours and bring the cops to him. Be the hero, just like he planned, and then dare his father to ground him again, doubt him, and look at him with those pitying eyes. Dare him to yell because he'd left the house without permission.
Crazy.
He hurried toward the park.
Crazy.
He slipped his hands into his pants pockets, thumbs hanging out, and tried not to come down too hard on his heels. He had to look casual, just out for a late night stroll, in case a patrol car came around and wanted to know what he was doing on the streets when there was a madman on the loose. He couldn't tell them then. He couldn't say that he knew the Howler, because they wouldn't believe him. He had to find him, and his den, and only then would he be able to bring in the troops.
Halfway to the corner a car pulled over to the curb and the passenger door opened. He slowed and glanced in, and caught his breath when he saw Tar.
'Hey, Duck, does your mommy know you're out?'
'Lay off,' he said glumly.
'Aw, poor Ducky. Hey, Brian, the Duck says to lay off.'
Pratt leaned over from the steering wheel and grinned. 'Okay, Mr. Duck.
Whatever you say.'
Don glared and moved on, and the car followed him slowly.
'Hey, Boyd,' Tar said in a loud whisper, 'glad to see you found your jacket. Looks good. How'd you get the shit off?'
Don stopped, turned, but Brian drove on, his and Tar's laughter filling the night.
He wanted to raise a fist, but it would have done no good and he would have only gotten into a fight. But it was them, and he groaned because his father would never believe it.
At the corner he stopped again, waited in shadow for a bus to pass, and in waiting considered heading down to Tracey's. She'd be in bed but a pebble against her window might bring her out before her father woke up.
He would talk to her. He would tell her. He would ...
'Shit,' he muttered, and dashed across the boulevard, reached the park wall at full speed, and vaulted over without pausing.
A minute passed, and five before he got up from his knees and made his way to the central path. The park was so much his, he knew right away there was no one nearby, no one to overhear and question him, and take him back to the house.
He was alone.
And as he approached the oval and its curtain of white light he knew he was wrong.
There was something out there, out there in the dark.
Something familiar.
He slowed; he stopped; he sidestepped just before the trees fell away, and he squinted into the light.
There, he thought, craning his neck. It was over there, on the other side, not moving, only watching, and when his left hand reached around behind him he realized with a silent curse he had forgotten to bring the flashlight-he had nothing now he could use as a weapon.
Brian and Tar; it had to be them, back to make sure he understood their position. Beating the shit out of him; and when the police came, they would be sleeping soundly in bed and he would have to explain what he was doing in the park.
He backed away.
A hand rubbed at his mouth.
Crazy; if he wasn't crazy before, he was sure crazy now for thinking of this stunt. The poster obviously had an explanation, the shadows were his nerves because of Pratt and his hatred, but this was complete madness.
A swift search of the nearest brush rewarded him with a four-foot length of dead branch. He hefted it, tapped it against his palm, and prayed frantically that he wouldn't have to use it, though against what or who he didn't know.
Then a voice behind him said, 'Babyfuck,' and a hand grabbed his throat.
Don screamed without making a sound as his hand spasmed and the branch fell from his hand, and before he could attempt to break free, an arm banded hard across his chest, pinning his own to his sides. Brian! he yelled silently; Tar, for god's sake, get the hell off me! But his head was forced back, and when he lowered his gaze from the spin of the treetops, he saw the tweed sleeve, the dried blood, and he knew.
Panic flared and made him hollow. But he was not going to die. Amanda was dead, and Sam was dead, and he was not going to die because he was not anyone else, not just a name on the news; he was Don Boyd, and Don Boyd didn't die. Not yet. God, not yet.
The Howler was too strong to fight, and he had no choice but to let himself be dragged around the rim of the pond, his neck close to breaking, his breathing harsh and shallow, the back of his head hot from the breath that came from the monster's mouth.
'Babyfuck,' said Tanker Falwick. 'You sure are one stupid baby fuck, boy.'
Don swung one leg around and braced a heel against the concrete. The man grunted, and Don whimpered at the pain that blossomed along his spine, but progress toward the dark was momentarily halted.
Falwick whispered, 'You wanna bath? Like the whore? You wanna bath, punk?'
A vicious kick to a calf, and Don went down, the fingers whipping away from his throat to grab a' patch of hair. His eyes watered, and his left arm was taken by the wrist and bent up along his back.
'Look, you punk!' the man gasped in his ear. 'Stop fucking around and look! See that dark shit there? That's blood, pal. Blood. From the whore. Beautiful, ain't it? Must be a gallon of blood there, at least a goddamned gallon. And you know something, punk? They can try for a hundred years, they ain't never gonna get that whore's blood outta there.' A cackling laugh, and Don's face was pressed closer to the ground. 'Hungry, boy? You wanna lick it, punk? You wanna-''
'Please,' Don managed.
'Oh, my, listen to that.'
He swallowed phlegm and acid, blinked away the tears, and wondered why he couldn't have been built like Fleet or Tar so he could leap out of the man's grasp, turn, and beat him to a bloody mess where Amanda had died.
Tanker forced his face even closer to the ground, and when his nose touched the cold cement, he shut his eyes tightly.
'Please,' he said, less pleading now than commanding.
'Aw, babyfuck, you getting mad at the old sarge? You getting mad at me, punk?'
He was. He didn't understand it, but he was. He was terrified of what was coming, and enraged at his helplessness, and he didn't want to die and there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it, not a thing, just like always.
'I-I won't say anything, honest I won't.'
'Aw, the punk's begging. Ain't that nice. They all do, y'know, punk.
They all beg at the end. They think they're hot shit, but they all beg at the end.'
