Not the end, he thought, suddenly contorting his body in hopes of breaking the hold. But his head shrieked at the pull of hair, and his thigh burst into flame when a heel jammed into it, and his jacket and shirt where the man had gripped them from behind closed around his chest and restricted his lungs.
'They all beg, the little whores, and it don't do any good. Say good-bye, punk. You little white trash shit.'
Don gagged as his head was pulled back; his eyes opened and stared, and then he lashed his right hand around and caught Falwick on the biceps with an elbow. The man grunted his surprise, dropped the hold on his hair, and Don jabbed again swiftly, scissoring his legs until he was over on his back, his left arm still behind him but pinning Falwick's arm there as well.
And he saw the man's face.
The same hard-lined face, the same grubby man he had seen under the bleachers.
Falwick spit at him, clubbed the side of his head with a fist, and rose, dragging him up, releasing the bent arm and spinning him around.
Laughing. Coughing. Four times around until he let go with a squeal and Don pinwheeled into the pond, landed sitting up and shaking water from his eyes.
A mistake! he thought jubilantly; and I can outrun him.
But first he had to outmaneuver him or distract him, and the man in the tweed jacket and fatigue pants was standing right there on the edge, watching him smugly, licking his lips and lightly rubbing his arm.
'You gonna run?' Falwick asked with a sneer. 'You gonna try for it, boy?
If you are, you better get up, or I'm gonna cut you where you sit.'
It was unreal.
It was something happening to someone else in a dream.
It was like ... and Don saw himself on the movie theater screen, rising vengefully from the cold water and lunging to the apron, whirling to plant a foot solidly in the man's chest. A bone snapped. Blood gouted from the man's scabbed lips. Another foot to the stomach, a lethal fist to the chin, and the Howler fell backward, rigid and unconscious, into the pond.
On the screen.
'Goddamn punk,' the Howler said in disgust. 'You're all the same, you fucking little punks. All the goddamned same. You ain't got no guts.
You're baby fucks, you don't deserve to live.'
Don eased himself along until he felt the apron press against his back.
'Good,' Falwick said, nodding. 'Very good. You're trying for a head start.'
A car horn sounded shrilly on the boulevard. The screech of panicked brakes, the prolonged, sickening crunch of metal slamming into metal.
'Well, shit,' Falwick said.
Don looked over his shoulder, not daring to believe it. An accident. The police. He stumbled to his feet, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted. Scrambled to the apron and started to run.
Falwick was in front of him, arms spread, fingers waggling at him to try it.
Don made a feint to the left, to the right, but the Howler only stood there, his hands up and out now, showing him the nails that had grown into claws.
A cry and a wild turn, and he was racing up the path toward the ball field, head high and arms pumping, trying to ignore the agony in his neck and thigh, trying not to listen to the man chasing him and closing ground, wheezing a laugh and snarling like a dog let loose from its leash.
Out of the trees and across the grass, heading for the north exit. There were houses there. He could yell. He could break a window. He would get somebody to come to the door, see what was happening and call the police. He could still be a hero; he could still get home and still be alive, and jesus please don't let me die I don't wanna die not like Amanda.
The Howler appeared at his side, pacing him easily and grinning. 'Hey, punk, this the best you can do?'
He faltered, and the man bellowed and snapped a clubbed fist into his chest. He fell forward, still running, feeling the fire around his heart while he scrabbled on hands and knees before his elbows gave out and he slammed to the ground. Panting. Crying. Furious at himself for being such an idiot, furious at the Howler for not letting him live, furious at the whole fucking world for all their goddamned rules!
He tensed, waiting for the blow.
He looked up, grass and dirt stuck to his cheeks, and saw the Howler standing over him, hands on his hips.
'You done, punk?'
He sagged, curled, and felt his mouth open slowly.
'Little bastard.'
The Howler looked up at the sky, at the moon, and cocked his head as though listening to instructions from the night. Then he reached down to grab the jacket, and Don wriggled away, twisting until he was crab-walking on his buttocks.
'Christ,' the Howler muttered, reached again, and froze.
The kid's eyes were open in terror, but he wasn't looking at him.
Falwick snorted, reached again, and froze again when he heard it behind him- Iron striking iron. Hollow. Slow.
'What the fuck?'
Don felt his lips begin to quiver, felt the cold from the ground travel up through his clothes to cling to his skin, but he could neither move away from the man who was turning aside nor could he look somewhere else, to see something, anything, that proved he wasn't crazy at all.
Iron. Striking iron.
Stones on a hollow log.
Wood against wood.
The hooves of a black horse clopping softly on the earth.
Falwick shook his head, rubbed his eyes, shook his head again and lifted his hands. 'What the hell is this?'
The stallion was on the far side of the diamond, more shadow than substance, its sides gleaming black, its mane untouched by the wind that rose from the light of the moon. It moved without moving its head, gliding across the basepath, across the pitcher's mound, across the grass, and stopping.
Falwick tried to look behind it, to see where the owner was and if he would have to kill more than once tonight; Don pushed himself backward, not daring to believe it.
'Fuck off,' Falwick said then, and turned back to his prey with a this is it, pal grin.
The horse snorted and pawed the ground.
Falwick looked over his shoulder, and Don saw the blood drain from his grimy face.
The horse, moving again, deliberately, more slowly, was half again as big as any Don had ever seen. Its muscles rolled and flexed like black waves over black water; its tail was arched and twitching, its forelock blown back between ears that lay flat along the sides of its massive head; and the eyes were large and slanted, and a dark glowing green.
'You?' the boy whispered.
It paused, and looked at him, and he saw from his vision's corner the Howler backing away.
'You?'
The horse waited.
Don looked to Tanker Falwick, closed his eyes, and saw Amanda.
I could be a hero, he thought, and who would believe me?
His eyes shut more tightly and saw his empty room, heard his mother call him Sam, heard his father as much as call him a liar. Teachers pushing him. Tracey not calling. Brian and Tar and Fleet and all the others. The rainbow lights behind his eyelids stung like dull needles; his fading black eye felt as if it were bleeding at the edges; and then he saw himself on the park grass, his eyes open and blind, his throat torn and bleeding.
The horse waited.
His eyes opened again, the stinging gone, the images gone, and the animal was still there.
I'm crazy, he thought; and suddenly the nugget in his chest expanded, exploded ... and he felt nothing at
