the last bell rang. She would have to stop home first to change her clothes, make them easier to discard should the occasion arise, or at least make them seem as if they were ready for stripping. And the more she thought about it, the warmer she felt, the more electric grew the feeling that circled her breasts and centered below her stomach. It was crazy, but she was going to do something stupid if she didn't get out of here, and do it right now.
A book slammed into position. A second one, four more. Up and down the rows, not caring about the glares she received because she was making too much noise. Not caring about the bindings or the bent pages or the squeaks the wheels on the damned cart was making.
She couldn't get out. She had to stay and be a good girl, and confound her classmates until she had everyone who counted right where she wanted.
'Hey, watch what you're doing!'
She looked up and saw Fleet Robinson's freckled hand in the space where she'd almost tried to jam a history book.
'Sorry.'
'No problem, okay?' Fleet winked at her through the gap in the books.
'You going to the concert tonight?'
She looked sideways at the librarian. 'Hell, no.'
'Neither am I. You wanna see a flick?'
'Hell, no.'
He shrugged, but she backed away in a hurry. The invitation had been given pleasantly enough, but she could see Mandy's ghost still lingering in his eyes. That's all he'd talk about, she knew it, and she wasn't about to waste an evening playing earth mother confessor to a jockstrap in mourning.
She backed up another step, saw Fleet's eyes widen in warning, but it was too late. A look around and down as she moved, and she stepped on Norman Boyd's toes.
'Oh god,' she groaned.
Norman creased his brow. 'It's an assassination attempt, is that right, Miss Snowden?'
'Mr. Boyd ...' She lifted her hands, shook her head, and he touched her shoulder again before taking the book he wanted from the shelf and walking out, this time glancing back to see her watching him, ready to cry. A grin, and he strolled on to his office, not bothering with the fiction of scolding himself this time-he had done it deliberately so he could see her reactions, so he could feel the silk against his fingers.
All perfectly legitimate, unless she was smarter than the credit he gave her.
Trouble, Norm, he cautioned as he entered through the private door; there's trouble in them thar hills if you ain't careful.
The telephone rang, and in a moment he was on the line with Tom Verona, explaining that his son was home on doctor's orders but seemed, all things considered, almost back to normal. No, the boy hadn't said anything about the Howler, nor had he mentioned any nightmares-though, he added, Tom didn't sound very good himself. Verona told him he'd had a restless night. Boyd asked about the beer they had promised themselves, and Verona agreed readily, suggesting tomorrow night after the game, and vowing he'd find the principal somewhere in the stadium when Norm said it sounded good to him. When they hung up without good-byes, Norm frowned at the phone. The man sounded godawful, and he instantly regretted the invitation-it may well be he was in for a night of listening to another man's series of marital problems.
Wonderful, he thought; just what I need when I can't handle my own.
Then the bell rang, and the school emptied, and once all was done and the last letter signed and dropped on his secretary's desk, he headed for home.
The sun was nearly below the treetops, skeletal shadows cracking the pavement before him, and he supposed there was no way he could get out of going to North after dinner to listen to the program of the schools'
vocal programs. He'd much rather put his feet up in the den and watch a football game, or a movie on cable, or go across the street to see John Delfield and tease that stupid dachshund and play a hand or four of cribbage.
Or call up Chris and tell her to come on over and get fucked.
He stopped at the foot of the walk, rubbed the back of a hand over his nose, and saw the first of the night's stars pale above the house.
Trouble, he warned again, and didn't quite not run when he heard the noise behind him, something large and slow coming down the tarmac. It sounded like a horse, but he wasn't going to look; for one reason, it was impossible; and for another, it reminded him of the shadow in the puddle he had seen the other day.
Neither one of them belonged; and neither one was friendly.
Adam Hedley stared at the photocopies of the lab reports he had typed himself yesterday morning, and realized with a groan that filled the house that he had made an error. An inexcusable error. A careless error.
In his entire life he had never made such a stupid misstep in procedure.
He held the page up, letting the flickering beam from the projector fall on the police form, ignoring for the moment the writhings and moans from the screen he'd erected in his cellar and concentrated on the precise language he had chosen for describing the condition of the club Donald Boyd had used to end a madman's mad life.
After he had read it a fourth time, he slapped off the projector and hurried up the stairs. There was no way around it; he would have to go to the station and see if he could find Ronson or Verona, see if either would permit him to run the tests again.
Buttoning a salt-and-pepper overcoat to his neck, he stood on his porch and wrinkled his nose before heading for his car. The stench was gone, but he still smelled it, still felt it, and thought perhaps it was time to find another home.
He would have to call the coroner's office too. If he'd made a mistake, they had as well.
Then he slid in behind the wheel, turned on the ignition, and looked down the street for signs of oncoming traffic.
What he saw was something standing in the middle of the road, down at the far corner, just beyond the reach of the only streetlamp the local hooligans hadn't shattered.
It stood there, and it waited, and for no good reason he could think of, Hedley made a U-turn in the middle of the block and sped off the other way.
After practice Brian lifted weights with Tar, Fleet, and a half-dozen others from the team until long after the dinner hour, took a shower knowing Gabby D'Amato was watching, and sprinted home because something was behind him, pacing him silently and staying hidden in the dark.
Fleet rode home in Tar's battered sedan, looking through the rear window so often, Boston almost threw him out.
Jeff made excuses for the weight session that afternoon. He knew Tar must have said something to Brian about the other day, and he didn't want an Indian club smacked between his legs.
He did his homework, cleaned his room, and each time he passed a window he couldn't help looking out, looking for something he knew was out there, wondering if he should call Tracey and afraid to pick up the phone.
His father called and told him he'd be working late at the office, so he made his own supper, with his back to the kitchen window.
And when the dishes were done, he looked at the telephone and wiped his hands on his jeans, took off his glasses and wiped them on his shirt.
It was dumb.
But he knew that if he lifted the receiver now, nothing would be there, not even a dial tone.
Not even static.
Only a dead spot, like the dead black he saw in the street, something more than shadow, something less than the night.
After supper Tracey tried to call Don. The line was busy, and at a stern reminder of the promise to herself, she set her mouth and shoulders and went downstairs to fetch her coat from the closet. Her mother asked where she was going, and Tracey told her; her father never stirred from his nap on the couch.
'Please,' her mother said with a fearful look to the sleeping man, 'wait until he wakes up.'
