Something bugs you, and you don't understand it, so you work at it and worry at it until it makes some kind of sense. Do you know what I'm talking about?'
Don did, and didn't; he knew the sensation, was enmeshed in it now, but didn't know the reference.
'Falwick,' Verona said. 'I'm thinking you didn't hit him with that stick.'
Don frowned. 'But I did,' he said.
Verona nodded as if expecting the answer. 'What I'm thinking, you see, is that you were there, all right. I mean, everything points to it, there's no question about it. But I don't think you were alone.'
Don gripped the armrests tightly. 'I was,' he insisted politely. 'There was no one else, just me.'
'No friends?'
'No friends.'
'I wonder, see, if a few of you got together after your friend was killed and decided to take matters into your own hands. It wouldn't be the first time.' Verona smiled guilelessly. 'It's possible you were sent out there as bait, and when Falwick jumped you, the others came out of the trees.'
'No,' Don whispered.
'It's possible that after it was done, after you had beaten that old man to death and saw what it looked like, they left you to take the rap, or the credit.'
'No.'
Verona mopped his face again and put the handkerchief away, picked up his hat, and flipped it several times as if flipping a coin.
'It's good to protect your friends, Don. But,' he said louder, when Don leaned forward to protest, 'it's not good to do what you did. It's murder, Don. Planning and executing a scheme like that is murder in the first degree no matter how old you are. That's the law. You're a good kid, a great kid, and there's not a damned thing I can do about it now but tell you that I'm thinking you're a murderer, you and your friends.'
'I'll tell my father,' was all he could think of to say.
'Do that,' Verona said, standing and waving Don back in his seat. 'Maybe it'll reopen the case and we'll find out the truth.'
He left quickly, quietly, leaving Don in the chair staring at the fireplace, tapping a foot on the floor. He thought maybe he was in trouble, but he didn't know what kind. There was no evidence to implicate anyone else, certainly not the stallion, and he would be laughed into the loony bin if he tried to explain what really had happened.
His eyes fluttered and closed.
There was a sour taste in his mouth.
Then his hands raised in fists high over his head and he slammed them down on his legs, on the armrests, against his forehead and staggered to the hearth where he kicked at the bricks.
They were doing it again.
Jesus Christ, now even the police were trying to take away something that belonged to him. He whirled, his hands grasping for something to throw, found nothing, and jammed into his pockets instead. Stiff-legged, he stalked across the room, heading for the stairs as he tried to decide if it was worth crying over or not. He certainly felt like it, and stabbed the back of his hand against his eyes while he cautioned that he was feeling sorry for himself again. Nobody was going to take anything away from anybody. Verona sure wasn't, because he had nothing but a stupid suspicion that something smelled wrong about the death of a killer. And Don wasn't stupid-he hadn't been so blinded by the attention that he hadn't noticed how relieved everyone was that Falwick was dead.
They wouldn't want to resurrect him, not even his memory, just because a detective didn't like being upstaged.
The telephone rang as he hit the first step.
He stared at it, wondering if it was a reporter, or someone for his parents. It didn't occur to him until it rang a fourth time that it might be for him.
It was.
It was Tracey.
'Are you okay?' was the first thing she said after he'd said hello.
'Sure.' He sat crosslegged on the floor, facing the kitchen door. 'Why?'
'You sound terrible.'
'Thanks, I needed that.' A voice in the background made him frown. 'Is that Jeff?' he asked flatly. 'Is Jeff at your house?'
'No,' she said. 'I'm here. At his place, I mean.'
'Oh.'
'Oh,' she echoed in quite a different tone. 'Why ... why, Donald Boyd, are you jealous?'
The frown became a squint. 'Who, me?'
She laughed. 'My god, I don't believe it.'
He didn't speak. He supposed she was right, and the way she laughed hinted that perhaps he had nothing to be jealous about; but that still didn't explain why she was over there and not over here. When he asked her, there was a pause and he squinted again, at the door.
Then he blinked slowly. Through the dark in the kitchen he thought he saw faint pinpricks of green light.
Tracey said something. He blinked again and asked her to repeat it.
'Someone was after me,' she said at last.
'What?' He sat up, nearly pulling the cord straight.
'If you want to know the truth, Vet, I was on my way over to your house, when someone started to chase me. I don't know who it was, but he scared the hell out of me, and Jeff's was the first place I came to.'
Through the panes in the door-a faint glow of white.
'Who was it?' he demanded, hoping he sounded as concerned as he felt as he slowly moved to his knees and stared down the hall.
White light, shifting like fog.
'I told you, I don't know. Jeff went out to look around, but he didn't see anyone.' She paused. 'I don't know. Maybe it was my imagination.''
'Probably.' Oh, my god, he thought. 'Who else is out there but Pratt, y'know?'
Her laugh this time was a bit forced. 'I suppose. He's really pissed at you, you know.'
'So I heard.'
A muffled thump on the door.
'Really?'
'Sure.' His voice sounded as if he were speaking from the moon; he was amazed she hadn't noticed. 'Chris told me when she came to the hospital.'
'Oh?'
Now it was his turn, and he wondered what he had done that rewarded him with two girls at the same time.
Then her voice softened, and he had to strain to hear her say, 'I'm proud of you, Don. I wanted to tell you, but I couldn't get the chance at the park.'
'Yeah, well ...'
Another thump, and in the white glow two green slanted eyes.
'I'd still like to come over, if I can.'
'What?' He was on his feet, teeth worrying his lower lip. 'I'm sorry, Trace, what did you say.'
'Don, I want to come over. I ... I need you.'
White light green eyes
'I'd like that too,' he stammered. 'But it'll have to wait, okay? The dragons just came home. I'm supposed to be resting.'
'What? Are you all right?'
'I told you I was. I'm just ...' He thought about it then, the chance to talk to someone about what he had seen, what he was believing, what he was hoping wasn't the slipping of his mind.
The door trembled, and he closed his eyes and silently begged Tracey to forgive him.
'Look,' he said, 'can I see you in school tomorrow?'
