The simplest thing would be to threaten to show it to his father. And if that didn't work, he could bring it to the police. Tar would protest, of course, and claim that he'd lost it or something, but there'd be enough hassle, enough problems, that-
'He'll beat the shit out of you.'
The words were soft in the room's steamy fog, but harsh enough to make him sigh.
Someone rapped on the door, and he turned off the shower, grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist. His mother called, and he yelled back, telling her he'd be only a few minutes more. And when he was dry, he held the jeans to his waist and slipped into the hall. A light was still on in his parents' room. The downstairs was dark. Shivering at the shock of cool air on his skin, he hurried into his own room and closed the door behind him, dropped the jeans where he stood and dropped onto the bed.
A few minutes later he stirred, stood, and padded to the window.
The backyard was empty.
All right, he thought to his friend in the dark, now that I know you're there, what do we do next?
'Stupid mutt,' Tar said. He approached the dog with one hand out and waving. The fat old thing had gotten out again, probably through the flap Delfield had put in the back door of his house. Sometimes the old man forgot to latch it at night, and the dog would spend hours roaming the neighborhood, getting at garbage cans, digging up flower beds, until someone spotted it and brought it back. Tar had always ignored it before. The last time, however, he'd been pissed on beer and grabbed it up and took it back himself before he knew what he was doing. Delfield had given him ten bucks for the trouble. Crazy. Just like the dog.
But hell, he thought as he bent into a crouch, ten bucks is ten bucks.
'C'mon, stupid,' he said in a pleasant voice. 'C'mon to Tar or I'll cut your head off.'
The dachshund recognized his voice and stopped in the middle of the streetlamp's fall, its rat's tail wagging furiously, its tongue lolling from the side of its mouth.
'C'mon, baby, come to Tar.'
The dog sat on its haunches.
'Ah, Jesus.'
He straightened and took a step forward, and stopped when he saw a shadow on the other side of the light.
The dog yipped once and jumped to its feet, its head down now, its tail snaking contritely between its legs.
Tar squinted and moved to his right toward the middle of the road, snapping his fingers in an effort to bring the dog to him while he tried to make out who was standing there in the road.
The wind rose.
A trailer truck coughed and thundered down the boulevard behind him.
Then a hand swooped into the light and snatched up the dog, and John Delfield followed, shaking the animal lightly before hugging it to his side.
'Foolish beast,' he said with a slight German accent, and smiled at Tar.
'You try to catch him for me?'
Tar nodded, wondering what in hell was wrong with his heart that it wouldn't stop pounding. Hell, it was only old man Delfield and who the hell was scared of him?
The dachshund squirmed in the man's grasp, but Delfield managed to reach into a hip pocket and pull out his wallet, finger out a bill. 'Take it,'
he insisted when Tar protested with a wave. 'You try. That's good as doing.'
Tar accepted the money with a nod and a smile, and watched him waddle off around the corner. Crazy, he thought; the two of them are goddamn crazy. Then he raked a hand through his hair and decided to drive over to Pratt's anyway. Walking now was out of the question. He reached for his keys, and couldn't find them.
'What the ... ?'
He slapped at his pockets, turned them all out, then rolled his eyes skyward and slammed the heel of his hand against a temple. 'Fuck. Jesus
... fuck!'
They must have fallen out at Boyd's while he was doing the station wagon. Christ, all he needed now was for someone to pick them up and his ass was grass. Damn, he had to go back and find those stupid keys. He started for the curb, and stopped again.
Down at the end of the block, barely lit by the streetlamps on School Street, something was standing. And watching.
Delfield, he thought; the stupid dog must've gotten away again and the old man was out prowling.
It moved, then, out of the light, into the dark, and Tar heard the distinct sound of something breathing. Something large, and breathing heavily.
He half-turned toward the boulevard, and swiveled his head back slowly.
He was mistaken; it wasn't Delfield and it wasn't his imagination.
It was there, and it was darker than the shadows, moving slowly toward him straight down the white line. He could hear it breathing, snorting once, and could hear the sound of something hard striking the blacktop, rhythmically, steadily, and unless he was as crazy as Delfield, it sounded just like a horse.
He blinked and took a side-step toward the avenue.
He shuddered, unable to shake the feeling that whatever it was, it was coming for him, not toward him. That was stupid. It was all stupid.
There were no horses in Ashford, and it was only Delfield for god's sake looking for his stupid fat dog.
Closer to the light, and he saw a glint of dark green hovering in the air; two of them now, and a long second passed before he realized they were eyes. Green eyes. Large, and slanted, and staring right at him.
The streetlight didn't reach to the middle of the blacktop, but when it passed the white on the ground, Tar could see a massive black flank, and the side of a massive head. One green eye flaring. A flash of long white teeth.
And steam, maybe smoke, drifting from its nostrils.
'Shit,' he said, and started to trot away. He didn't know what it was, but he wasn't going to hang around long enough to find out. He'd go somewhere else. Maybe Brian would know.
The sound picked up speed, and when he reached the middle of the empty boulevard, he looked over his shoulder and saw it.
Running, forelegs high, hooves casting greenfire and greeneyes dark with hate.
The hope it might have been some sort of joke, Don getting back at him for the dead bird and the bike, faded to an ember. And something inside told him he was dying.
Running, galloping, and seemingly moving in slow motion.
He broke into a panicked sprint, slanting across the avenue toward the inlands in the center, leaping the curb and ducking around the trees, the bushes, toward the center of town. Sooner or later he'd see a car, the cops, and everything would be all right.
Don't look; and he did.
It was pacing him ten yards behind, fully visible now and terrifyingly huge. Green eyes staring, greenfire snapping, the steam from its nostrils raising a cloud that it moved through, an ebony ghost flying through the boiling fog.
Tar whimpered and ran harder, leaping over a fallen branch, plowing through a bush he couldn't swerve around in time. He stumbled and grabbed a tree trunk, spun around, and ran again.
Hooves on the blacktop, iron striking iron.
A U-turn break in the island surprised him, and he fell shouting to the street, the skin on his palms scraping onto the tarmac, one cheek slamming down and bringing tears to his eyes. He lay for several seconds gulping air, wondering where all the traffic was, the people, why couldn't anyone see what was going on? He swallowed and tasted blood; he pushed himself to his knees and staggered to his feet.
A snorting; he spun around, and it was standing right behind him.
Tar screamed for his father.
And the stallion reared in a cloud of greenfire and white.
The telephone rang, and Tracey hurried into the kitchen to grab it before it woke her mother or one of her
