ears almost pricked to catch the slightest hint of panting, of clothes rustling, of moans smothered by kisses.
By the time he was ten rows down, he was out from under the balcony's overhang, and he looked to see if perhaps the culprits were up there.
Looked back and saw it standing at the door.
'Jesus,' he said, and his voice echoed in the empty auditorium, and came back to him, whispering, almost like a prayer.
Greeneyes, staring.
There was no curiosity about what it was, where it came from, what it was doing here. He turned and ran down the rest of the aisle, swearing at the weight he carried when he swerved to the right and slammed into a chair, stumbled forward, and had to grab the back of the next one to keep from falling. As he did, he was turned around, and the stallion was coming toward him. One step at a time.
Greenfire, flaring.
I'm going to die, he thought, and he didn't know why.
The fear that sent a warm wetness down his legs didn't keep him from running again, not stopping until he came up against the stage apron with a jarring, wind-stealing collision. He swallowed bile, shook perspiration from his eyes, and lifted a leg to hoist himself up. He failed once and whimpered, tried a second time and made it, rolling onto his back, spread-eagled for a moment while the stallion kept walking, out of the dark.
'Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.'
He looked wildly to the wings as he scrambled to his feet, hoping that D'Amato hadn't locked the doors leading to the halls beyond. Squinted at the balcony in case the custodian was there, then looked at the creature that had stopped in the aisle's center.
Its ears were back, its eyes narrow and watching, and there was no chance at all it was a joke and he knew it.
It ran.
One moment it was there, a foreleg pawing the aisle's carpet into green flame, the next its muscles rippled and launched it into a full gallop.
Adam gaped, momentarily frozen.
The stallion filled the air with smoke and flame.
For a reason he never knew, Adam looked up at the bulb that formed his own spotlight, and when he looked down he was partially blinded.
But not blinded enough not to see the stallion in the air, leaping easily from the floor to the stage, gliding, glowing, its mouth opened and teeth bared as its head lunged for his throat.
Adam screamed.
The bulb shattered.
And greenfire in the dark that here and there shone on red.
THIRTEEN
Norman was sitting on the porch steps when Don came home. The clouds were still ponderously gathering and the yard was already nearly dark, the streetlamps already on and laying dull silver over the grass and blacktop. The porchlight was glowing a faint yellow as he turned onto the walk hesitantly, unsure why his father should be out here like this-without a coat, his tie off, an empty glass in his hand.
'Hi,' Norman said, and patted the step beside him.
'Hi.' Don sat, holding his books snugly in his lap. He hoped this wasn't going to be an attempt at a father- and-son night. If it was, he might blurt out what he knew, and then he would learn what his father really thought about him.
'What did you think of the pep rally?'
'It was okay, I guess.'
'Roused the troops' blood, I think.'
'I suppose.'
'Gonna smash North's face in tonight, I bet. Brian looked like he was ready to kill anything that moved.'
Don hadn't noticed.
'A shame about Tar. Kid could've been a real star someday. Pratt hasn't got a chance; his head's too big. Boston knew his limitations. You gotta know that to make it big in the world.'
'Tar's dead,' Don said flatly.
'Yeah. What a bitch.' He shifted, belched, ran his hands over his hair.
'Cheerleaders have nice legs, you ever notice that? I mean, when you're not talking to the animals, you ever notice that cheerleaders have interesting legs, son?'
Don didn't know what to say, and so said nothing.
Norman took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. 'You're probably wondering what I'm doing out here, right? I'll probably catch pneumonia and miss the game which, considering the relative importance of this week, is not the proper thing to do.'
The smell of bourbon was not quite a stench, his father's hair not quite untidily mussed over his forehead.
'Well, I'll tell you, son. I'm waiting for your mother.'
Don winced, but Norman didn't see it; he was staring at the lawn and turning the glass around and around between his fingers. Finally he lifted his chest as if taking in a sigh.
'You remember that goddamned rude question you asked us a few days ago?
You remember that, Donald?'
He did. With a clarity that made him take the inside of his cheek with his teeth and bite down, hard.
'Well, I suppose you deserve an answer. After all, you are my sole surviving heir. You are soon to launch yourself upon the unsuspecting world and start your own goddamned life.' He lay a hand on Don's knee and gripped it, massaged it, pulled the hand away. 'You know, your grandfather used to tell me, when he was busting his hump down there in the mills and getting nothing for it but a kick in the ass, even when he became foreman, he used to say that you ought never to plan for your own future because that road you're walking is made of shit. Some of it hard enough to go over, some of it soft enough to drop you in up to your ass.
But it's still shit. He said you should make a future for your kids, like he was doing for me. He said it's the only way people are going to remember you.
'He was right, you know, so don't look so shocked. It's all shit, Donald, and I'm telling you that like my father told me. Of course, some of it, you learn to live with it, if you know what I mean. And some of it can actually do you some good, you know?
'Like Falcone. He's shit. He wants to take his dumbass teachers out on strike and he would have done it first thing Monday morning, but you know what that stupid ginzo did? Aside from pulling that stunt with your grades, do you have any idea what that jackass did?'
Don looked away, hoping that by swallowing hard enough he wouldn't have to cry. He was beginning to understand why he thought the bourbon smelled sour.
'Oh,' Norman said. 'Oh, you saw them.'
He nodded.
'Dumbest thing I ever saw.' Norman laughed sharply. 'He actually ran out of the school and into his car. His car, mind. And there she was, all dressed up like Greta Garbo, like nobody would know who the hell she was. The mystery woman in Harry Falcone's life, you see what I mean?
Well, that was dumb, Donald. Dumb. Because now he can whistle Dixie naked on the boulevard and he ain't gonna get one teacher to follow his ass.
'Good shit for me, bad shit for him.'
'Dad, please.'
Norman set the glass on the edge of the step between them; Don grabbed it before it could fall and put it on the porch.
'Yes,' Norman said.
Don looked at him.
'The answer to your question is yes. I probably knew that the day Sam died and your mother blamed me
