through the grass and dropping from the leaves, blurring its outline but not the green glow of its eyes.
'It's a gag,' Harry said. 'Plaster or something. A costume. Is this one of your kid's things?' His voice hardened. 'Is that kid out there playing games with us, Joyce?'
'His name is Donald,' she said quietly, and gasped when its head rose and it looked straight at her.
'Jesus,' Harry whispered, his head shaking slightly.
A foreleg pawed the grass, and emerald flame curled into the air, strands of green webbing that poked through the fog and reached for the house.
'I haven't been drinking,' Falcone said aloud to himself. 'I swear to god I haven't been drinking. What the hell is it, Joyce?'
But she was staring up at the ceiling, toward the back where she knew Don's room to be, remembering the poster and the horse that had been there.
'It's a gag,' Harry insisted, 'and I don't think it's funny.'
She looked out the window, and could see the stallion's muscles bunch at the shoulders, shift at its haunches, and she barely had time to scream before it leapt from the grass and came through the bay window.
She dove to one side, her leg cracking against the armrest of Norman's chair, a snowstorm of glass winking over her to the back where it bounced from the wall and fell to the carpet, tinkling like bells in the dead cold of winter. She twisted around as she fell and saw the stallion fill the room, saw Falcone backpedal to the hearth, where he snatched up the poker and brandished it over his head.
The horse looked around and saw her pushing herself into the foyer. It snorted, and the room filled with fog; it lashed out with a rear hoof and Norman's chair was dashed into the corner, collapsing upon itself as it writhed in greenfire; it turned back to Falcone and he swung the poker at its head, missed, and was drawn offbalance a step off the hearth.
A wedge of glass dropped from the ceiling where it had been stuck like a knife blade.
Joyce drew herself to her feet and sagged against the newel post as the stallion lifted its head, lowered it, and grabbed Harry's jacket with its bright long teeth. He screamed and tried to hit the beast again, but the horse shook him ragdoll side to side; the smoke-fog thickened, greenfire flared, and as Joyce shrieked and took the stairs, she heard the distinct sound of bones snapping, a spine breaking, Harry's body released and slammed against the wall.
'Don,' she whispered as she ran to the landing. 'Don, save me, please save me.'
When she turned to run into the hall, the stallion was in the foyer, green eyes watching, the fog drifting up ahead of it and sweeping around her ankles, filling her with a chill that made her bones ache, that made her eyes widen, that slowed her when she ran to hide in her room.
On the stairs then-hooves against wood, echoing, hollow.
The pool in the oval was calm despite the wind, though every few minutes a gust would escape from the branches and send ripples across it, bobbing the dead leaves and sending some to the bottom. From the boulevard they could hear the continuing victory parade, but they felt no need to join it. Instead, they huddled together on a damp redwood bench and watched the black water.
'Divorce,' Tracey said with a sympathetic shake of her head. She had changed into a shirt and jeans and was wearing a light sweater under her school jacket. 'God, I don't know what to say.'
Don sniffed several times to keep back the tears, determined not to let Tracey see him cry. 'They hate me, you know.'
'Don't be silly. They do not.'
'Well, they don't care, then. All they care about is themselves. Jesus, do you know ... I can't believe it, but do you know that last week Mom called me Sam?'
Tracey pried one of his hands loose from between his knees and held it, rubbed it to drive away the cold. 'And I'm crazy, Tracey.'
'Dumb.'
i 'No,' he said earnestly, turning to her, leaning closer.
I 'No, I mean it. I'm crazy.' He kept her silent with a look and took a slow breath. Now was the time to do it, but the words he sought were impossible to order, and he shoved himself to his feet and began pacing the oval. Tracey watched him patiently, biting at her lips, lifting her shoulders when the breeze came again.
He stopped on the other side of the pond and faced her, looking up at the trees and the dark above the leaves. 'I don't get it,' he said with a tremulous smile. 'I mean, your folks fight, don't they? I mean, I know what your father is like and all, but they have fights, right? So why don't they get divorced? Why ... what's the matter with me that Brian can't leave me alone for one lousy minute?' His neck tightened, pulling his mouth down; he lowered his gaze and saw Tracey watching him, her hands deep in her coat pockets and forced together over her stomach. 'I did something, Trace,' he said softly. 'I did something.'
She stood and walked toward him, but he held out his hands to keep the water between them. 'What, Don? That nonsense about killing Tar?' He nodded.
'That's stupid. You didn't do it.'
He nodded again, and put a hand to his forehead, massaged it, and drove it back through his hair. 'You don't understand.' 'I understand you're upset about Tar, and Mandy, and
now this stuff with your mom and dad. I can see that, Don, but you-' 'No.'
The word was quiet, and as effective as a slap. She took a step back and turned her head away from the wind that engulfed them for a moment in a shower of dead leaves.
And at that moment Don started around the pond toward her, hoping the raw edges of the leaves would cut him to shreds, would bury and smother him, and when they blew away, there would be nothing left but a pile of slow shifting dust.
She met him and embraced him, and he almost decided not to say anything more.
'Don?'
'Tracey, look, let's go-'
She pushed him away and glared at him, black hair fanning over her eyes and fanning away. 'Jesus,' she said, 'do you think you're the only kid with problems? What the hell makes you so special that you're the only one?'
'Tracey!'
'You've never been called a spic, have you? You've never had someone try to feel you up just because you smiled at them.'
'Hey, Tracey, please, I didn't-'
'You know why my folks don't get divorced? Because my father is a worse Catholic than the Pope, that's why. Because if it came to it, my mother and father would live together for the rest of their lives hating each other's guts, but god forbid they even think about divorce.' She put a fist to her cheek and pressed it in hard. 'I have to wear long skirts so you can't see my legs, and I have to wear baggy blouses because my father doesn't want you to know I have any tits.'
'Jesus, Tracey, I-'
'It's like living in a convent, Don! I love him, don't get me wrong, but there are times when I want to bust open his head. So ...' She pointed at him, her hand trembling violently. 'So don't you dare tell me you're the only one around here with problems, all right? Don't you dare, Donald Boyd!'
'Tracey,' he said, taking a step toward her, 'I didn't mean that. I meant-'
'I know,' she said, suddenly smiling though there was a tear on her cheek. 'I know. But you don't seem to understand there's nothing you can do about it. You can't run away, and you're too good to end up like Brian.' She closed the gap and took his hands. 'You have to live with it, Don. Like me, I guess. You have to live with it.'
She hugged him. She lifted her face and she kissed him, and he tasted the sweet of her, the soft of her, and for a second in that kiss he thought she was right.
But it ended.
And still holding her, he shook his head.
'Tracey, you're wrong.'
'About what, Vet?'
'I did something about it.'
Joyce dragged the bench from her vanity and shoved it against the door.
