but Tracey only patted his shoulder and stood.
'I think it's Jeff,' she said, squinting as the beams swung away from them and the car stopped.
'Jeff?'
She started off the grass. 'Yeah. I called for a ride home. I sure wasn't going to ask my father.'
'Well, I would have taken you, you know,' he protested, following her to the door. 'God, Tracey-'
She turned and put a hand to his chest. 'Not now, Don, okay?'
'But what are we going to do? About-'
She sucked in her cheeks, bit down on the inside. 'I don't know. I mean
... I don't know.'
The door opened and Jeff, his glasses catching the light and turning his eyes white, smiled ruefully when Don leaned down to peer in.
'Hey, man, I'm sorry.'
'Yeah. It's ... yeah, thanks.'
Tracey slid in and took hold of his hands, pulled him close and kissed him. 'There,' she whispered with a small satisfied smile. 'So there.'
'But I need you,' he pleaded, ignoring Jeffs puzzled look. 'What am I going to do now? I need you, Tracey!'
'I know. And I'll see you tomorrow, okay? If I don't go now, I won't get out of my house until my funeral.' She kissed him again, quickly.
'Please, Don, just stay here, okay? It'll be all right if you just stay here. I'll be back tomorrow, first thing.'
'Promise,' he said tightly.
'Promise.'
He didn't like it, but he could do nothing about it. She was right, and he knew it, but he didn't have to like it. As he didn't have to like giving a quick report on his mother to Jeff, who kept leaning over Tracey and asking him questions until, at last, she poked him on the shoulder back behind the wheel.
Then they were gone.
The car swung around and they were gone, and Don tasted the memory of her kiss, the touch of her hand, and felt the frustration begin to rise in his chest.
She should have stayed!
If she loved him ...
He looked away, looked back to the drive.
Love him?
But how the hell could she love him and still hurt him this way, leaving him when he needed her to keep from going crazy, leaving him when he needed her to help him escape?
His hands slammed into his jacket pockets and he watched his breath turn to fog.
She had to be right, he thought then. She had to be.
The wind tangled in the cherry trees, the thin branches snapping as if torn from their trunks.
But she should be here, he argued; she shouldn't leave me alone when I need her the most. She shouldn't! He raised a fist and only with an effort did he bring it to his mouth instead of shaking it at the image of Jeff's car on the drive.
Damn you, Jeff! God damn you, you're supposed to be my goddamned friend!
The wind keened over the hospital. A flare of water rose beneath a light, another on the drive, and he felt a raindrop on his hand.
And heard a hoofbeat behind him, soft on the grass.
He looked down at the tarmac and saw the ghost of a fog slip between his feet.
Turning slowly, he watched the cherry trees dance, narrowing his eyes against the dust the wind raised.
Then he saw the spots of green floating in the air, saw the sparks rising, saw the shadow of the stallion as it stood there unmoving.
His legs nearly gave way, but the stallion tossed its head, and he staggered toward it, ignoring the pressure growing in his chest, ignoring the needled stinging building in his eyes. He stepped onto the grass, and he reached out a hand.
And the neck was warm, and it was smooth, and the nose when it nuzzled into his palm was the comfort of velvet.
'God,' he whispered, neither a prayer nor a name.
It whickered softly, and when he turned his head sideways, he looked into the emerald fire that glowed out of the fog.
'He took her away,' he said. 'He took her away, and she's supposed to love me.' He slipped his hands into the mane untouched by the mist and stroked the neck again. A bubble in his chest around a nugget of fire.
'You know what?' he said softly. 'Dad thinks I did it-the house, Mr.
Falcone.' He laid his cheek against the warm black mane. 'The creep.'
The bubble grew, and there was heat in his lungs. 'The bastard. And you know what else? Do you know what else? That cop is back, and he keeps looking at me like I'm some kind of freak.' It was hard to breathe, and there in the dark were swirling spots of red. 'It was my medal, my time, and Brian ruined it. Donny the fucking Duck!' He backed away, and the bubble burst. 'I can't even get a stupid medal without somebody taking it away! What the hell do I have to do, huh? What the hell do I have to do?'
He turned to walk away, turned back and pointed at the street, his arm so rigid it began to tremble.
'And she goes away with him, just when I need her! What the hell kind of love is that, huh? What the goddamned hell kind of love is that when you
...'
The fog. And the red. And the black shadow in the trees.
'What am I going to do?' he asked. 'What am I going to do?'
A hoof pawed at the ground (greenfire), the eyes narrowed, the head raised.
He stepped away, and blinked, and suddenly knew what he had said when the red vanished and the fire died away.
'No, wait a minute,' he said, and stretched out a hand. 'God, no, I didn't mean-'
It was gone.
Don's mouth opened, and no sound came out.
It was gone, the fog swirling around black laced with fire, and there was no question, now, about what Tracey meant.
It wasn't helping him at all. It was protecting him against hurt, and it didn't make any difference whether he willed it or not. When he hurt, he was rid of whatever had caused it. Imagined or not.
Tracey? Oh Jesus, please not Tracey!
Anguish twisted his features, fear jerked him around, and whatever he cried was lost in the wind, and the sheeting cold rain that bore down on his head.
SIXTEEN
She saw it in the outside mirror.
The sudden downpour had startled Jeff into slowing, the store- and streetlights broken into kaleidoscopic shards that smeared on the blacktop and ran down the windshield. The wipers worked as fast as they could, but it was nearly impossible to see where they were going, and she was about to ask him if he'd pull over and wait when she rubbed the back of her neck and glanced to her right.
And saw it.
And suddenly it was too late to talk, too late to turn around, and too late to explain why the air in her lungs was suddenly barbed and the rain had suddenly grown intolerably loud.
Twisting around, a hand braced on the dashboard, she saw the empty street behind her, reflections and distortions and blossoms of water short-lived on the tarmac. And the pocket of dense fog that moved steadily toward them, ragged edges ripped away by the wind, its bottom spilling under parked cars to the gutters to mingle with the rain. It reached no higher than the telephone poles, did not spread to the sidewalk-it followed them as
