Largent, despite a college education-engineering of some sort, Frank thought-still spoke with a pronounced down-east accent. 'Well, Frank,' he said, 'I called mostly cause I hadn't hud anythin' about yoah movin'.'
'That's because we're not.'
'Well, that's strange, that's very strange.'
'What, Major? What are you talking about?'
'Well, I'm up he-ah on m' po-arch. You know, where I like to sit?…
Well, down the street, right in front of yo-ah house, is a truck. And a couple of young bucks been loadin' stuff into it for more'n an ow-ah now. 'Are you sure it's our place, Major?'
'Do bay-ahs shit in the woods? Course I'm shu-ah.'
'Do you see any sign of Lisette around?'
'Nope… Wait now, maybe I do… Let me get my bi-nocs just to be certain… Oh, it's her all right. She's with them cute little ones of yo-ahs, right by the truck, watchin' em load.'
'Major, thank you, ' Frank said. 'Thank you for calling me.'
He hung up and dialed home. Twenty or more rings brought no answer.
Fifteen minutes later he brought the Porsehe screeching around the corner and up the hill to his house.'… Fucking Lisette,' he had kept muttering throughout the trip home. 'Goddamn, fucking Lisette…'
Lisette, the children, and the truck were gone. Most of the house was still intact, but she had taken her jewelry, the microwave, the largest television, hers and the twins' bureaus, their toys, bicycles, and beds, and had left all the liquor bottles she could find smashed to bits in the kitchen sink, including the two-hundred-dollar bottle of Chateau Lafite Rothschild he had given her on her birthday and was saving to celebrate the Serenyl sale. The note, carefully printed on Lisette's lavender stationery, was pinned to a pillow on their bed. You will never hit me again. Please do not try to find us. I'll contact you when I'm good and ready… Was it worth it?
Frank slapped the bedside lamp to the floor and then balled the note in his fist and threw it across the room. 'You'll see, ' he muttered angrily. 'A million fucking dollars from now, you'll see what was worth it and what wasn't, you disloyal bitch.'
He started for the liquor cabinet, but then remembered the mess in the kitchen sink and, instead, stormed from the house and drove off. As he spun out of the driveway, from the corner of his eye Frank caught a glimpse of Major Curtis Largent, U. S. Army, Ret., sitting on his upstairs porch, rocking and watching. The afternoon felt as close to normal-as close to the way afternoons once were-as any Barbara Nelms could remember. Sunlight was streaming through the bay windows in the living room and kitchen, bathing a house that was spotlessly clean.
Stacked on the dining room table were the dishes she would use to serve dinner to the first company she and Bob had invited over in more than half a year. Toby lay on his belly on the living room carpet, leafing through the pages of a glossy, coffee-table book on the history of aviation. On an impulse, Barbara had stopped and bought the book on the way home from the boy's outdoor session with Dr. Iverson. That impulse had proven to be inspired. Over the days that had followed, Toby had spent hours quietly examining the photographs and paintings. And more importantly, he had not had a single seizure since then. Predictably, Bob had wanted to rush right out and buy a model kit to begin building with their son, but she had cautioned him to go slow, and for the moment, to leave well enough alone. Even the psychiatrist, Phil Brookings, had been a help. Although he had declined to see Toby until after Dr. Iverson had finished his evaluation, he had seen Barbara herself for two sessions and was encouraging her to bring Bob in for some family counseling as well.
As she strhightened out the bookshelves and polished the already glistening clock on the mantel, Barbara mentally ticked through the meal she had planned and the music she would choose. Perhaps after dessert and coffee, if she could nudge someone into a request, she might even play for them herself. It had been so long since she had allowed herself the luxury of such mundane thoughts. 'Toby, ' she ventured, 'how would you like to help me put together the dinner we're going to make for Billy's mom and dad tonight?'
Toby continued to flip through his book, occasionally reaching out to run his fingertips over one of the planes. 'Okay, ' she said cheerfully.
'Suit yourself. Just let me know if you get bored with your book. I'll be right in the kitchen.'
It had been worth a try. Minutes later, as Barbara stood by the sink washing vegetables, she heard a soft noise behind her. Suddenly tense, she whirled. Toby was standing by the kitchen door, the corners of his mouth crinkled upward in something of a smile. Barbara felt a surge of excitement. 'Hi, ' she said, swallowing against the forceful beating of her heart. 'Want a job?'
The boy hesitated And then, ever so slightly, he nodded. 'Great! … I mean, that's fine, honey. I could really use the help. Here, let me get your little stool.'
She put the wooden stool by the sink and handed Toby the peeler. 'Okay,
' she said. 'Now all you have to do is scrape this over the carrots until they all look like this one, see?… That's it. Perfect. Listen, I'm going to the laundry room to fold some clothes. When you finish with the carrots, I'll get you started on the potatoes.'
Normal. Barbara had never dreamed she would cherish the feeling so much.
As she headed toward the laundry room she glanced at the wall clock.
'Hey, To be, ' she said, returning to the kitchen, 'guess what it's time for.'
She snapped on the twelve-inch black-and-white set that she kept on the counter to watch soap operas. The cartoon intro for Robin the Good was just ending. Toby stood on his stool, scraping the carrots, washing them in the cool, running water, thinking about airplanes, and looking over from time to time at Robin and his men. 'Now, maids and men, ' Friar Tuck was saying, 'it's time to learn about our Letter of the Day. Today, it's a very special letter, because it's the only one that always has the same letter come after it. It's the letter that starts the words quick and quail and quart. Can you guess what it is? 'Q, ' Toby said absently. 'How many said QT' the friar asked. 'Well, if you did say Q, you're right! So now, without further ado, here's Robin and Alan to sing about what letter? Right, our good friend, Q.'
Alan-a-Dale strummed his huge guitar several times. Then Robin the Good leapt onto a giant rock and, hands on hips, began to sing. 'Alas, my lo-over, you do me wro-ong, I do not thi-ink that thou art true. For thou has ye-et to sing a so-ong, about-out the lee-ter Q-oo… With the first few notes of music, Toby stopped his scraping and began staring at the tiled wall. The peeler slipped from his fingers and clanked into the steel sink. He rubbed at his eyes as the blue and gray tiles grew brighter. It was beginning to happen. Just like all the other times, it was beginning to happen. 'Mommy… He called out the word, but heard no sound. They were coming for him. The nurse and the man with the mask.
They were coming for him again. 'Mommy, please…'
His eyes drifted downward toward the sink, toward the splashing water.
Stop them! his mind urged. Don't let them touch you again. His hand closed about the black handle of a knife that lay beside the peeler.
Stop them! As he lifted the knife, sunlight flashed off its broad, wet blade. Over the half year since her son's attacks first began, Barbara Nelms had developed a sixth sense about them. It was as if something in the air changed-the electricity or the ions. There had been false alarms times when she had raced through the house, terrified, only to find Toby sitting in the bay window and staring out at the lawn, or lying in the den, mechanically watching a show that held absolutely no interest for him. But there were other times, especially of late, when she had found him thrashing wildly on the floor, or pressed into a corner, his frail body cringing from the recurring horror that was engulfing him from within. Barbara was folding the last of the linen when she began to sense trouble. It started as no more than a tic in her mind-a notion.
The house was too quiet, the air too still. Like a deer suddenly alert to the hum of an engine still too distant for any man to hear, she cocked her head to one side and listened. All she could hear was the soft splash of water in the sink and the sound of the television. Robin the Good was singing his alphabet song-a series of absurd, ill- rhymed tributes to each letter, sung to the tune of 'Greensleeves.' It was a melody Barbara had actually loved before encountering the portly actor's version. Now, it grated like new chalk. 'Toby?…' she called out.
'Toby, can you hear me?
' There was no answer. 'Toby, honey?…' She set aside the sheet she had been about to fold and took a tentative step toward the door. Then she began to run. She bolted through the deserted kitchen and was halfway to the living room when she heard the crash of a lamp and her son's terrified scream. 'Noooo! Don't touch me! Don't touch me! ' he howled. 'If you touch me there, I'll cut you. I will… Stop it! Stop it!'
Toby was backing toward the far end of the living room, thrashing his arms furiously at assailants only he
