stature. Make you more of an imposing figure. .'
'Twenty pounds?' Tubs said, disbelief making his voice squeak.
'Right.'
Someone sighed, the kind of sigh that comes with comprehension, and a slight shudder rippled through the room.
'That's the assignment, Ernest. Put on twenty pounds. In the next, say, four weeks. That will bring us almost to the end of school. Eat to your heart's content, Ernest. You love to eat, don't you? And four weeks from now we'll meet here. We'll have a scale.'
Tubs opened his mouth. Didn't know why he opened his mouth. Certainly not to protest. Nobody protested an assignment. Stood there gaping, the prospect of more weight staggering to his mind. His life was dedicated to trying to lose weight, despite the fact that he was always hungry, always starved, and always lost the battle. But gaining purposely?
'Close your mouth, Tubs, and get out of here,' Archie said, no longer the gentle Archie, the tender Assigner.
Tubs did just that. Hurried his ponderous body out of that terrible place, tripping on somebody's foot as he made his way to the door.
'Beautiful,' someone called out. But certainly not Obie, who felt small and cheap as he watched Tubs stumbling out the door.
Archie called for the black box with a snap of his fingers, wasted no time as he thrust his hand inside and withdrew the white marble, looked at it with amusement, and tossed it back.
The members of the Vigils rustled in their seats, preparing for departure. But Archie held up his hand.
'I have an announcement to make,' he said, his words as cold as ice cubes rattling in a tray.
He glanced at Carter, waiting for him to bang the gavel.
The gavel was an important part of Vigil meetings.
And Carter had become the master of its use.
Carter banged the gavel to emphasize Archie's words and actions, the way a drummer underscores the movements of a juggler or a magician on the stage. He'd hit the desk to prod some poor quivering kid into an answer. Or to provide impact for Archie's pronouncements.
Archie waited for attention to focus completely on him once more. Carter tensed himself.
'I've received word,' Archie said, 'that the Bishop's visit to Trinity has been canceled.'
Carter dropped the gavel.
Archie looked at Carter with contempt, waited for him to pick it up, then spoke again.
'Which means that there will be no day off. It's canceled.'
Quick intakes of breath, stirrings among the Vigils, a whispered '
Archie searched the room with those cold and merciless eyes, assessing the impact of his news.
Obie caught Archie's questioning scrutiny, the intensity of his search. He knew the great Archie Costello intimately enough to realize that something had gone askew.
Carter's hand seemed welded to the handle of the gavel. Blood raced under the surface of his flesh, pounding its way to his face.
'But it also means something else,' Archie said, drawing the words out slowly, and all the time studying his audience, looking at them as if he had never seen them before.
Obie frowned, puzzled, glad that he was standing in the shadows, virtually unseen.
Ah, but Archie saw everything, and he turned his eyes now on Obie.
'What do you think that something else is, Obie?'
Stymied, Obie shrugged.
'I don't know.'
'Bunting?'
Bunting leaped with surprise as if someone had goosed him, one of the more ordinary pastimes at Trinity. He had been uncomfortable about Obie's presence in the room, had barely followed Archie's conversation with Tubs Casper. Hearing Obie's voice now, he gained confidence. Obie certainly wouldn't be answering Archie's questions so normally if he suspected that one of the guys who had attacked him and his girl was in the room.
'I don't know either,' Bunting said.
'Carter?'
The blood was pounding a tom-tom beat in Carter's head now, but he tried to keep his features in control.
'You've got me,' he said, giving his voice the proper amount of disdain. Acting as if it didn't matter.
But it did matter. He dreaded Archie's next move. The announcement that someone had tipped Leon off about the visit.
Silence as Archie's eyes swept the room again. Inscrutable eyes that revealed nothing, told no secrets. Did his eyes linger on me a moment longer than anyone else? Carter wondered, knowing the secret of that 'something else.' He was relieved to hear Bunting interrupt Archie's scrutiny.
'Can't we still arrange a day off from school?' Bunting asked. 'Everybody's going to be. . teed off.' He'd almost said
'The project is canceled,' Archie said flatly. 'Without the Bishop, it's pointless.'
Carter didn't know what to do with the damn gavel. Was Archie about to end the meeting?
'Anybody know what the something else is?' Archie asked, not belligerent, seeming to be genuinely interested in a possible response.
No response. Everybody wanted simply to get out of there.
Archie glanced at Carter.
'The gavel, Carter,' Archie reminded. 'The meeting's over.'
The gavel struck the desk like a hammer driving a nail through wood into flesh.
Although he hated the smell of the storage room, the stench of boy sweat and overripe socks and sneakers, Archie remained behind after everyone had gone.
To add up the score.
He hadn't managed a confrontation between Obie and Bunting, but none had been necessary. He knew Obie intimately, could almost read his mind, could certainly read his expressions, Obie's face like a relief map with nothing hidden. He had seen a stunned and subdued Obie, obviously still reeling from the events of the night before, but not suspicious, not ready to spring into action. Obie had barely glanced at anyone in the room, had not sought out Bunting in any way. Archie was willing to bet his reputation on the fact that Obie did not know who had attacked him and his, girl in the car.
The other result of the meeting was even more obvious to Archie. And more satisfying.
Carter was the traitor, of course. Carter, who had showed no enthusiasm for the Bishop's visit from the start. Carter, who obviously hated his role as gavel wielder. Carter had stumbled through the meeting as if in a trance, missing his cues with the gavel. Dropping it, for crissakes. Guilt had spread on Carter's face like a coat of paint. Paint the color of blood. Carter the jock, lost without his stupid sports. Carter, who had suddenly developed a conscience. From the moment the meeting started, Archie had been aware of Carter's haunted eyes, pale face, the jock turned jellyfish, turned stool pigeon.
Carter was the traitor.
Further proof would be needed, of course, to eliminate any doubt. But Archie would get that proof.
He stood in the foul, fetid air of the storage room and thought:
Poor Carter.
Carter's We would never be the same again.
Laurie wasn't home.
Or maybe she wasn't responding to the doorbell, just as she might have been refusing to answer the telephone.
He pressed the button again, heard the faint echo of the bell — ding, ding, ding — within the house. But no activity. Somehow, the house
