block was the neck of whoever had assaulted Laurie, had
'A magician never tells his secrets,' Ray Bannister said, a little breathless.
Obie narrowed his eyes as he regarded him. Had Ray somehow doubted, just a little bit, the effectiveness of the trick? Had there been a chance it might not have worked?
He'd never know, of course, because it was an impossible question to ask. Anyway, Ray Bannister was now basking in his triumph, running his hands across the walnut-stained wood and the gleaming blade.
Remembering the original purpose of his visit, Obie said: 'Listen, Ray, that assignment I told you about? The Bishop's visit?'
Ray nodded, remembering, his features twisted into a look of distaste.
'Well, it's canceled, called off. The Bishop can't make it that day. You're off the hook.'
Ray gave a whoop of relief. 'Great! I really didn't want to get mixed up in that Vigils business you told me about.'
Obie didn't reply, feeling a small stab of pity for Bannister. He knew that Archie never forgot and that Bannister was doomed to become involved sooner or later.
Ray Bannister turned his attention to the guillotine again, eyes full of affection. Obie squinted, studying the apparatus, then turned his eyes to the remains of the cabbage strewn across the floor. He shivered for some reason.
When he arrived home a half hour later, he found a note from his mother.
Obie's thoughts were insects chasing each other bewilderingly. Why hadn't Laurie herself called? Why her mother? And where in Springfield were they visiting? He crumpled the note and threw it into the wastebasket. A moment later he retrieved it, smoothed the paper out, read the words again. He sensed doom in the message.
His dreams were wild that night. Were they really dreams? Or simply thoughts and emotions racing just below the surface of his mind as he lay uncomfortably in bed, restless, heaving himself from one side of the mattress to the other? Images flooded his mind. Laurie, of course, beautiful, full lips, a teardrop of ketchup at the corner of her lips, in the car. The guillotine swishing down and splitting the cabbage, suddenly not the cabbage but a human neck, blood spattering around the room instead of cabbage leaves. The smell of blood in his nostrils. Did blood have a smell? He was helpless as the images continued, the slash of light in the car's interior, Laurie gasping, then screaming, the rough hands forcing him to the ground, holding him prisoner, the slashed loafer with the dangling buckle.
Loafer?
He saw the loafer distinctly. Scuffed brown, ripped or torn as if someone had slashed the instep with a knife.
And the dangling buckle, hanging by a thread, dull brass, never polished.
He burst awake as if flying into the air from the upper part of a seesaw while the lower part banged the earth violently. He sat up in bed, head aching, squinted at the digital alarm clock. 2:31. Throwing the blanket aside, he rubbed his forehead as if he could erase the ache like figures from a blackboard. Had he been dreaming? But the loafer did not seem like an image from a dream, receding as you come awake. The loafer had been real, not a manifestation of his weariness and frustration and disappointment, but a reality exploding out of memory.
This memory:
As the unknown assailant had held him prisoner on the ground, while somebody else had assaulted Laurie in the car, he had peered into the awful thing his life had suddenly become and had seen, a mere few inches from his eyes, the torn loafer worn by the bastard who held him captive.
Staring now into the night, eyes wide as if toothpicks held his lids open — something he had seen in a kung fu movie — he was wild with the knowledge of what his subconscious mind had uncovered.
A clue.
More than a clue.
A piece of evidence that could identify without any doubt one of the attackers at the Chasm that night. He saw himself unmasking the bastard, forcing a confession out of him, getting information about the others who had been involved, all of this while Laurie watched, her eyes shining with admiration and love.
He lay back, breathing deeply, exhausted, as if he had just completed a perilous mission, avoided a thousand pitfalls, escaped with his life. . and he fell into a deep sleep in which an army of men wearing slashed and ruined loafers trampled across his body all night long.
When the telephone rang, Carter answered it immediately, his hand shooting out to pick up the receiver. In the past few days he had become jumpy, nervous, glancing over his shoulder occasionally to check if he was being followed (which was paranoid, of course). Ordinarily Carter did not admit to nerves. He'd always been able to nap minutes before a big football game, always fell asleep instantly at night when his head hit the pillow. Not these days, however, not anymore. He walked around as if a great cloud of doom hung over him and would collapse upon his head at any moment. Thus, when the telephone rang, he acted as if it were a summons. To a trial by jury.
'Hello,' he said, snapping the word, using the old gusto of the jock.
Silence on the line. But a sense of someone there. The hint of a person quietly breathing.
'Hello,' he said again, trying to keep the wariness out of his voice. 'Got the wrong number, chum?' Beautiful: keeping it jaunty. But a bead of perspiration traced a cold path as it ran down Carter's leg from his crotch.
Still nothing.
Carter thought, The hell with it, summoning bravado. He decided to hang up.
The caller's timing was perfect, speaking just as Carter was about to remove the receiver from his ear.
'Why did you do it, Carter?'
'Do what?' he asked, responding automatically but groaning inside. Archie knew. Knew what he had done.
'You know. . '
'No, I don't know.' Stall, admit nothing. And for crissake try to control your voice. His voice sounded funny to his ears.
'I don't want to have to spell it out,' the voice said.
Was it Archie's voice? He couldn't be sure. Archie was an expert actor and mimic. Carter had observed his talents at a thousand Vigil meetings.
'Look, I don't know what you're talking about—'
'It will be much easier on you if you confess, Carter.'
'Confess what?'
A pause on the line. Then the chuckle. The all-knowing, lewd chuckle, the kind of chuckle someone might utter during an obscene phone call.
'Actually, we don't need your confession. But it might ease your conscience a bit if you confessed. Make you feel better. Let you sleep better at night. . '
Carter recoiled, told himself to keep in control. He knew Archie's tactics. Knew how Archie prided himself on his insights, always taking shots in the dark and winning. Like now. Guessing that Carter had trouble sleeping nights. So, beware. Don't let him talk you into giving yourself away.
'Still there, Carter? Still thinking it over, Carter?'
'Thinking what over?' In command a bit now, calming down, feeling ready and able to handle the phone call. Like in the ring. Feinting and faking. Sizing up an opponent. The first thrusts and advances and retreats as you felt out the adversary.
'Oh, Carter, oh, Carter. .' The voice tender, full of understanding, suddenly.
'What's all this
'Don't you see, you poor bastard? If you hadn't done it, you'd have hung up right away. Slammed the phone down. Christ, Carter, you've got guilt written all over you.'
Carter knew he had somehow walked into a trap just by talking on the phone. He should have hung up right away. Should hang up right now. But couldn't.
'Look,' Carter said. 'I know who you are. And I know what you're trying to do. Intimidation. I've seen you do
