“Oh, no,” said a small voice from behind him. “Oh, this is awful.”
He didn’t have to glance around to know it was Bethica. “I’d have to agree with you there,” he said. “I hope there’s cleaning supplies around here somewhere. Still in their containers, I mean.”
“Ooo, is that—that’s disgusting.” Bethica had just gotten a good look at the final insult on the rug. “Oh, wow.” She slipped around him and tiptoed around the worst damage, making faces as she went. “Gross.” She paused to pick up what remained of the algebra book and some papers, examined them, and sighed. “Even the problems we were doing. That dork.” Stepping into the kitchen, she added, “Oh, this is really bad.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” Sam muttered. He made as if to drop the sheet and decided not to; it was probably the cleanest fabric in the place. He wondered if Wickie owned a washer and dryer, and doubted it.
Well, there had to be a laundromat somewhere in town. At least he didn’t have to worry about how he was going to spend the rest of the night.
Bethica returned to the living room with a broom and a black metal dustpan. “I could get started in here,” she said. “But we’re going to need a lot of stuff. Trash bags and stuff.”
He liked her immediate, pragmatic approach. Bethica might have a crush on him—on Wickie, he corrected himself—but she was also a thoroughly practical kid.
“I don’t suppose there’s an all-night grocery store around here?” Sam asked without thinking. He found himself wondering why she was there.
Bethica looked at him oddly. “The ShopRite closes at ten.”
Of course. He should have known that.
He’d gotten odder looks than hers. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was nine-fifteen. It surprised him; he’d thought it was later than that. “I guess I’d better go, then.” It was a good thing Snow Owl wasn’t a very big place; it should be fairly easy to find the store. He looked up at Bethica. “I don’t think you’d better stay here, though. Whoever did this could come back.”
“ ‘Whoever did this’?” she repeated, reprising the odd look. “Wickie, we both know who did this. He’s been mad at you ever since—ever since I gave you that book. And when you took back the keg in front of everybody, that just made it worse.”
Sam realized abruptly that Bethica had been one of the kids up at the party when he’d Leaped in. “You were there, too? I thought you were smarter than that.”
She gave him the long-suffering look teenagers always gave adults who said stupid things, and changed the subject. “I’ll get started,” she said. “He isn’t going to come back.”
Sam contemplated calling the cops, saw the dangling wires where the telephone had been torn out of the wall, and decided against it. It would be entirely too easy to turn Kevin over to the cops, but he could figure out for himself what the odds were that the boy would be out on bail in no time flat, and not feeling any more charitable toward either Wickie or Bethica.
He wished Al would show up and give him some idea how he was supposed to handle this.
“It isn’t safe,” he protested halfheartedly.
“The store’s going to close,” she pointed out, and went into the kitchen and proceeded to make sweeping-up noises.
She was right. Sighing, he hugged the sheet to himself and went out to the truck.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Al Calavicci had spared a thought to his best friend at least three times that day. Each time, he asked Ziggy how Sam was doing. Each time, upon being informed that the computer was unable as yet to define a probability locus and that Sam was in no apparent danger, he returned to exploring the wonders of amicable married life.
He avoided thinking about the past; it was too confusing, for one thing, and for another, he wasn’t quite sure which memories went with which past. He couldn’t put his finger on exactly where the timelines diverged.
But he knew he liked Janna more and more every minute. She was sharp and funny and gave as good as she got. And she could scramble eggs like nobody’s business.
Even when breakfast was oatmeal.
Ziggy couldn’t provide an answer, either, on what the odds were that this particular timeline would remain stable. The next time Al entered the Imaging Chamber, this entire “moment” might vanish as if it had never been.
Under the circumstances, he felt justified in delaying, just a little bit, going back to check on Sam. Especially since Sam wasn’t in any danger, or anything.
Besides, it was Saturday at the Project too, and he could take the day off. He and Janna could run up to Albuquerque and do some shopping. Maybe even catch dinner and a
concert in Santa Fe—the King-Aire could land on the Santa Fe airstrip. It wasn’t as if he were going off to Washington. And he hadn’t had time off in a long time.
Sam found the ShopRite twenty minutes before it closed, swept in, and bought everything he could think of. He was the last customer. “You planning on starting your own business, Wickie?” the cashier asked him, ringing up the last pack of sponges and figuring the rental charge for the rug shampooer.
So much for pretending he was new in town and asking where the nearest all-night laundromat was.
“Just decided to do some cleaning up,” he mumbled, watching the total grow. It was a good thing he did collect those tips, as it turned out; he just barely had enough. The cashier gave him a pretty smile with his change. It was a nice moment. The whole evening had been pretty nice, in fact, right up until he got home.
Arms full of paper bags, he trudged back to the truck and set them in the back. There were only four other vehicles in the parking lot.
From one of them, a red pickup, came
