“Kevin, stop it!”
“Sam, she’s going to get hurt if this keeps up,” Al said worriedly. He wasn’t making a prediction based on anything Ziggy was transmitting; Sam could see for himself that Kevin wanted to hurt something, and if it wasn’t going to be Wickie, it might very well be Bethica. Some of the other kids were looking at each other nervously.
He reached out and tapped Kevin on the shoulder. “Hey, kid. I’m over here. Or have you forgotten about me?”
He hadn’t. He whipped around and struck Sam at the base of the throat. An inch farther up would have crushed Wickie’s larynx. As it was he gagged and fell. He decided to exaggerate the consequence of the blow.
“Sam, are you okay? Sam? Sam, what happened to all those martial arts of yours? Did you Swiss-cheese the t’ai chi?”
He couldn’t answer Al without spoiling his entire perfor-mance of writhing on the ground, clutching at his throat, gasping and gagging—at least he didn’t have to exaggerate that part too much—and he almost missed seeing Kevin’s foot draw back, heading for his ribs. Kevin’s toe connected
hard enough to make him give a strangled yelp.
Bethica screamed. Sam rolled away, covering his head with his arms, partly to convince Kevin he was beaten and partly out of a real fear that the kid would kick him in the head next.
“Get’im, Kev!”
“Knock his lights out!”
“Stomp him!”
Apparently the kids thought so too.
The noise was enough to reach the interior of the bar. The back door opened, a rectangle of light against darkness, and the silhouette framed within it shouted, “If you kids don’t get out of here I’m going to call the cops!”
It was enough to make some of the less enthusiastic start to fade away. The second warning was enough to break the spell for the rest. “C’mon, Kevin, he’s beaten.”
“I’m not through with him,” Kevin said, low and ugly.
“Give it up, he’s out of it. C’mon, she’s gonna call the Man if we don’t get out of here.”
Sam remained tensed, all too aware of Kevin, poised to kick again. He could almost feel the boy’s desire for blood, and Sam hadn’t given him enough. But Bethica was murmuring urgently in his ear, and finally Kevin turned away, not without a final, “I’m not through with you, Indian!”
“Sam? Sam, are you okay?”
Al had been talking for some time, Sam realized, helpless in the knowledge that he couldn’t touch his friend, couldn’t communicate with him. Sam peeked out from under his arm to see feet receding, except of course for Al’s silver running shoes. After a moment he could hear vehicle doors slamming, engines revving; he hid his face again just in time to protect his eyes from a spray of gravel.
Moments later the rear parking lot was empty except for Leaper and hologram. Sam rolled over on his back, ignoring the small rocks that dug into him, and stretched
“Sam!” Al was beginning to sound as hoarse as Sam felt.
Sam waved a placating hand at him. “I’m okay.” he croaked. “I’m fine, Al. Really.” He sighed and rolled up to his feet in one less-than-smooth movement. “Except I guess I’ve totally blown it.”
Al stood staring at him. “You’re crazy. Has anybody ever told you you’re crazy?”
“Besides you?” Sam felt at his throat, rubbed his ribs. Nothing broken, no thanks to Kevin. “I’m getting kind of old for this, aren’t I?” A thought struck him. “How old am I, anyway?”
“You are crazy,” Al muttered. “That kid just beat you half to death and you want to know how old you are?”
Sam coughed experimentally. No blood. Another good sign. “Oh, come on. He didn’t even come close.” A stab of pain reminded him that he hadn’t exactly gotten off without a scratch, either. “I’m serious. How old am I, Al? When is it now?”
Al opened his mouth to give the answer, looked down at his link with Ziggy, and reconsidered. “Well, I could tell you the date, but I don’t know if that will tell you how much time you’ve actually experienced. Do you age in between Leaps?”
Glaring, Sam shook his head. “It was 1995 when I Leaped. When is it now?”
Al shrugged. “2005.”
“So I’m going to be. . .” Sam calculated the difference between the year 2005 and the year of his birth, 1953, and decided he didn’t really want to think about the answer after all. “No wonder I’m slowing up a little.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
"Not too much, I hope,” Al said grimly, studying the handlink. “She’s going up with them to the same place in the mountains they were last Friday.”
Was it only last Friday? Sam thought, dazed. He took a step toward Wickie’s cabin and the Polar Bar truck, and staggered. “Oh, boy,” he muttered.
“He hurt you worse than you thought,” Al observed.
“No kidding.” Sam drew in a deep breath, winced, and started moving.
“ ‘Into the Valley of Death’ . ..”
“Just bring the shield, Sancho, okay?”
“He must have hit you harder than I thought,” Al said. “You don’t usually mix your cues that way.”
“It can’t be any worse than those drinks,” he shot back, and paused to catch his breath while catching hold of the driver’s side door. He had some vague idea of following Bethica and keeping her from getting hurt, but had no idea how.
Something would turn up. Something always did. He got into the truck, started it up, and pulled out, rattling over the ruts, his breath catching at the jabs of pain. Al hovered indecisively, then summoned the Door. “I’d better go back and see if Ziggy’s got anything better than this,” he said.
Sam glanced over at him. “I hope—”
He paused, awkwardly. He wasn’t sure what he hoped.
He wasn’t sure he really remembered Janna. There was a hole in his memory for that party that wouldn’t hap¬pen for another eighteen years. She mattered to his best friend, and that ought to be
