he felt a twinge of regret that he'd probably never have one. At least not with gasoline. For the first time in his life, it occurred to him that he might die. Really die. Like Philip. Like those kids.
When he'd first started working at the library he was still a student just out to earn a little extra money and meet girls. He was remarkably successful at both. It was the first place he'd ever felt like he belonged. It wasn't a tough decision to switch from a social ecology major to library science. Then after graduation, the job became permanent and he thought he was the luckiest guy in the world. He had a job he liked. He met plenty of pretty young girls, some of whom he dated, though True Love always seemed to elude him. He'd been counting on True Love to hit him by the time he turned twenty-five, twenty-eight at the max. When it didn't, he began to suspect True Love was harder to find than he'd been led to believe. He certainly liked the girls he dated, and they liked him. He wasn't a dynamo in bed, but he was fun and considerate. There'd been plenty of girls who'd wanted to make more of the relationship, but they hadn't been right. No loss of appetite, sudden urges to compose poetry, staying awake wondering what she was doing. In short, not T.L.
Maybe it was to compensate, or just to distract. Whatever the reason, Tag began noticing the sports periodicals for the first time a couple years ago. Windsurfer, Ski Thrills, Ripcord, Hot Rod. He would leaf through them with fascination; the only letter he'd won in high school had been for band, the slide trombone. Now, staring at the glossy photographs of somersaulting dirt bikes and soaring hang gliders, he knew what he must do. He must make himself more worthy for True Love.
He tried everything. No sport was too dangerous, too exotic. There were lots of times he was afraid, his bladder swollen with tension, but he never backed out. He'd wanted to, lots of times, he was ashamed to admit. Still, he hung in, dove out of airplanes, swam the ocean bottom, scaled steep cliffs. And though he'd come through it all, he'd not yet found True Love. Just a lot of pretenders to the throne.
'Stupid,' he said to himself, shaking his head. Because now, stooped on cramping legs behind an overturned Datsun 280Z, staring at a dark Jack in the Box at midnight, it occurred to him for the first time that he might die. He saw Philip's face in front of him, the once-pleasant features twisted with agony and fear. Tag felt a chill rake across his neck and quickly glanced over his shoulder.
Nothing.
Just darkness.
He looked thirty yards to his right, saw the ghostly outline of Season's body hunched behind a bus stop cabana. It was too dark to make out her features, but he could sense her fear as easily as he could smell the charred air. The same with Rydell and Molly, decoys standing across the street in front of the Jack in the Box, the five backpacks piled next to the drive-up window. Molly was leaning against the wall while Rydell played soccer with a stone or something. They were even more scared than he was right now, and he didn't blame them. He'd heard Molly gulp like a cartoon character when Eric told her what she had to do. Rydell had made a joke, but his voice had cracked a bit. And the sweat on his face was evident even in the dark.
Only Eric had seemed unperturbed. He had issued orders, set positions for a crossfire, all as calmly as if he were back in the classroom discussing 15th century Italian art. His expression never seemed to change, the hard edges of his face always dominating. And that scar flicking along his jaw like a serpent's tongue, exploding on his cheek like a sunspot. Yet Tag had noticed the pain tearing across Eric's face-the self-blame mixed with hate. Then it was gone, disappeared as quickly as a spring rain. Now there was the stone face, the solid marble man. Still, Tag had to admire the man's strength. They'd all huddled against each other, even Rydell, as they'd watched Eric twist that arrow out of the dead boy. Had that only been minutes after he'd tenderly hugged Season, calmed her hysteria? Then crushed a dying boy's windpipe? How could they all be the same man?
Tag peered at his watch. Twelve-thirty. Whoever they were supposed to meet was a half-hour late. He took a deep breath, looked across the street to the empty gas station where he'd just left Eric. The pumps were torn off their concrete islands. It had been one of the few gas stations that hadn't been burned. But it had been pretty thoroughly drained, though not by University Camp. Tag's eyes scanned the station for Eric, whom he had last seen crouching in the open garage. From here the darkened garage looked like a forbidding cavern leading to the center of the earth. But no Eric. Where the hell did he go?
Suddenly he felt a hand grip his arm.
His heart clattered in his ears like an alarm bell. Fear and panic flooded over him until he felt he was drowning in it. But he had to do something. He twisted around, realized it was too late for the bow, tugged at the knife in his belt.
'Easy, Tag,' Eric said, his powerful fingers squeezing Tag's shoulder, stilling all movement. 'Follow me.'
Tag followed Eric, his heart still hammering against his ribs. How had Eric sneaked up on him so quietly? It was spooky.
They moved swiftly along the street, Eric silent but Tag's slight noise alerting Season. They squatted next to her.
'What's up?' she asked.
'I don't think they're going to show,' Eric said.
'That doesn't make any sense. They called for the meet.'
'I didn't say they weren't here. I just said they aren't going to show themselves.' Eric made a sweeping gesture with his hand. 'They may be waiting out there, planning to jump us on the way home. They think that we'll figure they decided not to show for some reason. And then we'll let our guard down. That way we'd be much better targets going home than we were coming here. Old strategy, but effective.'
'What do we do?' Tag asked.
'Wait. For now.'
'What about Dr. Dreiser?'
'I haven't forgotten her.'
Season leaned her back against the plastic wall of the bus stop cabana and closed her eyes. 'Christ, it won't be the same without her tramping around the place in her filthy jacket, complaining about her bad feet.' She opened her eyes, giggled. 'It was Dr. Dreiser who had the foresight to make sure we stocked all those contraceptives in the beginning. Foam, suppositories, condoms. Hell, even you didn't think of that.'
Eric smiled. 'No, I didn't.'
'Wouldn't expect a man to,' she teased.
'He's not a doctor,' Tag said, feeling defensive.
'It has nothing to do with being a doctor. Joan thought of it because she's a woman. She's-'
Eric bolted to his feet. 'She's a woman!'
Season looked at Eric. 'I hope that didn't come as news to you.'
Eric's eyes blazed as he shook his head angrily. 'Of course! Damn it, I'll kill them. If they aren't dead already.' He stood up, grabbed his bow, and ran across the street to Molly and Rydell. Season and Tag scrambled after him.
'What's up, Coach,' Rydell said. 'Is this a forfeit?'
'We may have already lost,' Eric growled, clawing at the pile of backpacks, dumping them onto the ground. Thick books spilled out onto the ground tumbling over one another. Eric flung the backpacks to the side and snatched up a handful of books, reading the titles: 'A Guide to Social Etiquette, Rollout: Improve Your Racquet-ball Game in Six Weeks.'
Rydell reached down and grabbed some books. 'Look at this. Lyndon Johnson and the American Dream. Ten Days That Shook the World.'
'What's going on, Eric?' Season asked. 'This isn't what they asked for.'
Tag started stuffing the books back into the backpacks.
'Leave them,' Eric said. 'We don't have time. We've got to get back to University Camp.'
'Hold on,' Rydell said. 'I don't get it. What about Dr. Dreiser? The swap?'
'There is no swap. Let's go.'
They started running, Eric leading the pack by ten feet.
'But who kidnapped Dr. Dreiser?' Rydell called after him,
'Who?' Eric said, his voice tight and menacing as it drifted eerily out of the darkness. 'It was Dr. Dreiser.'
