The Pet Part 22

I'm feeling sorry for myself, aren't I? he asked the night sky. Mom worked hard for all this; she doesn't want me to take it away.

But it was only a gesture, this attempt at understanding, and he knewit, and knew he should feel worse for it. He didn't. He felt as if something had been taken away before he could make it his own, as if something uniquely his had been 204.

lost from the moment he had heard Brian's voice sneering in the park.

He stretched out his right hand, and his fingers caressed the head of the bobcat; up a shelf, to follow the lines of a leopard. His breath condensed on the pane. The clouds reclosed, and there was only a glow from a house a block over, and the dark against dark of the gra.s.s and the trees.

If you're real, he thought then, where are you? Where are you?

And he didn't move at all when he saw the slanted green eyes that opened slowly, and looked up.

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Nine.He slept until well past noon, scarcely moving, not dreaming, waking only once-when Dr. Naugle came by on his way home from the hospital to check on what he called his celebrity patient. A soft nervous laugh-his mother standing in the doorway, a light coat over her arms as if she were ready to go out, to get back to the business of celebrating the town. Don's mind was fuzzy, disconnected, and he barely heard the man recommend that another day in bed wouldn't hurt to regain the strength he had lost, more emotional than physical.

Joyce agreed, and Donald didn't argue-he didn't like the weakness that had infiltrated his muscles, and he didn't like thinking what would happen if he should show up at school and have a fainting spell or require someone's help to walk before the day was out.

And he didn't like thinking what would happen should he inadvertently mention the horse.

He slept, then, and this time came the dreams.

Of the bedroom, whose walls expanded slowly outward, leaving his bed in the center of a cavern with caves in the 206.

dark walls, and in one of the caves he could see a shadow, drawing him in, beckoning, calling his name soundlessly and telling him over and over and over again that everything at last was going to be all right; Of the bedroom, through whose window he could see the world from a hawk's lazy perspective, refocus, plunge, and see Ashford, refocus again and see the horse waiting patiently under the maple tree in the backyard, watching his window, waiting for the signal, telling him by his stance that he never need fear again, not anyone, not anything-all he had to do was call and his friend would be there; And of the bedroom at the last, and on his desk the remnants of the nugget that had exploded in his chest. He walked over to it and feltnothing on his soles, blew on the ebony dust and watched it leap into a dervish, a tornado, a tower of black that snapped around him before he could duck away, insinuated itself behind his eyes and showed him the faces of the people at the concert, their eyes bright with laughter, their mouths open like clowns, fingers pointing, heads wagging, elbows nudging neighbors, and feet stamping the ground; it showed him the flushed face of Brian Pratt at the back, hands cupped around his mouth-tell them the giant crow did it!-and grinning malevolently at Tar Boston who lifted both his middle fingers-hey donald the duck- and turned to Fleet Robinson, who stared sullenly at the one who had stolen his revenge; and it showed him the story of a giant crow, told by a clown who wore black denim.

He woke at ten minutes to three, sweat covering his face, and he watched the ceiling trap shadows shrinking away from the sun.

Norman sat in his office, doing little more than going through the motions, waiting, expecting that every time the door opened, Harry would slink in to tell him that the teachers' strike that should have been called the day before had 207.

been called for that afternoon. But Falcone had apparently been made aware of the princ.i.p.al's mood and stayed away, for which small favor Norman mentally sacrificed his wife's heart to the heavens.

Falcone had kissed her. In front of hundreds of people the sonofab.i.t.c.h had laid his hands on her and had kissed her.

"Jesus," he said. "Jesus."

The telephone calls were being screened by the secretaries, but enough filtered through to finally lighten his mood by the time the last cla.s.s had begun. A few reporters from out of town, several board members, enough well-wishers to finally have him smiling.

Shortly afterward, the mayor called to suggest they not waste any more time but meet as soon as was politically feasible to discuss the man's successor. Anthony Garziana was preparing to retire; he had run Ashford for a dozen years and was tired, looking hungrily toward the day when he could pack up his young wife and family and flee to his carefully built estate on the Gulf of Mexico, outside Tampa. He was unimpressed with the deputy mayor; he liked Boyd's style and the way he had glossed Donald's day with a sheen of his own. That took guts, Garziana had said; Don, Norman told him, had a medal and could be generous.

Splendid, he thought as he rose to stretch his legs. Jesus, wait until Joyce hears this. She'll be hysterical; she'll have the mayor's house redecorated before the end of the year.

He grinned and decided to take a walk around his school, left by the private door, and almost immediately collided with Tracey Quintero. She babbled an apology, he took her shoulder and calmed her down, and told her sotto voce how proud he was of her.

Tracey was fl.u.s.tered. "Me? I didn't do anything."

"You called the police the night ... that night."Her face darkened. "I was too late."

"But you panicked the man, Tracey, you panicked him.

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You forced him into a mistake, and he paid for it. For that, a lot of us parents are very very grateful."

Her expression doubted the sentiment, but not by much. She blushed prettily and hurried on, her hands with nothing better to do smoothing her shirt over her stomach, her hips, until she reached the girls' room and pushed in.

She was alone, and she stood in front of the wall-long mirror and checked her hair, her hem, then turned on the cold water and let it run over her wrists. She should have been in zoology, but a slow-building dizziness made her ask for a hall pa.s.s, granted on the condition she return before the bell. It was silly, but she accepted, and after her odd meeting with Don's father, she was more confused than ever.

Last night she had wanted to remain in the park after the concert, but her father insisted she return home with him. He was embarra.s.sed by all the attention he was getting, and insisted that Thomas Verona should be complimented as well. No one listened. Luis had been at the scene while Verona had been on patrol; Luis had discovered what Donald had done.

On the night of the Howler's death, she had asked him directly what it was he had seen. There were only rumors, and there was no way to break through the constant busy signals at the Boyds' home telephone. She wanted to know. He wouldn't tell her. She reminded him cruelly that Amanda could have been her if she had tripped, or had turned to use the length of pipe she carried; she could have been the one the school had closed for. He grew angry, but he relented.

And she didn't believe him.

Even now, while she straightened her clothes that were fine the way they were, she could not imagine Don clubbing a man to death, not the way her father had described it. A bash over the head, yes; a good smack or two to the temple, sure; but not so hard that the man looked trampled. And when she heard the television newscasters talk about 209.

adrenaline rushes and hysterical rage, she still didn't believe it. To do otherwise would turn Don into someone she didn't know.

Jeff had said Don was changing; and maybe she was too. How could she not, when every night she had the dream-the race down the boulevard, the Howler in pursuit, Amanda spinning as if trapped in an invisible web that held her until the killer dragged her into the park ... while Tracey watched, and screamed, and woke up feeling as if someone had kicked her in the groin.

Tonight, she resolved. Tonight she would call him, and if she couldn't get through, then she would go over there. No matter what her father ordered, she would go over there and talk to him. She didn't know why, only knew she must, and that more than anything was the root of her confusion."A mess, Quintero," she told her reflection. "Es verdad, you're a mess."

With a pinch to her cheeks to bring back some color she hurried back into the hall, looked both ways and entered the stairwell. On the first landing she paused, debating whether it was worth returning to cla.s.s or not, shrugged and hurried up, stepped into the upstairs hall and turned right just as Brian Pratt leapt out at her from the bank of lockers in the corner.

"Hey!" he said, taking her arm as she made to pa.s.s by him.

"Brian, I've got to get to cla.s.s, okay?"

"G.o.d," he said, "you could at least say h.e.l.lo."

"h.e.l.lo." She shook the hand off and hurried away, glancing back once at him, frowning and thinking that if South won the night game tomorrow and he had anything to do with it, he would be even more insufferable than he already was. Then she remembered Jeff telling her about Don, how he had asked everyone he'd known if she was going with Brian. The thought warmed her, and she rubbed the back of her neck self-consciously, grinned to herself, and turned abruptly at the cla.s.sroom door.

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Brian was still there, shaking his head.

She couldn't resist-she blew him a kiss before going inside.

Brian grinned stupidly and started toward her, stopped when she ducked into the cla.s.sroom, and shrugged. It didn't matter. She was smitten, another conquest for the Pratt; and this one all the sweeter because word was she was the Duck's girl.

The Duck.

Christ, he was going to puke the next time he heard someone mention that queer's name. All G.o.dd.a.m.n day it had been Don did this and Don did that and Don made the world in seven f.u.c.king days and the next thing he was going to do was walk on f.u.c.king water.

One lucky hit on a crazy old man and the Duck was G.o.d.

A shame, man, he thought, because they could've been friends. If the little f.a.ggot had only stood up to him that first day, taken one swing at him, they could have been friends. But no, the creep had cried, run crying into the house just like a baby. And Brian had no use for babies.

All this bulls.h.i.t he was reading about sensitive men was just that-bulls.h.i.t.

Crying never got anyone into the National Football League.

Yeah, he decided; it was time he made a move on Tracey, and soon. He didn't give a s.h.i.t that she didn't have any t.i.ts; she was after the Duck, and that's all the reason he needed.

His eyes narrowed and he made an about-face, deciding that his good mood was ruined and there was no sense going to chemistry now. Besides, the Tube was busy piling on the homework, and if he wasn't there, he couldn't get the a.s.signment, and if he couldn't get the a.s.signment hecouldn't be held responsible for it. Right now there were more important things to work on-like figuring out how to ace Fleet and Tar out of the glory tomorrow. Ashford North was known in the conference for its defense against the run, which meant in an 211.

ordinary game that Boston and Robinson were going to have a field day while Brian was used solely to decoy the opposition.

But not this time.

Tomorrow night he was going to show them what he was really made of, and the scouts he knew were in town from the Big Ten were going to get an exhibition of ball handling and running they'd never seen in their lives. With any kind of luck at all he would be beating them and their contracts off with a baseball bat before the first half was over.

A fist thumped his chest as he took the stairs down two at a time, three at a time, until he was on the ground floor and heading for the weight room on the other side of the gym. Coach might be there, but he wouldn't mind. Brian would tell him Hedley had agreed to his missing cla.s.s this once, and Coach would believe him whether he believed him or not. Brian was his star. Brian does his job. Get Brian sulking, lose a game or two, and Coach would be teaching kindergarten someplace in Kansas.

The sharp echo of his mirthless laugh rebounded from the walls, and he swung around the corner, whistling and marching, and stopping dead in his tracks when he saw Mr. Hedley lounging against the gym entrance.

"Were you by any chance lost, Mr. Pratt?" the short man asked without moving away.

"Hadda ask Coach something," Brian said easily, trying to contain his impatience.

"You can ask him after cla.s.s."

"He won't be here."

Hedley's upper lip pulled back. "He won't be here? You mean, he's skipping practice today? The day before the big game, Mr. Pratt?" The man shook his head. "I cannot credit that, Mr. Pratt. And I suggest, if you want credit for the course and a diploma in June, you head back upstairs."

Brian worked hard to keep his hands from curling into fists. One punch.

One punch and the little s.h.i.t would fall 212.

apart. And one punch, caution reminded him, would lose him his graduation, entrance into the Big Ten, and his professional career.

Hedley, by his expression, knew that as well, and it made him angrier to know he could do nothing about it.

"Two minutes, Mr. Pratt, or I'll turn in a cut slip."

"Aw, jeez, Mr. Hedley," he said, spreading his hands in appeal, "have a heart, huh?"Hedley stared at him so intently Brian thought for a moment the p.r.i.c.k had finally figured out who had dumped the s.h.i.t on his porch, and was already preparing an alibi. For himself. Tar, the little coward, would have to take care of himself.

"Two minutes," Hedley repeated and walked off, arms swinging like a sergeant major leading a parade.

"Little p.r.i.c.k," Brian muttered. "f.u.c.king little p.r.i.c.k."

Hedley heard but didn't turn, didn't lose a step. He continued to the stairwell and headed up for his cla.s.s. A mistake leaving them alone and he knew it; there were too many legal and ethical ramifications. But Pratt had been getting away with too much for too long, and seeing him in the hallway talking with that little Quintero girl had made him furious. A swift order for questions to be completed in the workbook, and he was gone, racing down the center stairs, barely able to control his heavy breathing before the b.a.s.t.a.r.d came around the corner.

b.a.s.t.a.r.d, he thought, and nodded. A fair choice of words. The mother lived alone, most of the time, and there was no telling who could claim fatherhood for that monster. A mental note to see if he could get Candy to reveal the truth, and a wince at the idea that anyone, most of all her, could be named after a confection.

He grinned, then, and stroked his mustache. What, he wondered, would Brian think if he knew that his flabby little p.r.i.c.k of a chemistry teacher was regularly manhandling his mother; what, he wondered further, would the thick-necked 213.

grunt do if he knew that among Hedley's collection of glossies in his cellar was a choice set of color photos unmistakably starring her.

Probably try to wring my neck, he decided, or cut off my b.a.l.l.s.

"Mr. Hedley?"

He cleared his mind of the image of Brian Pratt frothing at the mouth and replaced it with the more realistic and far more pleasant one of Chris Snowden, standing in front of his door with a pile of books in her arms.

"Mr. Hedley, you wanted these from the library?"

He was about to deny it, suddenly remembered the bit of research he'd wanted to do for tomorrow's truncated cla.s.ses, and nodded, s.n.a.t.c.hed the volumes from her with a curt nod of thanks, and swung open his door as if daring the cla.s.s to be misbehaving.

Chris stared at his back, and told him silently to go to h.e.l.l before she wheeled about and headed back for the library on the other side of the building. Though it was excruciatingly boring shifting books from one shelf to another, catering to creeps who needed this author and that reference work, it at least kept her away from teachers for forty-five minutes, kept the males from trying to unclothe her without lifting a finger, kept the females from consigning her to that airhead category all attractive blondes seemed doomed to inhabit from birth.It also gave her furtive opportunities to do her homework before she left for home, thus enabling her to work full-time on her plan once school was out.

Today she was testing excuses to see which would work the best when she dropped in on the Boyds. She'd thought to learn what a.s.signments Don had missed by staying home, then play the Samaritan by dropping them off-but with cla.s.ses shortened tomorrow because of the end-of-the-day pep rally that would lead up to the game, most of the faculty wasn't bothering.

Then she had wondered if there wasn't 214.

something she could manage from the front office, something she hadn't yet been able to figure out.

In a way the idea of seeing Don was beginning to turn her on. She had heard several graphic versions of what he'd done to the Howler, and even taking it all with a pound of salt, it must have been one awesome battle; and to look at him, you wouldn't think he could step on Brian's shadow without breaking a leg.

Appearances, she thought; it's all in appearances, the one subject she knew better than anyone else.

Probably the simplest thing would be just to go, to say truthfully she was concerned and wondering how Don was feeling, could she see him for a minute, and bring him some false greetings from his friends.

Sometimes, Chris, she thought, you try too hard, you know it? You just try too d.a.m.ned hard.

She pushed, then, on the swinging door, heard a thud and a grunt, and looked up through the narrow wire-embedded gla.s.s pane.

Oh, Christ! And her eyes closed briefly when Mr. Boyd pulled on the handle and let himself out.

"Gee, I'm sorry," she said, putting an unthinking hand on his arm. "I'm really sorry, Mr. Boyd, honestly. I wasn't looking. I didn't mean it."

He smiled and rubbed his shoulder ruefully. "I think I'll live, Chris.

Don't worry about it."

"Honest to G.o.d, I didn't mean it, really."

"All right, take it easy," he told her, laughing easily at her distress that bordered on the comic. "I'm not mortally wounded. I'll survive.

Just keep your head up from now on, okay? I'd like to last through the year if you don't mind."

His touch on her shoulder was more a brief caress than a pat, and he was gone, leaving her swearing at herself for botching the first chance she'd had to make some points with the old man. She could have pretended a temporary injury, or 215.

fallen against him; and now, when the opportunity almost literallyknocked her off her feet, she had blown it.

"s.h.i.t!"

"Miss Snowden!" the librarian scolded from behind her desk.