by John Saul
He looked down at the watch on his wrist, and found his eyes could barely focus on it.
He squinted, then made out the numbers.
Eight-thirty.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow he’d figure out a way.
He moved back toward the mirror, and felt a strange burning pain in his hips and knees.
Breathing hard, feeling exhaustion simply from the effort of crossing the room, he peered once more into the mirror.
Old.
He looked old, and he felt old.
But he’d live through the night.
He’d rest, and in the morning he’d find a new source for Warren Phillips.
And Phillips would restore Judd Duval’s youth.
Life in Villejeune would go on—eternally.
15
“It’s time for you to go to bed, young lady,” Barbara Sheffield told Jenny, who was curled up on the end of the sofa in the family room, all but asleep already.
Instantly the girl’s eyes opened wide. She sat up. “I don’t want to go to bed. I want to stay up until Michael and Kelly come back.”
“Well, you’re not going to,” Barbara replied, glancing meaningfully at the clock. It was almost ten, and already Jenny had been up an hour and a half past her regular bedtime.
“But they said they’d be back by now,” Jenny argued.
“I know what they said,” Barbara agreed, her own annoyance etching her voice. When the two teenagers had left on Michael’s motorcycle, it had been only a little after eight, and they’d promised to be back by nine-thirty.
“We’re just going down to Arlette’s for Cokes,” Michael had told them.
Craig had eyed his son sternly. “See that that’s the only place you go. Stay away from the park.”
Michael had rolled his eyes scornfully. “Why would we go out there? I don’t even like those kids.” He was well aware of what went on out at the county park at the other end of town, where a lot of the teenagers of Villejeune gathered in the evening, drinking beer and playing their boom boxes at top volume. Most of the time they didn’t do much but hang out, but every now and then the phone rang late at night and his father had to go down to the police department to help bail out someone else’s son. And always, the next morning, Michael had to listen to a lecture about staying out of trouble. On this evening, he had seen his father’s eyes shift meaningfully toward Kelly Anderson, and suddenly he’d understood. “Aw, come on, Dad,” he groaned, his voice dropping so no one else would hear him. “Lighten up, okay? Kelly doesn’t even know those kids.”
Craig had finally agreed to let them go.
Now, as the clock in the corner struck ten, Mary Anderson stood up. “Well, Jenny may not be tired, but I am,” she announced. “And look at Carl—he’s sound asleep.” She smiled fondly at her father-in-law, who was sprawled out in Craig’s favorite recliner, snoring softly. “Come on, Ted, wake up your father and take us home.”
Ted’s jaw set stubbornly. “I think we should wait for Kelly.”
“I’m sure you do,” Mary observed. “And I’m sure that when she comes home, there’s going to be a scene. So why don’t we have it at our house, instead of here?” Though she tried to keep her tone light, the tension she was feeling showed clearly. “Please,” she went on. “Michael or Craig can bring her home. And I am tired.”
For a moment she thought fed was going to argue with her, but then he stood, moving toward his father. “Come on, Dad,” he said, shaking the older man gently. “The boss says we’re going home.”
Carl’s snoring stopped and his eyes opened. “I wasn’t sleeping,” he said. “Just resting my eyes.” He glanced at the clock, then frowned. “Where are the kids?”
“Not back yet,” Mary interjected before Ted could say anything. “We’re going home, so Barb can put Jenny to bed.” She turned to Barbara. “Want me to help clean up the kitchen?”
Barbara, sensing Mary’s tension, shook her head. “There isn’t that much. You go on, and don’t worry. I’m sure the kids are fine. Knowing Michael, he just lost track of time.”
The Andersons left after Barbara promised to call Mary the minute Michael and Kelly showed up. When they were gone, she put Jenny to bed, then went to work on the mess in the kitchen. When that was finally done, she sat down with Craig to wait.
To wait, and to try to keep her husband’s temper under control.
“Maybe it was a dream,” Kelly said. She and Michael were sitting in the back booth of Arlette’s café, where they’d been for almost two hours. Except for them, the café was empty, and Arlette, wiping down the long counter on the other side of the room, was eyeing them impatiently.
“But what about the marks on our chests?” Michael protested. “And the baby we saw—what if that was Amelie Coulton’s?”
Kelly’s mind felt muddled. They’d been sitting here for almost two hours, and hadn’t talked about anything else except what had happened to them the previous night. And they still hadn’t come up with any answers at all. “Maybe we’d better get out of here,” she said, avoiding Michael’s question entirely. “I think Arlette wants to close up.”
Michael glanced up at the clock on the wall. “Oh, Jesus—we promised we’d be back half an hour ago.” He pulled his wallet out of his pocket, put some money on the table, and slid out of the booth.
“What’s the big deal?” Kelly teased. “It’s hardly even ten o’clock yet. We’re not in junior high anymore!”
“Except my dad’s already mad at me for losing track of time at work.”
They left the café, and as soon as they were gone, Arlette turned off the sign and pulled the torn shade down over the window in the door. They had started toward Michael’s motorcycle when a car pulled up and a voice called out to them.
“Hey, Sheffield! Who’s your girlfriend?”
Michael turned to the car and saw Buddy Hawkins behind the wheel of his five-year-old Trans Am, grinning mockingly at him. Next to Buddy was Melanie Whalen, who had been going steady with Buddy’s cousin Jeff only a couple of weeks ago.
“This is Kelly Anderson,” Michael replied uncertainly as a pickup truck packed with four other kids pulled up behind Buddy’s Trans Am. He recognized all the kids as being part of the crowd that hung out at the county park, and suddenly felt uneasy. What were they doing here? He warily introduced Kelly to Buddy and Melanie. “Where’s Jeff?” he asked Melanie, but she shrugged disinterestedly.
“We broke up last week. I’m going with Buddy now.” She grinned through the window and held up a can. “Want a beer?”
Michael shook his head.
“How ’bout you?” Melanie asked Kelly. “We got plenty.”
Kelly, sensing Michael’s sudden nervousness, shook her head, and Melanie’s lips curled into a scornful sneer. “What are you?” she asked. “A goody-two-shoes like Michael?”
Kelly, slipping her hand into Michael’s, felt him stiffen as the rest of the kids, now out of the pickup and gathered around the Trans Am, started laughing. Kelly’s mind raced—maybe if she played along with the other girl, the kids would leave them alone. “I like beer,” she said. “So does Michael.” Leaving Michael’s side, she walked over to the car and took the two beers that Melanie was now offering, then returned to Michael, handing him one of them.
“I—I don’t think I better,” Michael mumbled.
“Come on!” Kelly urged under her breath. “If we don’t have one, they’ll think we’re dweebs. Besides,” she added, even though it wasn’t really true, “I like beer.” She raised the can to her lips, filled her mouth with the bitter liquid and swallowed. A split second later she choked, and the beer that was still in her mouth spewed out, spilling down the front of her clothes.
“Been drinking long?” Melanie Whalen asked acidly, and turned to her friends. “Hey, you guys know who this is? It’s the crazy girl who tried to kill herself!”
Kelly froze.
So they knew. They’d probably been talking about her
all week.
Another car pulled up. Soon a group of teenagers had gathered around Michael and Kelly. Kelly could feel them looking at her, sizing her up. “Come on, Michael,” she said softly, so only he could hear. “Let’s go.”
But Michael was glaring angrily at Melanie. “What do you want to say something stupid like that for, Melanie?” he demanded.
Melanie’s eyes glittered mockingly in the glare of a streetlight. “It’s true, isn’t it? She tried to kill herself, didn’t she?”
“So what?” Michael demanded. “You put out for every guy in town, but you don’t want everyone talking about it, do you?”
Melanie’s face darkened with rage. “You asshole!” she shouted. “Buddy, are you going to let him talk to me like that?”
The door of the Trans Am flew open and Buddy Hawkins positioned himself a few inches from Michael, his fist clenched threateningly. “You better get the hell out of here, Sheffield,” he growled. “And take your crazy girlfriend with you!”
Michael stood his ground, though Buddy was three inches taller, and outweighed him by at least thirty pounds. “It’s a public sidewalk, Buddy. We’ve got just as much right here as you do.”
“Well, you don’t have a right to insult my girl!”
“Who started it?” Michael shot back, his own anger building rapidly. “If you can’t do any better than Melanie Whalen—”
Before he could finish the sentence, Buddy’s arm came up and his fist smashed into Michael’s stomach. Michael felt the wind shoot out of his lungs, and doubled over as pain spread out from his stomach. But then, abruptly, he straightened, his own fist coming up to connect with Buddy’s chin. Buddy staggered backward, lurching into his car, where he hesitated a moment, eyeing Michael. Around them, the group of teenagers backed away, forming a circle.
“I’m gonna pound your ass, Sheffield,” Buddy growled, rubbing the spot on his chin that was already beginning to swell.
“Big deal,” Michael retorted, his voice hoarse as he still fought to regain his breath. “What do you think I’m going to do, run away from you?”
Buddy’s eyes narrowed. “Last chance, Sheffield. Take your crazy girlfriend and get out of here, or your butt’s gonna get kicked.”
“Then you better start kicking,” Michael replied, dropping down slightly, his eyes riveted on the bigger boy. “ ’Cause until Melanie apologizes, we’re not going anywhere!”
Buddy straightened up and moved away from the Trans Am, his knees flexing as he feinted first one way, then another. He ducked left, then moved quickly toward Michael, his right fist poised. Michael, seeing the blow coming, dodged away, then spun around to jab his left into Buddy’s gut.
Buddy doubled over as a chant began to rise from the kids surrounding the combatants. “Fight! Fight! Fight!”
Buddy suddenly rushed Michael, his weight knocking the smaller boy to the sidewalk.
Kelly screamed as she saw Michael fall with Buddy dropping on top of him. “Stop him! Can’t someone stop him?”
The crowd of kids ignored her, urging their friend on. “Come on, Buddy! Let him know who’s boss around here!”
As Buddy raised himself up in preparation to smash his right fist into Michael’s face, Michael drew his knees up and shoved hard, twisting at the same time. Throwing Buddy off, he scrambled to his feet, then spun around to face the other boy just as Buddy was rising from the ground. But before Buddy could get up, Michael’s left foot lashed out, catching Buddy’s cheek. A scream of pain mixed with outrage boiled up out of Buddy’s throat, and he lunged toward Michael. Then a new sound rose out of the night, drowning out the shouting.
It was the scream of a police siren, and it was only a few hundred feet away.
“Cops!” someone yelled. Instantly the fight was forgotten as kids hurled beer cans into the narrow alley between Arlette’s and the building next door.
Seconds later a police car screeched to a halt on the other side of Buddy Hawkins’s Trans Am. “Hold it right there!” Marty Templar demanded, his voice amplified by the bullhorn on the roof of his car. Templar got out of the police car and approached the knot of kids who were now huddled silently on the sidewalk, his right hand resting casually on the butt of his pistol. “Well, well,” he drawled. “What have we got here? Little gathering that got out of hand?” His eyes raked over Buddy Hawkins, then shifted to Michael, whose face was scraped, his clothes torn. “What’re you doing hanging out with this bunch?” he asked. “Never had any trouble with you before.”
Michael said nothing, his eyes fixing on the sidewalk at his feet.
Templar’s attention shifted to Buddy Hawkins. “You wanta tell me what’s going on, or shall we all go down to the police station?” Before Buddy could reply, Templar spotted the four six-packs of beer stowed behind the front seat of the Trans Am. “Okay,” he said. “A fight’s one thing. The beer’s something else again. Hawkins, you and Sheffield get in my car.” He scanned the small group of kids who, now nervous, were avoiding his gaze. “Any of you not drinking?” he asked.
Two of the boys and a girl stepped forward. After sniffing their breaths, he nodded curtly at them. “One of you bring Hawkins’s car, and the other Sheffield’s bike. Meet me at the station.” He let his gaze run over the kids, one by one. “And don’t any of you get any ideas about taking off,” he added. “I know every one of you, and I don’t want any bullshit. Got it?”
As he turned back to the car, he spotted Kelly. Frowning, he paused. “Who are you?”
Kelly hesitated. “K-Kelly Anderson,” she finally stammered. Templar’s eyes narrowed.
“Carl Anderson’s granddaughter?”
Kelly nodded.
“Who’re you with?”
“Michael. But we didn’t do—”
Templar silenced her with a gesture. “Get in my car.”
Ted Anderson, his temper simmering, arrived at the police station behind the post office. Craig Sheffield was already there, and Ted, ignoring the other worried-looking parents clustered around the duty officer’s desk, crossed the room to glower at him. “What the hell’s going on?” he demanded. “If your kid took my daughter out and got her drunk—”
“Now hold on, Ted,” Craig broke in. “I just got here myself, and we don’t even know what happened yet.”
“It was a fight,” a third man said. “They was all out in front of Arlette’s, and your kid got into it with Buddy Hawkins.”
“Michael?” Craig asked. “I don’t believe it. Michael’s—” His words died on his lips as the door to one of the back rooms opened and Michael, his face smeared with drying blood, emerged. His jaw tight, Craig’s hand clamped on his son’s shoulder. “What the hell’s going on, Michael?” he asked. “I told you—”
“Can we just go home, Dad?” Michael pleaded. “I didn’t do anything, and neither did Kelly. She’ll be out in a minute.”
“No, we can’t just go home,” Craig replied. “Not until I’ve talked to Marty Templar myself. Sit.” Turning, he strode back to the office from which Michael had just emerged, rapped on the door once, then let himself in. When he came out again, Kelly Anderson was beside him. He moved through the knot of parents, then spoke to Ted Anderson.
“They’re done with our kids,” he said. “But he’s booking some of the others for possession of alcohol. I’m going to have to stay around—half these people are my clients. Will you drop Michael off?”
Ted nodded, and Craig turned back to face his son. “Don’t think this is the end of it, Michael. The police may be done with you, but I haven’t even started yet.” Before Michael could say anything else, Craig turned away and began explaining to Billy-Joe Hawkins that beer had been found in his son’s car.
Michael followed Ted Anderson and Kelly out to the parking lot and slid silently into the cab of the company truck, with Kelly between her father and himself.
“I—I’m sorry about what happened, Mr. Anderson,” Michael said as Ted pulled out of the parking lot and swung down Po
nce Avenue.
“I’d say you’re not half as sorry as you’re going to be after your father gets through with you,” Ted growled. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your mouth shut before I decide to show you just how mad I can get.”
Michael shrank down in the seat, saying nothing else until the truck pulled up in front of his house a few minutes later. As he opened the door, he turned to Kelly. “I’m really sorry,” he said, but Kelly shook her head.
“It wasn’t your fault. I was the one who took the beer. If you want, I’ll tell your dad tomorrow—”
“You won’t be talking to anybody for a while, young lady,” Ted Anderson interrupted, reaching across Kelly to yank the door closed.
Only when the truck turned the corner at the end of the block and disappeared did Michael finally go into the house to try to explain to his mother what had happened.
And to wait for his father to come home.
That was when the real trouble would start.
“What the hell kind of kids are you hanging around with?” Ted demanded, the anger that had been building up in him since the police had called almost an hour ago boiling over. He pulled the truck over to the side of the road and turned to glare at his daughter.
“I don’t even know those kids,” Kelly replied. “We weren’t even with them!”
“Right!” Ted snapped, etching his words with sarcasm. “You and that little son of a bitch just happened to be wandering by, and someone jumped you. I’m not an idiot, Kelly!”
“It wasn’t that way!”
“Then how was it?” Ted demanded. “And don’t give me any of your lies, Kelly. I’ve had it up to here with them!”
Kelly shrank back against the door. “It was a girl,” she said, her voice quavering. “She—She was talking about me.”
“What do you mean, talking about you? What did she say?”
Melanie’s words echoing in her mind, Kelly said nothing, but stared out the window into the darkness beyond the cab of the pickup.
“I’m waiting,” Ted said. “We’re not going anywhere until I know what the hell was going on tonight, understand?”