Pat listened with a dreamy smile for a few minutes, then withdrew into a glum series of speculations centered around Greg and his relationship with Susan haslet. He was, she had come to learn, an intensely emotional man, quick to laugh, quick to weep, liable to slide into moods that were, at best, puzzlingly incomprehensible. That she might actually be jealous stung her for a brief second, pleased her for a longer one, until an image of Ford Danvers surfaced suddenly and unbidden. She scowled to herself. It definitely wasn't fair. On what should have been the sweetest, most exhilarating night of her life, she wondered if it had all been worth it. The man was more than likely going to make the rest of the term as miserable as he could for her, and the look of anguished confusion he'd given her as she'd left the conference room would be enough to keep her awake for the rest of the winter if she wasn't careful. She had noted no threat there, only the shadow of a beaten man, and the salt of the hideously demolished automobile had obviously added substantially to his pain.
Hollow, she thought, with a trace of self-pity. Why not, just once in my life, can't I do something right for myself and not feel so damned guilty about it? Not that she would race right to his office in the morning and hand it all back to him; but she was positive it was going to take a long while before she really felt like celebrating.
"They're all bastards, no doubt about it," Janice said, loudly enough to bring Pat back to the lounge. "Cute, hunks, some of them horny as hell, but essentially they're all class-A bastards. They don't want anything from me but what I can give them, as long as I give it to them so they don't have to work, or think."
"So why do you teach?" Stephen said.
Another familiar field that invited replowing.
She retreated once again, this time hoping the politics of running an embryo department in an established school wouldn't prove too much for her to handle. Though she believed she'd proved herself handily by getting this far without losing her position, accepting the Fine Arts chair only meant more responsibility, not only for herself but for those working under her, the students who picked it for a major, the reputation of the college . . . through all those months of maintaining that the department did in fact need creation, she realized she had not really considered the aftermath.
Unfortunately, dear, she reminded the doubts and the niggling dark fears, there's not much you can do about it now, is there?
"Hey, Pat, what's the matter?" Greg whispered then, leaning so close his chin almost rested on her shoulder. "Is it something I said?"
"No," she said quickly. "It's . . . the car. If you only knew how Kelly drives . . ." And as soon as she'd spoken she chastised herself for not having thought about Kelly and the station wagon since that afternoon. It made her feel almost guilty, as if lack of concern somehow constituted vehicular abandonment.
"Never mind," he said. "We'll send out a search party if it isn't back yet."
She gave him a brief smile, not bothering to reveal the lie, and immediately she did he launched into a series of torturous, lengthy puns that soon had DiSelleone working to top him. And unlike Greg's head-thrust underscoring of the punch lines, Stephen's pianist fingers wove the air into designs she could almost see if she peered hard enough through the dim lighting. It was easy to understand why Janice was taken by him, why she seldom moved more than an inch from his side in spite of the fact that he made a cautious show of not noticing. He was mesmerizing, and witty, and the four of them were not long in laughing freely, desperately reaching for the pun long before it could be delivered.
Then, just as Pat thought the stitch in her side would send her into tears, Greg excused himself, returning a few minutes later with an ice bucket speared with a bottle of champagne. He poured for them all, lifted his tall glass and winked. "Lest we permit the poor dope Danvers to spoil this forever," he said, his crooked smile wide, "I suggest we remember for the moment that we've all been promoted. That Stephen and Patrice here are destined to assume Constable's place on the academic pantheon through a bloodbath of politics five years from now, while Janice-love and I will be outfitting our togas and sharpening our knives. To us, my friends. God love us, and spare our dear children."
And it ended that way, the quiet, satisfying celebration Pat feared had been lost, a settling of moods and tempers that lasted until Greg parked in front of the house and kissed her gently on the cheek.
"You are a marvel," he told her. "I swear, I would have given up the first time Ford said no."
"You don't know me very well, then," she said, hoping it sounded more a joke than she felt.
"No," he said somberly. "No, I guess I don't."
* * *
The heater was billowing too-warm air around her legs, and the combination of gin and champagne laced a fuzziness through her thinking she could not control. And she suspected it was making her tongue looser than it might otherwise have been.
"Greg, that Susan Haslet . . ."
He pulled away and folded his gloved hands into his lap, staring at the center of the steering wheel and nodding to himself slowly. The windshield fogged over. In the dashboard's unnatural glow his eyes vanished, his mouth broadened to a thick, gleaming slash.
"She was a good kid," he said quietly. "A little pushy, but I suppose that comes with an actor's ego. I wanted to protect her from Ford's shoving as much as I could, to let her grow her own way, but toward the end she wasn't listening. Ben and Oliver came to me once, a couple of weeks ago, and told me to leave her alone. It was like something out of a Cagney movie. The cowboy and the one-armed bandit.''
The abrupt eruption of bitterness in his voice took her aback, but his reaction was understandable. She wouldn't have been surprised if he too had somehow managed to find a way to blame Ford for her death. He turned to her, then, and she had to check herself hard not to back away from the hunger in his eyes.
"Greg . . ."
He looked back to the windshield and hunched his shoulders as if against the cold.
"No, it isn't like that," she said, though she made no move to touch him.
"I know," he said. "It's funny, in a way. All those creeps, all those slimy little men and blue-haired women who were after me while I was in New York. They never let me alone, you know, never let me do my own work. Art was something that matched the furniture, matched the walls." A laugh, short and acid.
"You survived," she said, perplexed at the direction he'd taken.
"Sort of," he said. "But you, you're different. You overcame. A divorce, Lauren's death, your parents thinking you should be a good little girl and do good little girl things. You overcame, Pat. Like today." Then he did look at her, his smile tentative. "I am given to clichés, Pat, but we're birds of a feather, you and I. And if you ever need help . . ." And he said nothing more. He reached across her lap and opened the door, at the same time brushing his lips against her temple. She gripped his hand and squeezed it, slid out before she did something foolish like invite him upstairs.
And when the faded VW chugged down the street and turned the corner, she decided it was too soon to leave the night yet. A walk; and she moved up the corner and turned left, heading for Mainland Road. There was a thin ice feeling to the air, no stars that she could see. Cars parked at the curbing were lifeless and uninviting. A few of the homes still had their porch lights burning, and windows were glowing brittlely. She inhaled slowly and deeply, her hands thrust to the bottoms of her pockets. The breeze she made as she walked sifted under her skirt, and the tingling at her thighs made her grin. After a single long block she felt a dull stinging at her ears and adjusted her woolen cap more snugly around them.
Her stride became more brisk, more military.
She had done it. Today she had done it. And it was a hell of a fine feeling.
At the end of the second block she reached Mainland, a two-lane highway aiming north and south as it passed the Station. No houses faced it, only a tall, dense screen of evergreens that swallowed most of the light beyond. A block to her right—like all t
he blocks in Oxrun nearly twice as long as those in other towns—Williamston Pike spilled into the road, its flashing amber traffic light the only sign there was a community here. Across from her was a dense black wall of embankment and wild shrubbery, a few straggling trees, beyond that the dead expanse of a long-abandoned farm.
She stepped in front of the corner stop sign and leaned back against it, arms folded loosely over her chest. She supposed it would have been nice to let Greg up, to sleep with him, to wake in the morning with her head on his shoulder, but she hoped he understood this wasn't the time, that the night of her victory she wanted to spend alone. Savoring. Wondering. Perhaps indulging in some unwarranted melancholy. Without question he was one of the few men she knew who didn't press for an advantage. He wasn't masochistic, but neither did he ignore the signals when there was something she needed he could not provide. Otherwise, he made no secret of his desire to protect her. When he could. When she permitted.
And it occurred to her suddenly, painfully, that perhaps it was he who needed her tonight. Because of Susan Haslet.
A lone car sped past her, and she followed it until it had vanished over the rise just beyond Oxrun's north end. When her gaze drifted slowly back, however, she frowned and rubbed a finger under her eyes, trying to rid her vision of the taillights' afterglow. Then she shook her head. There was nothing over there; it was only her eyes readjusting.
Her nose began to run, and she wiped it with a sleeve. First thing tomorrow, she decided, she'd see Ford. She had no idea what to say, but it was important he didn't believe she was gloating. Especially after what had happened tonight.
A tickling at her cheek and she shook her head once. It was snowing out of the black. Large spiraling flakes that swiftly coated the crust of previous falls, greyed the blacktop, clung like white burrs to the front of her coat. One landed on her nose and she brushed it off reluctantly, grinning as she pushed away from the sign to head for home.
A sound, then; a great weight snapping a thick branch in two.
She shaded her eyes to peer across the highway, but the dark was unrelieved save for the blurring snow, no light beyond to give whatever moved an outline. But whatever it was, it seemed to be pacing. Slowly. A few yards left, a few yards right. Hesitant, as though debating crossing the road. Another branch cracked, a rifle shot in the silence she hadn't realized had fallen. Her tongue poked between her lips, withdrew, poked again. She moved to the edge of the curb. And saw nothing.
Only the snow, sifting more thickly now in and out of the street lamps' spill.
A shape, and she almost leaped back to the pavement. It was there. She was positive she'd been able to discern a shape, though of what she didn't know. But it was tall, it was broad, and it had moved in its pacing to the embankment's edge.
Greg, she thought. Oliver and Ben.
Or Danvers, troubled and angry.
She turned around quickly, determined not to run. High Street stretched toward the center of town, awash in snow, scrabbled over by branches defining a diminishing tunnel. The blacktop and sidewalks were covered and slippery, her boots soundless as she hurried, her breath plumed over one shoulder.
This is ridiculous, she thought; all I have to do is stop and yell, and whoever it is will either run away or expose the gag. It's silly. It's stupid.
There was a lump in her stomach that turned grave cold.
The stitch in her side that laughter had caused returned and spread, made her hand clench tightly at her waist while hedges rose and the snow whispered softly.
One block gone. One more to Northland. And she couldn't help feeling that the shape was still watching.
Her shoulders hunched in reflex, her arms folded again so her hands could grip her sides.
On many occasions while she'd lived in New York she had walked the streets at night and had felt gazes following her from alleys and doorways. That was to be expected, and she'd turned it to a game the rules of which she forgot when she heard something crashing through the shrubs.
Watching. Moving. The same feeling she'd had that afternoon when she'd fled the school to fetch Homer. Immediately, she plunged her left hand into her handbag and gripped the statuette, wincing when one of its teeth pierced her glove and finger.
Watching; but she would not look over her shoulder. She told herself it was the champagne, it was the gin, it was the way Greg had looked at her before she'd left his car. There was nothing out there, nothing in the field so huge it terrified simply by being. It couldn't be. What it must be is a deer down from the hills, or even something smaller whose traveling sounds were magnified by the night and the snow and the alcohol in her veins.
The wind struck her at Northland.
At the corner she turned right, ready to break into a run as she dared a look behind. But a sudden explosion of wind blinded her, stole her breath, whirled her off-balance, off the curb into the street. Her hands flailed, her woolen cap spun from her hair. She cried out—or thought she did—and fell to one knee. Gasping against the roaring in her ears, covering them with her palms until her lungs filled again. Then she staggered to her feet. Looked around wildly and could not find her house. The snow spun right to left in front of her, behind her, trapping her in an ice-bar cage that held until she lurched forward and tripped over the curb. A tree slammed against her shoulder, spinning her back to the street.
Watching.
She felt it watching.
Towering somewhere above her, leering at her, studying, but not moving at all when her fear galvanized and she ran blindly, arms outstretched and mouth open to breathe. The snow slapped her cheeks, her forehead, tangled in her hair and slipped down her collar. There was nothing soft about it now, nothing peaceful, nothing pure; it rode the fierce screaming wind and tried its best to drown her.
The streetlamps were gone, their lights useless, dark.
Again she reached the curb, this time slowing to avoid collision and sobbing when she found herself in front of her home.
Watching; she felt it watching.
The wind punched at her side and shoved her into the hedge. Twigs dug at her hands, her wrists, but she ignored the needle pain and ran up the walk to the steps, to the door—it was locked.
"God, oh god," she whispered, struggling through her handbag for the key chain she carried. Not finding it, and feeling the shape watching, and wincing at the stings of the snow on her face, and finally dumping the bag's contents onto the porch and scrambling to her knees, one hand on the stone bear, the other frantically shoving aside compact and lipsticks, cigarettes and debris from the bottom of the bag that except for some small stone shards was blown away along the porch. The keys, then, just as she thought she'd lost them.
The wind shrieked, the shape watched, and once the door was open she leapt over the threshold and slammed it hard behind her. Backed away toward the stairs, Homer held high to her shoulder in case she had to throw it.
A single bulb in the high ceiling gave more shadow than light, but it was sufficient for her to see the snow sweep onto the porch as if thrown by giant hands. It spattered against the glass panels on either side of the frame and made the curtains tremble; it slipped a small contingent under the door; it turned to ice; it turned to hail; and just as her heel thumped against the bottom stair the wind died, and there was silence.
Chapter 8
She sat, hard, and the tartan skirt pulled up to her knees, her hands dropping into her lap white-knuckled around Homer. Her heart raced; she could feel it in her chest. Her jaw was tight, her head slightly quivering. She looked away from the door, and back ... to the translucent panes that flanked the frame, to the flocked white curtains on the door itself. Beyond was a dark flickering, the snow falling heavily. No wind, no shape, and after a few moments of trying not to move she pushed herself to her feet and walked slowly across the foyer, Homer waiting silently on the step she had left.
A hand on the brass doorknob.
Another parting the curtains.
S
now. Nothing but snow. White in the streetlamps, grey in the shadows. A lump in the center of the street—it was her cap, and she had no urge to fetch it.
A tear glinted in the corner of one eye, coursed down her cheek before she could catch it.
Wood creaked and a hinge protested, and before she could turn around a hand touched her elbow. She almost cried out, bit her lip fiercely and tasted blood instead.
"You okay?"
Kelly stood hesitantly beside her, eyes narrowed with concern, hands holding closed a shimmering Chinese robe. Her hair was in curlers, her face puffed from sleep, and back in the apartment Abbey stood waiting. Pat smiled shakily, did not protest when Kelly led her out of the foyer and into her home. Into a place of chrome and vinyl and travel posters on the walls. Abbey immediately led her to the sofa and sat beside her, a taller and much thinner version of her roommate.
She lifted her hands and spoke in sign language: What happened to you?
Pat stalled by unbuttoning her coat, pulling her muffler from her throat and folding it neatly on the gold-and-glass cocktail table set too close to her knees. Abbey poked her arm, her sharp chin raised, her nearly black eyebrows lifted in question.
"I had a scare," she said finally, not turning away but listening to Kelly bustling in the kitchen.
Abbey's hands moved again.
Pat grinned sheepishly. "No, I wasn't mugged." She remembered, and hid a shudder. "I got a promotion today, you see, and—"
Abbey applauded, her lips parted in silent laughter. The two women had known of Pat's battles and had candidly told her they didn't think she would make it. Too many men in a position to thwart her.
Kelly returned with a tray laden with coffee cups, a box of tollhouse cookies, and floral tissues they used in place of proper napkins. "I'll be damned," she said, settling easily into a beanbag chair on the other side of the table. "You did it, huh?"
Pat nodded, and Abbey grabbed her shoulders and kissed her.
"Incredible." Kelly handed her a cup; instant coffee and the water barely warm. "But my god, what happened to you out there? That art guy get fresh or something?"
The Bloodwind - An Oxrun Station Novel (Oxrun Station Novels) Page 7