With a shriek of hatred at the charging animal, and despair for leaving Jeff, she let the wind push-shove her across the lane and past the wall.
Into the park where half the lights had been knocked out. Running toward the pond where the water slapped over the sides.
He ran.
Slapping the rain from his face, ignoring the puddles that grew into lakes, Don ran toward the center of town. It occurred to him Jeff might have taken her home, but he couldn't be sure. By now Tracey knew it was after her, and she wouldn't want any of her family hurt. And there was no place else to go where she was sure he would follow-she had to be at the park, waiting if she were still alive.
He scowled and punched his chest. He couldn't think like that or it was over; he had to know she was alive and somehow avoiding the stallion.
Maybe in the trees where it might not be able to maneuver so well; maybe along the wall to keep it between them. But she was alive. She had to be alive. What the hell would be the sense if that damned thing got her?
At home, though, was her father, and her father's gun. He didn't know what could stop it, if anything could, but Tracey would have to be thinking of a weapon to defend her, and the best one would be where her father's guns were kept.
Oh, Christ, he thought; make up your mind!
Stop, he yelled then, without moving his lips; stop, don't do it, it's Tracey and I didn't mean it!
If it heard his hurt, it must hear his pleading; if he was in control, it couldn't not obey. Unless, under the new rules, it protected without question.
Oh, Christ, he thought; make up your damned mind!
He wasn't going fast enough. He would never be able to outrun Jeff's car, or outrun the horse. He had to stretch out, he had to reach, he had to beat the wind to wherever he was going.
He was going too fast and he was going to slip and break a leg if he wasn't more careful; he was going to run out of steam and be too late if he didn't pace himself like always.
A race, he told himself; a race, and there they are, looking out their windows watching, cheering silently, waving flags and tooting horns as he swept under awnings, went with the wind instead of trying to fight it, his sneakers splashing a wake behind him, his arms cutting through the cold rain to give him room to move.
They were cheering because he was Don Boyd, and he was going to make it.
He fell.
The curb was under several inches of water backed up from a storm drain, and he misjudged the edge. His hands raked along the blacktop, the knees of his jeans tore open and spilled blood into the street. He whimpered, and cursed, and kept pushing himself forward until he was on his feet again.
Running.
In silence.
The windows were empty, there were no crowds watching, there were no bands or hurrahs or photographers waiting along the route that had him swerve into the street, using the parked cars now to push him with a slap of his hand, wondering where the traffic was, dodging around an Ashford Day banner stripped from its mooring and flapping in the street feebly where tomorrow there'd be a parade.
Running.
In silence.
Tempted to swing into the Quinteros' neighborhood, just in case he was wrong, sobbing when he realized he had no time for a choice; the park, or Tracey's house, and if he made a mistake, somebody would die.
She sprinted into the oval, knowing enough not to look behind her in case she lost ground. A globe flickered and went out. The rain was stained silver. She tried to veer around the pond, but the leaf-coated apron shifted under her feet and she went down on her shoulder.
Screaming. Writhing. Almost welcoming the dark cloud that crested and settled over her. At least it would dull the pain; at least it would keep her from seeing herself die.
But the cloud lifted and the rain woke her, and she leaned on one hand and looked down the path.
It was there.
Standing in the entrance, oblivious to the storm, head and flanks shining as if coated in thin ice.
Panting against the wind that stole the breath from her mouth, she staggered to her feet and let the wind push her backward. On either side the trees waited, yet she couldn't stop herself from looking as the stallion began to move, legs slowly lifting, head slowly bobbing, the greenfire from its hooves lighting its way.
The park.
It had to be the park, and he didn't know why, and he was close to weeping as he ran past Beacher's, past the theater, and saw Lichter's car canted on the island.
He slowed as he swung up to the wreck and saw Jeff lying on the front seat and Tracey nowhere in sight. He apologized to his friend by touching the window as if he were touching his hand, then veered sharply across the lane and ran through the gates.
The oval was ahead, and he tried to call out, but there was nothing left in his lungs but the air that moved his legs, pumped his arms, dried his throat as he opened his mouth to find one more breath to keep him from stopping.
And once there, it was empty.
He staggered and slowed when the sodden leaves threatened to spill him, his arms out for balance until he reached the path again.
Then he stopped.
He looked back.
He called Tracey's name, hands cupped around his mouth, eyes blinking at the rain that tore through the branches and ran down his back, his chest, filled his sneakers, and made him still with the cold.
Half sideways, he began to run toward the field, always checking behind in case he had missed her. Calling. Demanding. Spinning around at a flare of lightning and seeing her sprawled on the ground ... seeing the stallion beside her, teeth bared and hooves pawing.
"No!" he screamed, and Tracey turned and saw him.
"No!" he screamed, and the stallion swung its head around.
He stumbled and flailed across the muddied field, shaking his head and stretching his hand out toward her without taking his eyes from the horse that backed away.
greenfire and greeneyes and fog lifting to the storm at his approach.
Tracey got to her feet and fell against him when he reached her, but he shoved her behind him when the stallion lifted its head high.
"No," he said, a palm out to stop it.
Its head, higher; its rear legs slightly bent.
"No!" he shouted, both hands out now as it lifted itself off the ground, its forelegs outstretched and the greenfire that sparked from them crackled through the rain.
"No!" he screamed. "No! Go away!"
Greeneyes so narrowed they nearly vanished in the fog.
"I don't need you!" Don screamed as the stallion rose higher. "I don't need you, goddamnit! Just ... just leave me alone!"
Higher still, and blacker.
"Goddamnit! Goddamnit! Leave me alone!"
Higher until Don dropped to his knees, hands out, eyes raging, feeling the blood rush to his face feverish and stinging.
Tracey buried her face in his back.
He screamed again, and again, swinging his arms back and forth to counter the thick mist that poured from the stallion and obscured the greenfire, buried the greeneyes, suddenly scattered like a window shattered by the wind.
Don cowered away from it with a gasp at the touch of its dead cold, shifted, and threw his arms protectively around Tracey. She hugged him tightly, desperately, and they watched as best they could while the storm took over, the rain penetrated the fog and finally pummeled it to the ground.
And when it was gone, they were alone; the stallion was gone.
"Oh, Don," Tracey gasped as he helped her to her feet. "Oh, god, I was so frightened."
"Yes," he said, and headed for the path, pulling her behind him until she had to run to catch up.
"Don! Don, what .
He didn't answer. A single urgent look and he began to run again, not fast enough to outstrip her, but fast enough to get him past Jeff's car before anyone noticed it was there. He swung left, toward home, and Tracey followed with one hand gripping her torn shoulder. There were no questions
, and he was glad because he wasn't sure he really knew what he was doing.
The police were gone. The yards and houses were dark. He puzzled at the plywood nailed over the bay window, but he didn't stop to look. He rushed up the steps and grabbed for the doorknob.
"Oh, shit!" he yelled, thumping the door with a fist. "Damn, it's locked." He turned and started down, hesitated on the walk before pulling Tracey with him into the garage. The door here was open, and he stumbled into the kitchen, staggered down the hall. He didn't look at the living room wreckage, didn't feel the cold saturating the walls, but hauled himself up the stairs and into his room.
Tracey came up behind him, her eyes glazed with pain.
Don switched on the light and looked at the poster over his desk. "Oh, god," he said.
The trees, the lane, and there at the back, the stallion frozen in running.
I'm sorry, he thought; I'm sorry.
And he ripped it from the wall, crumpled it into a ball, and ran downstairs again and into the kitchen. After two hapless attempts he managed to turn on the stove and held the poster over the flame until it caught in several places.
"Don? Don, help me."
When he felt the fire begin to scorch his wrist, he dropped the burning paper into the sink and watched it char, watched it flare, watched it spark and crackle and sink into paper embers.
"Don, please help me."
"Yeah," he said. "Don the Superman to the rescue."
Chapter Twenty-One
A cool night in late October, a Sunday, and clear; a bold harvest moon pocked with grey shadows, and a scattering of stars too bright to be masked by the lights scattered below; the chilled breath of a faint wind that gusted now and then, carrying echoes of night sounds born in the trees, pushing dead leaves in the gutters, rolling acorns in the eaves, snapping hands and faces with a grim promise of winter.
A cool night in late October, a Sunday, and dark.
... and so the boy, who really wasn't a bad kid but nobody really knew that because of all the things he had done, he looked up in the tree ...
"Don, for god's sake, give me a break, okay? I'm not one of those dumb little kids of yours, you know. I don't believe in fairy tales."
He laughed silently at the telephone and snuggled closer to the wall, stretching his legs out until his bare feet were braced against the staircase. The chill of the wood felt good against his soles. "I thought you liked my stories. I thought you needed something to take your mind off things."
Tracey groaned loudly. "I'm in pain, Vet, remember? I am a patient of the only hospital in the world that serves food the Geneva Convention banned from World War Two. And I am not supposed to be tortured."
"Torture?" he said, his voice high-pitched and insulted. "I don't recall you ever thinking I was torture before."
"I didn't say you," she answered softly. "I wasn't talking about you."
"I know," he said just as softly. "That was a joke."
"Oh." A pause. She forced a laugh. "I see. A joke."
Water ran in the kitchen. He looked in and saw his father at the sink, a towel over his shoulder, an unlighted cigarette dangling from his mouth-the same thing he had been watching for the past three days.
"Well, listen," Don said.
... and he saw the crow sitting on the highest branch in the biggest tree in the world. A big crow. The biggest crow he had ever seen in his life. And the boy knew, he really and truly knew, that the crow was going to be the only friend he had left in the world. So he talked to the crow and he said ...
"Enough," Tracey pleaded with a laugh. Then, abruptly solemn, "Please, Don. No more. You promised me no more."
He sighed and nodded. "All right."
"Are you okay?"
"I'm supposed to ask you that, remember?"
"You know how I am. I want to know how you are." He was fine, he thought, all things considered. After he had taken Tracey to the hospital in the station wagon, fighting the rain that washed in through the broken windshield, he had waited until they had brought Jeff in as well. A concussion and some deep lacerations, he was told, nothing more, and his statement to the police had been accepted without question. He had gone for a walk after leaving his father, and saw the results of the accident, ran home to call since it was only a block away, and found Tracey wandering around in a daze. He supposed, when he was asked, they had skidded during the storm.
His mother was still unconscious, and Dr. Naugle had put him in charge of his father. To get some sleep, some food, so he would be ready when she woke up.
"Don, I have to go. The wardens have come with the pills."
"All right," he said. "I'll come around tomorrow."
They rang off, and he wandered into the kitchen, watched his father silently, then went up to his room. He was exhausted, and he dropped onto the bed and fell asleep almost instantly, not waking until after midnight to undress and sleep again.
At school on Monday he spoke to no one, avoiding their puzzled eyes, cutting biology when he saw the substitute at the head of the room. He ran for an hour afterward, feeling oddly distanced from the sound of his feet on the red cinder track, as if he were floating through a tunnel, looking for someone he knew he wouldn't find. Then he went home to fix his father's supper. Norman ate little, smoking as he did, finally pushed his plate away and left the room without a word.
Don didn't follow. He rinsed off the dishes, dried them and put them in the cupboard, then went upstairs to change his clothes for the evening visit to his mother, Jeff, and Tracey. When he came down again, Norman was at the door, impatiently jingling the keys to the car he had rented while the station wagon was being repaired.
"You know," he said as he drove through the wet streets, "you seem awfully calm these days."
"And it seems to me you're spending an awful lot of time with that girl."
"She's a friend. So's Jeff."
"And your mother is your mother. I think it would help if you stick around her room a bit more."
"Okay."
He could feel his father look at him, not quite glaring, but he didn't much care one way or the other. He had been trying to sort out everything he felt, and it bothered him that he couldn't make up his mind whether or not he should feel guilty. He was afraid something had happened to him that night in the park, and just as afraid that he might blurt out the truth and be considered a case for the men in the white coats. His father, on the other hand, had spent a lot of time on the phone-with the mayor, with several board members, and with Dr. Naugle.
Don was ashamed to think Norman was more worried about the mayor.
On Tuesday Jeff was released and showed up after school to watch him run. There were questions, but he didn't ask them, and Don soon stopped worrying about what the boy had seen. Even if it had been just a glimpse, it could easily be explained as an aftereffect of the accident.
On Wednesday he decided not to use the track but to walk home right after last class. There was homework to do, and his father would have to go to see his mother alone.
"Hey, stranger!"
He stopped and turned around, and shifted his feet when Chris came running up, her hair unbound, her shirt out of her jeans.
"Hi," he said.
"God, you've been a ghost, you know that?" she said. "Where've you been hiding?"
He gestured toward the house, toward the men on ladders fixing the window. "Cleaning up, seeing my mom ... you know."
"Yeah. Hey, I'm sorry about what happened."
She moved closer, and he could smell the perfume she used.
"Is it true," she said, "that your father is leaving?"
"Yeah. A leave of absence. What with all the trouble and my mom and all, he needs the time, you know?"
"Boy, do I," she said. "Is he really going to run for mayor?"
He shrugged. "I don't know. He's thinking about it, but I have a feeling things have changed." Then he looked at her eyes and saw something missing. Her expression was friendly enough, her to
ne as gentle, but there was still something missing and he couldn't figure it out.
"Hey, uh, look," he said at last. "It's Halloween this weekend, and ... well, we kind of got screwed up last week, because of what happened. And I was wondering ... that is, I—"
He jumped then when a car horn blared behind him, and Chris laughed, tapped his arm and walked over to Brian's car.
"Hey, Duck, what's up with your mom?" Brian asked as Chris opened the door and got in.
"She's okay," he said flatly.
"Good. Tell her I said hi." He cocked a finger-gun at him and gunned his engine, and as he drove away with one arm around Chris's shoulder, Don heard him say "Quack," and heard Chris say, "Quacker quack," and laugh.
"What?" he said. "What are you talking about?"
"Now look," Norman said.
"I haven't got time to argue with you. I've done all the figures, and what with the medical expenses and the house, there just isn't enough money. I'm sorry, but I can't pull it out of the air, and I can't spend it when it isn't there. You'll have to start looking closer to home, at the state colleges, where it's cheaper. Besides, the way your grades are going, you'll be lucky to graduate."
Tracey was sitting on the living room couch, her mother in polite attendance. When he told her about his father's dictum, she commiserated and suggested he start looking at scholarships, student loans, and some of the local organizations who sponsor kids in college.
He hadn't thought of it; he thanked her; he wanted to kiss her, but her mother wouldn't leave.
In the cafeteria Jeff groaned and made to dump his tray over Don's head.
"What's the big deal with Chris anyway, huh? I thought you and Tracey were ... you know."
"We are, I guess," he said. "I don't know."
"But you don't want to be tied down, huh?"
He looked up at the bitterness he heard in Jeff's voice. "No, I didn't say that."
"I know you didn't," Jeff said. And pointed a fork at his chest. "Well, listen, pal-Tracey Quintero is one great lady, and you'd better not hurt her. You listening, pal? You'd better not do anything to hurt her or you'll have to answer to me."
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