While it was possible that the inquiry might lead to unpleasant consequences, Dave thought that it might also work out in his favor. Maybe, Tom Martin would obligingly explain all when confronted by Dave's knowledge of his secret indiscretion. In order to ensure that Dave wouldn't spread the word about the inadequate and illegal file, Martin might sing freely of the truth about Larry. If Dave played it right, the blackmail might work; if the file was as sensitive as Dave believed it to be, the manager might be more afraid of being found out than he would be angry at Dave for daring to pry.
As he traversed Beckley Borough, Dave focused on his hope, also clung to his rage. Though distracted by his contemplation of the coming encounter, he was still furious, surging with anger at Larry Smith and what Larry had let happen to Ernie's parents. He refused to let go of his wrath, for it made him feel stronger, more able to deal with Mr. Martin; normally, heading into a risky meeting like the one that he was about to face, Dave would be nervous as a shell-shocked war vet, but tonight he was remarkably calm, too thoroughly enraged to fret and quake.
Larry had ignited a new and dark power within him. He savored the angry strength, wanted it to grow and carry him through the obstacles ahead. He rushed forward like a missile, his momentum obliterating all frailties as soon as they appeared.
Dave guided the Torino into the development in which Martin lived, the sprawl of middle-income homes which had sprung up about three years ago. The neighborhood was quiet and the streets were empty; it was nearly eleven o'clock, and the local residents were working people, already retired for the night.
Girding himself for the skirmish to come, Dave steered the Torino into a cul-de-sac, a loop at the farthest edge of the development; the cluster of homes within that circuit sat on the frontier, bulged against a tract of woodland which hadn't yet been cut away.
Slowly following the loop, Dave watched for Martin's house. His memory of the place stood out vividly, for he'd hated every minute that he'd spent there: it was a two-story home with faux-brick siding, really just a big box with no architectural flair whatsoever. From the moment when he'd first glimpsed it, Dave had thought that it was ugly and that it seemed out of place among the attractive, white-sided homes of the development.
The Torino slid further around the cul-de-sac and Dave finally spied Martin's house. With his target in sight, he started to drive a bit faster, eager to get on with his mission.
Then, he saw something that made his heart skip a beat.
Eyes bugging, he gaped at Martin's driveway. Dumbstruck behind the wheel, he let the car accelerate and slip past the house.
By the time that he reached the mouth of the cul-de-sac, completing the loop, his heart was hammering, his thoughts rioting like panicked bats. He couldn't believe it, just couldn't believe what he'd seen.
He pulled the car to the side of the street and sat there for a moment, trying to clear his head. Everything had suddenly changed; he'd been goading himself toward a showdown with Tom Martin, only to have an unexpected wild card derail his plans.
Larry Smith had been in Martin's driveway.
Dave had seen him clearly in the bright swath cast by the light above Martin's garage door. He'd seen the crew-cut, the goatee, the thick, familiar arms; it had been Larry, all right, no doubt about it.
While passing Martin's house, Dave had watched the guy rise from the driver's side of a dark-green station wagon. Larry had emerged from the car, looking toward the house, and then the Torino had rolled away and Dave had lost sight of him.
Good ol' Larry; "Special" Larry; Larry the Prophet; Larry the Adversary.
Larry had beaten him to Tom Martin.
Awash with shock and confusion, Dave closed his eyes and let his head drop to the wheel. Questions roared into his brain, a stampede of new and alarming questions.
What was Larry doing there? Though he'd said that he and Martin had been friends, Larry had emphasized that they had never been good friends; in fact, he'd expressed his distaste for the boss on a number of occasions, hadn't once defended Martin when the gang had ridiculed him. If Larry didn't like the manager, then why would he call on him at home? Were Larry and Martin closer than Dave had been led to believe?
If Larry had told the truth about his lack of affection for Martin, then what was the reason for this visit? What business could Larry have with the manager which couldn't be conducted at the restaurant?
Could Larry's visit have anything to do with Dave? It was certainly odd that the guy had shown up just as Dave was about to drop in and interrogate Martin about the mysterious file. Maybe it wasn't a coincidence; if Larry's psychic abilities had alerted him to Dave's move, perhaps he'd come just to keep Dave away.
Where had Larry gotten that car, anyway? Had he been lying all along about not owning one? Had he borrowed it from someone? Had he stolen it? Had he just bought it?
What the hell was going on here?
Dave raised his head, whipped it from side to side as if that would disperse the jumble of his thoughts. It didn't help; Larry's unexpected appearance had thrown him into an uproar, set his brain whirling like a pinwheel in a windstorm.
Breathing heavily, he opened his eyes and stared dumbly at the dashboard. He struggled to sift through the mash in his head, make some sense of it all, but he didn't have much luck. He strove to chart reasonable answers for the maddening crush of questions, but he only grew more confused.
Only one thing was clear: Dave couldn't question Tom Martin about Larry's file as planned. Certainly, the inquiry couldn't take place within earshot of Larry; Dave could wait around and try to see Martin after Larry left, but if Larry stayed late, the manager might be cranky and unreceptive by then. Not only that, but Dave couldn't know what kind of atmosphere Larry would leave behind; if Larry and Martin had an argument, Dave might end up walking unwittingly into a minefield, presenting himself as a target for Martin's wrath.
Dave wondered if he should just go home, give up for the night. At home, in his room, he would be able to ponder the situation at length, perhaps produce some new ideas. Not only might home be conducive to contemplations of the war with Larry, but Dave might get some studying done there; he did, after all, have a final exam the next morning, a test for which he hadn't prepared one bit.
As sensible as the notion of returning home sounded, Dave found it unappealing. He felt as if he had to do something, no matter how inconsequential; though no great strides could be made, he still felt the need to do something else. He was still too restless and uptight to call it a night; he didn't think that he would be able to concentrate on his studies anyway.
It occurred to him that it might be a good idea to drive back to Martin's home and stand watch for a while. Though he couldn't conduct his inquiry, it might be beneficial for him to see when Larry would finally emerge.
The duration of Larry's visit might provide a clue to his reason for being there. If he left after only a brief time, it might mean that he'd just stopped in to drop something off or pick something up; maybe Larry had borrowed something or needed to borrow something from Martin, or vice versa. A short visit might also mean that Larry had only come to keep Dave away, discourage him from interrogating Martin. If Larry had foreseen that Dave would show up, perhaps he also knew that Dave wouldn't try again to see Martin that night; if he left before long, maybe it would be because he knew that Dave had been deflected and there was no need to stick around.
An extended visit might suggest that Larry was there for a social call, or maybe something else altogether. If Larry didn't exit for a long time, it might mean that he hadn't predicted Dave's stopover after all, that he'd come to see Martin for reasons which had nothing to do with Dave.
Dave realized that a surveillance of Martin's house might just be a waste of time, that the duration of Larry's visit might ultimately prove unimportant...but at least it would give him something to do, make him feel as if the drive to that place hadn't been completely in vain.
With a heavy sigh, h
e straightened in his seat. Gratefully noting that there was still no traffic to be seen, he proceeded again around the quiet cul-de-sac.
Slowly traversing the loop, he wondered where he could park. He would have to choose just the right spot, close enough for him to have a clear view of Martin's house, far enough away that he couldn't be easily seen by Larry. Some cover would be helpful; since Larry was familiar with Dave's car, he would probably identify it quickly if he caught a glimpse of it.
As he approached Martin's residence, Dave saw that parking wouldn't be a problem. Five houses down from the manager's house, two vehicles rested on the opposite side of the street. One was a flashy red pickup, the other a beige Lincoln Continental; they sat on either side of the mouth of a driveway which was occupied by two other cars.
Slowly pulling onto the berm behind the Lincoln, Dave flicked off the headlights and had a look at the view. The vantage point was perfect; there was enough of a curve to the street that he could see around both vehicles in front of him, had only to lean to the left to draw a bead on Martin's house. He believed that he was far enough back and had enough cover so that Larry wouldn't be able to easily spot him.
Glancing to the right, he noted with satisfaction that the house beside him was dark; apparently, everyone inside was asleep, wouldn't be likely to peep outside at the suspicious Torino parked near their driveway.
With a sigh, Dave switched off the engine and settled in for his surveillance. He slouched in his seat, leaning against the door so that Martin's home was in his line of sight.
Thanks to the light above Martin's garage, Dave could clearly see the driveway and the front of Martin's house. The large front window of the house was still lit, and two of the smaller, second floor windows glowed as well.
He couldn't see any movement. Larry was still inside.
Glancing at the luminous dashboard clock, Dave saw that it was almost eleven-thirty. For an instant, he again considered going home, but the urge passed quickly from his mind; he was committed to seeing his watch through, learning when Larry finally left.
When next he checked the clock, it was eleven-forty-five. There had been no change in Martin's house; Larry was still inside.
Midnight slid past and still there was no change. As he sat in the Torino and watched Martin's home, Dave was content for a time to review all that had happened with Larry. He dragged everything from his mental files, all the pieces of the puzzle, tried to fit them within the framework of his theories. There was plenty of evidence to support his idea that Larry was psychic: the chocolate milk incident; the cop at Billy's trailer; Boris' suicide attempt; the hints about the deaths of Ernie's parents; Larry's timely arrival at Martin's house. Put together, it all made sense, pointed to that one fantastic conclusion...and yet, there were so many inexplicable things, so many factors which left Dave befuddled. He couldn't understand why Larry hadn't given him a more explicit warning about Ernie's parents; he couldn't figure out the reason for Larry's visit to Tom Martin; he couldn't guess what Larry's personnel file meant; he wondered why Larry had sought his assistance in saving Boris; for that matter, why had Larry provided any clues at all, if he was so determined to protect his secrets? There were gaps, lots of holes in the story, enough unknowns to keep Dave's mind busy for a long time.
When twelve-thirty rolled around and there was still no sign of movement at Martin's house, Dave's busy mind began to stray from its analytical ruminations. He grew restless, started to shift and fidget and check the dashboard clock more frequently.
By one A.M., Dave was again considering going home. Yawning, he realized that he was tired; he was uncomfortable in the car, his legs were cramped. For all that he knew, Larry might not come out of the house all night, might not appear until dawn.
Still, he waited. As restless and weary as he was, he hated to just give up and go away without achieving even the limited success of seeing when Larry would leave.
Time seemed to drag. The next hour seemed more like two hours to Dave. It was as if the hands of the dashboard clock were creeping through a thick gelatin, marking off only one minute for every five or ten.
He began to feel drowsier, and at one point, his eyes drifted shut. Before he could coast off to dreamland, he caught himself, willfully flung his eyes back open; momentarily disoriented, he jumped in his seat and gaped toward Martin's house, worried that he'd missed something...but nothing had changed.
By two o'clock, Dave had settled into a bleary stupor. Though he was still conscious, his thoughts were virtually at a standstill, his usually hyperactive mind was parked instead of pivoting. The monotony had subdued him; he just sat there, his entire being reduced to a simplified, single-function organism, a waiting thing.
Two-fifteen came and went, and still there was no movement at Martin's house.
Two-thirty slowly passed, and nothing changed.
Two-forty-five brought more of the same, as did three A.M.
Shortly after three o'clock, when the light above Martin's garage winked out, Dave hardly seemed to notice. He didn't move, didn't instantly perk up at the long-awaited change; he just waited and watched, exactly as he had for over three-and-a-half hours.
The light above the garage winked out, and after a moment, the second-floor lights did the same. Another moment passed and then the large front window went dark as well.
The front door opened.
Though all the lights around and within Martin's home had been extinguished, Dave could still clearly see Larry Smith walking out of the place. The man's build and carriage were unmistakable, even from a distance, even in the dim moonlight.
Larry closed the door, ambled down the few steps to the sidewalk...then stopped. Hands on his hips, he looked around; he turned his face up the street, away from Dave, then slowly rotated, calmly surveying the neighborhood.
Dave slid down in his seat, dropping as low as he could without completely losing sight of Larry. He held his breath as the guy inexorably turned toward him.
Larry's head continued to rotate...and then he was looking in Dave's direction. Heart pounding, Dave knew that he should dive to the floor, safely out of sight...but he couldn't bring himself to move. He felt as if he were frozen, fixed in a gunsight, dead-center in the crosshairs.
Larry kept looking toward the Torino.
Dave wondered what he would do if Larry started walking toward the car. It was an eventuality which he hadn't really expected; he wasn't ready for a confrontation or a hasty escape.
Larry looked away. He tipped his face to the sky.
Dave released a long, ragged breath.
The guy hadn't seen him...or, if he had, he wasn't going to confront him. Either way, Dave was safe for the moment.
Larry lingered briefly, gazing at the heavens, the stars as full of secrets as he...and then his head dropped. He took a last look at Martin's house, then continued down the sidewalk to the driveway.
Unhurriedly, Larry got into the station wagon. Dave heard the engine cough to life, and he saw the headlights flare against the door of Martin's garage.
After all the waiting that Dave had done, Larry's departure was so quick and without incident that it seemed anticlimactic. The station wagon backed onto the street, then swam off around the loop. Within a minute, Dave had lost sight of the vehicle.
Dave sighed with relief and exhaustion, rubbed his tired eyes. Though he hadn't learned anything which he felt was significant, he was glad that he'd stayed until the end of the drawn-out venture. He still didn't know what had transpired within the walls of Martin's house, but at least he knew exactly how long the visit had lasted. That, in itself, seemed like an accomplishment.
Dave decided to wait for another minute or two before abandoning his post; he wanted to give Larry enough time to get out of the development and far enough away so that there would be no chance of crossing paths with him.
As he waited, Dave cast his gaze once more to Martin's house, and a thought occurred to him; he realized that it was
a bit odd that the lights had gone out before Larry had emerged. Until that moment, he hadn't thought anything of it, had been too engrossed in Larry's exit and the heartstopping scan that he'd made of the area...but now, with the pressure off, he remembered the details and found them unusual.
The lights had gone out, then Larry had left. Dave thought that it would have made more sense for the reverse to have happened, for Larry to have walked out before the lights had darkened. Why would Tom Martin extinguish all the lights while he still had a guest in the house?
Dave also thought it was odd that Martin had turned off the exterior light so soon. The light over the garage had been shining for hours, had illuminated Dave's view of the place; it would have been a common courtesy for Martin to have left that light on until Larry had reached his car and departed. True, Martin had never been accused of being courteous, and Larry hadn't had any trouble making his way in the darkness, but Dave still found it strange that the light had gone out when it had.
Frowning, Dave puzzled over the lights, tried to imagine a reasonable explanation for their strange sequence. Maybe Martin had been giving Larry a tour of the house, had switched off each light upon leaving each room; maybe, when Larry had walked out, Martin had been too lazy to bother relighting the place on his way to bed. Dave supposed that it was also remotely possible that Martin had given his friend the run of the house and had then fallen asleep, leaving Larry to douse the lights on his way out.
For a few more minutes, Dave continued to ponder the lights. He had a vague feeling that they might be significant, might be some kind of clue...but the feeling didn't last.
His contemplations were interrupted by a mighty yawn. He shook his head and looked at the clock, saw that it was three-thirty in the morning; in less than seven hours, he would have to take a final exam.
Dave decided that he should quit worrying about the lights and just get moving. He couldn't come up with a satisfactory answer for what had happened at Martin's house and he didn't believe that he would make any more progress on the matter that night; he was bushed, and he didn't feel as if he was thinking straight.
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