"Jaimie!"
She saw the man's hands tighten, the boy wince without making a sound. Then he looked from side to side, sullenly admitting his guilt. "I was playing," he said softly.
"What?"
"I said I was playing, okay?"
"Monsters?" Dale suggested, thinking of the toys he liked to purchase, the robots he would build with the construction kits he had been collecting recently.
Jaimie looked up at her hopefully, saw no anger, and smiled. "Yes, ma'am, that's what it was all right. The . . . the piece is a good one, you know. Scary and all. So when the police left there this afternoon, I played around the place where it had been burned. Then this man comes back, some man in a uniform and he yelled at me and I got scared so I ran away before he could catch me. I . . . I forgot the piece. I"—and he turned to his father—"I was going back to get it. Honestly, Father, I was. I wasn't going to leave it out there. Willy's father made it. I wasn't going to leave it."
"Jaimie, I've told you a thousand times you're not . . ." Ed stopped, exasperated, sending a weak apologetic smile in Dale's direction. "Jaimie, just go to your room, please. We'll talk about this later. When we're alone."
"Yes, Father."
"Jaimie," Ed said when the boy started for his room, "what do you say, son."
Jaimie brushed a hand through his hair, tucked a thumb into his belt. "Good night, Miss Bartlett. I'm sorry I caused you any trouble."
"Don't worry about it," she said. ”You didn't." And she hoped her smile showed more warmth than she felt.
"Well, then," Ed said heartily, clapping his hands once and rubbing his palms briskly as he went to the mantel and adjusted the board slightly. "Well! Dale, I don't know how to thank you. It's a miracle the Hound wasn't stolen, or lost forever in that dreadful place. Thank heavens he wasn't playing there yesterday with it, or it might have been burned beyond repair."
"That's quite all right," she said. "Now I think I'd better get my coat and be off, if you don't mind."
Ed nodded, fetched her coat and, as he opened the door, restrained her with a touch to her arm. "Dale, do you think that's enough of a coincidence for you?"
She opened her mouth to apologize, shut it and contrived to look properly foolish. For a moment she thought he was going to pat her on the head, and to avoid it, she hurried off the stoop and down to the sidewalk. At the corner she glanced back over her shoulder and saw him still standing in the doorway. She wanted to wave, but crossed over the Pike instead and headed toward home. She scarcely felt the rising wind as it sought the openings at her neck and wrists, dipped under the coat, and made her shiver. Had she the nerve, she would have waited a few minutes and then sneaked back to stand under the front window. She wanted very much to hear the conversation between Ed and his son, and wondered which one would be doing all the yelling. The abrupt change in roles was too unsettling for her to believe it was the way things actually existed in that household. From the rudely disinterested to the quivering contrite was too many degrees of contrast from what she had seen; and she didn't believe for a minute that Jaimie was stupid enough to take something that valuable to play with in a charred field. A boy he was and most certainly prone to boyish pranks. But not this. Not Jaimie. But neither could she really convince herself that the boy had anything to do with the attempt on her life. There was no sense there, none at all.
Another gust interrupted her ruminating long enough for her to grab the scarf she'd jammed into her pocket and tie about her head. It wasn't all that helpful, but pulling it down to cover her nape and by raising the collar she was able to preserve a temporary illusion of warmth. Then she waved her hand in front of her eyes as if brushing away smoke.
During the daylight, from where she was standing, the tips of the trees on the park hill could easily be seen. Now, however, where a screen of black should have been there was a tiny ember glowing a dim yellow. It winked, was gone for nearly a minute before returning to prove she hadn't been imagining it. Her first thought instantly discarded was a star blocked by a cloud; her second that someone else was being attacked as she and Vic had been, only this time within the confines of the park. It wasn't until she had run a full block that she remembered Fred's complaints about the bonfires and the late night parties. It was rather cold for that now, but as she slowed to a walk, she debated detouring to the police station—it might only lead to trouble; her credibility there was none too good.
What, then? She could leave well enough alone and head straight for home to chase sleep by thinking about Ed McPherson. But home, she realized with a melancholy wrench, did not hold out much hope for comfort. A lot of empty rooms, her plants, and the television that spoke but never listened. By the time she reached the library and had turned the corner onto Park Street, the glow had vanished with the thought of her bed. And at the park's main entrance she decided it wouldn't hurt to do a little eavesdropping of her own. It was possible she might even be able to learn who those boys were who had the crush, who were sending her those notes at the store.
It was, she thought, as good an excuse as any.
The gates were set back from the fence, constructed of the same iron spears connected with crossbars top and bottom. She stood by the encased lock, staring dumbly at the heavy link chain wrapped around the bars tightly, touched it once before sighing away her conscience and leaping upward. She grabbed the crossbar and hauled herself over, her muscles and lungs protesting the sudden and unusual strain. When she landed on the tarmac walk she fell, sprawled, then sat up to face the darkened street.
Now if Vic were here, she told herself, he'd say I was being silly and childish, flirting dangerously with another brush with the already short-tempered Stockton. On the other hand, she thought as she struggled painfully to her feet, where's the law against acting silly, childish, and flirtatious?
She saluted the street and ran back into the park, following the path in its meandering. Every third street lamp was still lighted, and would be so until dawn, and she ran from spot to spot as though the glow on her back was a charm for safety. She took deep breaths in her running, felt her cheeks begin to ache pleasantly, not only from the cold that stung them but also from the grin that she couldn't be rid of; a laugh bubbled then and exploded until she reminded herself sharply that the idea of eavesdropping included remaining silent and unseen. A second quick laugh and she felt the path rising, knew she was halfway past the playing fields about even with the bandstand. She could see nothing beyond the closely packed trees and shrubs, however, walls of a vast botanical tunnel that hissed and closed silently behind her.
Fancies, she thought; not very good for spies and such like me.
And when she reached a bend that would angle her away from the hill's low summit, she stopped and grabbed at her side until her breathing became less arduous, less painful. The glow was clearly visible now, but still only a glow. Somewhere, she thought, there has to be a . . . and she bent over to search the brush for a trail that would lead her away from the path. As soon as she found it, she pushed through some laurel and moved cautiously, not knowing if the kids would bother setting up some warning system against the coming of the police. And immediately the thought came, she prayed Fred wasn't engaged in one of his stakeouts. If she were brought in with a group of cavorting high school students, Abe would surely lock her up this time, no questions and no arguments.
The glow increased, and she wished for the warmth it implied.
When a low-hanging pine bough slapped her with its needles, she instantly stuck out her hands, waving them from side to side so as not to be caught again. The sun was fading now. The trail less friendly and less pleasant with full light gone, the only illumination a flickering she could see ahead and above her. Though the wind was partially blunted by the closeness of the trees, enough sifted through to chill her, make her teeth chatter so much she had to put a hand to her chin to stop it. A sudden dip nearly tripped her, a root snaking in front of her sent her silently, sharply to her knees. Quic
kly she bit down on her thumb to keep from crying out; and in waiting for the sting to pass, she heard the voices.
Low. Insistent. Not at all the revelry she had been expecting at some illicit party. That the sounds carried this far froze her—if she could hear them, they probably would be able to hear her. She cursed, shook her head angrily at herself, and began to back away. It wouldn't be much fun, or informative, if she couldn't get close enough to see what was going on, but neither was she prepared to be discovered and forced into an explanation of why she was there. Besides, from the sound of it, whoever was speaking was involved in an argument; and as though in telepathic confirmation there was a briefly loud exchange and a thrashing of the bushes as someone walked rapidly toward her.
Heedless of the noise she would produce, more worried about being found, she scrambled off the trail into the protection of a low thick shrub. And as her eyes became more adjusted to the fringes of the fire's glow, she saw that the figure now standing in the trail where she had just been was a girl. A small girl. And she was joined by an equally small boy.
CHAPTER VIII
"I can't understand why you're so bothered."
"We've lost another one, fool, that's why! We've lost another one."
"We had five. Now there are three. We can do as well with two, you know. One, if we have to."
The voices frightened her. The backlighted figures were clearly those of children, but the voices she heard were adult in tone; and in closing her eyes it was easy to imagine a man and a woman standing not five feet from where she crouched.
"We have five days."
"I know that. I haven't forgotten how to count."
"Well said. Can you do as well so the others won't run?"
"Run? Where are they going to run to? Back across the water? This is the best chance, the only chance we'll have for—"
"All right, all right! There's no sense in our arguing. We'll only make it worse. What's done is done. And if what you say is right, we have to do it again. Two, you say? I wouldn't like to be here if you're wrong."
A cramp knotted the back of a thigh, and she reached to massage it through her coat, gnawing on her lips to keep from crying out.
"And what of the other troubles? I don't like it. We risk too much."
"There's little we can do now to stop it."
"Then the least you can do is be a little more efficient, don't you think?"
Dale brought her arm forward again, brushing it carelessly against her coat. There was a sudden alarming clatter as the flashlight fell. The voices stopped, and she looked up to see the figures turned in her direction. Panic flooded out reason, then, and she snatched up the light and jumped to her feet. Immediately the figures took a step toward her she switched on the flash to blind them, heard their angrily startled shouts as she ran between them, striking out with her arms to knock them aside. There was no time to search for the path to the main gates now; she stumbled onward through the brush, slamming once into a bole as a warning yell rose hysterically behind her. She gasped, pushed herself faster, and broke onto the open slope. Frost had already whitened the ground and crackled like twigs beneath her feet as she ran without looking back. The wind shoved her, carried to her the distant sounds of more shouting, but though there didn't seem to be any pursuit she didn't slow until she tripped and fell onto her stomach, rolled, thrashed about until she regained her feet. Standing, then, and watching the glow at the top of the hill flare once before dying into black. Her breasts and knees ached from striking the hard earth, and her mouth gaped to find the air her lungs demanded. She turned, began a trot, angling away from the main entrance toward the park's southern boundary. Listening, always, for the footfalls that never came, the sudden cries of discovery that remained silent in the wind.
She was like an automaton—her legs moving her, her arms pumping for her, but her mind a deliberate blank The immediate sense of fear had vanished, was slowly replaced by a giddy feeling of the sublimely ridiculous. As she passed into the trees again, she considered what she had done and wondered why—after all, they were only children up there on the hill; and though their conversation had been nonsensical in the extreme, there was nothing so threatening about it that should have caused her to run like that. What she should have done was pop up and yell surprise, what the hell are you doing here. But she hadn't. And she didn't know why.
It was a numbers game they were playing. Five to three to two to a possible one. Choosing up teams would have been the obvious answer had it been daylight, on the field, with uniforms and a ball. But at night, on the hill, with a fire that died as quickly as it took to spot it?
She reached the fence and leaned heavily against it, staring gratefully through the bars to her house across the street. There wasn't enough space for her to squeeze through, yet she felt there was no possible way she would be able to duplicate her earlier feat and clamber over the top. Her legs, her burns, the side of her head were combining into a collective agony that sprang tears to her eyes; and the stings and slashes of branches and her fall compounded the wavelike pain. The wind sought her out, scurried dried leaves around her ankles, pushed them into her face and she was too tired to brush them away. A car passed, but she couldn't think clearly enough to call out. A drop of moisture settled onto her cheek and she thought she was crying again, but a finger to her eye disproved the notion and when she looked down to the corner street light, she saw dashes of white shooting past the globe.
Snow. It was snowing; and she groaned.
An effort, she urged herself; make an effort, you idiot!
The iron was hotly cold when she grabbed at the fence. Two abortive leaps fell short of the crossbar, and she pulled herself up until one hand successfully caught the black metal ledge. She dangled for a moment, weeping with a pain that goaded her anger, whipped the other hand up to catch and haul, throw one leg up and over as her coat snared on a spear point and tore loudly. She straddled the bar for a few seconds' respite, too dizzy to look down, keeping her eyes on her hands as they turned to allow her to drop off on the other side. Her legs collapsed under her weight and she sprawled on the sidewalk. Then: come on, Abe, you creep, drive by and see the drunk crawling on your precious street.
The key dropped four times as she fumbled with haste and numb fingers. And four times she swore at the top of her voice, not caring if the neighbors heard her and summoned the riot police. And when the door fell inward, she stumbled over the threshold, shedding her coat to the floor and flailing her way into the living room where she dropped onto the sofa, one hand on the carpet, the other under her face.
I'm cracking up, she thought, pulling her knees up to her chest. I'm letting shadows frighten me, even when there are no shadows to be scared of.
A domineered analyst, two children who sounded like adults, and a stupid chess piece that looked like a poisoned dog—a beaut of a day, Miss Bartlett; and she decided that she didn't care what time it was, she was going straight to bed. And in thinking, slept.
Willy's face.
The cloud.
The green. The brown. Blending now with sparks of red and amber.
Willy's face. And not his face. The small boy drowned became a young man living became an old man dying became an ancient/young face that belonged neither to the boy nor the man. The hair grew long and flowing as if there was a wind—though the cloud remained—and the brow furrowed, the cheeks filled and became scarred, the chin squared and grew a beard that accentuated a broad nose and thick, mole-pocked lips. An ancient/young face that stared without anger, without joy, without expression. A stone face carved from a flesh-toned boulder. The cloud moved.
The face remained. Still encased, yet no longer centered, higher now to expose a thick-muscled neck.
In the green. In the brown. In the sparks of red and amber.
During the night her position woke her and she stumbled up the stairs and into bed. And when she awakened, she lay gazing at the stucco whorls in the ceiling, thinking about a time w
hen she thought her life placid enough to even be called somewhat dull by those who didn't know the world in Oxrun Station. She smiled, stretched, massaged her breasts, stomach, sides. Dull. For the weekend just passed, to call that word an understatement would be an understatement in itself.
And in the light that found gaps in the curtains and made shimmering bars across her blanket, the fear she had worn like a second coat became less intense, more a fading reaction to a half-remembered nightmare. And though the sense of threat lingered, it had become edged in nebulous doubt. What she needed, she decided, was a plan, a method by which she could evaluate what had happened, what was happening. She had demanded and received at the McPhersons' a coincidence, but perhaps the coincidences of the past few months added up to something more.
"And maybe not," she said aloud, threw off the covers and padded into the bathroom. "Look at it this way," she told her reflection in the mirror over the basin, "in the cold light of day, as they say, what really happened to you, kid? You got yourself caught in a fire in Armstrong's orchard (and face it, kid, you weren't totally sober ), found a chessman a kid had been using to play monster in the ashes, found a bunch of kids playing at bonfire on the hill . . . " She shrugged. All of it was real enough—the puckering blotches on her face and legs were proof enough of that—but a connection? She turned on the shower and watched condensation fog the mirror, fade her image like a ghost at dawn. Reminding her of the dream. The change in the dream. Not simply the transformation of the face in the cloud, but also the almost abrupt loss of terror which it had previously spawned. It was a curiosity now rather than an obsession, and she thought the shift might be interesting enough to report to Ed in his office.
Cleansed, then, and dressed, feeling as though the weekend had never happened except for the aches of her flight, she hurried down to the store, found she was half an hour early and used the time to linger over a cup of coffee in the luncheonette.
The Sound of Midnight - An Oxrun Station Novel Page 11