The Pet

NINE

He slept until well past noon, scarcely moving, not dreaming, waking only once — when Dr. Naugle came by on his way home from the hospital to check on what he called his celebrity patient. A soft nervous laugh — his mother standing in the doorway, a light coat over her arms as if she were ready to go out, to get back to the business of celebrating the town. Don’s mind was fuzzy, disconnected, and he barely heard the man recommend that another day in bed wouldn’t hurt to regain the strength he had lost, more emotional than physical.

Joyce agreed, and Donald didn’t argue — he didn’t like the weakness that had infiltrated his muscles, and he didn’t like thinking what would happen if he should show up at school and have a fainting spell or require someone’s help to walk before the day was out.

And he didn’t like thinking what would happen should he inadvertently mention the horse.

He slept, then, and this time came the dreams.

Of the bedroom, whose walls expanded slowly outward, leaving his bed in the center of a cavern with caves in the dark walls, and in one of the caves he could see a shadow, drawing him in, beckoning, calling his name soundlessly and telling him over and over and over again that everything at last was going to be all right;

Of the bedroom, through whose window he could see the world from a hawk’s lazy perspective, refocus, plunge, and see Ashford, refocus again and see the horse waiting patiently under the maple tree in the backyard, watching his window, waiting for the signal, telling him by his stance that he never need fear again, not anyone, not anything — all he had to do was call and his friend would be there;

And of the bedroom at the last, and on his desk the remnants of the nugget that had exploded in his chest. He walked over to it and felt nothing on his soles, blew on the ebony dust and watched it leap into a dervish, a tornado, a tower of black that snapped around him before he could duck away, insinuated itself behind his eyes and showed him the faces of the people at the concert, their eyes bright with laughter, their mouths open like clowns, fingers pointing, heads wagging, elbows nudging neighbors, and feet stamping the ground; it showed him the flushed face of Brian Pratt at the back, hands cupped around his mouth — tell them the giant crow did it! — and grinning malevolently at Tar Boston who lifted both his middle fingers — hey donald the duck— and turned to Fleet Robinson, who stared sullenly at the one who had stolen his revenge; and it showed him the story of a giant crow, told by a clown who wore black denim.

He woke at ten minutes to three, sweat covering his face, and he watched the ceiling trap shadows shrinking away from the sun.

Norman sat in his office, doing little more than going through the motions, waiting, expecting that every time the door opened, Harry would slink in to tell him that the teachers’ strike that should have been called the day before had been called for that afternoon. But Falcone had apparently been made aware of the principal’s mood and stayed away, for which small favor Norman mentally sacrificed his wife’s heart to the heavens.

Falcone had kissed her. In front of hundreds of people the sonofabitch had laid his hands on her and had kissed her.

“Jesus,” he said. “Jesus.”

The telephone calls were being screened by the secretaries, but enough filtered through to finally lighten his mood by the time the last class had begun. A few reporters from out of town, several board members, enough well-wishers to finally have him smiling.

Shortly afterward, the mayor called to suggest they not waste any more time but meet as soon as was politically feasible to discuss the man’s successor. Anthony Garziana was preparing to retire; he had run Ashford for a dozen years and was tired, looking hungrily toward the day when he could pack up his young wife and family and flee to his carefully built estate on the Gulf of Mexico, outside Tampa. He was unimpressed with the deputy mayor; he liked Boyd’s style and the way he had glossed Donald’s day with a sheen of his own. That took guts, Garziana had said; Don, Norman told him, had a medal and could be generous.

Splendid, he thought as he rose to stretch his legs. Jesus, wait until Joyce hears this. She’ll be hysterical; she’ll have the mayor’s house redecorated before the end of the year.

He grinned and decided to take a walk around his school, left by the private door, and almost immediately collided with Tracey Quintero. She babbled an apology, he took her shoulder and calmed her down, and told her sotto voce how proud he was of her.

Tracey was flustered. “Me? I didn’t do anything.”

“You called the police the night … that night.”

Her face darkened. “I was too late.”

“But you panicked the man, Tracey, you panicked him. You forced him into a mistake, and he paid for it. For that, a lot of us parents are very very grateful.”

Her expression doubted the sentiment, but not by much. She blushed prettily and hurried on, her hands with nothing better to do smoothing her shirt over her stomach, her hips, until she reached the girls’ room and pushed in.

She was alone, and she stood in front of the wall-long mirror and checked her hair, her hem, then turned on the cold water and let it run over her wrists. She should have been in zoology, but a slow-building dizziness made her ask for a hall pass, granted on the condition she return before the bell. It was silly, but she accepted, and after her odd meeting with Don’s father, she was more confused than ever.

Last night she had wanted to remain in the park after the concert, but her father insisted she return home with him. He was embarrassed by all the attention he was getting, and insisted that Thomas Verona should be complimented as well. No one listened. Luis had been at the scene while Verona had been on patrol; Luis had discovered what Donald had done.

On the night of the Howler’s death, she had asked him directly what it was he had seen. There were only rumors, and there was no way to break through the constant busy signals at the Boyds‘ home telephone. She wanted to know. He wouldn’t tell her. She reminded him cruelly that Amanda could have been her if she had tripped, or had turned to use the length of pipe she carried; she could have been the one the school had closed for. He grew angry, but he relented.

And she didn’t believe him.

Even now, while she straightened her clothes that were fine the way they were, she could not imagine Don clubbing a man to death, not the way her father had described it. A bash over the head, yes; a good smack or two to the temple, sure; but not so hard that the man looked trampled. And when she heard the television newscasters talk about adrenaline rushes and hysterical rage, she still didn’t believe it. To do otherwise would turn Don into someone she didn’t know.

Jeff had said Don was changing; and maybe she was too. How could she not, when every night she had the dream — the race down the boulevard, the Howler in pursuit, Amanda spinning as if trapped in an invisible web that held her until the killer dragged her into the park … while Tracey watched, and screamed, and woke up feeling as if someone had kicked her in the groin.

Tonight, she resolved. Tonight she would call him, and if she couldn’t get through, then she would go over there. No matter what her father ordered, she would go over there and talk to him. She didn’t know why, only knew she must, and that more than anything was the root of her confusion.

“A mess, Quintero,” she told her reflection. “Es verdad, you’re a mess.”

With a pinch to her cheeks to bring back some color she hurried back into the hall, looked both ways and entered the stairwell. On the first landing she paused, debating whether it was worth returning to class or not, shrugged and hurried up, stepped into the upstairs hall and turned right just as Brian Pratt leapt out at her from the bank of lockers in the corner.

“Hey!” he said, taking her arm as she made to pass by him.

“Brian, I’ve got to get to class, okay?”

“God,” he said, “you could at least say hello.”

“Hello.” She shook the hand off and hurried away, glancing back once at him, frowning and thinking that if South won the night game tomorrow and he had anything to do with it, he would be even more insufferable than he already was. Then she remembered Jeff telling her about Don, how he had asked everyone he’d known if she was going with Brian. The thought warmed her, and she rubbed the back of her neck self-consciously, grinned to herself, and turned abruptly at the classroom door.

Brian was still there, shaking his head.

She couldn’t resist — she blew him a kiss before going inside.

Brian grinned stupidly and started toward her, stopped when she ducked into the classroom, and shrugged. It didn’t matter. She was smitten, another conquest for the Pratt; and this one all the sweeter because word was she was the Duck’s girl.

The Duck.

Christ, he was going to puke the next time he heard someone mention that queer’s name. All goddamn day it had been Don did this and Don did that and Don made the world in seven fucking days and the next thing he was going to do was walk on fucking water.

One lucky hit on a crazy old man and the Duck was God.

A shame, man, he thought, because they could’ve been friends. If the little faggot had only stood up to him that first day, taken one swing at him, they could have been friends. But no, the creep had cried, run crying into the house just like a baby. And Brian had no use for babies. All this bullshit he was reading about sensitive men was just that — bullshit.

Crying never got anyone into the National Football League.

Yeah, he decided; it was time he made a move on Tracey, and soon. He didn’t give a shit that she didn’t have any tits; she was after the Duck, and that’s all the reason he needed.

His eyes narrowed and he made an about-face, deciding that his good mood was ruined and there was no sense going to chemistry now. Besides, the Tube was busy piling on the homework, and if he wasn’t there, he couldn’t get the assignment, and if he couldn’t get the assignment he couldn’t be held responsible for it. Right now there were more important things to work on — like figuring out how to ace Fleet and Tar out of the glory tomorrow. Ashford North was known in the conference for its defense against the run, which meant in an ordinary game that Boston and Robinson were going to have a field day while Brian was used solely to decoy the opposition.

But not this time.

Tomorrow night he was going to show them what he was really made of, and the scouts he knew were in town from the Big Ten were going to get an exhibition of ball handling and running they’d never seen in their lives. With any kind of luck at all he would be beating them and their contracts off with a baseball bat before the first half was over.

A fist thumped his chest as he took the stairs down two at a time, three at a time, until he was on the ground floor and heading for the weight room on the other side of the gym. Coach might be there, but he wouldn’t mind. Brian would tell him Hedley had agreed to his missing class this once, and Coach would believe him whether he believed him or not. Brian was his star. Brian does his job. Get Brian sulking, lose a game or two, and Coach would be teaching kindergarten someplace in Kansas.

The sharp echo of his mirthless laugh rebounded from the walls, and he swung around the corner, whistling and marching, and stopping dead in his tracks when he saw Mr. Hedley lounging against the gym entrance.

“Were you by any chance lost, Mr. Pratt?” the short man asked without moving away.

“Hadda ask Coach something,” Brian said easily, trying to contain his impatience.

“You can ask him after class.”

“He won’t be here.”

Hedley’s upper lip pulled back. “He won’t be here? You mean, he’s skipping practice today? The day before the big game, Mr. Pratt?” The man shook his head. “I cannot credit that, Mr. Pratt. And I suggest, if you want credit for the course and a diploma in June, you head back upstairs.”

Brian worked hard to keep his hands from curling into fists. One punch. One punch and the little shit would fall apart. And one punch, caution reminded him, would lose him his graduation, entrance into the Big Ten, and his professional career. Hedley, by his expression, knew that as well, and it made him angrier to know he could do nothing about it.

“Two minutes, Mr. Pratt, or I’ll turn in a cut slip.”

“Aw, jeez, Mr. Hedley,” he said, spreading his hands in appeal, “have a heart, huh?”

Hedley stared at him so intently Brian thought for a moment the prick had finally figured out who had dumped the shit on his porch, and was already preparing an alibi. For himself. Tar, the little coward, would have to take care of himself.

“Two minutes,” Hedley repeated and walked off, arms swinging like a sergeant major leading a parade.

“Little prick,” Brian muttered. “Fucking little prick.”

Hedley heard but didn’t turn, didn’t lose a step. He continued to the stairwell and headed up for his class. A mistake leaving them alone and he knew it; there were too many legal and ethical ramifications. But Pratt had been getting away with too much for too long, and seeing him in the hallway talking with that little Quintero girl had made him furious. A swift order for questions to be completed in the workbook, and he was gone, racing down the center stairs, barely able to control his heavy breathing before the bastard came around the corner.

Bastard, he thought, and nodded. A fair choice of words. The mother lived alone, most of the time, and there was no telling who could claim fatherhood for that monster. A mental note to see if he could get Candy to reveal the truth, and a wince at the idea that anyone, most of all her, could be named after a confection.

He grinned, then, and stroked his mustache. What, he wondered, would Brian think if he knew that his flabby little prick of a chemistry teacher was regularly manhandling his mother; what, he wondered further, would the thick-necked grunt do if he knew that among Hedley’s collection of glossies in his cellar was a choice set of color photos unmistakably starring her.

Probably try to wring my neck, he decided, or cut off my balls.

“Mr. Hedley?”

He cleared his mind of the image of Brian Pratt frothing at the mouth and replaced it with the more realistic and far more pleasant one of Chris Snowden, standing in front of his door with a pile of books in her arms.

“Mr. Hedley, you wanted these from the library?”

He was about to deny it, suddenly remembered the bit of research he’d wanted to do for tomorrow’s truncated classes, and nodded, snatched the volumes from her with a curt nod of thanks, and swung open his door as if daring the class to be misbehaving.

Chris stared at his back, and told him silently to go to hell before she wheeled about and headed back for the library on the other side of the building. Though it was excruciatingly boring shifting books from one shelf to another, catering to creeps who needed this author and that reference work, it at least kept her away from teachers for forty-five minutes, kept the males from trying to unclothe her without lifting a finger, kept the females from consigning her to that airhead category all attractive blondes seemed doomed to inhabit from birth.

It also gave her furtive opportunities to do her homework before she left for home, thus enabling her to work full-time on her plan once school was out.

Today she was testing excuses to see which would work the best when she dropped in on the Boyds. She’d thought to learn what assignments Don had missed by staying home, then play the Samaritan by dropping them off — but with classes shortened tomorrow because of the end-of-the-day pep rally that would lead up to the game, most of the faculty wasn’t bothering. Then she had wondered if there wasn’t something she could manage from the front office, something she hadn’t yet been able to figure out.

In a way the idea of seeing Don was beginning to turn her on. She had heard several graphic versions of what he’d done to the Howler, and even taking it all with a pound of salt, it must have been one awesome battle; and to look at him, you wouldn’t think he could step on Brian’s shadow without breaking a leg.

Appearances, she thought; it’s all in appearances, the one subject she knew better than anyone else.

Probably the simplest thing would be just to go, to say truthfully she was concerned and wondering how Don was feeling, could she see him for a minute, and bring him some false greetings from his friends.

Sometimes, Chris, she thought, you try too hard, you know it? You just try too damned hard.

She pushed, then, on the swinging door, heard a thud and a grunt, and looked up through the narrow wire-embedded glass pane.

Oh, Christ! And her eyes closed briefly when Mr. Boyd pulled on the handle and let himself out.

“Gee, I’m sorry,” she said, putting an unthinking hand on his arm. “I’m really sorry, Mr. Boyd, honestly. I wasn’t looking. I didn’t mean it.”

He smiled and rubbed his shoulder ruefully. “I think I’ll live, Chris. Don’t worry about it.”

“Honest to god, I didn’t mean it, really.”

“All right, take it easy,” he told her, laughing easily at her distress that bordered on the comic. “I’m not mortally wounded. I’ll survive. Just keep your head up from now on, okay? I’d like to last through the year if you don’t mind.”

His touch on her shoulder was more a brief caress than a pat, and he was gone, leaving her swearing at herself for botching the first chance she’d had to make some points with the old man. She could have pretended a temporary injury, or fallen against him; and now, when the opportunity almost literally knocked her off her feet, she had blown it.

“Shit!”

“Miss Snowden!” the librarian scolded from behind her desk.

Fuck off, you old bitch, she said silently; at least I’ve been screwed more than once in the last twenty years.

She stalked to the back of the room, grabbed a cart of books, and set about trying to put them all back before the last bell rang. She would have to stop home first to change her clothes, make them easier to discard should the occasion arise, or at least make them seem as if they were ready for stripping. And the more she thought about it, the warmer she felt, the more electric grew the feeling that circled her breasts and centered below her stomach. It was crazy, but she was going to do something stupid if she didn’t get out of here, and do it right now.

A book slammed into position. A second one, four more. Up and down the rows, not caring about the glares she received because she was making too much noise. Not caring about the bindings or the bent pages or the squeaks the wheels on the damned cart was making.

She couldn’t get out. She had to stay and be a good girl, and confound her classmates until she had everyone who counted right where she wanted.

“Hey, watch what you’re doing!”

She looked up and saw Fleet Robinson’s freckled hand in the space where she’d almost tried to jam a history book.

“Sorry.”

“No problem, okay?” Fleet winked at her through the gap in the books. “You going to the concert tonight?”

She looked sideways at the librarian. “Hell, no.”

“Neither am I. You wanna see a flick?”

“Hell, no.”

He shrugged, but she backed away in a hurry. The invitation had been given pleasantly enough, but she could see Mandy’s ghost still lingering in his eyes. That’s all he’d talk about, she knew it, and she wasn’t about to waste an evening playing earth mother confessor to a jockstrap in mourning.

She backed up another step, saw Fleet’s eyes widen in warning, but it was too late. A look around and down as she moved, and she stepped on Norman Boyd’s toes.

“Oh god,” she groaned.

Norman creased his brow. “It’s an assassination attempt, is that right, Miss Snowden?”

“Mr. Boyd …” She lifted her hands, shook her head, and he touched her shoulder again before taking the book he wanted from the shelf and walking out, this time glancing back to see her watching him, ready to cry. A grin, and he strolled on to his office, not bothering with the fiction of scolding himself this time — he had done it deliberately so he could see her reactions, so he could feel the silk against his fingers. All perfectly legitimate, unless she was smarter than the credit he gave her.

Trouble, Norm, he cautioned as he entered through the private door; there’s trouble in them thar hills if you ain’t careful.

The telephone rang, and in a moment he was on the line with Tom Verona, explaining that his son was home on doctor’s orders but seemed, all things considered, almost back to normal. No, the boy hadn’t said anything about the Howler, nor had he mentioned any nightmares — though, he added, Tom didn’t sound very good himself. Verona told him he’d had a restless night. Boyd asked about the beer they had promised themselves, and Verona agreed readily, suggesting tomorrow night after the game, and vowing he’d find the principal somewhere in the stadium when Norm said it sounded good to him. When they hung up without good-byes, Norm frowned at the phone. The man sounded godawful, and he instantly regretted the invitation — it may well be he was in for a night of listening to another man’s series of marital problems.

Wonderful, he thought; just what I need when I can’t handle my own.

Then the bell rang, and the school emptied, and once all was done and the last letter signed and dropped on his secretary’s desk, he headed for home.

The sun was nearly below the treetops, skeletal shadows cracking the pavement before him, and he supposed there was no way he could get out of going to North after dinner to listen to the program of the schools’ vocal programs. He’d much rather put his feet up in the den and watch a football game, or a movie on cable, or go across the street to see John Delfield and tease that stupid dachshund and play a hand or four of cribbage.

Or call up Chris and tell her to come on over and get fucked.

He stopped at the foot of the walk, rubbed the back of a hand over his nose, and saw the first of the night’s stars pale above the house.

Trouble, he warned again, and didn’t quite not run when he heard the noise behind him, something large and slow coming down the tarmac. It sounded like a horse, but he wasn’t going to look; for one reason, it was impossible; and for another, it reminded him of the shadow in the puddle he had seen the other day.

Neither one of them belonged; and neither one was friendly.

Adam Hedley stared at the photocopies of the lab reports he had typed himself yesterday morning, and realized with a groan that filled the house that he had made an error. An inexcusable error. A careless error. In his entire life he had never made such a stupid misstep in procedure.

He held the page up, letting the flickering beam from the projector fall on the police form, ignoring for the moment the writhings and moans from the screen he’d erected in his cellar and concentrated on the precise language he had chosen for describing the condition of the club Donald Boyd had used to end a madman’s mad life.

After he had read it a fourth time, he slapped off the projector and hurried up the stairs. There was no way around it; he would have to go to the station and see if he could find Ronson or Verona, see if either would permit him to run the tests again.

Buttoning a salt-and-pepper overcoat to his neck, he stood on his porch and wrinkled his nose before heading for his car. The stench was gone, but he still smelled it, still felt it, and thought perhaps it was time to find another home.

He would have to call the coroner’s office too. If he’d made a mistake, they had as well.

Then he slid in behind the wheel, turned on the ignition, and looked down the street for signs of oncoming traffic.

What he saw was something standing in the middle of the road, down at the far corner, just beyond the reach of the only streetlamp the local hooligans hadn’t shattered.

It stood there, and it waited, and for no good reason he could think of, Hedley made a U-turn in the middle of the block and sped off the other way.

After practice Brian lifted weights with Tar, Fleet, and a half-dozen others from the team until long after the dinner hour, took a shower knowing Gabby D’Amato was watching, and sprinted home because something was behind him, pacing him silently and staying hidden in the dark.

Fleet rode home in Tar’s battered sedan, looking through the rear window so often, Boston almost threw him out.

Jeff made excuses for the weight session that afternoon. He knew Tar must have said something to Brian about the other day, and he didn’t want an Indian club smacked between his legs. He did his homework, cleaned his room, and each time he passed a window he couldn’t help looking out, looking for something he knew was out there, wondering if he should call Tracey and afraid to pick up the phone.

His father called and told him he’d be working late at the office, so he made his own supper, with his back to the kitchen window.

And when the dishes were done, he looked at the telephone and wiped his hands on his jeans, took off his glasses and wiped them on his shirt.

It was dumb.

But he knew that if he lifted the receiver now, nothing would be there, not even a dial tone.

Not even static.

Only a dead spot, like the dead black he saw in the street, something more than shadow, something less than the night.

After supper Tracey tried to call Don. The line was busy, and at a stern reminder of the promise to herself, she set her mouth and shoulders and went downstairs to fetch her coat from the closet. Her mother asked where she was going, and Tracey told her; her father never stirred from his nap on the couch.

“Please,” her mother said with a fearful look to the sleeping man, “wait until he wakes up.”

“I have to go, Mother. It’s something about school. Don has something I need.” She took her mother’s wrist and smiled. “I need it for tomorrow. Don’t worry, I’ll be all right.”

“I don’t know. Maybe you should—”

“Mother, the man is dead. Donald killed him. He’s dead. I’ll be all right, honest.”

She left before the pleading escalated to a command, and took the first three blocks at a run in case her mother changed her mind. Then she stopped and leaned against a tree, breathed deeply a half-dozen times, and shook her head to clear it of the vertigo she felt.

There wasn’t much traffic though it was only just seven, yet it felt like past midnight. The air had a feel to it, as if it were weary and hoping the sun would soon give it warmth; the sidewalk felt crisp, with a veneer of ice that cracked and shifted as she walked; and the streetlights were sparkling on their way to the ground, white flecks of whirling mica that made her blink her eyes and look away.

It was cold; and it was silent.

Except for the movement behind her.

He’s dead, she told herself as she quickened her pace; he’s dead and Don killed him and there’s nobody back there.

She looked suddenly; there wasn’t.

Four blocks to go and she would pretend to have a headache and Mr. Boyd or Don would give her a ride home.

Dumb, she thought as she stepped into the street; dumb, dumb, dumb. Why don’t you just go home and try to call him again? What are you gonna say, you were just passing by? Seven blocks out of your way, and you were just passing by? Gee, Don, I was wondering who you were going to the game with tomorrow. Jeffs already asked me to wait for him after, but he understands if you ask and I go with you. Just passing by, that’s all.

She angled to her left, toward the center of the block, intending to turn right at the next corner and save herself a walk past the high school.

And when she reached the center line, she heard the movement behind her again. And the breathing — heavy, slow, something larger than a man moving slowly up on her shadow.

It was the school again, the same thing she had seen down in the lower hall. She felt it without looking, and without looking began to run, mouth open to take the air, arms pumping to propel her While she leapt over the curb and raced down the sidewalk, listening to it follow her though it stayed in the street.

Rhythmic, pounding, sounding so much like a horse that she had to chance it and take a peek, and saw nothing but a huge shadow moving toward her along the road. A gasp — it’s a car without headlights, Trace, don’t be an idiot — and she whimpered, ran faster and heard the animal — it’s a car! — match her speed.

A second look and she stumbled.

Above the black, in the black, there were two specks of green.

And below it, and moving with it, a flare of green sparks.

Her balance was regained by windmilling her arms and lifting her knees, and the corner was too far away by fifty yards. She was going to be caught. Whoever was chasing her was going to catch her, and she was going to die now because she didn’t die the other night.

She was going to be murdered by a shadow with green eyes.

A sob, please don’t panic, and something sent her streaking across a lawn toward an illuminated white door. Up three brick steps, and her finger found the bell, slipped off, and found it again, pressed hard and long until the door swung open and she bulled Jeff aside.

“Shut it!” she demanded, and when he didn’t move fast enough, she grabbed it and slammed it and leaned against it, and closed her eyes.

“Trace?”

There were narrow windows on either side of the frame. Jeff pulled aside a white curtain, looked out, and frowned.

“Trace, what’s wrong? Was somebody chasing you?”