"Committee meeting tonight," he finished for her. "I know."

"Well, there is," she insisted without wanting to. "My G.o.d, things start on Wednesday, you know."

"I know."

"And as long as you're here, I might as well tell you that that so-called bandmaster of yours is being a real p.r.i.c.k, Norm. He acts like he's in charge of the New York Philharmonic, for Christ's sake. It's not like we're asking for his 135.

blood, for crying out loud. And he's even talking about extra pay!"

"I know."

She slapped at the counter. "Will you please stop saying that? If you know so d.a.m.ned much, why the h.e.l.l don't you talk to him like I've asked you a hundred times already?"

"Three hundred, but who's counting," he said.

"Jesus."

She put her back to him and stirred the soup, her free hand pulling her ponytail over her shoulder to stroke it, to calm her, to figure out a way to get him to talk to Donald-right, Joyce, his name is Donald. She couldn't do it herself. When she'd looked in on him on Sunday and he had looked at her that way, she knew she couldn't have a decent conversation with him without running from the room.

It was horrible.

It was unnatural.

But after seeing him like that, not sick but something else, she was ashamed to admit that she was afraid of him.

"Did you talk to Don?" she asked at last, her voice sounding too small, making her clear her throat and ask the question again.

"No. I just walked in the door when you came."

"Then will you?""When I'm ready."

The spoon clanged against the side of the pot.

"If you want to know the truth," he said, sounding less angry but no less tired, "I think the kid needs a spanking, but he's too big for it.

If I tried it, he'd probably bash in my teeth."

Last year, last month, last week, she would have turned on him furiously for even suggesting such a thing; tonight, however, she only nodded without letting him see her expression.

"Actually, I think he's in love."

136.

She lifted the spoon from the soup, tested for warmth, and returned to her stirring. "You think so?"

"Yep. I think he has the hots for the Quintero girl. The cop's kid."

"Norman, I wish you wouldn't talk like that."

"Like what?" Perfectly innocent, and uncaring.

"Like saying Don has the hots for someone. If he's in love, he's in love, and it doesn't necessarily have anything to do with having s.e.x with the child."

But he isn't in love, she thought, half-hoping he would read her mind.

He isn't. I know. I'm his mother, and I know.

"Well, maybe," he conceded. "And another thing."

"What?"

"If you don't let up on that spoon, we're going to have b.u.t.ter for supper."

It wasn't all that funny, but she laughed anyway as she went to the foyer and called up to her son, telling him supper was ready and he'd best get down here before it got cold. There was no response. She called again and wished he had turned out more like Sam, who had never had to be called twice, never got into trouble.

"Donald!"

She heard the door open, heard his footsteps in the hall, and smiled as well as she could when he appeared on the landing.

"I'm not really hungry, Mother," he said.

"Well, you'd better come down and eat what you can. It can't hurt, and I don't want you sick for all the fun this week."

"Yeah," he said, looked back up toward his room, and started down.

Slowly. His hand dusting the banister until he was less than a foot from her. The smile held, but she could see his eyes now, could see the look in them, the dark look that made her feel as if she were an ant to be stepped on, or137 not, at the whim of a perfectly ordinary and inexplicably terrifying young man.

"Come on," she said brusquely and walked away. He followed and she walked faster, and barely suppressed a relieved sigh when she saw Norm still at the table. Even a fight, now, would be better than nothing.

But Norm only nodded, and Don only nodded back, and during the meal they exchanged words so polite, so noncommittal, so infuriatingly inane that she wished for the first time that Harry were here. He would know what to do. He was, despite his dress and his manner with his students, an old-fashioned type when it came to dealing with children, and he would know how to handle this stranger who was her son.

And when the meal was over and she was piling the dishes in the sink, Don said, "Are you two getting a divorce?"

She spun around, a bowl clattering to the floor unbroken. "My G.o.d, Donald, what a thing to say!"

"Go to your room," Norman ordered in a strained voice.

"Just asking," Don said with a shrug. Then he rose, folded his paper napkin, and walked out.

"Jesus," Norm said, pulling a beer from the refrigerator.

"Norm, what are we going to do?"

He looked at her, drank, and forced himself to belch. "Seems to me," he said as he headed for the TV room, "that's your problem. You're the one who doesn't think I love you, remember?"

"But-"

And she was alone, hands tangled in a dishtowel, lips moving soundlessly, her dream of running away with Harry for some remote paradise suddenly more the dream of an old woman still a spinster.

Then she saw the clock and knew she was going to be late. Oh, s.h.i.t, she thought, threw the towel on the floor, stomped 138.

to the doorway, and said, "I'm going. I'll be back around eleven."

"I'll be here."

"Talk to Don, okay?"

He lifted a hand-maybe, maybe not.

d.a.m.n you, she thought, and managed to get behind the wheel before she started to cry. Not long, and not loud. Just enough to prove she could still do it, and still cared enough to want to in spite of the daydreams and in spite of Falcone. It wasn't easy; she had admitted weeks ago he meant nothing to her, not even as a port in her private storm. He meant,if she were going to be honest, even less than that lawyer she'd taken up with shortly after Sam had died. That episode had been a search for meaning, or so she claimed, and so Norman said he believed in his forgiving; this was a search for something else, something she couldn't define and was growing weary of trying. What it probably was, she thought bitterly, was a woman on the verge of menopause, looking for her teenaged self in a mirror that lied.

She snorted a laugh at the image and backed out into the street, driving off with the resolve to get home as soon as possible. Maybe then they could talk, the three of them, about what was going on, and what they could do, and how much they really loved each other. They had to. Don's question tonight proved it.

Something moved in the shadows.

"You know my father's gonna kill me," Tracey said, walking as fast as she could, her shoulders lifted against the cold that had come with Monday's dark.

"G.o.d, you're not that late," Amanda told her. Her long black hair was tied back with a black ribbon, her school jacket open to the night's chill. "G.o.d, you'd think, he was your keeper or something."

139.

"Sometimes he thinks he is," she said, though with a smile that made Amanda frown and shake her head. "It's just a pain how old-fashioned he is sometimes, you know? But ... well, he's just afraid for me, that's all. Because of the Howler."

"Well, for G.o.d's sake, that slime's probably a million miles away by now. He can't be stupid enough to hang around, right? Christ, he's probably all the way to Ohio or someplace." She giggled. "d.a.m.ned fuzz can't find the lint on their shoulders."

"Hey," Tracey said softly.

"Oh. Sorry." Without regret, only a shrug and a lengthening of her stride.

"Sure."

"No, I mean it."

Tracey waved off the weak apology and readjusted the notebooks she carried in her hand.

Amanda began humming, and cut herself short. "I wonder if old Tube's gonna be up all night again."

"Again?"

"Yeah, sure. Didn't you hear Brian today? He said the old fart was up all night yesterday scrubbing his porch. He had one light, a flashlight, and when Brian drove by, he turned it off. I guess he didn't want anyone to see what he was doing. I'll bet he used some of that c.r.a.p from his lab, y'know? Homemade bleach." She giggled and mimed a scientist pouring a solution from one beaker to another. "Maybe he drank some of it. Maybe he thinks it'll give him more hair.""All night, huh? No kidding?"

"I'll tell you," Amanda said, moving closer and lowering her voice. "I'm glad Fleet wasn't there. With his luck they would have been caught, suspended, and thrown in jail." She sniffed and looked behind her. "The old fart had it coming though. He's been busting our a.s.ses since school started. I don't think he wants us to graduate." A laugh, and 140.

a slap at Tracey's arm. "He really hates it that Fleet's getting straight A's, y'know? He thinks Fleet oughta be dumb just because he plays football. Maybe he has the hots for him, y'know?" She laughed again, harder, when Tracey looked away, embarra.s.sed.

The boulevard was empty of everything but its streetlamps and shadows, and it wasn't hard for Amanda to hear footsteps behind her. She looked, and saw nothing.

Tracey saw the move. "Me too," she said, and they moved closer to the curb, ready to dash across to the other side should they need to run.

"Dumb."

"What?"

"This," Amanda said, nodding to the way they were almost tightroping the curb. "He's a million miles from here."

"Sure," Tracey agreed.

"Besides, I'd kick his b.a.l.l.s in if he tried anything with me."

Tracey nodded, patting the purse she held close to her side. "I've got a piece of pipe in here. I'd bash his brains in."

"Pipe?" Amanda was impressed. "No s.h.i.t?"

"Dad makes me carry it."

"Well, h.e.l.l, sure he does. He's a cop."

"I don't know if I could use it though."

"What?" Amanda stopped, staring her disbelief. "You're nuts, Trace.

You're ... nuts! Of course you can use it! You think you're gonna die, you'll bite the b.a.s.t.a.r.d back if you have to."

Tracey considered, then nodded. "I guess."

Another block, and the chill deepened, sharpening the sound of their feet on the sidewalk, giving the light from the streetlamps a sharp, shimmering edge.

They walked arm to arm.

141.

The boulevard was still empty."You know what?" Amanda whispered.

"What?"

She looked around and lifted her head. "The f.u.c.ker is dumb, that's what!" she said loudly.

"Dumber!" Tracey yelled.

"Dumber than s.h.i.t!" Amanda screamed.

"Dumbs.h.i.t!" Tracey shouted, and broke into a fit of giggling that soon had her choking.

And Tanker laughed with them silently, watching as they rushed along the pavement, almost running as they headed toward the park and the shops'

lights beyond and keeping themselves brave by daring the dark. He knew that method well, had used it himself a number of times when he was tramping through enemy territory and didn't want to die.

The difference here was simple- He hadn't died.