"Why?" he whispered then. "Why are they like that?"

The horse retreated again, and left him standing alone.

He sniffed, and wiped his eyes with a sleeve that felt like coa.r.s.e burlap on his skin.

"They won't stop, y'know? They keep coming at me, they won't leave me alone. I'm not Sam, I'm not special. I'm just me, and they won't ..." He stopped, bowed his head, wiped his eyes again. "I just wish I knew what I'm doing wrong, you know? If they'd only tell me what I'm doing wrong, maybe the Rules wouldn't change so much, maybe I'd know then what was going on."

He felt it then, out there in the cold-the stallion was listening-every word he said, every tear he shed was marked by the emerald eyes and the p.r.i.c.king of its ears.

He wanted to ask why they wouldn't even let him be a hero, just this once; he wanted to ask why he couldn't cry, why he couldn't get mad, why the Rules said he had to be like stone or wood; and he wanted to ask why they couldn't 232.

make up their minds to let him be a kid, or a man. But he didn't, because he knew that the horse already understood, and that he was right-it was there, really there, and it was going to protect him.

He grinned through his tears.

The stallion snorted and buried them in grey smoke, snorted again, and blew the smoke away.

"It's true," he said in the midst of a loud sigh. "It's true, you're my friend." He laughed once, softly. "Oh G.o.d, it's really true!"

He stretched out a hand to stroke its muzzle, to seal the bargain, and froze when the animal began its throated rumbling. It backed away. He started to follow, and nearly bolted for the house when it reared under the tree, snapping branches, casting dead leaves, greenfire and greeneyes and slashing hooves at the air.

Headlights flared around the corner of the house.

Oh s.h.i.t, he thought; d.a.m.nit, they're home.

The horse lowered its head, eyes dark now, its tail slapping its legs.

"All right," he said nervously. "All right, I gotta go now."

The horse didn't move.He backed toward the kitchen door, wanting to laugh, wanting to shout, wanting to race around to the driveway and drag his father back, to show him, to show him what his son could do.

With one hand on the doork.n.o.b he looked over his shoulder, couldn't find his friend until he found the green eyes. "Please," he said. "Please."

And ran inside, skidding to a halt in the foyer just as he heard a key rattle in the lock and could hear his parents on the porch, talking loudly, not quite arguing. He turned toward the stairs to make it seem as if he were just going up, when his mother stormed in, slamming the door back against the wall as she charged past him toward 233.

the kitchen. His father was right behind her, slower, his jacket over one shoulder and his face pale.

"What are you doing up?" he snapped, and didn't wait for an answer. He jabbed a commanding finger toward the stairwell and followed his wife.

I'm fine, Don thought as he started up the stairs; thanks for asking, I'm fine.

"I will not have it!" Joyce said loudly, and he stopped on the landing.

"Keep your voice down! The boy'll hear."

A laugh, short and bitter. "Hear what? I'm not an animal and I'm not stuffed. What makes you think he'll hear me?"

"Jesus, you're crazy, you know that?"

She laughed again, and Don squatted, one hand on the banister in case he had to move fast.

Cupboard doors slammed, cups cracked into saucers, the faucet ran so long she could have filled the bathtub. When the water was shut off, his father was laughing.

"Honest to Christ, you're something else, you know that? You really are something else."

"Well, really," Joyce said. "All they did was ask you to stand up and take a bow, and you were waving your arms like a G.o.dd.a.m.ned politician!

Christ, I thought you were going to kiss babies next."

"Wouldn't have been a bad idea."

A chair sc.r.a.ped; another was slammed down on the floor.

"All right," Norman said wearily. "All right, I'm sorry."

"Sorry is too late. You and the boy have been upstaging and ha.s.sling me since this thing began, and I've had it! I worked my a.s.s off so you'd look good, and this is the thanks I get."

"Me?" A m.u.f.fled sound-Norman either laughing into a hand or trying not to choke. "G.o.d, the next thing is you'll be accusing me of sending Don out there myself to kill that crazy b.a.s.t.a.r.d."234 "I wouldn't put it past you."

The silence was cold, and Don wrapped his free arm over his chest.

"That was a s.h.i.tty thing to say, Joyce."

The silence again.

"I know," she said at last, but without apology in her voice. "I ..."

She began to cry and Norman cursed, and the water began running again.

Don didn't wait to hear any more. He climbed slowly up the rest of the stairs, shuffled down the hall, and pushed open his bedroom door. He yanked the towel off the lampshade and dropped it on his desk. His shoes were kicked under the bed, his shirt dropped onto the floor. For a moment he stood at the window, looking down at the tree. There was nothing there, the horse was gone, but he no longer questioned the state of his mind.

When he finally dropped onto the mattress, he deliberately fell back so his head would hit the wall. Maybe they'll hear it, he thought; maybe they'll think I've had a relapse or something, and they'll come running up and see what's wrong.

Or, he thought, they'll call the papers first, and then come up to see if I'm dead.

And maybe, he thought with a cold, mirthless grin, I'll take them both outside and show them my new pet.

He lay there for nearly an hour before he blinked and saw his father standing in the doorway.

"You okay, son?"

"Sure. Just thinking."

"You'd better turn out the light. School isn't going to be exactly normal for you tomorrow."

He nodded and swung his feet over the side. "Dad?"

Norman stiffened, and raised his eyebrows.

"Do you think-"

A sudden, faint shattering of gla.s.s stopped him, had him 235.

on his feet and beside his father in the hallway. Joyce came out of their bedroom, a robe wrapped loosely around her.

"What?" she said nervously.

Another shattering, and the sound of heavy blows on something metal."d.a.m.n, the car!" Norman said, and ran for the stairs, Don just behind though his mother called to him to stay where he was. The front door was locked, and Norman fumbled with the bolt before flinging it open and switching on the porch light. Don crowded out past him, not feeling the snap of cold air on his bare chest. The bulb was directly over his head, and he shaded his eyes, scanning the lawn before looking to the driveway.

"Oh, G.o.d," he whispered.

Norman shoved him aside and leapt over the stairs, hit the walk at a run, and didn't stop until he came up against the station wagon's front fender. The windshield was smashed, there was a dent in the hood, and lying on the blacktop just under the b.u.mper was Don's bike-the handlebars twisted out of place, the front wheel broken, half of its spokes wavering like antennae where they'd been snapped from their places along the rim.

Norman whirled and raced around the side of the house, but Don only stumbled to the driveway and knelt beside the bike, one hand reaching out to touch it, withdraw, touch it again and follow the lines of its destruction. When he shifted and leaned over to stare at the back wheel the glint of metal made him pause, made him reach out and pull a red leather key case wedged beneath the battered frame.

"Don?" his mother called from the doorway. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," he said dully, slipped the case into his pocket, and heard her gasp when she saw the damage.

"Oh Jesus, my G.o.d, look at that," she said just as Norman appeared around the far side of the house, panting heavily, 236.

one palm ma.s.saging hard at his side. She held out a trembling hand, and he took it, pulled her to him and glared at the empty street. "Who?" she asked.

"How the h.e.l.l should I know?" he said. "d.a.m.n, that's going to cost a fortune to fix."

Joyce took a step to one side, the gla.s.s crunched under her slipper.

"I'll get a broom," she said. "We can't have that stuff lying around.

It's dangerous. Someone'll get hurt."

"Sure."

"Look, you'd better call the police. Don? Get the broom from the garage, will you? Help me here."

Don looked over his shoulder. Neither of them were looking at him-Norman was staring at the depression in the hood and absently rubbing his wife's back; Joyce was trying to smooth the hair from her eyes. And when she finally saw him looking, she pointed to the garage, then turned Norman around and pushed him gently toward the house.

Don rose, dusted off his jeans, and reached down to grab the handlebars, to drag the bike away.

"Leave it," Joyce said. "There might be fingerprints or something."He straightened and fetched the broom, handed it to her and returned inside, where he listened to his father explaining to the police what had happened. When he rang off, he told Don to put on a shirt before the cops arrived. You never know, he said. There might still be some reporters hanging around, and when they got wind of this, it would be circus time again.

"d.a.m.n," he said as he headed out the door. "With my luck, it'll probably rain tomorrow."

The police came and went in less than an hour. They made a decent show of searching the yard, but they found nothing, not a clue, and explained to the Boyds that in cases like this there was nothing much they'd be able to do if no one saw 237.

anything or offered information. No one came out to watch because the patrol car had arrived without its lights spinning; no one overheard the conversations because Joyce kept them speaking low, or whispering. And they asked Don nothing at all when Norman told them the boy was with him, inside, when the incident occurred.

After they left, Don dragged the bicycle into a corner of the garage and stared out at the street, at his father using a small brush to get the gla.s.s from the front seat. Joyce was inside, making coffee.

A press of a b.u.t.ton and the garage door lowered. Norman looked up and gave his son a rueful smile. "You win some, you lose some, right?" he said. "Sorry about the bike."

"Yeah."

Don shivered at a gust of wind and turned to go inside, and stopped when he saw something white fluttering in the shrubs that fronted the house and ended at the drive. He leaned close, closer, and picked a feather from a branch.

"Dad?"

Norman grunted.

He found another one at the bush's side, two more on the ground. "Hey, Dad?"

"In a minute, okay? I don't want to slice my thumb off on this stuff."

He parted the branches, and his mouth opened in a silent gasp.

There, on the ground under the bush was the body of a bird, its neck twisted around, its eyes closed, its feathers covered with blood.

"Dad, look!"

Norman pushed him aside with a hip and knelt down, gagged when he saw the mutilation, and poked at it with his toe.

"Jesus," he said. "It's a G.o.dd.a.m.ned duck."

238238.

239.

Eleven.beautiful, thought Tar as he watched Mr. Boyd shovel the remains of the dead bird and dump them with his face averted into a plastic garbage bag. Don was in the driveway, hands in his pockets and staring out at the street. For a moment Tar thought the Duck had seen him, but no alarm was given. He heard the rattle of a garbage can lid being slammed into place, then the princ.i.p.al came out of the garage and put his arm around the Duck's shoulders. They went into the house like that, the door slammed, and the porch light went out.

"Excellent," Tar whispered, crouched low and bouncing on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet. "Beautiful."

He had run behind the empty tool shed in old man Delfield's backyard when the cops finally came around, wedging himself between a stack of empty orange crates and the rear wall. They weren't looking very hard, missed him, and after he was sure they weren't coming back, he snuck around the side of the house and dropped into the corner of the front yard, protected by the hedges and a twisted oak at the curb. From there he had been able to watch everything, sorry only that he couldn't hear what the two b.a.s.t.a.r.ds were saying.

240.

He waited another five minutes, licking his lips and grinning, before bulling through the hedge into the adjoining driveway. He walked slowly in case someone was watching, the baseball bat held tight against his leg, his football jacket turned inside out. As soon as he reached the corner, he slipped the bat into the storm drain and reversed the coat, then broke into a high-stepping run, mouth open in a silent laugh. He couldn't wait to get home and call Brian, couldn't wait to let the a.s.shole know that Tar Boston was not just a stupid jock.

School Street was empty, and the pavement sounded like thin ice beneath his sneakers. By the time he reached the next corner he could feel the cut of the night air against his cheeks and in his lungs, and he sniffed to keep his nose from running. Now he wished he had the car, the ten-year-old junkpile his old man had bought for him on his last birthday. It barely ran, when it bothered to run at all, but the heater still worked and he could use it now.

Or the relative luxury of Pratt's automobile.

He slowed and scowled. Stupid jock-that's what Pratt had called him at practice today-stupid jock, get the f.u.c.k outta my way before I run you down. There was a bug up his a.s.s, that's for sure, because he hardly said two words to him and Fleet the whole time, even when they were doing weights after the coach had left. Like he was mad or something, and Tar hadn't been able to get him to tell him what was the matter.

Fleet was almost as bad, but different. That jerk acted like he was running from the cops or something, the way he kept looking around on the way home. Tar had gotten so d.a.m.ned nervous he almost sideswiped a bus.But Fleet wouldn't say anything either.

And it wasn't until Tar was home and eating supper that he had the idea that would even the score between himself and the Duck for accusing him and Pratt of dumping that s.h.i.t on 241.

Hedley's porch. A truly fantastic idea. A blow at the f.u.c.king princ.i.p.al and at the Duck at the same time. Stunning. And it would shut Pratt up about how Tar must've blown it when the Duck didn't get the blame the way it was planned. The idea for the dead bird came as he pa.s.sed a butcher shop on the way home and saw a goose in the window. From there it was a simple matter of stopping at a friend's house, a friend who had two little brothers who kept four ducks in a pen in the backyard. He didn't even have to look at the bird; he'd clobbered it with a stick while it struggled in the burlap bag he'd dropped over its head; then he'd wrung its neck. Not a speck of blood on him. Even when he dropped it into the bushes he didn't look. Didn't have to. Didn't even care if the Boyds found it that night or the next morning.