Charles Grant - The Pet

“No, Don,” she said, turning her head as well. “No, it’s protecting you, and that’s not the same.”

Norman didn’t think he could take another nasty surprise. He slumped back on the couch and stared at the acoustical tiles on the ceiling, only a flutter of a hand or a slight jerk of his head letting the detective know he was still listening. Though why he should, he didn’t know. Verona, for all that he was an obvious hard worker, wasn’t anywhere near finding the answer to this mess.

“All right,” he said finally, rolling to sit upright. “All right, Tom, I’ve heard enough. It’s crazy and you know it.” And: crazy , he thought, is getting to be the word around here.

“You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.” Verona rubbed at a dark pouch under one eye. “But what am I supposed to think? I know it’s hard, especially now, but what in god’s name am I supposed to think?” He held up one hand and pointed with the other to a finger. “The lab tests show that Don didn’t hit that man with the tree branch like he said he did. There was nothing to indicate that Boston had been struck by a car. Adam Hedley looked just like them, and I’ll be damned if I’ll believe that a car drove into your school, down the aisle, jumped the stage, and ran him over. Then there’s Falcone—”

“Oh, Christ, Tom, will you listen to yourself?” Norman picked up a magazine as if he were going to throw it. “One — you can’t find the tests. Two — by your own admission there was nothing to show Boston hadn’t been hit by a car either. And I refuse to believe that my son, through some mysterious means, managed to subdue two men and a kid and bash them to death, one of them right in the middle of Park Boulevard.” He leaned back heavily. “Besides, he was home when Hedley was killed, and he was with Tracey Quintero when Falcone …” He choked. He refused to say it one more time.

Verona threw up his hands, more in frustration than in defeat, and Norman almost felt sorry for him. In fact, he knew he did. The man was grabbing for any straws he could find, and only Don’s encounter with the Howler and those elusive lab tests gave him any sort of connection.

“Joyce,” Verona said, “spoke his name several times.”

“Well, Jesus, man, he’s her son!”

Joyce had slipped into a deep sleep at last, and Naugle had summoned them both into the room when she began muttering in a dream.

“She also said ‘a horse,’ if you recall.” His smile was brief and mirthless. “Tell you what — I’ll go for the car in the school if you’ll go for the horse in my house.”

“She could have been talking about drugs.”

“For god’s sake, get serious!”

He was tired. He wanted to go home. The only decent news he had had all evening was that John Delfield had gotten some of the neighbors to help him erect a temporary shield of plywood across the smashed bay window. He reminded himself to drop the man a note, perhaps enclose a check to reimburse him for the materials.

A door squeaked open and Naugle came in, bringing Norman to his feet.

“I gave her an injection,” the doctor said. “Otherwise, there’s no change.”

“A shot? What for?”

“She wasn’t asleep deeply enough,” Naugle said. “She’s having some pretty hairy nightmares, and I don’t want her any weaker than she is.”

“Great,” Norman said, dropping back to his seat. “That’s just great.”

“You might as well go home.”

Norman almost agreed before shaking his head. He wanted to stay. If he left, he might check to see if Chris was still home, still in her bed, still … He shook his head and shuddered, and Naugle patted his shoulder.

A car pulled into the parking lot, blinding them with its headlamps. Don threw up a hand and cursed softly, but Tracey only patted his shoulder and stood.

“I think it’s Jeff,” she said, squinting as the beams swung away from them and the car stopped.

“Jeff?”

She started off the grass. “Yeah. I called for a ride home. I sure wasn’t going to ask my father.”

“Well, I would have taken you, you know,” he protested, following her to the door. “God, Tracey—”

She turned and put a hand to his chest. “Not now, Don, okay?”

“But what are we going to do? About—”

She sucked in her cheeks, bit down on the inside. “I don’t know. I mean … I don’t know.”

The door opened and Jeff, his glasses catching the light and turning his eyes white, smiled ruefully when Don leaned down to peer in.

“Hey, man, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. It’s … yeah, thanks.”

Tracey slid in and took hold of his hands, pulled him close and kissed him. “There,” she whispered with a small satisfied smile. “So there.”

“But I need you,” he pleaded, ignoring Jeff’s puzzled look. “What am I going to do now? I need you, Tracey!”

“I know. And I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? If I don’t go now, I won’t get out of my house until my funeral.” She kissed him again, quickly. “Please, Don, just stay here, okay? It’ll be all right if you just stay here. I’ll be back tomorrow, first thing.”

“Promise,” he said tightly.

“Promise.”

He didn’t like it, but he could do nothing about it. She was right, and he knew it, but he didn’t have to like it. As he didn’t have to like giving a quick report on his mother to Jeff, who kept leaning over Tracey and asking him questions until, at last, she poked him on the shoulder back behind the wheel.

Then they were gone.

The car swung around and they were gone, and Don tasted the memory of her kiss, the touch of her hand, and felt the frustration begin to rise in his chest.

She should have stayed!

If she loved him …

He looked away, looked back to the drive.

Love him?

But how the hell could she love him and still hurt him this way, leaving him when he needed her to keep from going crazy, leaving him when he needed her to help him escape?

His hands slammed into his jacket pockets and he watched his breath turn to fog.

She had to be right , he thought then. She had to be.

The wind tangled in the cherry trees, the thin branches snapping as if torn from their trunks.

But she should be here, he argued; she shouldn’t leave me alone when I need her the most. She shouldn’t! He raised a fist and only with an effort did he bring it to his mouth instead of shaking it at the image of Jeff’s car on the drive.

Damn you, Jeff! God damn you, you’re supposed to be my goddamned friend!

The wind keened over the hospital. A flare of water rose beneath a light, another on the drive, and he felt a raindrop on his hand.

And heard a hoofbeat behind him, soft on the grass.

He looked down at the tarmac and saw the ghost of a fog slip between his feet.

Turning slowly, he watched the cherry trees dance, narrowing his eyes against the dust the wind raised.

Then he saw the spots of green floating in the air, saw the sparks rising, saw the shadow of the stallion as it stood there unmoving.

His legs nearly gave way, but the stallion tossed its head, and he staggered toward it, ignoring the pressure growing in his chest, ignoring the needled stinging building in his eyes. He stepped onto the grass, and he reached out a hand.

And the neck was warm, and it was smooth, and the nose when it nuzzled into his palm was the comfort of velvet.

“God,” he whispered, neither a prayer nor a name.

It whickered softly, and when he turned his head sideways, he looked into the emerald fire that glowed out of the fog.

“He took her away,” he said. “He took her away, and she’s supposed to love me.” He slipped his hands into the mane untouched by the mist and stroked the neck again. A bubble in his chest around a nugget of fire. “You know what?” he said softly. “Dad thinks I did it — the house, Mr. Falcone.” He laid his cheek against the warm black mane. “The creep.” The bubble grew, and there was heat in his lungs. “The bastard. And you know what else? Do you know what else? That cop is back, and he keeps looking at me like I’m some kind of freak.” It was hard to breathe, and there in the dark were swirling spots of red. “It was my medal, my time, and Brian ruined it. Donny the fucking Duck!” He backed away, and the bubble burst. “I can’t even get a stupid medal without somebody taking it away! What the hell do I have to do, huh? What the hell do I have to do?”