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Authors: Charles L. Grant
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Mariner, forgetting for the moment their after-film drink. “She comes to the bank at least once a week. A regular savings demon. The worst I ever saw.” She thought for a moment. “That stuff last May. The boy who was killed in the car accident?”
He snapped his fingers again. “Yeah, right! Gus Buller’s kid. She was—”
“His girlfriend,” she said. “So they say, anyway. They also say, if it hadn’t been for what Les did, she probably would have killed herself.”
He only grunted. Les was no genius, had no special artistic talents, but somehow he had developed the means to communicate well with people near his own age. He had met Amy Niles once or twice before, and after her boyfriend had died, he had spent a lot of time with her, talking, walking, getting her to go out and start living again.
Brett was damned proud of the boy; he only wished he knew how to tell him how he felt.
They had stopped talking then, had walked on in companionable silence until he realized they were on the last block before Mainland road, and Les and Amy were running across it to the slope and field beyond.
“Uh-oh.” Denise yanked him to a halt. “This, Father dear, is as far as we go.”
They made an abrupt and clumsy about-face, giggling as they hurried back up the street, creating several definitely unpleasant scenarios that would be played out very loudly in public when his son turned around, saw him, and accused his father of being his shadow.
“You would not be long for this world,” Denise had told him.
He had tried not to laugh when she pinched his waist, ducked away from a slap when he pinched her back—and ended up facing east, just as Les and the girl reached the top of the slope on the other side of the road. His son was already pushing through a gap in the bramble hedge; Amy had turned to face the village.
She was caught beyond the reach of any streetlamp, and the trees on Mainland’s eastern side blocked any house light from spilling across.
But the moon that night was high, and it gave her silver light, seemed to touch only her and not the brush around her.
She saw him.
He knew she saw him.
And he didn’t have to be any closer to see the look on her face—only a year or so older than Les, but at the moment, before Denise had grabbed his arm and pulled him on, he would have sworn she was a hag, less out of the movies than out of a bad dream.
Then a cloud hid the moon, and she vanished in black.
Foolish, he thought now as he reached the end of the block and moved on; the kids had only been doing what he himself never had the nerve to do, and Denise had finally teased him back to the Mariner Lounge with promises of free drinks.
But the moon, and the look …
Remembering how his next few nights had been filled with shadowed dreams. He had been unable to call them back when he woke in the morning, but the sweat on the sheets, the clammy feel of his skin, let him know what he’d been through, even if he hadn’t understood.
It was the look, and the moon, and, he supposed, an aftermath of the murder.
A week ago, the day after he’d seen Les and Amy. A young girl, a close friend of his son’s. Brett had met her and hadn’t much liked her, as he hadn’t liked any of the girls Les went out with these days. They were too modern for his taste, too forward, too blunt. Though he knew that someday one of those young women would take the boy away, he hoped Les had more brains than glands and wouldn’t be fooled until he was good and ready.
He turned another corner, heading nowhere in particular, and realized suddenly he was listening to the night, for the sounds he’d been hearing— footsteps, quiet footsteps, just within range, the maker just out of sight.
He told himself it was only caution, natural in a cop, and it was, after all, only someone else strolling around a near corner, the summer night air carrying the tread and muffling it.
Someone else. Nothing more.
It wasn’t Amy; it
He snapped his fingers again. “Yeah, right! Gus Buller’s kid. She was—”
“His girlfriend,” she said. “So they say, anyway. They also say, if it hadn’t been for what Les did, she probably would have killed herself.”
He only grunted. Les was no genius, had no special artistic talents, but somehow he had developed the means to communicate well with people near his own age. He had met Amy Niles once or twice before, and after her boyfriend had died, he had spent a lot of time with her, talking, walking, getting her to go out and start living again.
Brett was damned proud of the boy; he only wished he knew how to tell him how he felt.
They had stopped talking then, had walked on in companionable silence until he realized they were on the last block before Mainland road, and Les and Amy were running across it to the slope and field beyond.
“Uh-oh.” Denise yanked him to a halt. “This, Father dear, is as far as we go.”
They made an abrupt and clumsy about-face, giggling as they hurried back up the street, creating several definitely unpleasant scenarios that would be played out very loudly in public when his son turned around, saw him, and accused his father of being his shadow.
“You would not be long for this world,” Denise had told him.
He had tried not to laugh when she pinched his waist, ducked away from a slap when he pinched her back—and ended up facing east, just as Les and the girl reached the top of the slope on the other side of the road. His son was already pushing through a gap in the bramble hedge; Amy had turned to face the village.
She was caught beyond the reach of any streetlamp, and the trees on Mainland’s eastern side blocked any house light from spilling across.
But the moon that night was high, and it gave her silver light, seemed to touch only her and not the brush around her.
She saw him.
He knew she saw him.
And he didn’t have to be any closer to see the look on her face—only a year or so older than Les, but at the moment, before Denise had grabbed his arm and pulled him on, he would have sworn she was a hag, less out of the movies than out of a bad dream.
Then a cloud hid the moon, and she vanished in black.
Foolish, he thought now as he reached the end of the block and moved on; the kids had only been doing what he himself never had the nerve to do, and Denise had finally teased him back to the Mariner Lounge with promises of free drinks.
But the moon, and the look …
Remembering how his next few nights had been filled with shadowed dreams. He had been unable to call them back when he woke in the morning, but the sweat on the sheets, the clammy feel of his skin, let him know what he’d been through, even if he hadn’t understood.
It was the look, and the moon, and, he supposed, an aftermath of the murder.
A week ago, the day after he’d seen Les and Amy. A young girl, a close friend of his son’s. Brett had met her and hadn’t much liked her, as he hadn’t liked any of the girls Les went out with these days. They were too modern for his taste, too forward, too blunt. Though he knew that someday one of those young women would take the boy away, he hoped Les had more brains than glands and wouldn’t be fooled until he was good and ready.
He turned another corner, heading nowhere in particular, and realized suddenly he was listening to the night, for the sounds he’d been hearing— footsteps, quiet footsteps, just within range, the maker just out of sight.
He told himself it was only caution, natural in a cop, and it was, after all, only someone else strolling around a near corner, the summer night air carrying the tread and muffling it.
Someone else. Nothing more.
It wasn’t Amy; it
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