withdrew the nozzle and started to replace the gas cap.
Checking the pump, Rourke reached into his pocket for
his money clip. He handed the man a twenty.
il get some—
“Keep the change.” Rourke smiled, remounting the Harley, starting it, and
upping the kickstand.
“Say . . . thanks, Abe.” Al waved.
“O.K.” Rourke nodded. They were all insane, he decided, as he started back
into the street. . . .
“You’re a good cook,” Rourke told her, looking up from the steak and eggs
nearly finished on the blue-willow plate in front of him.
“I don’t usually get the chance.” She smiled. “Living alone and all.”
He smiled back at her. “You haven’t lost your touch.”
She turned back to the sink and shut off the water, then turned back to
him, wiping her hands on her apron. “You haven’t asked me any questions
yet.”
“You promised it’d all be made clear. I’m waiting for you, I guess.” He
smiled. He had questions, but wanted to hear her answers first somehow. “I
gather that because I’m supposed to be your brother, it’s assumed I’ll go
along with whatever’s going on here?”
“That’s right,” she said, smoothing the apron with her hands, then sitting
down opposite him. She poured more coffee into the blue-willow cup, then
set the electric percolator down on the table top on a large trivet. “I
called work—told them I’d be in late. They understood, with my brother
coming to town and all.”
Rourke forked the last piece of steak, then looked at the woman across
from him. “Telephones?”
“Um-hmm.” She nodded, smiling.
He looked on the table at the folded newspaper. “May I?”
“We’re probably the only town this size in America with a daily
newspaper,” she said with a definite air of pride, handing it to him.
He opened the paper. The headline read: HALLOWEEN FESTIVITIES SET FOR
TONIGHT. A heading on a column read: SCHOOL BOARD ELECTION RESULTS TALLIED
“School board election?”
“Day before yesterday.” She smiled.
“And yesterday was the Fourth of July.”
“Um-hmm.” She nodded, fingering back a wisp of dark hair with a touch of
gray in it.
“And tonight’s Halloween?”
“For the children—they love it so.” She smiled.
“Tomorrow night Thanksgiving?”
“Yes.”
Rourke sipped at his coffee; she had drunk from the same pot so he trusted
it. He trusted nothing else in the town.
Sarah Rourke put a fresh piece of wood into the freestanding stove; it
had been converted from propane, she guessed. There were plenty of chairs
and table legs remaining and the weather seemed to be moderating slightly.
She stood up, letting the children continue to sleep in the bed. She had
thrown the bodies overboard, and all of the bedding. Because of the fresh
air, the mattress hadn’t taken on the smell of the bodies, of the dead man
and woman. They had worn wedding rings, and Sarah assumed they had been
husband and wife.
The ice had melted sufficiently on the deck of the houseboat, and she
could walk there—with care. She leaned against the rope railing; the ice
there had completely melted and the rope was wet beneath her fingertips.
She stared out onto the lake, wondering what horrors lay ahead on the
shore.
After disposing of the bodies, she had gotten the houseboat belayed to a
large tree trunk growing near enough to the water, then she’d brought
Michael and Annie down the rise with the horses. She had usedTildie and
Sam as draft animals to tow the houseboat along the water’s edge, toward a
better and more even piece of shoreline and to a jetty nearby. There
children and animals had boarded. The animals were now tethered in
the center of the main room of the houseboat—the carpet destroyed and the
animals cramped, but warmer. Then with Michael and Annie, she had rigged
an anchor from a heavy deadfall tree the horses had towed down. She had
planned to pole the boat away from the shoreline if possible and had been
in the process of searching for something with which to do the poling when
Annie had pressed a switch on the engine controls—the engines had rumbled
to life for an instant. Sarah had dried off the battery terminals, then
started the engines again; this time the engines caught. Twin inboards,
she had determined, and the fuel gauges read over half full. She had used
the engine power to bring them to the center of the lake, and had dropped
the anchor there for a safe night— the first she had spent in—
She lurched forward, against the railing, hearing a tearing sound, the
breaking of wood, the straining of metal. Behind her, the anchor rope had
broken. She stared dumbly at where it had been, then down at the water.
There was a current. There hadn’t been a current.
She ran into the main cabin. Finding her saddlebags and snatching the
binoculars from them, she ran back on deck and focused the binoculars
toward the dam at the far end of the lake.
“Jesus!! No!” She screamed the words. The dam had burst. The deck under
her rocked; the horses inside the cabin whinnied, screaming, too, if
animals could scream.
Annie’s voice rang out to her. “Mommie!”
The houseboat, the warmth, the safety, the possibility of transportation
it had offered, was being swept toward the dam in a rapidly increasing
current.
Sarah Rourke stared skyward a moment at the gray clouds moving on a
stiffening wind. She shouted, “Enough, God—enough!”
Rourke reached down and picked up a can of peaches. It was one of six cans
left on the grocery-store shelf, the cans pushed forward, the empty
portion of the shelf to the rear and out of casual sight. He was beginning
to understand. The peaches, the cereal boxes—even the gasoline he had
purchased for the Harley—all “pushed to the front.”
As they walked outside—Martha had purchased a can of coffee inside—Rourke
said to her, “I think I see it. Leave everything perfectly normal as long
as possible, and then—”
“That’ll take care of itself.” She smiled. “Walk me to the library.”
“All right,” he nodded. He glanced at his wrist watch as they walked.
Seeing children strolling down the street with books in packs on their
backs or stuffed under rheir arms, he thought of Michael and Annie. She
would have been— It was three-fifteen in the afternoon. “School’s out for
today?”
“Yes.” She smiled, saying nothing more.
Rourke kept walking with her, in silence, his leather jacket warm to him,
but necessary to hide the shoulder
rig with the twin Detonics .s. His Harley was,relpcked in ihe garage,
his other weapons w.ith it except for the Black Chrome Sting IA which was
in its sheath inside the waistband of his Levi’s on his left side.
“You don’t need your guns,” she said, as if she’d been reading his mind.
“No one would hurt you. You’re my brother.’
“But I’m not your brother,” he murmured, leaning down to her, smiling, as
a group of children passed and waved, calling her “Mrs. Bogen.”
“But that doesn’t matter.” Martha Bogen smiled, then looked at the
children. “Hey Tommy, Bobby, Ellen— hey.” And she kept walking.
Rourke slopped before they reached the library—the post office down the
street from it. An American flag flew from the staff in front of it; a
small garden was planted at the base of the staff.
“That’s a pretty sight, isn’t it—John?” She smiled.
“Yes,” Rourke said. It was all he could say.
He felt something bump against him and looked down. A liltle child, a
black mask covering the upper portion of his face, a white straw cowboy
hat partially covering carrot red hair. “Sorry, mister,” the little boy
called out, running past him.
A woman, perhaps twenty-five, was walking after the little boy. She nodded
to Martha Bogen and called after the child, “Harry—you take that mask off
until tonight. You can’t see where you’re going!”
Rourke looked after the little boy, saying absently, “I grew up on that
guy, him and his friend. Listened to him on the radio, then television.”
Martha Bogen said, “Remember—it’s Halloween.”
“Halloween,” Rourke repeated. “Right.”
He followed her inside the library. As he had by now expected, there were
teen-agers in the library, working on reports, it appeared; volumes of
encyclopedias and other reference books were spread messily on several of
the library tables. An older woman, white-haired, worked at the card
catalog.
It was a library—perfectly normal.
“I have a few things to do. If you want you might like to look through the
newspaper files,” she offered, stopping beside a glass-fronted office.
“What—and read about Memorial Day and Valentine’s Day?”
“I’ll only be a little bit—I’ll get some coffee going, then answer all of
your questions.”
“I have to leave—very soon,” Rourke told her. “And you promised those
trails.”
“The library closes at five—there’ll be plenty of light,” she told him,
then turned away and started into her office.