Quentin’s vision dimmed, and the blood pounded in his ears. He sucked in his breath. “I shall pretend I didn’t hear that remark,” he said.
Clearly the speaker hadn’t intended it to be heard. He took a hasty swallow from his bottle.
Before he could be tempted to take more definitive action, Quentin followed Oscar into the store. The boy had his nose pressed to the glass of the candy counter, practically ready to devour the glass in order to reach the treats within. The counter creaked ominously under Oscar’s weight.
The gray-haired storekeeper seemed relieved when Quentin paid for the licorice and Oscar scampered outside to enjoy it. Quentin looked at the door, wondering if he ought to leave the boy alone with the insolent loafers.
“Don’t mind them,” the storekeeper said, heaving a sack of flour onto the counter. “They’re all bark and no bite.”
“They seem to dislike Dr. Schell,” Quentin said. “Why?”
“She doesn’t come into town much, so no one’s gotten to learn much about her. A bit of a mystery, so to speak. People around here only know that she has lunatics at her place who would usually be in the State Asylum. Worry they might scare off the tourists, or that her patients might run mad and hurt someone.” He shrugged. “And there’s some who just plain don’t trust a woman doctor. But she’s always paid her bills, and I’ve found her right pleasant, if the quiet sort. I’ve never heard any harm of her or the people up at old Schell’s place.” He regarded Quentin curiously. “You can’t be one of her patients.”
“Because I’m too normal?” Quentin smiled and shook his head. “We all have our oddities, Mr. Piccini. Some of us are simply better at hiding them than others.”
“Can’t argue with that.” The storekeeper filled a wooden crate with the smaller items on Mrs. Daugherty’s list, set it beside the sacks of flour and sugar, and wiped his hands on his apron. “I’ll go ahead and take this out, and you can square up with me afterward.”
“That would be most—” Quentin stopped in the act of lifting the sack of flour to his shoulder and cocked an ear toward the door. “Excuse me just a moment.”
He stepped outside to find the loiterers crowded at the porch railing, watching a scene that bore all the earmarks of a disaster.
Oscar stood in the middle of the street, turning in a bewildered circle, while a pack of boys yelled taunts at him from every side. The gang, its members ranging in age from perhaps fourteen to twenty and too well-dressed to be vagrants, had already done some damage. Oscar’s licorice lay trampled in the dirt at his feet.
It couldn’t be the first time he’d been mocked for his childlike slowness, but the Haven sheltered and protected him from such abuse. His eyes swam with tears. He would have made two of any of the boys, but he was heavily outnumbered. He didn’t know how to defend himself against such an assault.
“Come on, you big dummy!” one of the pack bellowed. “Can’t you fight at all? Or is your brain the size of a walnut?” The others joined in his raucous laughter.
Quentin dropped the sack of flour and started down the stairs. The men on the porch made no move to interfere. If they had planned to incite the bullies in their game, they thought better of it now and remained silent.
One of the bullies feinted toward Oscar, shouting and whistling, while another played at bear-baiting with a stick. Oscar flailed with one big hand and knocked the stick away. A boy, watching for his chance, maneuvered behind him and landed a punch to Oscar’s backside.
With a howl, Oscar spun around, lashing out at his attacker. By simple good fortune, his fist connected with the boy’s face. Blood spurted, and an explosion of dust shot into the air as the bully landed on his bottom. Oscar staggered back, not understanding what he’d done. The boy screamed in pain and rolled on the ground, clutching his broken nose.
All at once the rest of the boys flung themselves on Oscar, wolves pulling down a great bull elk. But no wolf would behave as cruelly as these humans did. Dust rose in choking waves; the smell of blood from the bully’s nose filled Quentin’s nostrils. He waded into the melee and thrust the boys aside with measured swipes of his arms, making a deliberate effort to leash his strength. The ringleader had pummeled Oscar to his knees, his blows striking past Oscar’s upraised arms.