street.
I looked around alertly. “Something? ”
“If I was wrapped in neoprene, man, I wouldn’t have to stop, ” he said,
neoprene meaning the wet suit that a surfer wears when the water temp is
too nipple for him to hit the waves in only a pair of swimming trunks.
During a long session in cold water, while sitting in the line waiting
for a set of glassy, pumping monoliths, surfers from time to time
relieve themselves right in their wet suits. The word for it is
urinophoria, that lovely warm sensation that lasts until the constant
but gradual flush of seawater rinses it away.
If surfing isn’t the most romantic, glamorous sport ever, then I don’t
know what is. Certainly not golf.
Bobby got out of the Jeep and stepped to the curb, with his back to me.
“I hope this bladder pressure doesn’t mean I’ve got cancer.”
“You already made your point, ” I said.
“This bizarre urge to relieve myself. Man, it’s … it’s mondo
malignant.”
“Just hurry up.”
“I probably held it too insanely long, and now I’ve got uric-acid
poisoning.” I had switched off the spotlight. I put it down and picked
up the shotgun.
Bobby said, “My kidneys will probably implode, my hair’ll fall out, my
nose’ll drop off. I’m doomed.”
“You are if you don’t shut up.”
“Even if I don’t die, what wahine is going to want to date a bald,
noseless guy with imploded kidneys? ” The engine noise, the headlights,
and the spotlight might have brought us unwanted attention if anyone or
anything hostile was in the neighborhood. The troop had hidden at the
sound of the Jeep when Bobby had first driven into Wyvern, but perhaps
they had done some reconnaissance since then, in which case they were
aware that we were only two and that even with guns we were not
necessarily a match for a horde of peevish primates.
Worse, maybe they realized that one of us was Christopher Snow, son of
Wisteria Snow, who perhaps was known to them as Wisteria von
Frankenstein.
Bobby zipped up and returned safely to the Jeep. “That’s the first time
anyone’s been prepared to lay down covering fire for me while I peed.”
“De nada.”
“You feeling better, bro? ” He knew me well enough to understand that my
apparent attack of hypochondria was actually unexpressed anxiety for
Orson.
I said, “Sorry for acting like a wanker.” Releasing the hand brake,
shifting the Jeep into drive, he said, “To wank is human, to forgive is
the essence of Bobbyness.” As we rolled slowly forward, I put down the
shotgun and picked up the spotlight again. “We’re not going to find them
like this.”
“Better idea? ” not entirely alien, worse, it was a disturbing hybrid of
the familiar and the unknown It seemed to be the wail of an animal, yet
it had a too-human quality, a forlorn note full of loss and yearning.
Bobby braked again. “Where? ” I had already switched on the spotlight
and aimed it across the street, toward where I thought the scream had
originated.
The shadows of balusters and roof posts stretched to follow the beam of
light, creating the illusion of movement across the front porch of a
bungalow. The shadows of bare tree limbs crawled up a clapboard wall.
“Geek alert, ” Bobby said, and pointed.
I swung the spotlight where he indicated, just in time to catch some
thing racing through tall grass and disappearing behind a long,
four-foot high boxwood hedge that separated the front lawns of four
bungalows from the street.
“What is it? ” I asked.
“Maybe what I told you about.”
“Big Head? ”
“Big Head.” During long hot months without water, the hedge had died,
and the quenching rains of the recent winter had not been able to revive
it.
Although not a lick of green could be seen, a dense snarl of brittle
branching remained, with wads of brown leaves lodged here and there like
bits of half-masticated meat.
Bobby kept the Jeep in the middle of the street but drove slowly
forward, parallel to the hedge.
Even stripped of new growth, the dead boxwood was so mature that its