The central heat rushed on with a grunting exhalation, as though some beast hulked below the grill on the floor. She stepped over the barbells on the carpet, got her running jacket from the closet, pulling up the tight hood of the jogging suit. Tucking her short red curls in all around, she rummaged on the closet shelf for leg warmers and a hat. Where did I...? She opened a bureau drawer to a snarl of scarves, and her attention settled irresistibly on the pistol that nestled among them. For a moment, her hand hovered. Then she slid it out of the holster and almost tenderly hefted it before returning it to the leather pouch and smoothing a scarf around it. No one knew about the gun. She'd had it since Boston. The force here didn't even carry them.
I'm just jumpy. Perhaps the run would help. Who wouldn't be jumpy after today? The run would have to help: she would not resume the tranquilizers, refused even to consider it. No, she was through with all that.
Grabbing her keys from the small kitchen table, she let the door slam behind her. This stairwell always looked unfinished to her, as though the glaring white paint had been intended as an undercoat. Months earlier, her firstfloor neighbors had moved away; yet halfway down she paused, listening. Wind soughed through the foundations. Near the entrance, dank, heavy musk clung to the carpet, something no amount of airing had ever more than temporarily diminished, and an arctic night seemed to bulge at the front door. Squaring her shoulders, she flung it open and stepped out onto the landing.
The chill shocked her. A swath of light rippled briefly; then the door banged shut behind her. Slowly adjusting to the dark, she let her gaze drift out over the bay. She could just make out pinpoints of light on the mainland, faint as distant stars.
Here goes. Freezing air drilled into her chest as she ran in place for a moment, swinging her arms. Then she launched herself down the stairs and into the bottomless night.
Monsters.
He'd hung up the phone, feeling bitterly wretched. They couldn't seem to talk about anything else anymore. He stopped pacing and peered out the window. Had there ever been a time when they could? The endless hunt had consumed both their lives, crowding out everything else. He knew what he had to do now. But what if nothing could draw the boy out of hiding? What if all the months spent tracking him here ended in failure? How could he face her again?
He poked the curtains aside. At the end of the block below, a car swung onto the street, and the glacial glow of its headlights somehow made him feel even more isolated. It was time to make his sweep of the streets.
Shrugging into his jacket, he eased open the door, and light swung out across the faded hall carpet. He stared into the brown gloom. Unable to bring himself to switch off the lamp, he closed the door on it instead, then felt his way along the hall, letting his hand ride the gritty banister as he descended into vague brightness. The stairs creaked in agonized whispers.
The lamp on the desk still glimmered. Barely. Twenty watts? Nice of them to make that concession to his presence, he thought. They're probably asleep. He crept across the lobby, the damp chill penetrating his clothes before he reached the foyer. The inner doors groaned softly. In the vestibule, murky illumination quivered through a design on the leaded glass. He put his shoulder to the outer door.
Lord. As the wind struck, he swayed on the doorstep. Feel sort of wobbly all of a sudden. He looked around. Only a blue van shared the small lot with his Volkswagen. Better eat something. An empty can rattled across the ground.
The boy could be anywhere by now. The muted rush of surf seemed to drift in the wind, to drone from the sky, to reverberate from the wall behind him. Around any corner. He unlocked the car and checked the backseat before getting in. The engine stuttered to life, but the headlights barely penetrated the night. The heater would kick in once he got started, he told himself, letting the motor idle. By the light of the dashboard, he examined his hands. So they're shaking. So what? The green flicker made them look like the hands of some alien creature.
Usually he drove to a diner a few miles along the highway, but tonight...
I need to watch the streets. The wind yowled like a dying wolf. Earlier, he'd spotted a shabby luncheonette but knew it would be closed at this hour, and other establishments he'd seen--variety store, pharmacy--had apparently closed forever. But he recalled a convenience store where he'd bought some coffee and figured they would have sandwiches at least. As he eased the car out of the lot, his teeth began to chatter.
He headed away from the beach, the Volks shivering through the deserted streets. Could've sworn it was just down the block here. The oil light blinked red, a permanent feature, and the speedometer glimmered too faintly to make out. No hint of warmth rose from below the dash. By the time he spotted the glare of the convenience store, his head throbbed from the cold.
A pickup truck without wheels angled at one corner of the lot, an oil spot spreading beneath it. Stepping out of the car, he turned up his collar. A decal on the glass door read PULL, SO he tugged several times before pushing inside.
He blinked at the sheer brightness. "How you doin'?" He coughed. "Bad out there tonight." The clerk never looked up from a tabloid on the counter, but something like a sneer flickered on his lips. "Do you make sandwiches?" The clerk jerked his head at a hand-lettered sign that read DELI CLOSED. "Oh." The deli apparently consisted of half an unlit case of packaged luncheon meats.
I'll find something. He wandered the tight aisles, but items on the shelves wouldn't stay in focus. No, I can't get sick now. And his vision seemed to blur. I'm just hungry. That's why I feel weak. Under the fluorescent lights, all the packaged foods gleamed in queasy, garish shades. Maybe I should try to talk to this guy again. Empty-handed, he returned to the front of the store and leaned against the counter. You never know who might tell you something useful.
Flakes of skin curled in the folds of the clerk's face. "Yeah?" The protuberant eyes moved constantly, at first conveying an impression of active mental processes, then merely of habitual agitation.
"So how are you tonight?"
No response.
"Uh...do you have pipe tobacco?"
The man made a rude noise and reached behind him without looking. The packet he tossed on the counter was clearly labeled with a price more than double what it should have been.
He paid, disgusted with himself. "Uh...thanks." A few months ago he'd have spoken with this man, possibly managing to draw from him some fact about the background or circumstances of the town, something that could have helped in his search, but now the energy seemed to have dried within him. He could barely force himself to talk, couldn't shake this marrow-deep fatigue or the dizziness and the feeling of...
A form darted at the edge of the lot: he glimpsed it through the glass wall. Don't look. He jerked his head down, trying to track the movement peripherally. Behind the pickup truck...somebody crouching? He pocketed his change. "Thanks again."
Leaving the store quickly, he moved along the strip of sidewalk, casually strolling away from his car. So now he's stalking me. The wind thrust at his back. So let him. Frost stung his ears. Let him catch me even. He quickened his pace. Might be the only way.