Part 25 (1/2)

”Why?” he whispered then. ”Why are they like that?”

The horse retreated again, and left him standing alone.

He sniffed, and wiped his eyes with a sleeve that felt like coa.r.s.e burlap on his skin.

”They won't stop, y'know? They keep coming at me, they won't leave me alone. I'm not Sam, I'm not special. I'm just me, and they won't ...” He stopped, bowed his head, wiped his eyes again. ”I just wish I knew what I'm doing wrong, you know? If they'd only tell me what I'm doing wrong, maybe the Rules wouldn't change so much, maybe I'd know then what was going on.”

He felt it then, out there in the cold-the stallion was listening-every word he said, every tear he shed was marked by the emerald eyes and the p.r.i.c.king of its ears.

He wanted to ask why they wouldn't even let him be a hero, just this once; he wanted to ask why he couldn't cry, why he couldn't get mad, why the Rules said he had to be like stone or wood; and he wanted to ask why they couldn't 232.

make up their minds to let him be a kid, or a man. But he didn't, because he knew that the horse already understood, and that he was right-it was there, really there, and it was going to protect him.

He grinned through his tears.

The stallion snorted and buried them in grey smoke, snorted again, and blew the smoke away.

”It's true,” he said in the midst of a loud sigh. ”It's true, you're my friend.” He laughed once, softly. ”Oh G.o.d, it's really true!”

He stretched out a hand to stroke its muzzle, to seal the bargain, and froze when the animal began its throated rumbling. It backed away. He started to follow, and nearly bolted for the house when it reared under the tree, snapping branches, casting dead leaves, greenfire and greeneyes and slas.h.i.+ng hooves at the air.

Headlights flared around the corner of the house.

Oh s.h.i.+t, he thought; d.a.m.nit, they're home.

The horse lowered its head, eyes dark now, its tail slapping its legs.

”All right,” he said nervously. ”All right, I gotta go now.”

The horse didn't move.He backed toward the kitchen door, wanting to laugh, wanting to shout, wanting to race around to the driveway and drag his father back, to show him, to show him what his son could do.

With one hand on the doork.n.o.b he looked over his shoulder, couldn't find his friend until he found the green eyes. ”Please,” he said. ”Please.”

And ran inside, skidding to a halt in the foyer just as he heard a key rattle in the lock and could hear his parents on the porch, talking loudly, not quite arguing. He turned toward the stairs to make it seem as if he were just going up, when his mother stormed in, slamming the door back against the wall as she charged past him toward 233.

the kitchen. His father was right behind her, slower, his jacket over one shoulder and his face pale.

”What are you doing up?” he snapped, and didn't wait for an answer. He jabbed a commanding finger toward the stairwell and followed his wife.

I'm fine, Don thought as he started up the stairs; thanks for asking, I'm fine.

”I will not have it!” Joyce said loudly, and he stopped on the landing.

”Keep your voice down! The boy'll hear.”

A laugh, short and bitter. ”Hear what? I'm not an animal and I'm not stuffed. What makes you think he'll hear me?”

”Jesus, you're crazy, you know that?”

She laughed again, and Don squatted, one hand on the banister in case he had to move fast.

Cupboard doors slammed, cups cracked into saucers, the faucet ran so long she could have filled the bathtub. When the water was shut off, his father was laughing.

”Honest to Christ, you're something else, you know that? You really are something else.”

”Well, really,” Joyce said. ”All they did was ask you to stand up and take a bow, and you were waving your arms like a G.o.dd.a.m.ned politician!

Christ, I thought you were going to kiss babies next.”

”Wouldn't have been a bad idea.”

A chair sc.r.a.ped; another was slammed down on the floor.

”All right,” Norman said wearily. ”All right, I'm sorry.”

”Sorry is too late. You and the boy have been upstaging and ha.s.sling me since this thing began, and I've had it! I worked my a.s.s off so you'd look good, and this is the thanks I get.”

”Me?” A m.u.f.fled sound-Norman either laughing into a hand or trying not to choke. ”G.o.d, the next thing is you'll be accusing me of sending Don out there myself to kill that crazy b.a.s.t.a.r.d.”234 ”I wouldn't put it past you.”

The silence was cold, and Don wrapped his free arm over his chest.

”That was a s.h.i.+tty thing to say, Joyce.”

The silence again.

”I know,” she said at last, but without apology in her voice. ”I ...”

She began to cry and Norman cursed, and the water began running again.

Don didn't wait to hear any more. He climbed slowly up the rest of the stairs, shuffled down the hall, and pushed open his bedroom door. He yanked the towel off the lampshade and dropped it on his desk. His shoes were kicked under the bed, his s.h.i.+rt dropped onto the floor. For a moment he stood at the window, looking down at the tree. There was nothing there, the horse was gone, but he no longer questioned the state of his mind.

When he finally dropped onto the mattress, he deliberately fell back so his head would hit the wall. Maybe they'll hear it, he thought; maybe they'll think I've had a relapse or something, and they'll come running up and see what's wrong.

Or, he thought, they'll call the papers first, and then come up to see if I'm dead.

And maybe, he thought with a cold, mirthless grin, I'll take them both outside and show them my new pet.

He lay there for nearly an hour before he blinked and saw his father standing in the doorway.

”You okay, son?”

”Sure. Just thinking.”

”You'd better turn out the light. School isn't going to be exactly normal for you tomorrow.”

He nodded and swung his feet over the side. ”Dad?”

Norman stiffened, and raised his eyebrows.

”Do you think-”