Part 7 (2/2)

Don't be zilly, Rafer's green eyes seemed to say. Rafer's green eyes seemed to say. Ze tabs go on ze Ze tabs go on ze clothes, clothes, not on ze not on ze doll. doll. Vut kind of artist Vut kind of artist are are you? you?

'The out-of-work kind,' he said. 'Just shut up, why don't you?' He closed his eyes, but that was worse. Now Rafer's green eyes floated disembodied in the dark, like the eyes of Lewis Carroll's Ches.h.i.+re cat: We're all mad here, dear Alice. We're all mad here, dear Alice. And under the steady hiss of the Coleman lamp, he could still hear it purring. And under the steady hiss of the Coleman lamp, he could still hear it purring.

9.

Tom was gone fifteen minutes. When he came back, he brushed Rafe out of his chair without ceremony and took a large, convincing bite from his sandwich. 'She's asleep,' he said. 'Got into a pair of my pajamas while I waited in the hall, and then we dumped the dress in the trash together. I think she was out forty seconds after her head hit the pillow. Throwing the dress away was what sealed the deal, I'm convinced of it.' A slight pause. 'It did indeed smell bad.'

'While you were gone,' Clay said, 'I nominated Rafe president of the United States. He was elected by acclamation.'

'Good,' Tom said. 'Wise choice. Who voted?'

'Millions. Everyone still sane. They sent in thought-ballots.' Clay made his eyes very wide and tapped his temple. 'I can read muiyyynds.' muiyyynds.'

Tom's chewing stopped, then began again* but slowly. 'You know,' he said, 'under the circ.u.mstances, that's not really all that funny.'

Clay sighed, sipped some iced tea, and made himself eat a little more of his sandwich. He told himself to think of it as body gasoline, if that was what it took to get it down. 'No. Probably not. Sorry.'

Tom tipped his own gla.s.s to him before drinking. 'It's all right. I appreciate the effort. Say, where's your portfolio?'

'Left it on the porch. I wanted both hands free while we negotiated Tom McCourt's Hallway of Death.'

'That's all right, then. Listen, Clay, I'm sorry as h.e.l.l about your family-' all right, then. Listen, Clay, I'm sorry as h.e.l.l about your family-'

'Don't be sorry yet,' Clay said, a little harshly. 'There's nothing to be sorry about yet.'

'-but I'm really glad I ran into you. That's all I wanted to say.'

'Same goes back,' Clay said. 'I appreciate the quiet place to spend the night, and I'm sure Alice does, too.'

'As long as Malden doesn't get loud and burn down around our ears.'

Clay nodded, smiling a little. 'As long as. Did you get that creepy little shoe away from her?'

'No. She took it to bed with her like* I don't know, a teddy bear. She'll be a lot better tomorrow if she sleeps through tonight.'

'Do you think she will?'

'No,' Tom said. 'But if she wakes up scared, I'll spend the night with her. Crawl in with her, if that's what it takes. You know I'm safe with her, right?'

'Yes.' Clay knew that he would have been safe with her, too, but he understood what Tom was talking about. 'I'm going to head north tomorrow morning as soon as it's light. It would probably be a good idea if you and Alice came with me.'

Tom thought about this briefly, then asked, 'What about her father?'

'She says he's, quote, very self-reliant.' Her biggest stated worry on his behalf was what he rolled himself for dinner. What I heard under that is that she isn't ready to know. Of course we'll have to see how she feels about it, but I'd rather keep her with us, and I don't don't want to head west into those industrial towns.' want to head west into those industrial towns.'

'You don't want to head west at all.'

'No,' Clay admitted.

He thought Tom might argue the point, but he didn't. 'What about tonight? Do you think we should stand a watch?'

Clay hadn't even considered this until now. He said, 'I don't know how much good it would do. If a crazed mob comes down Salem Street waving guns and torches, what can we we do about it?' do about it?'

'Go down cellar?'

Clay thought it over. Going down cellar seemed awfully final to him- the Bunker Defense-but it was always possible the hypothetical crazed mob under discussion would think the house deserted and go sweeping by. Better than being slaughtered in the kitchen, he supposed. Maybe after watching Alice get gang-raped.

It won't come to that, he thought uneasily. he thought uneasily. You're getting lost among the hypothetical, that's all. Freaking in the dark. It won't come to that. You're getting lost among the hypothetical, that's all. Freaking in the dark. It won't come to that.

Except Boston was burning to the ground behind them. Liquor stores were being looted and men were beating each other b.l.o.o.d.y over aluminum kegs of beer. It had already come to that.

Tom, meanwhile, was watching him, letting him work it through* which meant that maybe Tom already had. Rafe jumped into his lap. Tom put his sandwich down and stroked the cat's back.

'Tell you what,' Clay said. 'If you've got a couple of comforters I can bundle up in, why don't I spend the night out there on your porch? It's enclosed, and it's darker than the street. Which means that I'd likely see anyone coming long before they saw me watching. Especially if the ones coming were phone-crazies. They didn't impress me as being into stealth.'

'Nope, not the creep-up-on-you type. What if people came from around in back? That's Lynn Avenue just a block over.'

Clay shrugged, trying to indicate that they couldn't defense against everything-or even very much-without saying so right out loud.

'All right,' Tom said, after eating a little more of his sandwich and feeding a sc.r.a.p of ham to Rafe. 'But you could come get me around three. If Alice hasn't woken up by then, she might sleep right through.'

'Why don't we just see how it goes,' Clay said. 'Listen, I think I know the answer to this, but you don't have a gun, do you?'

'No,' Tom said. 'Not even a lonely can of Mace.' He looked at his sandwich and then put it down. When he raised his eyes to Clay's, they were remarkably bleak. He spoke in a low voice, as people do when discussing secret things. 'Do you remember what the cop said just before he shot that crazy man?'

Clay nodded. Hey, buddy, how ya doin? I mean, what the haps? Hey, buddy, how ya doin? I mean, what the haps? He would never forget it. He would never forget it.

'I knew it wasn't like in the movies,' Tom said, 'but I never suspected the enormous power power of it, or the suddenness* and the sound when the stuff* the stuff from his head*' of it, or the suddenness* and the sound when the stuff* the stuff from his head*'

He leaned forward suddenly, one small hand curled to his mouth. The movement startled Rafer, and the cat leaped down. Tom made three low, muscular urking sounds, and Clay steeled himself for the vomiting that was almost sure to follow. He could only hope he wouldn't start vomiting himself, but he thought he might. He knew he was close, only a feather-tickle away. Because he knew what Tom was talking about. The gunshot, then the wet, ropy splatter on the cement.

There was no vomiting. Tom got control of himself and looked up, eyes watering. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'Shouldn't have gone there.'

'You don't need to be sorry.'

'I think if we're going to get through whatever's ahead, we'd better find a way to put our finer sensibilities on hold. I think that people who can't do that*' He stopped, then started again. 'I think that people who can't do that*' He stopped a second time. The third time he was able to finish. 'I think that people who can't do that may die.'

They stared at each other in the white glare of the Coleman lamp.

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