The Summer Man

Chapter TWENTY-THREE





Once the theater had cleared and the police had come, Bob and John walked Amanda home through the fading light. Eric was with them, but she’d made up an excuse about having a headache, playing it up all the way to Devon’s. The adults stayed too close for anything intimate to crop up between the teenagers, volunteering small talk about the reading. Bob said that he was sorry the paper had gone to press; a bizarre terrorist attack on the poetry reading, that would certainly support the headline story. John was distracted. Amanda could tell he was thinking about his girlfriend, but he tried to keep up his end, interjecting points he planned to make at the proposed town meeting. He pointed out that word would get around about the assault on Miranda Greene-Moreland, that they should expect big numbers.

The four of them trudged up the hill, passing small clusters of men with pinched faces, women with their arms folded, witnesses to the drenching of Miranda Greene-Moreland and the cancellation of a summer favorite. Amanda tried to focus on what the two men were discussing, but she couldn’t stop thinking about Eric, walking right next to her, who she could barely stand to look at. He was going to go bugf*ck crazy over her, and what was she going to do? She couldn’t stand the idea of being with him, having seen what was coming, or what could be coming—knowing that he was the type of person who would hurt her to fill some terrible emptiness inside. How could she ever trust him? Worse for her, for any sense that she was gaining control of her newfound power, how had she ever trusted him in the first place? Why hadn’t she seen something before now?

Because it’s building, she thought. Whatever made me psychic, whatever is making people crazy, it’s growing, it’s getting bigger. He’d been better, before, and while she was sad on some level that he maybe wasn’t totally responsible for his behavior, she was mostly just scared. If the strange dream that had settled over Isley affected him the way it had affected Mr. Billings or Rick Truman or Brian Glover, she wanted to be away from him ASAP, before he went pow. The thing was, if she dumped him, she created the stalker scenario that was freaking her out. It was like one of those time travel paradoxes—she’d seen something that probably wouldn’t happen unless she rejected him, but seeing it made the rejection inevitable.

He has to go back to Boston in less than a month. I’ll fake it, I can fake it, she told herself, but that meant they’d have to keep having sex, and she didn’t know if she could do that. Her premonition at the theater wasn’t fuzzy or ambiguous—she’d seen him watching Devon’s house and thinking seriously about killing her and then himself. Telling himself all the while that he loved her. The idea of f*cking someone who might, at some point, decide to murder her was in no way a turn-on.

Was there a way to make him different? To say or do something that would change his mind about how to feel? She couldn’t imagine, nor could she imagine taking the time to talk it out with him, help him find his way. She couldn’t even look at him.

When they got to Devon’s, she said she felt sick, told all of them and none of them that she’d call later and was on the porch before Eric could protest. Sid was out; she had to use the key, and as she fumbled with the lock in the near dark she could feel Eric watching her, confused and unhappy.

I’m imagining things, she told herself, but still felt his gaze. She got the key turned, finally, didn’t look back, closed the front door behind her, and leaned against it.

“F*ck f*ck f*ck,” she whispered. Was he already crazy enough to come after her because she hadn’t invited him in?

Devon. Call Devon.

The thought was a beacon in the murk. She made sure the door was locked and hurried into the kitchen, past the living room where pictures of Devon’s relatives collected dust on the mantel. Next to the phone on the counter was Devon’s cousin’s number. She dialed it, sure that he wouldn’t be there, that she’d get the recording, a bright girly voice saying that you’d reached Claire Pierson, she wasn’t in, leave a number, et cetera, and Amanda was steeling herself not to sound sniffly on the message, and on the fourth ring, Devon picked up. She’d recognize his carefully cultivated voice anywhere.

“Hello?”

“Devon, oh my God,” Amanda said, closing her eyes in relief. “Dude, where the hell have you been?”

In the brief silence that followed, she could hear people talking in the background, low music. Someone in a safe, sane apartment in Portland laughed, and Devon’s tone, when he answered, was measured.

“Getting a job, actually,” he said. “Excuse me for having a life.”

“Oh,” she said. She felt lost for a second, stupid with confusion. He’d been in Portland for less than two weeks; why was he getting a job? And it wasn’t like he was poor. “OK, great. Good for you. Listen, I’m—”

“It is good for me,” Devon interrupted. “There’s a whole scene here. I’ve met some really cool people. I know you’re in crisis and all, but you’re not the only person in the universe.”

Was he kidding? “Devon. I just found out that Eric’s going to turn stalker because I’m like, super-psychic now, I saw him coming after me, and the whole town is falling to shit, and I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

She heard the muffled rumple of his hand going over the mouthpiece, heard him telling someone something, and there was another laugh, and she felt a stab of paranoid fear. Was someone laughing at her? Had Devon told his cool new people about her? When he came back on, he sounded slightly more serious. He’d moved into another room, too; it was quieter, his voice clearer.

“OK,” he said. “What do you mean, falling to shit?”

“So, the poetry reading was tonight? Three of your survivalist buddies crashed it and hosed Miranda Greene-Moreland down with piss.”

“Oh my God!” Devon broke up, laughing long and hard. He finally snorted out, “That’s so funny, I don’t even know where to start! Did anybody record it?”

“Yeah, I know, I know,” she said, although she wasn’t even smiling, thinking of the terror that had infused the small theater, that had made Eric laugh out loud, even while his deep, dark self was already dreaming of keeping her all to himself.

“Hilarious. Except they used squirt guns that looked like Uzis and scared the shit out of a lot of people, myself included. I saw it, too, before it happened.”

“Like another dream?” He finally sounded interested.

“No, like a few seconds before it happened; it was so weird,” she said. “I went to the reading with Bob and John—”

“The reporter? Who’s John?”

“Yeah, Bob Sayers, John is this friend of his,” she said, feeling impatient. “And Eric, too, right? So I’m picking up all these feelings, like something bad was going to happen…except it was more like this tension that was coming from everybody. And then—”

“Tension coming from Bob and John and Eric?”

“No, everybody there, in the theater.”

“So, you think they knew something bad was going to happen?”

“No, not like that,” she said. The frustration made her heart beat faster. Her hand tightened on the phone. “More like everyone was really jacked up, but in a, a restless way. It’s been like that a lot around here, all these people, like, trying to control themselves; they’re ate up with it, but they’re barely holding on.”

“Uh-huh,” Devon said. “So, what else? You said Eric’s stalking you?”

“No, not yet,” she said. “When those guys shut down the reading, everyone was running around and yelling, and I looked at Eric and saw him—” She wasn’t sure how to say it. “I saw him watching me, and thinking some really dark shit. If I dump him, he’s going to, to try to hurt me, I’m pretty sure.”

“You should tell Sid,” Devon said. “Seriously, tell Bob, too. And Stan Vincent. Tell anyone who’ll listen. That’s bullshit.”

She didn’t want to explain their field trip to the police station or how likely it was that Chief Vincent would want to help her with anything. She cut to the core of her panic.

“Yeah, but what do I tell Eric?” Just thinking about it made her feel panicky. “I mean, we haven’t been together for that long, and…”

She trailed off as a young, gay voice drawled out behind Devon. “Hang up, sweetie, you’re missing the movie.”

Another hand clasp over the mouthpiece; another brief, incoherent exchange.

“Hey,” Devon said. “Look, can I call you back later? This isn’t such a great time.”

Amanda clutched the phone tighter. She wanted to scream. “You’re watching a movie, so you’re too busy to talk to me about this?”

“Why do you always do this?” Devon snapped. “Swear to God, Amanda, that is so unfair. I know you’ve had a bad time lately, I know it’s been f*cked-up crazy for you, but I’ve been going through shit too, you know?”

He laughed, a brief, indignant sound. “I mean, you told me I was going to die. And I didn’t believe you, but then when that woman got raped…it was like I was standing in the shadow of death; you don’t know what that’s like. I had to get out from under it. I mean, I don’t blame you or anything, I wouldn’t want you to think that, but I had to leave, right?”

“Why would I think that you blame me?” she asked, honestly perplexed amid her growing anger and despair. “You know none of this is my fault. I’m just seeing shit, I’m not making it happen.”

“Didn’t I just say that I don’t blame you?” Devon said. He sighed. “I’m not mad at you, OK? Talk to Sid, tell him about Eric. He’s in a position to actually do something about it. I’m in Oregon, remember?”

“I know, but what should I say to Eric? I just practically ran in here to get away from him; he’s going to call later or come over. What should I do?”

“F*ck him, don’t tell him anything,” Devon said. “He’s a psycho, right?”

“Yeah, but—”

“I told you what I think,” he said, and she could tell by his voice that he was about to get off the phone, and her throat tightened, she felt so sad all of a sudden.

“I’ll give you a call later,” he said. “Or you call me. Tomorrow morning.”

“I’ve been calling, I keep getting the machine—”

“Right, about that—I finally got a real cell, like, a week ago, so you should probably call me on that. I gave Sid the number. I’m sure I did.”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “He would have told me.”

“Uncle Sid? He wrote it down somewhere and forgot about it. He always does that. Just ask him. And tell him I’ll call him this week, OK?”

She didn’t answer. Why do you always do this, she asked herself. Do what? What was he saying?

“OK?” he asked again, and his impatience was like a small death, it hurt so badly. She wanted to tell him not to leave her alone; she wanted his love and understanding, but the word came out of her mouth tasting bitter.

“Whatever.”

The silence was deafening. “Great,” he said finally. “Thanks a lot.”

“Wait,” she said, but the click drowned her out.

She hung up and put her head down. The sadness was vast and encompassing because she knew that in a day or two he would apologize or she would, and they would be friends again—but she also felt that he was gone from her, that there wouldn’t be an apartment in Seattle or window box flowers or a pet cat with a funny name. She couldn’t tell if she was being psychic or just finally understanding reality, so much more quickly than she would have thought possible. Nothing was certain. They would be friends again, but Devon was gone.





Bob woke up at six on Wednesday morning and started what had become his morning ritual, of late—a hot-then-cold shower, a giant glass of orange juice with a splash of vodka in it, dry wheat toast, and a couple of antidiarrheal pills. Not pretty, but it worked. He’d also pick up a sweet white coffee on the way to the printer’s. Caffeine was supposed to make hangovers worse, but he’d never found that to be the case; a day without coffee, that was just asking for a headache.

He hit the phone machine’s message button as he poured his juice, vaguely remembering that there had been calls the night before. After seeing Amanda home—he still didn’t know what that was about, boyfriend trouble maybe—Eric had promptly wandered off, and he and John had gone their own separate ways; John was surely headed to his new lady friend’s house, and Bob was hot to get home, to write about the “unfortunate event” at the poetry reading while it was still fresh in his mind…and to get his buzz back up; the flask he’d taken to the reading had been empty by the time the cops showed up at the theater. He’d stayed up late. The phone had rung several times, but he’d been working and not a little tight by then. He figured it was people wanting to find out what he knew, which wasn’t a whole hell of a lot. With Annie gone—and with Chief Vincent thinking he was bonkers—he didn’t have a friendly face at the PD anymore, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to guess that the cops had taken statements and then sent someone out to Jessup’s to pick up the offenders. Considering the nature of the crime, the shooters were probably already back at their heavily fortified compound. The trio of gun-wielding men had scared a lot of people, and knowing how bad the council wanted to keep the summer people happy, there’d surely be a push to have them incarcerated for their attack…but in the end, they’d squirted someone with piss. Against the law, no question, but not exactly a hanging offense.

The first three messages were what he’d expected—had he heard, did he see, what-would-happen-now. He sipped from his juice, considered, then added another splash of alcohol. Better. The fourth call stopped him short, the bottle of vodka still in hand.

“It’s Amanda. Call me as soon as you get this, OK?”

She sounded upset. The time stamp was just before ten last night…had she told him she was going to call? He thought perhaps so and felt a pang of guilt for having ignored the phone the night before, but there was no help for it. He only hoped that whatever she wanted, it would hold. The next call was another local, wanting to hear about the reading. Bob put the bottle back in the freezer and then finished his juice, figuring there was no way Amanda was awake this early; it wasn’t even seven. He’d call her as soon as he’d turned the paper over to his couriers; they’d be at his office at nine, ready to fold, and she’d probably be up by then.

By noon, half the people in Port Isley would be talking about whether ol’ Bob Sayers had gone off his nut. His sincere belief—and John’s, and Amanda’s—was that the other half would be stirred to action, ready to come together and talk about what was happening. They couldn’t be the only people in town who’d noticed the sudden rise in overall…strangeness, in themselves as well as in others. Silence was the enemy, people quietly losing their minds, sure that no one else was suffering—his front page was about to change that.

Bob was walking out the back door when the phone rang. He hesitated, not wanting to miss anything important…but chances were good it was another gossipmonger, eager to hash over Miranda’s public humiliation. Sometimes it seemed like half the locals had his home number. Besides, the most important thing he was going to do today, this year, maybe in his whole life was going to be getting this issue out. Never had he felt such a sense of urgency about the Port Isley Press; the story (headline: Emotional Excesses Rock Port Isley) might actually turn out to be the biggest he’d ever broken, a real honest-to-God lifesaver.

A third ring. F*ck it, maybe Amanda was up early. He left the door hanging open to the early morning light, the town as cool as it would be all day, and walked back to pick up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Bob? It’s Dan Turner.”

Damnit, he needed to get that caller ID. He’d heard from several people in the last month that Dan had finally caught the Jesus bug, in a big way. Bob hadn’t had the opportunity to cross paths with Dan Turner of late; with Rick Truman awaiting trial down in Seattle, Turner had been busy with the council. Two of the members had resigned since June, and Poppy Peters had dropped out of sight. The other handful of councilmen had always been content to let Rick run the show, and it seemed they were happy enough to let Dan take over now. Word had it that he could (and did) quote chapter and verse at the drop of a hat.

Swell. “Hey there, Dan, how are you?”

The councilman’s voice was rigid, high, and overly loud. “So whoever is in Christ is a new creation; the old things have passed away; behold, new things have come.”

“Oh, uh-huh,” Bob said agreeably. “That’s great. Listen, I’d love to catch up, but I’ve got to get over to Angeline to pick up the paper…”

“You don’t, actually,” Turner said. “There won’t be any paper going out today.”

“What do you mean?” Bob said, struggling to keep his voice even. “Third Wednesday of the month, isn’t it? I sent a copy to your office Monday night.”

“But not the copy that ended up going to the printers,” Turner said. “Their throat is an open grave; with their tongue, they speak deceit.”

“What are you talking about?” Bob said, although he had a pretty good idea.

“You sent a lie,” Turner said. “After what you’ve been putting out lately, the council decided that it might be wise to keep a better eye on you. I went to the printer’s last night. I saw what you wrote. Your front page news.”

“It is news, if people are in trouble,” Bob said. “They have a right to know that they’re not the only ones having problems.”

“It’s God’s work being done here,” Turner said.

“Well, that may be so,” Bob said. “But this conversation we’re having, right here and now—that’s reason enough to run it,” Bob said. “People are different, Dan, you’re different, and I don’t think—”

“The Spirit of the LORD will come upon you in power, and you will prophesy with them; and you will be changed into a different person!” Turner’s anger was tinged with awe. “God is with us, now. He is offering His mercy—With your own eyes, you saw those great trials, those miraculous signs and great wonders, that’s Deuteronomy—these are the trials, that’s what’s happening right here and now! Every one of us is being given a choice, to walk with God or to turn away from Him. We are witness to a miracle, and I’m—we’re not going to let some old lush interfere!”

“So fire me, that’s about what I expected,” Bob said. “But that paper is going out if I have to pay for it myself.”

“No, it’s not,” Turner said, and if he was really trying to be a good Christian, to be pious or humble, he was missing the mark; the councilman sounded incredibly smug. “It’s already been pulped. I watched them do it myself. And I explained to them that unless they want to lose Isley’s business permanently, they’re not to print another issue without speaking to me first. Personally.”

“You think I can’t find another printer?” Bob asked, as incredulous as he was furious.

“Not for the Press. It belongs to the township, not you.”

“Jesus, Dan, I can take it to a copy center! For that matter, I can run ’em off myself!”

“Port Isley is burning with sin! The blasphemy of the Spirit will not be forgiven!”

“Can I quote you on that, Dan, or should I attribute that one to Mary?”

A strangled cry of outrage and a click. Turner had hung up.

Bob set his own phone back on the hook, gently, because he wanted to throw it and he was exercising some goddamn self-control, not like the booze, drink, I need a drink. He went to the refrigerator, opened the top door, took out the vodka, and walked back to the sink. He knew it was a bad idea, he knew he was f*cking up but felt helpless to stop it—even felt a kind of sick self-righteousness, splashing a generous amount into his freshly washed orange juice glass. His town was falling to pieces, and he’d just been fired. What was booze for if not to ease those things? He drank it down in two long swallows, then leaned against the counter, feeling the fire hit his belly. He poured another one and then held it up, looking into the clear liquid.

Did he have free will? Did any of them, this summer? In less than two months, he’d gone from the occasional drink with dinner, the weekend nightcap, to daily drunks, the slide as easy and natural as falling down when you were tripped. John talked about not being able to think clearly anymore…the doc didn’t talk about his new lady love, but Bob thought that Sarah—Karen Haley’s sister, up for the summer with her kid—was John’s real problem. Or maybe problem wasn’t the right word…obsession, maybe.

All of us, he thought, still staring at the glass. Affected, influenced…but controlled? Did John have to go to Sarah, had Rick Truman been forced to chop up his wife? Did he have to drink, the way Amanda had to see what she saw, like it or not?

“I don’t,” he said, and poured the liquor into the sink, the smell making him wish he’d swallowed it, but he’d already had enough. For now.

No paper. No story. He’d told Dan Turner that he would find a way to get the word out himself, but suddenly that seemed foolish, like something a recently fired drunk would declare out of spite. He saw himself at a copy center, running off drafts of his big news on plain white typing paper, he saw himself standing on a corner of Water, handing them out to passersby, looking like an aging, jobless crackpot. Not that it had to be like that, but the imagery was so clear, he could see himself standing there with his stack of flyers, his eyes bloodshot with booze, pathetically demanding that someone, anyone pay attention; he could see the politely averted eyes of the men and women who walked past, the slight sneers. The pity.

It wasn’t even seven in the morning yet, but for Bob, the day felt over. He wanted a drink; he wanted to get shit-faced and go back to bed and sleep until it was all over, whatever “it” was. He left the bottle of Absolut on the counter next to the empty glass and sat down at the kitchen table, feeling old and useless, not sure what to do next.





Amanda was dreaming.

She saw a great fire, felt its heat. She saw a boy in a dark maze, his breath coming fast, his heart thundering in his ears. She heard shots and screams, saw a young mother who wept while her baby screamed.

As frightening, as awful as these things were, they were familiar, and she turned and fretted in her sleep but didn’t wake. There were other images and feelings, disconnected, fragmentary. Lust. Fury. A man laughing. A woman’s purse, spilled on the ground. Dark, malevolent spite. A fist, a hand, hands washing away blood.

The dream changed, and she saw a little girl in a pink dress, a faded photograph, a sense of longing as pale fingers traced the tiny, smiling face, shell, sea…and then Amanda was waking up, being touched, a hand sliding across her hip—

“Hey.”

At the sound of Eric’s soft voice she jerked awake, reflexively kicking herself up to the headboard. She clutched handfuls of the bedspread, pulling it to her chest. Eric was sitting on the edge of the bed, smiling at her. He had dark circles under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept.

“Hey, you.”

She stared at him, blinking at the bright slivers of morning light coming around the curtain. Why the f*ck hadn’t she told Sid last night? Devon had said to tell him, but she’d decided to talk to John or Bob first, only neither of them were answering their f*cking phones, and Sid had been out until late, anyway. He’d come home just after midnight with his girlfriend, and they’d opened wine and put in a movie. No way was she going to interrupt their date to tell them oh, by the way, she was a psychic, and she wasn’t sure what to do about her soon-to-be stalker boyfriend, but they should probably start keeping the doors locked all the time; f*ck that shit. Sid would kick her ass out pronto, and unless she wanted to impose on the reporter or the shrink, she had nowhere else to stay. Besides, she’d ended up crying a lot after her conversation with Devon, and her face had been all swollen and gross, and she hadn’t felt like it.

She’d stayed up late writing out lists of options and reading about stalkers online, turning off the lights to smoke out of Devon’s window, trying not to jump every time a shadow moved in the yard. Her instincts were all pushing fairly strongly toward getting the f*ck out of Dodge. She wanted to be a crime fighter and all—who didn’t?—but it wasn’t worth getting murdered over, and Sid’s hospitality shouldn’t have to extend to personal security. She’d fallen asleep planning her escape.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Eric said. “You’re cute when you’re scared, though.”

“What are you doing here? Did Sid let you in?”

Eric’s grin was leering. “He’s gone for the day; he left a note on the counter—said he and Carrie were going to Seattle and they won’t be back till late.”

She blinked and stared, trying to wake up. “So you just walked in? To somebody’s house?”

His grin faded. “To see you,” he said, his voice thick with feeling, his gaze eating hungrily at hers.

Anxiety replaced shock as she woke up more, as she grasped for the right approach. What should she say, how should she say it? She’d found a lot of websites about stalking behavior, they’d said to break it off immediately and totally with the person, to be absolutely clear—but the sites also said that before trying anything, an experienced threat management team should assess the risks, because sometimes the stalker would “escalate” if you handled it wrong. She doubted she’d find threat management in the yellow pages. She needed help, though; she was afraid to try to handle him by herself.

Run.

“Look, about yesterday,” he said, apparently mistaking her silence for irritation. “I was being a dick, I don’t know why. You still mad at me? Because I’m sorry. If it makes you feel any better, I couldn’t sleep, thinking about it.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” she said slowly. They were alone in the house, and no one but Devon knew what she’d seen, and he might as well have been a million miles away. “I’ve got to pee; excuse me.”

Eric stood up so she could slide out of bed. She was wearing only panties and a tank, and she wanted to cover herself but didn’t want to do anything suspicious. She kept thinking of all those movies where someone had to lie to a bad guy, and they always twitched and stammered and as much as jumped up and down pointing at themselves, sending off signals that they were full of shit. Was she walking normally? She scooped up her skirt, crumpled by the door; did she look casual? What was she going to do in the bathroom, anyway, what magical answer was going to occur there?

Need to think, she told herself, and stepped into and across the hall from Devon’s room, flipped on the lights, and closed the door gently behind her. She resisted the strong urge to lock it, sure that he’d notice.

She actually did have to pee. She sat on the toilet and told herself that he wasn’t stalking her yet, that as long as he thought everything was OK, there was no danger…but what the hell did she know, anyway? She wondered if she could fake it long enough to get a read on him, to figure out what he was thinking, but she was afraid. What if he caught on, what if that was what triggered him?

Get out, you dipshit. The voice in her mind that scolded, that pointed out the cold, hard facts wasn’t interested in her indecision. With emotions and impulses jacked up all over town, who was to say he wasn’t ready to kill her now, today? Better paranoid than screwed because she’d hesitated.

She stood up, pulled her skirt on, and flushed, her thoughts running slapdash as she washed her hands in cold water. Distract him, get away. Distract him, get away. She needed her bag—her wallet was in it—but that and her shoes were in Devon’s room…

The window. Get him downstairs, go out the window.

There was an ivy trellis outside Devon’s window; he used it to get out when he didn’t want to go past Sid. She’d climbed it a time or ten, crashing on his floor after a night drinking or smoking pot—and on three memorable occasions, hanging out there while coming off acid. The ivy was mostly dead, so it was always full of spiders, but it was strong. Devon had reinforced the structure, double bolting it to the wall beneath the crawl of dried-up brown leaves; if she wanted to sneak out, that was the way to go, and she had a plan but it depended on acting now, right away, before she pussied out.

She opened the door, played a small smile on her face, and leaned into Devon’s room. Eric was sitting on the bed again. His expression, when he looked at her, was haunted, and she almost faltered. What if I’m wrong?

Then you’re wrong. Do it.

“Hey, I kind of need to take a shower,” she said. “You know how to make coffee?”

“Yeah,” he said, and he smiled. She could feel a kind of tension leave him because she didn’t seem mad, and she felt guilty for doing what she was about to do. Sneaking away, there was no way he was going to understand.

“Everything’s in the kitchen. There’s a grinder on the counter, beans in the freezer,” she said, and was sure that her smile looked forced now but she held onto it. She’d go to John’s office; he’d know what to do. Bob was probably busy with the paper…

Eric smiled, and she smiled back, then turned and headed back to the bathroom.

She closed the door and quickly turned on the shower.


A few seconds passed, and she strained to hear over the running water—and there, the telltale thumping of a jog down stairs; he’d be turning right at the little carpeted landing and heading away from her. The kitchen was beneath Sid’s room, other side of the house, practically. She counted slowly to ten. Her heart was pounding; what if he couldn’t find something or decided he’d wait for her? What if she opened the door and he came jogging back up the stairs?

Tell him you forgot something. Shampoo. Toothbrush. Tampons. Go.

She opened the door slowly and stepped into the hall. Hesitated, closed the bathroom door; he’d wait longer before checking. She stepped across the hall. No time to change, and she’d climb barefoot down the trellis. She saw her bag at the foot of the bed and hurried over to it, grabbed her smokes off the dresser and threw them inside. She picked up her shoes, the high-tops, and stuffed them on top. Anything else she could come back for. Maybe with an armed guard.

She had a fleeting thought that she should leave him a note, a lie to smooth things over as much as was possible—Eric, crazy psychic mission at hand, will call you ASAP, sorry, love, etcetera—but besides the time investment, she didn’t trust the instinct. It didn’t seem wise to say anything encouraging.

I’ll be out of town before the sun sets, she promised herself, and went to the window, which overlooked the backyard. She quietly pulled the curtain to the side and unlatched the window. The sun was bright and sane as she lifted the bottom pane, wincing at the scrape of painted wood. She slung her bag over her shoulder and sat on the sill, hunched over to duck beneath the raised window. A last look at Devon’s room as she backed out, then she hooked one bare foot into the wide wooden latticework and shifted her weight down.

The slats hurt her feet. She went down quickly, pausing once when her bag shifted. A fat garden spider, its orange-and-green body an inch across, skittered over her hand, and she almost lost her grip in her sudden panic to fling it off. Her skin crawled, a spasm of revulsion, and then she hurried again, ignoring the strands of web under her fingers, on her bare arms, beneath her bare toes.

There was no drop; the trellis went all the way to the ground. She reached the bottom and stepped away, sparing a few seconds to brush at her hair and body in a brief, dancing frenzy, yah, she f*cking hated spiders, and then she was moving across the backyard, mostly dirt and an evergreen hedge separating it from the neighbors’. She went around the hedge and across the next yard before stopping to put her shoes on, leaning against a garden shed. She’d forgotten socks which meant they would stink by this afternoon.

John’s office. She cut through a couple of more yards, skirting open spaces until she reached the corner, out of sight of the house. She told herself she wouldn’t imagine the look on Eric’s face when he realized she’d skipped out and then thought of nothing else on her way down the hill, occasionally throwing nervous looks back the way she’d come.