There was a small bathroom off the study, and when Thad felt able to walk, he took his monstrously throbbing hand there and examined the wound under the harsh glare of the overhead fluorescent tube. It looked like a bullet-wound - a perfectly round hole rimmed with a flaring black smudge. The smudge looked like gunpowder, not graphite. He turned his hand over and saw a bright red dot, the size of a pinprick, on the palm side. The tip of the pencil. That's how close it came to going all the way through, he thought. He ran cold water over and into the wound until his hand was numb, then took the bottle of hydrogen peroxide from the cabinet. He found he could not hold the bottle in his left hand, so he pressed it against his body with his left arm in order to get the cap off. Then he poured disinfectant into the hole in his hand, watching the liquid turn white and foam, gritting his teeth against the pain.
He put the hydrogen peroxide back and then took down the few bottles of prescription medicine in the cabinet one by one, examining their labels. He had had terrible back-spasms after a fall he had taken while cross-country skiing two years ago, and good old Dr Hume had given him a prescription for Percodan. He had taken only a few of them; he had found the pills f**ked up his sleep-cycle and made it hard for him to write.
He finally discovered the plastic vial hiding behind a can of Barbasol shaving cream that had to be at least a thousand years old. Thad pried the vial's cap off with his teeth and shook one of the.pills out onto the side of the sink. He debated adding a second, and decided against it. They were
strong.
And maybe they're spoiled. Maybe you can end this wild night of fun with a good convulsion and a trip to the hospital - how about that?
But he decided to take the chance. There really wasn't even a question - the pain was
immense, incredible. As for the hospital . . . he looked at the wound in his hand again and thought, Probably I should go and have this looked at, but I'll be goddamned if I will. I've had enough people looking at me like I was crazy in the last few days to last me a lifetime. He scooped up another four Percodans, stuffed them into his pants pocket, and returned the vial to the medicine cabinet shelf. Then he covered the wound with a Band-Aid. One of the round spots did the trick. Looking at that little circle of plastic, he thought, you'd have no idea how badly the damned thing hurts. He set a bear-trap for me. A bear-trap in his mind, and I walked right into it.
Was that really what had happened? Thad didn't know, not for sure, but he knew one thing: he did not want a repeat performance.
4
When he had himself under control again - or something approaching it - Thad returned his journal to his desk drawer, turned off the lights in the study, and went down to the second floor. He paused on the landing, listening for a moment. The twins were quiet. So was Liz. The Percodan, apparently not too old to work, began to kick in and the pain in Thad's hand began to back off a little. If he inadvertently flexed it, the low throb there turned into a scream, but if he was careful of it, it wasn't too bad.
Oh, but it's going to hurt in the morning, buddy . . . and what are you going to tell Liz?
He didn't know, exactly. Probably the truth . . . or some of it, anyway. She had gotten very skilled, it seemed, at picking up on his lies.
The pain was better, but the after-effects of the sudden shock all the sudden shocks - still lingered, and he thought it would be some time yet before he could sleep. He went down to the first floor and peeked out at the state police cruiser parked in the driveway through the sheers drawn across the big living-room window. He could see the firefly flicker of two cigarettes inside. They're sitting there just as cool as a pair of summer cucumbers, he thought. The birds didn't bother them any, so maybe there really WEREN'T any, except in my head. After all, these guys get paid to be bothered.
It was a tempting idea, but the study was on the other side of the house. Its windows could not be seen from the driveway. Neither could the carriage-house. So the cops couldn't have seen the birds, anyway. Not, at least, when they began to roost.
But what about when they all flew away? You want to tell me they didn't hear that? You saw at least a hundred of them, Thad - maybe two or three hundred. Thad went outside. He had hardly done more than open the kitchen screen door before both troopers were out of the car' one on each side. They were big men who moved with the silent speed of ocelots.
'Did he call again, Mr Beaumont?' the one who had gotten out on the driver's side asked. His name was Stevens..'No - nothing like that,' Thad said. 'I was writing in my study when I thought I heard a whole
bunch of birds take off. It freaked me out a little. Did you guys hear that?'
Thad didn't know the name of the cop who had gotten out on the passenger side. He was young and blonde, with one of those round, guileless faces which radiate good nature. 'Heard em and saw em both,' he said. He pointed to the sky, where the moon, a little past the first quarter, hung above the house. 'They flew right across the moon. Sparrows. Quite a flock of em. They hardly ever fly at night.'
'Where do you suppose they came from?' Thad asked.
'Well, I tell you,' the trooper with the round face said, 'I don't know. I flunked Bird Surveillance.'
He laughed. The other trooper did not. 'Feeling jumpy tonight, Mr Beaumont?' he asked. Thad looked at him levelly. 'Yes,' he said. 'I've been feeling jumpy every night, just lately.'
'Could we do anything for you just now, sir?'
'No,' Thad said. 'I think not. I was just curious about what I heard. Goodnight, you guys.'
'Night,' the round-faced trooper said.