'Rawlie, this isn't what you think it is.'
'I don't have the slightest idea what it is,' Rawlie said mildly, and while I admit to a certain amount of human curiosity, I'm not sure I really want to know.'
Thad smiled a little.
'And I did get the clear feeling that you'd forgotten Gonzo Tom Carroll on purpose. He may be retired, but last time I looked, he still came between us in the current faculty directory.'
'Rawlie, I better get going.'
'Indeed,' Rawlie said. 'You have a note to write to Mrs Fenton.'
Thad felt his cheeks grow a bit warm. Althea Fenton, the English department secretary since 1961, had died of throat cancer in April.
'The only reason I held you at all,' Rawlie went on, 'was to tell you that I may have found what you were looking for. About the sparrows.'
Thad felt his heartbeat jog. 'What do you mean?'
Rawlie led Thad back inside the office and picked up Barringer's Folklore of America.
'Sparrows, loons, and especially whippoorwills are psychopomps,' he said, not without some triumph in his voice. 'I knew there was something about whippoorwills.'
'Psychopomps?' Thad said doubtfully.
'From the Greek,' Rawlie said, 'meaning those who conduct. In this case, those who conduct human souls back and forth between the land of the living and the land of the dead. According to Barringer, loons and whippoorwills are outriders of the living; they are said to gather near the place where a death is about to occur. They are not birds of ill omen. Their job is to guide newly dead souls to their proper place in the afterlife.'.He looked at Thad levelly.
'Gatherings of sparrows are rather more ominous, at least according to Barringer. Sparrows are said to be the outriders of the deceased.'
'Which means - '
'Which means their job is to guide lost souls back into the land of the living. They are, in other
words, the harbingers of the living dead.'
Rawlie took his pipe from his mouth and looked at Thad solemnly.
'I don't know what your situation is, Thaddeus, but I suggest caution. Extreme caution. You look like a man who is in a lot of trouble. If there's anything I can do, please tell me.'
'I appreciate that, Rawlie. You've done as much as I could hope for just by keeping quiet.'
'In that, at least, you and my students seem to be in perfect agreement.' But the mild eyes looking at Thad over the pipe were concerned. 'You'll take care of yourself?'
'I will.'
'And if those men are following you around to help you in that endeavor, Thaddeus, it might be wise to take them into your confidence.'
It would be wonderful if he could, but his confidence in them wasn't the issue. If he really did open his mouth, they would have precious little confidence in him. And even if he did trust Harrison and Manchester enough to talk to them, he would not dare say anything until that wormy, crawling feeling inside his skin went away. Because George Stark was watching him. And he was over the deadline.
'Thanks, Rawlie.'
Rawlie nodded, told him again to take care of himself, and then sat down behind his desk. Thad walked back to his own office.
6
And, of course, I have to write a note to Mrs Fenton.
He paused in the act of putting back the last of the files he'd pulled by mistake and looked at his beige IBM Selectric. Just lately he seemed almost hypnotically aware of all writing instruments, great and small. He had wondered on more than one occasion over the last week if there were a different version of Thad Beaumont inside each one, like evil genies lurking inside a bunch of bottles.
I have to write a note to Mrs Fenton.
But these days one would more properly use a Ouija board than an electric typewriter to get in touch with the late great Mrs Fenton, who had made coffee so strong it could almost walk and talk, and why had he said that, anyway? Mrs Fenton had been the furthest thing from his mind. Thad dropped the last of the non-writing Honors files into the file cabinet, closed the drawer, and looked at his left hand. Underneath the bandage, the web of flesh between his thumb and forefinger had suddenly begun to burn and itch. He rubbed his hand against the leg of his pants, but that only seemed to make the itch worse. And now it was throbbing as well. That sensation of deep, baking heat intensified.
He looked out his office window.
Across Bennett Boulevard, the telephone wires were lined with sparrows. More sparrows stood on the roof of the infirmary, and as he watched, a fresh batch landed on one of the tennis courts..They all seemed to be looking at him.
Psychopomps. The harbingers of the living dead.
Now a flock of sparrows whirled down like a cyclone of burned leaves and landed on the roof of Bennett Hall.
'No,' Thad whispered in a shaky voice. His back was hard with gooseflesh. His hand itched and burned.
The typewriter.