Startled, she looked toward the building that housed the men's and women's toilets, and felt a moment of utter confused fear. A tall figure was standing in the shadows of the short passageway running through the center of the dual comfort station, and for just a moment she thought...
Then the figure stepped out and it was Larry, dressed in faded jeans and a khaki shirt. Fran relaxed.
"Did I scare you?" he asked.
"You did, just a little." She sat down in one of the swings, the thud of her heart beginning to slow. "I just saw a shape, standing there in the dark..."
"I'm sorry. I thought it might be safer, even though there's no direct line of sight from here to Harold's place. I see you rode a bicycle, too."
She nodded. "Quieter."
"I stowed mine out of sight in that shelter." He nodded to an open-walled, low-roofed building by the playground.
Frannie trundled her bike between the swings and the slide and into the shelter. The odor inside was musty and fetid. The place had been a make-out spot for kids too young or too stoned to drive, she guessed. It was littered with beer bottles and cigarette ends. There was a crumpled pair of panties in the far corner and the remains of a small fire in the near one. She parked her bike next to Larry's and came back outside quickly. In those shadows, with the scent of that long-dead sex-musk in her nose, it was too easy to imagine the dark man standing just behind her, his twisted coathanger in hand.
"Regular Holiday Inn, isn't it?" Larry said dryly.
"Not my idea of pleasant accommodations," Fran said with a little shiver. "No matter what comes of this, Larry, I want to tell Stu everything tonight."
Larry nodded. "Yeah, and not just because he's on the committee. He's also the marshal."
Fran looked at him, troubled. Really for the first time she understood that this expedition might end with Harold in jail. They were going to sneak into his house without a warrant or anything and poke around.
"Oh, bad," she said.
"Not too good, is it?" he agreed. "You want to call it off?"
She thought for a long time and then shook her head.
"Good. I think we ought to know, one way or the other."
"Are you sure they're both gone?"
"Yes. I saw Harold driving one of the Burial Committee trucks early this morning. And all the people who were on the Power Committee were invited over for the tryout."
"You sure she went?"
"It would look damn funny if she didn't, wouldn't it?"
Fran thought that over, then nodded. "I guess it would. By the way, Stu said they hope to have most of the town electrified again by the sixth."
"That's going to be a mighty day," Larry said, and thought how nice it would be to sit down in Shannon's or the Broken Drum with a big Fender guitar and an even bigger amp and play something - anything, as long as it was simple and had a heavy beat - at full volume. "Gloria," maybe, or "Walkin' the Dog." Just about anything, in fact, except "Baby, Can You Dig Your Man?"
"Maybe," Fran said, "we ought to have a cover story, though. Just in case."
Larry grinned crookedly. "Want to say we're selling magazine subscriptions if one of them comes back?"
"Har-har, Larry."
"Well, we could say we came to tell her what you just told me about getting the juice turned on again. If she's there."
Fran nodded. "Yes, that might be okay."
"Don't kid yourself, Fran. She'd be suspicious if we told her we'd come up because Jesus Christ just appeared and is walking back and forth on top of the City Reservoir."
"If she's guilty of something."
"Yes. If she's guilty of something."
"Come on," Fran said after a moment's thought. "Let's go."
There was no need for the cover story. Steady hard rapping at first the front and then the back door convinced them that Harold's house was indeed empty. It was just as well, Fran thought - the more she thought about the cover they'd worked out, the thinner it seemed.
"How did you get in?" Larry asked.
"The cellar window."
They went around to the side of the house and Larry pulled and tugged fruitlessly at the window while Fran kept watch.
"Maybe you did," he said, "but it's locked now."
"No, it's just sticking. Let me try."
But she had no better luck. Sometime between her first clandestine trip out here and now, Harold had locked up tight.
"What do we do now?" she asked him.
"Let's break it."
"Larry, he'll see it."
"Let him. If he doesn't have anything to hide, he'll think it was just a couple of kids, breaking windows in empty houses. It sure looks empty, with all the shades pulled down. And if he does have something to hide, it'll worry him plenty and he deserves to be worried. Right?"
She looked doubtful but didn't stop him as he took off his shirt, wrapped it around his fist and forearm, and crunched the basement window. Glass tinkled inward and he felt around for the catch.
"Here tis." He released it and the window slid back. Larry slipped through and turned to help her. "Be careful, kiddo. No miscarriages in Harold Lauder's basement, please."
He caught her under the arms and eased her down. They looked around the rumpus room together. The croquet set stood sentinel. The air-hockey table was littered with little snips of colored electrical wire.