Iguess something did, too, David thought, turning his head to check the other side of the room. Something not very—He never finished the thought. His eyes widened, and his hands went to his mouth to stifle a shriek. For a moment the world went gray, and he believed he might faint. To stop it happening he took his hands away from his mouth and squeezed them against his temples instead, renewing the pain there. Then he let them drop to his sides, looking with wide eyes and a hurt, quivering mouth at what was on the wall to the right of the door. There were coathooks. A Stetson with a snakeskin band hung on the one nearest the windows. Two women hung on the next two, one shot, the other gutted. This second woman had long red hair and a mouth that was open in a silent frozen scream. To her left was a man in khaki, his head down, his holster empty. Pearson, maybe, the other deputy. Next to him was a man in jeans and a blood—spattered workshirt. Last in line was Pie. She had been hung up by the back of her MotoKops shirt.
Cassie Styles was on it, standing in front of her Dream Floater van with her arms folded and a big grin on her face. Cassie had always been Pie’s favorite MotoKop. Pie’s head Iolled over her broken neck and her sneakers dangled limply down.
Her hands. He kept looking at her hands. Small and pink, the fingers slightly open.
Ican’t touch her, I can’t go near her!
But he could. He had to, unless he planned to leave her there with Entragian’s other victims. And after all, what else was a big brother for, especially one who wasn’t quite big enough to stop the boogeyman from doing such an unspeakable thing in the first place.
Chest hitching, greenish-white curds of soap drying to scales on his skin, he put his hands together again and raised them in front of his face. He closed his eyes. His voice, when it came out, was trembling so badly he hardly recognized it as his own. “God, I know that my sister is with you, and that this is just what she left behind. Please help me do what I have to for her.” He opened his eyes again and looked at her. “I love you, Pie. I’m sorry for all the times I yelled at you or pulled your braids too hard.”
That last was too much. He knelt on the floor and put his hands on top of his bowed head and held them there, gasping and trying not to pass out. His tears cut trails in the green goo on his face. What hurt most was the knowledge that the door which had swung shut between them would never be opened, at least not in this world. He would never see Pie go out on a date or shoot a basket from downtown two seconds before the buzzer. She would never again ask him to spot her while she stood on her head or want to know if the light in the refrigerator stayed on even when the door was closed. He understood now why people in the Bible rent their clothes.
When he had control of himself, he dragged one of the chairs which stood against the wall over to where she was. He looked at her hands, her pink palms, and his mind wavered again. He forced it steady-just finding he could do that, if he had to, was a welcome surprise. That wavering toward grief returned more insistently as he stood on the chair and observed the waxy, unnatural pallor of her face and the purplish cast of her lips. Cau-tiously, he let some of the grief in. He sensed it would be better for him if he did. This was his first dead person, but it was also Pie, and he did not want to be scared of her or grossed out by her. So it was better to feel sorry, and he—did. He did.
Hurry, David.
He wasn’t sure if that was his voice or the other’s, but this time it didn’t matter. The voice was right. Pie was dead, but his father and the others upstairs weren’t. And then there was his mother. That was the worst thing, in a way even worse than what had happened to Pie, because he didn’t know. The crazy cop had taken his mother some-where, and he might be doing anything to her. Anything.
Iwon’t think about that. I won’t let myself He thought instead of all the hours Pie had spent in front of the TV with Melissa Sweetheart in her lap, watching KrayZee Toons. Professor KrayZee had yielded his place of honor in her heart to the MotoKops (espe-cially Cassie Styles and the handsome Colonel Henry) over the last year or so, but the old Prof still seemed like the right answer to David. He only remembered one of Prof. KrayZee’s little songs, and he sang it now as he slipped his arms around the dead girl and lifted her free of the hook: “This old man… he played one…
Her head fell against his shoulder. It was amazingly heavy-how had she ever held it up all day long, as little as she was.
“He played knick-knack on my thumb…”
He turned, stepped clumsily down from the chair, stag-gered but did not fall, and took Pie over to the windows. He smoothed her shirt down in the back as he went. It had torn, but only a little. He laid her down, one hand under her neck to keep from bumping her head on the floor. It was the way Mom had showed him when Pie had been just a baby and he had asked to hold her. Had he sung to her then. He couldn’t remember. He supposed he might have.
“With a knick—knack paddy whack, give a dog a bone…”
Ugly dark-green drapes hung at the sides of the win-dows, which were narrow nine-foot floor-to-ceiling jobs. David tugged one down.
“Krazy Prof goes rolling home…
He laid the drape out beside his sister’s body, singing the stupid little song over again. He wished he could give her Melissa Sweetheart to keep her company, but ‘Lissa was back by the Wayfarer. He lifted Pie onto the drape and folded the bottom half over her. It came all the way up to her neck and she looked better to him now, a lot. As if she were at home, sleeping in bed.
“With a knick-knack paddy whack, give a dog a bone,” he sang again, “Krazy Prof went rolling home.” He kissed—her forehead. “I love you, Pie,” he said, and he drew the top of the drape over her.
He remained beside her for a moment with his hands clasped tightly between his thighs, trying to get control of his emotions again. When he felt steadier, he got to his feet. The wind was howling, daylight was almost gone, and the sound of the dust against the windowpanes was like the light tapping of many fingers. He could hear a harsh, monotonous squeaking sound-reek—reek-reek-as something turned in the wind, and he jumped when some—thing else out there in the growing darkness fell over with a bang.
He turned from the window and went hesitantly around the counter. There were no more bodies, but papers had been spilled behind the window marked TAX CLERK, and there were spots of dried blood on some of them. The Tax Clerk’s high-backed, long-legged chair had been knocked over.
Behind the counter area was an open safe (David saw more stacks of paper but no money, and nothing that looked disturbed). To the right was a small cluster of desks. To the left were two closed doors, both with gold lettering on them. The one marked FIRE CHIEF didn’t interest him, but the other one, the office of the Town Safety Officer, did. Jim Reed, that was his name.
“Town Safety Officer. What you’d call Chief of Police in a bigger burg,” David murmured, and went over to the door. It was unlocked. He felt along the wall again, located the light-switch—and flicked it. The first thing he saw when the lights came on was the huge caribou’s head on the wall to the left of the desk. The second was the man behind the desk. He was tilted back in his office chair. Except for the ballpoint pens sticking out of his eyes and the desk-plaque protruding from his mouth, he might have been sleeping there, that was how relaxed his posture was. His hands had been laced together across his ample belly. He was wearing a khaki shirt and an across—the-chest belt like Entragian’s.