"Not far," Ricky gasped. "Keep on going. I'll make it."
"How are you doing, Peter?"
The boy peered out at Don from under the snow-crusted fur cap. "You heard the boss. Keep on going."
The new snow at first fell harmlessly, no more an obstacle than the candyfloss snowfall at the start of their trip; but by the time they had gone three blocks more in a building wind, Don's feet now like two blocks of ice painfully welded to his ankles, the new snow was unequivocally a storm: not falling vertically or spinning prettily, but sleeting down diagonally, at intervals coming in waves like a surf. It stung where it hit. Whenever they reached the end of one of the high-curled drifts snow came straight at them, following the currents of the wind, blasting into their chests and faces.
Ricky fell down backward, and sat up chest high in the snow like a doll. Peter bent down to offer him an arm. Don turned around to see if he could help, and felt the snowladen wind pound against his back. He called, "Ricky?"
"Just have to. Sit. For a little."
He breathed deeply, and Don knew how the cold would be scraping against his throat, how it would chill his lungs.
"No more than two-three blocks," Ricky said. "God my feet."
"I just had a hell of a thought. What if she's not there?"
"She's there," Ricky said, and took Peter's hand and pulled himself up. "It's there. Few more blocks."
When Don turned back into the storm he could not see for a moment; then he saw thousands of fast-moving particles of white veering toward him, so close together they were like lines of force. Vast semitransparent sheets cut him off from Ricky and Peter. Only partially visible beside him, Ricky motioned him on.
Don was never sure when they crossed into the Hollow: in the storm, it was no different from the rest of Milburn. Perhaps the buildings seemed marginally shabbier: perhaps fewer lights shone dimly in the depths of rooms, seeming thousands of feet away. Once he had written in his journal that the area had a "sepia '30's prettiness": that seemed unutterably remote now. All was dark gray dirty brick and taped windows. But for the few dim lights flickering behind curtains, it seemed ominous and deserted. Don remembered other facile words he had written in his journaclass="underline" if trouble ever comes to Milburn, it won't start in the Hollow. Trouble had come to Milburn, and here in the Hollow, on a sunny day in mid-October fifty years before, it had started.
The three of them stood in the weak light of a street lamp, Ricky Hawthorne tottering, squinting across the street at three identical high brick buildings. Even in the noises of the storm Don could hear him breathing. "Over there," Ricky said harshly.
"Which one?"
"Can't tell," Ricky said, and shook his head, causing a shower of snow to whirl off the red hunting cap. "Just can't." He peered up into the storm: pointed his face like a dog. The building on the right. Then back to the building in the middle. He raised the hand which held his knife and used it to point at the windows on the third floor. They were curtainless, and one was half-open. "There. Edward's apartment. Just there."
The street lamp over them died, and light faded all about them.
Don stared at the windows high up on the desolate building, half expecting to see a face appear there, beckoning toward them; fear worse than the storm froze him.
"Finally happened," Ricky said. "Storm blew down the power lines. You afraid of the dark?"
The three of them floundered across the drifted street.
17
Don pushed open the building's front door, and the other two followed him into the vestibule. They pulled their scarves away from their faces, their breath steaming in the small cold space. Peter brushed snow from his fur hat and the front of his coat; none of them spoke. Ricky leaned against the wall, looking almost too weak to climb the stairs. A dead light bulb hung over their heads.
"Coats," Don whispered, thinking that the sodden garments would slow them down; he lay the axe down in the dark, unbuttoned his coat and dropped it on the floor. Then the scarf, stinking of wet wool; his chest and arms were still constricted by the tight sweaters, but at least the heaviest weight no longer pulled at his shoulders. Peter too removed his coat, and helped Ricky with his.
Don saw their white faces hovering before him, and wondered if this was the last act-they had the weapons which had destroyed the Bate brothers, but the three of them were limp as rags. Ricky Hawthorne's eyes were closed: thrown back, its muscles lax, his face was a death mask.
"Ricky?" Don whispered.
"A minute." Ricky's hand trembled as he raised it to blow on his fingers. He inhaled, held the air for a long moment, exhaled. "Okay. You'd better go first. I'll bring up the rear."
Don bent down and picked up the axe. Behind him Peter wiped the blade of the Bowie knife against his sleeve. Don found the bottom step with his numb toe and climbed onto it. He glanced back. Ricky stood behind Peter, propping himself against the staircase wall. His eyes were closed again.
"Mr. Hawthorne, do you want to stay down here?" Peter whispered.
"Not on your life."
With the other two following him, Don crept up the first flight of steps. Once, three well-off young men just beginning their practices in law and medicine and a preacher's son of seventeen had gone up and down these stairs: each of them close to twenty in the century's twenties. And up these stairs had come the woman with whom they were infatuated, as he had been infatuated with Alma Mobley. He reached the second landing, and peeked around the corner to the top of the last flight of stairs. With part of his mind, he wished to see an open door, an empty room, snow blowing unnoticed into an empty apartment…
What he saw instead made him pull back. Peter looked over his shoulder and nodded; and finally Ricky appeared on the landing to look up at the door at the top of the stairs.
A phosphorescent light spilled out from beneath the door, illuminating the landing and the walls a soft green.
Silently, they came up the final set of stairs into the phosphorescent light.
"On three," Don whispered, and cradled his axe just below the head. Peter and Ricky nodded.
"One. Two." Don gripped the top of the banister with his free hand. "Three."
They hit the door together, and it broke open under their weight.
Each of them heard a single distinct word; but the voice delivering it was different for each of them. The word was Hello.
18
Don Wanderley, caught in a huge dislocation, spun around at the sound of his brother's voice. Warm light fell around him, traffic noises attacked him. His hands and feet were so cold they might have been frostbitten, but it was summer. Summer: New York. He recognized the corner almost immediately.
It was in the East Fifties, and it was so familiar to him because quite near-somewhere very near-was a cafe with outdoor tables where he had met David for lunch whenever he was in New York.
This was not a hallucination-not a mere hallucination. He was in New York, and it was summer. Don felt a weight in his left hand, and looking down, saw that he was carrying an axe. An axe? Now what…? He dropped the axe as if it had jumped in his hand. His brother called, "Don! Over here!"
Yes, he had been carrying an axe… they had seen green light… he had been turning, moving fast…
"Don!"
He looked across the street and saw David, looking healthy and extremely prosperous, standing up at one of the outdoor tables, grinning at him and waving. David in a crisp lightweight blue suit, aviator glasses smoked over his eyes, their bows disappearing into David's sun-blond hair. "Wake up!" his brother called over the traffic.