Edgar stood still and cast his gaze over the whole wrecked store. The new store-front window, which had been installed first thing that morning, had been cracked. Displays and signs costing hundreds of dollars had been torn down and smashed. Honey and molasses oozed from cracked jars, the contents of cereal boxes were strewn everywhere.
'Who was it?' asked Edgar quietly. 'McManus?'
Gerry looked at the floor. 'They said they'd kill me if I told. I'm sorry, Mr. Paston. I'm so sorry.'
Edgar laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. 'I understand. Well, I guess we'd better call the cops.'
'I would have called them myself, sir, but after yesterday I didn't know whether they'd like it.'
Edgar shook his head. 'It's not a question of whether they like it. It's their job.' He went to the wall phone, and picked it up.
He was in the middle of dialing when he heard someone laughing outside the store. A raucous, mocking laugh. He paused, and then laid the telephone receiver down again. Quickly, making sure that he didn't tread in any debris, he made his way towards the cash-desk, searching in his pants pocket for his keys.
Gerry called, 'Mr. Paston — ' but he ignored the boy, and ducked low behind the counter. He lifted his keys, examined them closely, and picked the right one. Then he unlocked the drawer under the till, and took out a.38 revolver.
Holding the pistol behind his back, he stalked slowly towards the front of the store. He eased open the glass door, and looked out into the breezy night. Across the car-park, close to his station wagon, he saw a huddled group of kids. They were laughing and hooting and horsing around, and he knew damned well who they were. He shouted, 'McManus! Shark McManus!' The kids went quiet, and looked in his direction. He raised the.38 in his right hand, supporting his wrist with his left, and squinted down the barrel. The kids were all close together, and they presented an easy target. Edgar, his voice tight, shouted again, 'McManus! Stand forward, McManus, and get what's coming to you!'
The kids evidently didn't realize that Edgar was holding a gun, because they started laughing again, and jeering. Edgar aimed carefully at the tallest figure in the group, and let out his breath. He fired, and the pistol kicked in his hand. There was a flat, echoing bang. One of the kids fell to the ground, without a sound. The rest of them suddenly scattered.
Edgar, holding his gun raised up, walked slowly across the car park to the fallen youth. The boy was sprawled on his stomach, and there was a wide pool of glistening blood around his head. Edgar hunkered down and examined him. The bullet had hit him in the back of the skull, and must have killed him instantly.
He looked around. The car park was silent.
Gerry, walking on tippy-toes for some reason, came up behind him.
'Mr. Paston — ' he breathed.
'What is it, Gerry?'
'Mr. Paston, you shouldn't have!'
Edgar stood up. 'Shouldn't have? Did you see what these scum did to my store? These are scum, Gerry, and don't you forget it! He tried to destroy my way of life, and the only way I could answer that was to try and destroy his! Don't you forget that, Gerry!'
Edgar was shaking. He still had the gun in his hand, but he didn't know what to do with it.
'Mr. Paston,' said Gerry, miserably. 'This isn't Shark McManus. This isn't his gang.'
Edgar felt cold. He looked down at the boy's body lying on the concrete. The blood kept spreading, and there was no way to mop it up and return it to his veins.
'I don't understand you. He was laughing. They were all laughing.'
'They come around here quite often,' Gerry said. 'They don't mean no harm. I know one or two of them. They come around to the store after meetings, and buy candy.'
'Meetings?' said Edgar numbly. 'What meetings?'
'Boy scout meetings, Mr. Paston. They're boy scouts.'
Edgar stared down at the body. 'Boy scouts,' he whispered, 'Well — what — I mean — boy scouts?
He was still standing by the body when the black and white police car came howling into the car park, lights flashing, and squealed to a stop beside them. The doors opened, and Officers Trent and Marowitz came briskly across the concrete.
They looked down at the body. Marowitz said briskly, 'Is he dead? Has anyone checked?
Edgar said, 'He's dead all right. I got him in the head.'
He lifted his pistol, and handed it silently to Officer Marowitz.
'It appears he's a boy scout.' explained Edgar. 'I thought he was a vandal, and I shot him by mistake.'
Officer Marowitz looked hard at Edgar for a moment, then at the boy's body.
'You shot and killed a boy scout by mistake?'
'That's what I said.'
'In that case,' said Officer Marowitz, with a humorless grin, 'I had better advise you of your rights. You're under arrest, Mr. Paston, for suspected homicide.'
'Yes,' said Edgar. He stepped around the body, and walked towards the police car of his own accord.
Book Two
THE DEAD
One
They had been driving for ten minutes when Adelaide, in the back of the car, said, 'Look!'
Dr. Petrie had already seen the first distant nickers in his rear-view mirror, but they could have been anything — a burning car, or an isolated house on fire. Now, when he slowed the Torino and turned around in his seat, he could see that the whole southern horizon was growing red with flame, and that the city of Miami was ablaze from stem to stern, like a gigantic ocean liner burning on a rippling ocean of sparks.
'Miami,' whispered Mr. Henschel, sitting next to Dr. Petrie, his rifle in his lap. 'That's the whole damned city of Miami.'
'Do you think they did it on purpose?' Adelaide said.
Dr. Petrie speeded up, heading north on nothing but marker lights. 'I guess they might have done,' he said. 'More likely it was looters and arsonists and untended fires.'
They were all very tired. It was well past one o'clock, and the night was into its weariest and longest hours. Prickles was still fast asleep, in Mrs. Henschel's arms, but the rest of them were too tense and too worried to rest.
'I suppose you realize we might have taken the plague with us,' remarked Adelaide. 'I mean, for all we know, one of us might be infected.'
Dr. Petrie nodded, his face illuminated green from the dials on the instrument panel.
'That's possible, but I think it's unlikely. I've been exposed to the plague more than any of you, and I haven't caught it. Maybe I'm just immune. From what we've seen of the plague so far, it strikes very quickly. If we haven't had it yet, I don't think we're going to get it now.'
'Please God.' muttered Mr. Henschel. 'Yes.' said Dr. Petrie, 'please God.'
They drove in silence for a while. It was early Wednesday morning, before the news of the plague had officially been released by the news media, and all their car radio could tell them was that Spanish or swine flu was still causing some fatalities in Miami and southern Florida. When the radio said that, Dr. Petrie looked up at his mirror. He saw the huge columns of fire that distantly leaped and roared from the hotels along Miami Beach, and wondered, not for the first time in his life, how politicians and newsmen could possibly get away with what they did and said.
He was still pondering on this when Mr. Henschel pointed up ahead. 'I see lights. he said tensely. 'Looks like there's a roadblock up there'.
Dr. Petrie slowed down, and they all peered anxiously into the night. Half a mile up the road, they saw the bright glow of spotlights, and a cluster of cars and trucks.
'Where is this?' asked Adelaide.
'Looks like Hallandale.' said Dr. Petrie. 'They must've pulled the roadblocks back a bit.'