“Aw shut up," Ponce replied, suddenly feeling very strange.
He got dressed in no time flat, while Rusty Joe watched —and poked around too, under the bed. No luck.
“I’m playing football today!” the lad said.
Ponce heard Peppy spit, the kid must have come close thought he wouldn’t be able to move. Why should that be? He remembered a dream. Miss Smith—Betty—was here. She was talking to him. Murmuring low, all sorts of things. How had she got here? It almost seemed—in the dream— she had brought him here! He grew warm with that dream—or fragment of dream. Was it a dream? Ponce stared at Peppy. Soon, Rusty Joe would be cruising about. All hell would be loose. Peppy would have to hide—and that’s something she was absolutely expert at, as she was at so many things. Clawing and spitting, for instance, if someone screwed around with her too much, or in the wrong way. Or a stranger! She dived like a streak behind the nearest sofa, or ran behind the stove in the kitchen, at first sight of a stranger. Ponce grinned. He loved that animal. Maybe she did have nine lives, but she sure wasn’t going to take any chances—just in case. Ponce felt good. He couldn’t figure out how come he felt so good. He lay there, just feeling good. It almost was—it felt—it was like—something extraordinary had happened to him. When had he last felt like this? Christmas—as a kid? He grinned. He really felt good. Or maybe when he had been to a nice dance at the school—or even at a juke joint? Dancing slow and easy with a real nice girl? It always made him feel all dreamy, and good. Right into the next day. But what dance had he been to? He remembered the first time he ever danced with a nice girl—Rochelle, wasn’t it—at the high school. He had danced quite a few with her, and he had dreamed about her. He was a Freshman then. He had gone through a phase there of a terrific crush on her, almost right through the whole of his Freshman year. She had even liked him a little—it seemed—then—she had drifted away. She had lost interest. She had—grown up. Girls quickly grew up. She wasn’t interested in kids like him—He grinned. Ponce, lying there, gazing at Peppy the Great, and out the window, where it looked like a really beautiful Autumn day, felt great. Warm, dreamy. He could lie here a long time, and would, if there wasn’t school today, which of course there was, or if Rusty Joe let him, that crazy poke. He remembered he used to feel something like this when he was younger, when his mother used to tuck him in and read stories to him, or talk to him, or hug him. Ponce smiled. He loved her so much. He mused. What was up? The dream. Was it the dream? More of it
The lifeless forms of Chief of Police John Poldaski and Drum Majorette Jeannie Bonni were discovered on the playing fields of Sawyersville High School by Art Murray, night watchman at Feldman’s Furniture Factory, on his way home from work that morning, at just about the time Ponce was lying in bed all dreamy and warm, all over. Art lived near the high school and always took a shortcut across the athletic grounds except when it snowed hard. He was pretty shook up by his find. But so was Surcher, who uttered, when he got the news, “Holy Christ!” and that’s all, for quite a while. He uttered those words in a tone most unusual for him. For now, he knew, things were not only much worse—but all hell would break loose, certainly. The place would be swarming with “assistance,” courtesy of the Attorney-General. The Governor himself, especially in this election year, might even show up and start personally directing operations. Against what? Surcher wondered, starkly aware of what he was up against. This was turning into a real circus, without a doubt, and fifty governors couldn’t help, ex-Attomey-Generals, D.A.’s, whatever they had been, on the way. He shook his head, slowly. Not only had he two more victims on his hands, but the entire Sawyersville Police Force had been wiped out. And whatever the limitations of local police forces, they certainly were essential, they had their role, without the slightest doubt. Surcher’s head kept shaking. Undoubtedly, the same madman had struck again—Two notes had been found. On the late Chief, the caption read, GONE ON. On the young girl, pinned there: OH MY HONEY. And that was that. A doubleheader. The Chief’s mode of death had not yet been established, though Surcher had observed a certain slight bruise on the neck and had his own theory on that. The pathologist Would have the answer in a couple of hours. The girl had obviously been strangled and—“sexually molested”—though that was the wrong term, he
“Hey, leave her alone,” he said, as if that cat couldn’t take care of herself.
He went downstairs, Rusty Joe trailing after him, close.
“Think I’ll ever make Tiger’s team?” the boy asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Uncle Brucie says cats are for the birds!”
“Aw—” Ponce started to reply, then toned it down, “He didn’t mean it—” He said, though he wished the lunatic were here so he could punch him right in the nose.
Ponce’s father had already gone to work, of course, and so Ponce sat in the kitchen with his mother and little Joe. His mother was cooking him bacon and eggs, his favorite breakfast dish. Joe sat there, monkeying around.
“I didn’t even hear you come in last night, honey—” his mother said.
“You didn’t?” Ponce said, feeling stranger and stranger.
Now Joe started, “He had different tops and bottoms on! He did!”
“What?” his mother asked, smiling at that.
The lad played it for all it was worth, and wound up making a penetrating jingle out of it, which he repeated over and over.
“Well, Ponce—” His mother finally said, “Whatever’s got into you?”
“I dunno—” He replied, sheepish.
“You must have put them on in the dark—when you got home,” his mother told him, reassuringly.
“I must have,” Ponce said, staring at the bacon and eggs on his plate. He felt hungry.
“What’s the matter?” His mother asked, leaning over him, an arm around his shoulder. Rusty Joe had finally left the room, in search of better things to do, before going to school. “I know—I know—” She now said, softly, “It’s just awful—” She said, putting her face next to his, and hugging him. It felt good.
Ponce said nothing. He only nodded, and started working on the bacon and eggs. He certainly was hungry* Very.
“Want more toast?” His mother asked him. . ..
knew, if ever there was one, for there was no sign of any struggle, absolutely. She had just—gone on. The same pattern. The same blank wall. No clues at all. And John Poldaski. A walking arsenal. What a cruncher! What had he been doing here, the poor sucker? Surcher wondered. Just what had happened? Honeywell was out of it. He had eliminated him, definitely. Not that he had ever seriously considered him. Surcher reconstructed the affair. As far as he could tell, the late Chief must have been on the prowl and stumbled head first into the arms of the quarry. Had he surprised him while in the act with the girl? If so, how in the world had he succumbed this way? He was a dope, but a hunk of a man, to put it mildly. What had happened? He could have held his own with a small squad of full-sized Troopers, he was sure. And he was armed—to the teeth, no less. Just what had happened? What was he supposed to do —comb the school for a karate expert? A super expert! That was his theory. He could have moaned. What kind of a fiend were they up against? Was he, after all, not connected at all with the school? Could that be? Surcher shook his head again, worried, wondering, and feeling sorry for that poor hunky. A dope, alright, but he had run into it. If only he had lived to talk about it! Or—Surcher wondered—Or hadn’t the poor dope realized he had it? Was that it? It could be. It just could. He knew. He mused. It could explain a lot of things. It could. If it would! Surcher was stuck with it. He had to work with it. At least until the army of “assistants” arrived. He knew it
He was at the school, which was now besieged by a small army of media men, local citizenry, and curious onlookers. He was in serious conference with his assistants and the two key men of the school, Harry Proffer and Mike McDrew.