The young man was marching so quickly that Mike got the definite feeling that he was trying to catch up ... was hurrying to close the distance.
The shit with this, thought Mike, vaguely aware that he would have to confess another bad word to Father C.
Mike turned and began running down Jubilee College Road toward the distant smudge of trees that was Elm Haven.
Dale's little brother Lawrence was afraid of the dark.
As far as Dale could tell, the eight-year-old wasn't afraid of anything else. He'd climb places that no one else-except perhaps Jim Harlen-would even consider attempting. Lawrence was tough with that kind of quiet physical courage that sent him ripping into bullies half again as tall as him, his head down, fists pummeling even while he was taking a beating that would send an older kid fleeing in tears. Lawrence loved daredevil stunts-he would jump his bike from the highest ramp they could build, and when it came time in their backyard daredevil show for someone to lie down in front of the ramp while others jumped their bikes over him, Lawrence was the only one to volunteer. He played tackle football against mobs of kids bigger than him, and his idea of fun was to be taped up in a cardboard box and thrown off the strip-mined cliffs of Billy Goat Mountains. Sometimes Dale was sure that Lawrence's lack of fear would get him happily killed someday.
But he was afraid of the dark.
Lawrence was especially afraid of the dark in the hallway at the top of their stairs, and even more afraid of the dark in their bedroom.
The Stewarts' house-they had rented for the five years they had lived here since their move from Chicago-was old. The light switch at the bottom of the stairs controlled the bulbs on the small chandelier above the lower entrance hall, but left the landing above steeped in darkness. To get to the boys' room, one had to walk around the landing in that semidarkness. Worse, from Lawrence's point of view, was the fact that there was no wall switch in their room. To turn on the hanging light bulb in the center of the room, the boys had to walk into the darkness, feel around for the cord hanging in midair, and tug it on. Lawrence hated that part and begged Dale to go up to turn on the light for him.
Once, as they were falling asleep with the night-light on, Dale had asked him why he hated to do that. . . what exactly was he afraid of? It was their room. At first, Lawrence wouldn't answer, but finally he'd said sleepily, "Somebody might be in here. Waiting."
"Somebody?" Dale had whispered. "Who?"
"I dunno," Lawrence had sleepily whispered back, "somebody. Sometimes I think I'll come into the room and be feeling around for the light cord . . . you know, it's sorta hard to find . . . and instead of the cord, I'll feel this face."
Dale's neck had gone cold.
"You know," continued Lawrence, "some tall guy's face . . . only not quite a human face . . . and I'll be in here in the dark with my hand on his face . . . and his teeth'll be all slick and cool, and I'll feel his eyes wide open like a dead person's . . . and ..."
"Shut up," Dale had whispered.
Even with the night-light on, Lawrence was afraid of things in the room. The house was old enough not to have closets-Dale's dad had said that people used big wardrobes for their clothes back then-but the previous owners or renters had added a closet to the boys' room. It was a crude thing-hardly more than a floor-to-ceiling box of painted pine boards in one corner-and Lawrence said that it reminded him of a coffin propped up there. It reminded Dale of a coffin, too, but he wouldn't admit it. Lawrence would never be the first to open the closet door, even in the daytime. Dale could only imagine what his brother thought might be waiting in there.
But mostly Lawrence was afraid of what might be under his bed.
The boys slept a few feet apart on small beds, identical down to the Roy Rogers blankets on them. But Lawrence was sure that something waited under his bed.
Lawrence would kneel to say his prayers if his mom was in the room, but when the two boys were alone, he was quick to get into his pajamas and jump onto the bed-not even come within grabbing distance of the darkness under it-and then he would go through a ritual of tucking his blankets in, securing everything so that nothing could drag him down, pull him under. If he was reading a comic or something and it fell on the floor, he would ask Dale to pick it up. If Dale didn't, the comic remained on the floor until morning.
Dale had reasoned with his brother for years. "Look, stupid," he'd said, "there's nothing under your bed but dust-balls."
"There could be a hole," Lawrence had whispered once.
"A hole?"
"Yeah, like a tunnel or something. With something in it waiting to get me." Lawrence's voice had been very tiny.
Dale had laughed. "Peabrain, we're on the second floor. There can't be a hole or tunnel on the second floor. Plus, it's solid wood." He'd leaned over and rapped the floor with his knuckles. "See, solid."
Lawrence had closed his eyes as if expecting a hand to reach out and grab Dale's wrist.
Dale had given up trying to convince Lawrence that there was nothing to be afraid of. Dale wasn't afraid of the dark upstairs-his fear was centered on the basement, specifically the coal bin where he had to go down to shovel coal every winter night-but he'd never told Lawrence or anyone about that anxiety. Dale loved summer because he didn't have to go down in the basement. But Lawrence was afraid of the dark all year round.
On this first Sunday night of summer vacation, Lawrence asked Dale to go upstairs to turn on the light for him and Dale had sighed, closed the Tarzan book he was reading, and gone up with his brother.
There were no faces in the dark. Nothing came out from under the bed. When Dale opened the closet door to hang up his brother's striped shirt, nothing leaped out or pulled him in. Lawrence got into his Zorro pajamas and Dale realized that even though it wasn't quite nine p.m. , he was sleepy too. He pulled on his own blue pajamas, tossed his dirty stuff in the hamper, and got into bed to read about Tarzan and the lost city of Opar.
They heard footsteps and their dad stood at the door. He had his reading glasses on and the dark frames made him look older and more serious than usual.
"Hi, Dad," said Lawrence from his bed. He'd just finished his ritual of tucking everything in tightly and making sure that there was nothing loose that might fall down and tempt the under-the-bed creatures.
"Hey, tigers. Hitting the sack early tonight, huh?" "Going to read awhile," said Dale and suddenly knew that something was wrong. Their dad didn't usually come up to say goodnight, and this night there was a tightness around his eves and mouth. "What's the matter, Dad?"
Their father came in, removed his glasses as if just remembering they were on, and sat on Lawrence's bed with his left hand bridging the gap to Dale's. "Did you guys hear the phone?"
"Uh-uh," said Dale.
"Yeah," said Lawrence.
"That was Mrs. Grumbacher . . ." began their dad. He played with his glasses, folding and refolding them. Then he stopped and put them in his pocket. "Mrs. Grumbacher called to say that she saw Miss Jensen over in Oak Hill today ..."
"Miss Jensen," said Lawrence. "You mean Jim Harlen's mom?" Lawrence had never understood why Harlen's mom had a different last name ... or why she could be a "miss" and still have a kid.
"Hush," said Dale.
"Yes," said their dad and patted Lawrence's leg under the blanket. "Jim's mom. She told Mrs. Grumbacher that Jim has had an accident."
Dale felt his heart lurch and then sink. He and Kevin had gone up to find Harlen that afternoon-Mike hadn't been around and they wanted enough guys to play ball-but Harlen's house had been dark and locked. They'd figured he'd gone out on some Sunday outing to see relatives or something.