Fade (29 page)

What?

You know.

No, I don't.

Yes, you do.

You tell me.

Hurt her.

No.

You're only saying no. You mean yes, don't you? You want to do it, don't you?

Shut up, he cried, shut up.

And began running. Away from the librarian and away from Main Street toward the convent and safety, away from the voice that he couldn't really run away from. The voice was with him, inside him.

He did not run far. Down to the corner of Spruce and Pine and paused. Drew in a deep breath.

The voice:
Go back.

And he went. Back to Main, rushing, feet flying over the concrete, unseen and free to run, nobody to observe his flight as he stayed on the street, away from the wooden sidewalk where his footsteps would be heard.

She was passing Kelcey's now and then Dempsey's. She crossed over to the Ramsey Diner and turned left on Spring. His mind leapt ahead, trying to figure out her destination and what secret places were located on her way, where he could seize her and drag her out of sight.

She clicked along on those high heels, looking neither right nor left, her tan legs glistening in the sun, her black hair bouncing softly in the same rhythm as her body. His mind raced ahead. If she continued straight out this way, past Blossom and Summer, she would pass directly in front of the old Barnard place, all gone now and the cellar hole covered with brush. Perfect for what he would do to her. His hands tingled with anticipation, squeezing open and shut, the way they would squeeze her, squeeze that lovely slender neck, squeeze and squeeze until—

She stopped walking, coming to a quick halt right in the middle of the sidewalk. Didn't turn right or left but stopped in her tracks. Like a mannequin in a store window. Trapped in one spot.

Had he grown careless? Had she heard his footsteps? Or did she feel his presence, the way some people did?

She began to walk again, hurrying, legs flashing in the sun like scissors, almost running in her haste, and he ran, too, but carefully, running on his tiptoes, careful not to make any noise, had to be careful.

She stopped again. Only fifteen feet or so in front of him. He stopped too. She turned and looked his way, looked straight at him. As if she could see, although she couldn't. Fear in the look too.

That was when the dog attacked.

The dog did not bark or even growl. Ozzie never heard the dog approaching, but was suddenly almost knocked down when it bounded into him, teeth bared, long yellow teeth.

Then he heard a low and deadly growl. But the dog, a German shepherd, was thoroughly confused after that first assault, drew back, growling still but a whine in the growl. Ozzie recovered, held his ground.

“Nice doggie,” Ozzie whispered, voice low and confidential.

The dog froze at the sound of the voice, then lifted its pointed nose, whined a bit, and Ozzie chuckled, thinking what the dog would be thinking, seeing nobody there, but
feeling
someone there and hearing a voice from out of the nothing.

Ozzie made ready to kick the dog, this intruder into his pursuit of the librarian, but he held back when he glanced up to see the librarian almost running up the flagstone walk leading to a red-brick house, a sleek and shining car in the driveway. She disappeared inside.

“Shit;’ he said.

And blamed the dog.

The dog lingered nearby, not a threat to him now, puzzled, head tilted.

Ozzie felt cheated.

Kick him.

Yes.

He walked to the dog and gave him a mighty boot, right into the soft part of the belly, and the dog leapt into the air, howling with pain, legs stiff with fright at the surprise of the attack, then went scurrying down the street, howling and whining. Maybe that was the sound a dog makes when it cries.

He watched it go, smiling, chuckling, and the voice said:
Nice.

But he did not answer the voice, afraid the voice might be mad at him for losing the library woman.

He waited for old man Pinder at the mouth of the alley, knew he would stop up here sooner or later, in the gathering darkness, at the end of the day. Sure enough, as darkness settled on the town like soot, the old man came shuffling up Main Street, his feet dragging on the wooden sidewalk. As he turned into the alley, Ozzie stepped in front of him.

“How do you do, old man?” he asked brightly.

“Ozzie, Ozzie,” old man Pinder said, falling back a little, wetting his lips. Always wetting his lips, always needing a drink.

They walked into the alley, the booze smell awful, not the sweet smell of the gin his mother drank but the sour cellar smell of muscatel and a touch of vomit, to boot.

“How you been, old man?” Ozzie asked.

The old man shrugged inside his two overcoats and probably two or three sweaters. Hot or cold, winter or summer, he always dressed the same. Then he turned to Ozzie and Ozzie saw the fear in his eyes, the cringing fear that said: Don't hit me, don't hurt me.

“Hey, take it easy, old man,” Ozzie said. “Nobody's going to do nothing to you….”

And suddenly he wanted to share with the old man the incredible thing that had happened to him, being gone and unseen. He had kept the secret to himself until it felt like something boiling in a pot, reaching the point of blowing off the lid.

“Sit down, old man,” he said. And the old man sat, crumpled to the ground, next to the rubbish barrels from Demp-sey's, back against the dull brick wall. “I want to show you something.” Hell, he already knew about it anyways, didn't he?

The light slanted in from Main Street and Ozzie felt like he was about to perform on a stage. Then, glancing to see that no one else was about, he pressed forward, breath taken away and then coming back, the sweep of pain and he was gone. Gone into the cold as well.

“I didn't see you do that,” the old man called out, eyes blinking furiously, yellow-coated tongue darting out as he spoke. “I don't see nothing, don't know nothing.” Then, still blinking but squinting too: “Where are you, Ozzie?”

“Right here,” he said, shouting in the old man's ear so that he almost leapt out of his coats and sweaters.

For the next few minutes he entertained the old guy, making stuff dance in the air, crap he took out of the rubbish barrels, and then making the barrels jump and turn and crash to the ground. The old man cackled and laughed, holding his sides sometimes, but Ozzie looked at him craftily now and then, and saw something behind the laughing, and knew that the old man really was scared to death.

So Ozzie told the old man that he wasn't seeing things and he did not have the DT's. This was Ozzie Slater, all right, Ozzie who was his friend, the same Ozzie he gave shelter to in the night, who was showing off this incredible thing that had happened to him (but Ozzie did not tell him about what he did to the old fraud, of course, or the damage to Kelcey's) and the fun he had, the fun the two of them could now have.

“Fun?” The old man was bewildered, shaking from the booze or the need for booze.

“I'll show you what I mean by fun,” Ozzie said. He pulled the old man to his feet and dragged him down the alley where the back windows of Ramsey Liquors looked out on a small porch.

“Watch,” Ozzie said.

He broke the window near the back door, carefully removed all the pieces of glass, then slipped through. He knew the old man drank muscatel because it was the cheapest stuff he could buy, but Ozzie now sought out the good stuff, the Scotch the old man used to talk about, the sting of the Scotch the old man drank as a young man on a Saturday night down in Boston in the good times. Ozzie grabbed two bottles from the shelf, kept low because he didn't want anyone passing by to see bottles floating in the air. He made his way out of there, placed the two bottles on the back steps, enjoyed the look on the old man's face. Like Christmas had come in the middle of summer.

Back in the alley again, after the old man had settled down but before he had swallowed too much of the booze, Ozzie swore him to secrecy, describing the fun they could have together, the booze Ozzie could supply him with, and all Ozzie would require was the old man's silence and to keep his eyes and ears open downtown and report anything he heard, anything he heard at all, that pertained to Ozzie.

Looking at old man Pinder, who was already beginning to dissolve with the booze, jaw loose and drooping, eyes dreamy and far away, Ozzie was tempted simply to kill him here and now and be done with it. But, he thought hazily, maybe the old man would be useful, one way or another. Besides, the fraud who was his Pa had deserved to die but certainly not this harmless old coot.

Watch the nun.

Why the nun?

Because.

Because why?

Because.…

But he didn't want to listen and ran out of the convent and through the woods, ran until his lungs threatened to burst and his legs stung with pain. Threw himself down on the grass, waited, afraid the voice would start again, glad when it didn't.

Lately, the voice and the urges got together and tormented him, stopped him from doing what he wanted to do, made sly suggestions about what he
should
do. Like, he wanted to go after Bull Zimmer, find out what he was doing this summer, and begin plans for his revenge. Then Miss Ball. But the voice told him to wait. Only a few weeks had gone by since the old fraud died. Better to wait.

So he waited, something he was good at, anyways. Stayed away from town except for a visit now and then to look up the old man. “Have you told anybody about me?” The old man always babbled on about how he would never tell, never tell. Ozzie knocked him around a bit to give him a taste of what might happen if he told. Bloodied his nose once, and it felt good to see blood coming from somebody else's nose. Mostly, though, he stayed at the convent, making himself useful. Busy hands are happy hands, Sister Anunciata said, handing him a bucket of water and brush or a broom or the green stuff to wash the windows. She got stung by a bee and her face swelled up, one eye closed, and she looked a little like Popeye in the cartoon and he had to cover his own face so she would not see him laughing. Later, in the fields, he saw these old yellow flowers, straggling through the weeds, flowers that were past their prime, starting to wilt. What the hell, good enough for the old nun. Nothing fancy, just right for her. He put them in a jar he found in the shed and placed them on the small table near her bed when she was out in the kitchen.

“Why, thank you, Ozzie,” she said later, pleased. Her one good eye was filled with tears.

“They're just old flowers,” he said, angry for some reason. Angry with himself and her.

That was a mistake.

Why was that a mistake?

Because she thinks you ‘re trying to bribe her

Why would I bribe her?

Because she suspects what you did to the old fraud. Be careful with her. She
ï
watching you.

No, she isn't.

But maybe she was. Maybe she
did
suspect. He began to notice things. How that one good eye of hers was sharp, darting everywhere but most of all on Ozzie. He felt as if that eye could pin him to a wall, hold him there, wriggling. Every time he turned around, there she was. Swollen face, skin almost purple, and that sharp blue eye.

Then her face got better, the swelling disappeared, faint purple gone, both eyes open, and she seemed less threatening to him.

She's playing games.

What games?

The games of pretending not to watch you gathering her evidence.

What kind of evidence?

Evidence of what you did. To the old fraud.

Fm not listening, not listening to you.

Yes, you are.

And, of course, he did listen and, in his own turn,
he
began to watch the nun. Watched her watching him. He found her wherever he went in the convent, whether doing his chores or just killing time. He turned a corner and there she was, busy with her own chores, but
there
just the same. Looked up from the supper table and found her eyes on him. Heard her footsteps padding by the door of his room late at night, knew it had to be her.

Know what you've got to do?

He didn't answer the voice. Hunched up in the blanket even though the night was hot.

Sooner or later, you be got to do it.

Still didn't answer, although the voice tugged at him to answer, like an itch you had to scratch.

I'm not going to do it. You said it was too soon after the old fraud to do anything.

That seemed to satisfy the voice. He waited and there was no response. He really did not want to hurt the old nun. She had taken him in, was kind to him. She was old, she would probably die soon anyways. He wanted Bull Zimmer and Miss Ball and the kids, not the old nun.

Better do something,
the voice said slyly just before he fell asleep.

What he did was go on a rampage in the town. The next night. Found a hammer in the shed and raced through the woods, gone, unseen, emerging in the town, barely breathing hard, carried on waves of excitement. His body throbbed with strength and energy, as if he had swallowed a potent brew. He ran down the deserted street, swinging the hammer, breaking windows in the stores and cars parked at the curbs, then denting the cars themselves. Threw rocks at neon signs. Smashed the small panes of glass in parking meters. Spotted the library building and received an inspiration. He ran to the library, raced up the steps, broke the window, reached inside to unlock the door. Then went on a binge of wrecking, tumbling bookcases to the floor, sweeping hundreds of books off the shelves, tossing them against the window.
That'll show her,
that bitch of a librarian. He realized the voice had spoken, and although Ozzie's intention was not to please the voice, he reveled in the havoc he was creating, a thousand books spilled on the floor.

The sound of a siren drew him out of the library and back into the street, where lights had been turned out in the rooms above the stores and a police cruiser swung around the corner, the siren going ninety miles an hour, the car itself barely moving.