The Voice of the Night (24 page)

Wednesday morning, eight days after the events at Hermit Hobson’s junkyard, Colin was no longer restricted to quarters. He was reluctant to leave the house. He studied the surrounding grounds through all the first-floor windows; and although he could detect nothing out of the ordinary, his own front lawn seemed to him far more dangerous than any battlefield in any war there’d ever been, in spite of the lack of bursting bombs and whistling bullets.

—Roy wouldn’t try anything in broad daylight.

—Go. Go on. Get out and do what you have to do.

—You can’t hide here for the rest of your life.

He went to the library. As he cycled along the sunny streets, he looked repeatedly behind. He was fairly sure that Roy was not following him.

Though Colin slept only three hours the night before, he was waiting at the front doors of the library when Mrs. Larkin, the librarian, opened for business. He’d gone to the library twice a week since they’d moved to town, and Mrs. Larkin had quickly learned what he liked. When she saw him standing on the steps, she said, “We received the new Arthur C. Clarke novel last Friday.”

“That’s swell.”

“Well, I didn’t put it out on the shelf right away because I thought you’d be in the same day or Saturday at the latest.”

He followed her into the big, cool, stucco building, into the main room where their footsteps were smothered by the mammoth stacks of books, and where the air smelled of glue and yellowing paper.

“When you hadn’t showed up by Monday afternoon,” Mrs. Larkin said, “I felt I couldn’t hold the book any longer. And now, wouldn’t you just know it, someone checked it out a few minutes till five yesterday afternoon.”

“That’s all right,” Colin said. “Thanks a lot for thinking about me.”

Mrs. Larkin was a sweet-tempered, red-haired woman with too little brow, too much chin, too little bosom, and too much behind. Her glasses were as thick as Colin’s. She loved books and bookish people, and Colin liked her.

“I mainly came to use one of the microfilm readers,” he said.

“Oh, I’m sorry, but we don’t have any science fiction on microfilm.”

“I’m not interested in science fiction today. What I’d like to see is back issues of the Santa Leona
News Register.”

“Whatever for?” She made a face, as if she’d bitten into a lemon. “Perhaps I’m being a traitor to my own hometown when I say this, but the
News Register
is just about the dullest reading you can find. Lots of stories about bake sales and church socials, and reports of City Council meetings where silly politicians argue for hours about whether or not they should fill the potholes on Broadway.”

“Well...I’m sort of looking ahead to starting school in September,” Colin said, wondering if that sounded as ridiculous to her as it did to him. “English composition always gives me a little bit of trouble, so I like to think ahead.”

“I can’t believe that anything in school gives you trouble,” Mrs. Larkin said.

“Anyway ... I have this idea for an essay about summer in Santa Leona, not my summer but summer in general, and summer historically. I want to do some research.”

She smiled approvingly. “You’re an ambitious young man, aren’t you?”

He shrugged. “Not really.”

She shook her head. “In all the years I’ve worked here, you’re the first boy who’s come in during summer vacation to prepare for next fall’s school assignments. I’d call that ambitious. I surely would. And it’s refreshing, too. You keep that attitude, and you’ll go a long way in this world.”

Colin was embarrassed because he did not deserve the praise and because he had lied to her. He felt his face turn red, and he suddenly realized that this was the first time he had blushed in a week, maybe longer than that, which was some kind of record for him.

He went to the microfilm alcove, and Mrs. Larkin brought spools of film that contained every page of the
News Register
for June, July, and August of last year, and for the same three months of the year before that. She showed him how to use the machine, watched over his shoulder until she was certain that he had no questions, then left him to his work.

Rose.

Something Rose.

Jim Rose?

Arthur Rose?

Michael Rose?

He remembered the last name by associating it with the flower, but he couldn’t quite recall what the boy’s first name had been.

Phil Pacino.

He remembered that one because it was like Al Pacino, the movie actor.

He decided to start with Phil. He lined up the spools of last summer’s newspapers.

He assumed both deaths would be front-page news, so he skimmed, looking for bold headlines.

He couldn’t remember the date Roy had given. He started with June and worked all the way through to the first of August before he found the story.

He was reading the last paragraph of the article when he sensed a change in the air and knew that Roy was behind him. He whirled, bolting up from the swivel chair as he turned—but Roy wasn’t there. No one was there. No one was at the worktables. No one was browsing through the stacks. Mrs. Larkin wasn’t at her desk. He had imagined it.

He sat down and read the article again. It was exactly as Roy said. The Pacino house had burned to the ground, a total loss. In the rubble, firemen had found the blackened body of Philip Pacino, age fourteen.

Colin felt beads of sweat pop out on his forehead. He wiped his face with one hand and dried his hands on his jeans.

He went through the papers for the next week with special care, looking for follow-up stories. There were three.

According to the final, official statement, Philip Pacino had caused the blaze. He had been playing with matches near a workbench on which he constructed model airplanes. Apparently there had been a number of highly flammable items on the bench, including several tubes and pots of glue, a can of lighter fluid, and an open bottle of paint remover.

The second follow-up was a page-two report of the boy’s funeral. The story contained tributes from Philip’s teachers, teary remembrances from his friends, and excerpts from the eulogy. A photograph of the grieving parents headed the three-column piece.

Colin read it twice with great interest because one of Philip Pacino’s friends quoted in the story was Roy Borden.

Two days later there was a long editorial that was hard-hitting by the
News Register’s
standards.

In none of the four pieces was there the slightest indication that the police or the fire department suspected murder and arson. From the beginning they had assumed it was an accident, the result of carelessness or adolescent foolishness.

But I know the truth, Colin thought.

He was weary. He had been at the microfilm reader for almost two hours. He switched off the machine, stood up, and stretched.

He didn’t have the library to himself any more. A woman in a red dress was looking through the magazine racks. At one of the tables in the center of the room, a chubby, balding priest was reading an enormous book and assiduously taking notes.

Colin walked to one of the two, big, mullioned windows at the east end of the room and sat sideways on the two-foot-deep sill. He stared through the dusty glass, thinking. Beyond the window lay a Roman Catholic cemetery, and at the far end of the graveyard, Our Lady of Sorrows Church watched over the remains of its ascended parishioners.

“Hi there.”

Colin looked up, surprised. It was Heather.

“Oh hi,” he said. He started to get up.

“Don’t move on my account,” she said in a soft, library voice. “I can’t stay long. I have some errands to run for my mother. I just stopped in to pick up a book, and I saw you sitting here.”

She was wearing a maroon T-shirt and white shorts.

“You look terrific,” Colin said, keeping his voice as low as hers.

She smiled. “Thank you.”

“I really mean it.”

“Thank you.”

“Absolutely terrific.”

“You’re embarrassing me.”

“Why? ‘Cause I said you look terrific?”

“Well... in a way, yeah.”

“You mean you’d feel better if I said you looked awful?”

She laughed self-consciously. “No. Of course not. It’s just that... no one ever told me I looked terrific before.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“No.”

“No guy ever told you that? What are they—all blind or something?”

She was blushing. “Well, I know I’m not really all that terrific.”

“Sure you are.”

“My mouth’s too big,” she said.

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is. I’ve got a wide mouth.”

“I like it.”

“And my teeth aren’t the greatest.”

“They’re very white.”

“And a couple of them are kind of crooked.”

“Not so that anyone would notice,” Colin said.

“I hate my hands,” she said.

“Huh? Why?”

“My fingers are so stubby. My mother has long, elegant fingers. But mine look like little sausages.”

“That’s silly. You have nice fingers.”

“And my knees are knobby,” she said.

“Your knees are perfect,” he said.

“Just listen to me,” she said nervously. “A boy finally says I look nice, and I try to make him change his mind.”

Colin was amazed to discover that even a pretty girl like Heather could have doubts about herself. He always had thought that those kids he admired—those golden, blue-eyed, strong-limbed California boys and girls—were a race above all others, superior creatures who glided through life with perfect self-confidence, with an unshakable sense of worth and purpose. He was both pleased and displeased to discover this crack in the myth. He suddenly realized that those special, radiant kids were not really very different from him, that they were not so superior as he had thought they were, and this discovery buoyed him. On the other hand, he felt as if he had lost something important—a pleasant illusion that, at times, had warmed him.

“Are you waiting for Roy?” Heather asked.

He shifted uneasily on his windowsill seat. “Uh ... no. I’m just doing some... research.”

“I thought you were looking out the window for Roy.”

“Just resting. Taking a break.”

“I think it’s nice how he shows up every day,” she said.

“Who?”

“Roy.”

“Shows up where?”

“There,” she said, gesturing toward something beyond the window.

Colin looked through the glass, then back at the girl. “You mean he goes to church every day?”

“No. The graveyard. Don’t you know about it?”

“Tell me.”

“Well... I live in the house across the street. The white one with the blue trim. See it?”

“Yeah.”

“Most times when he comes, I see him.”

“What’s he do there?”

“He visits his sister.”

“He has a sister?”

“Had. She’s dead.”

“He never said a word.”

Heather nodded. “I don’t think he likes to talk about it.”

“Not a word.”

“One time I told him it was really nice, you know, how he stopped at her grave so faithfully. He got mad at me.”

“He did?”

“Mad as hell.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” Heather said. “At first I thought maybe he still felt the pain of her death. I thought maybe it still hurt him so much he didn’t want to talk about it. But then later it seemed like he was mad because I’d caught him doing something wrong. But he wasn’t doing anything wrong. It’s kind of weird.”

Colin thought about this news for a moment. He stared at the sunny graveyard. “How’d she die?”

“I don’t know. It happened before my time. I mean, we didn’t move to Santa Leona until three years ago. She was dead long before that.”

A sister.

A dead sister.

Somehow, that was the key.

“Well,” Heather said, unaware of the importance of the information she had given him, “I’ve got to be going. My mother gave me a shopping list. She expects me back with everything in an hour or so. She doesn’t like people who are late. She says tardiness is a sign of a sloppy, selfish person. I’ll see you at six o‘clock.”

“I’m sorry we have to go to the early show,” Colin said.

“That’s all right,” she said. “It’s the same movie no matter what time it’s shown.”

“And like I said, I’ve got to be home by nine o‘clock or so, before it gets completely dark. That’s a real drag.”

“No,” she said. “That’s okay, too. You’re not going to be punished forever. The curfew’s only for a month, right? Don’t worry about it. We’ll have fun. See you later.”