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"She's my mot-her and don't you da-re call her that, you jerk. Don't you
da-re!"
"Hey-"
"Shut up. It's not for you to say."
Timmy held his hands up in sur-ren-der. "Okay, okay. Ta-ke it easy. I'm
sorry. Se-ri-o-usly.
I sho-uldn't ha-ve sa-id anyt-hing."
Doug' s fa-ce had tur-ned red-dish purp-le, and the ve-ins sto-od out in
his neck. Anot-her one throb-bed on his fo-re-he-ad, pul-sing be-ne-ath the
skin. He drop-ped his fists to his si-des, clenc-hing and unc-lenc-hing his
fin-gers. His jaw hung slack. His bre-ath ca-me in ra-pid, la-bo-red gasps. He
tur-ned his back and wal-ked away.
"You okay?" Timmy as-ked.
Without lo-oking back, he nod-ded, still hyper-ven-ti-la-ting. His
sho-ul-ders sag-ged.
"Where you go-ing? You're not go-ing ho-me, are you?"
Shaking his he-ad, Do-ug bent over, hands on his kne-es, and threw up.
Timmy didn' t know if he sho-uld help him or just gi-ve him so-me spa-ce, so
he just sto-od the-re, watc-hing.
"Don't bring it up any mo-re, Timmy."
He to-ok a few mo-re steps and then vo-mi-ted aga-in.
"Doug," Timmy sa-id, "I re-al-ly am sorry, man. I didn't me-an to piss you
off."
"I'm sorry, too." Do-ug sto-od back up, wi-ping his mo-uth with the back
of his hand.
"Just let me de-al with it. Okay? It's my prob-lem and I'll de-al with it.
I don' t want pe-op-le fin-ding out. They pick on me al-re-ady. Can you
ima-gi-ne what they 'll say if they find out abo-ut this? Can you ima-gi-ne
what they' d do to me? To my mom? I don 't ha-ve anyt-hing. My dad's go-ne.
All I ha-ve left is her, and even if she is& dis-gus-ting, I still don't want
to lo-se her. Can you un-ders-tand that?"
Timmy nod-ded, so-mew-hat re-luc-tantly.
"So let me hand-le it my way, okay?"
"Okay."
"You pro-mi-se? You won't say any mo-re?"
"Yeah, man. Su-re."
They wal-ked on in si-len-ce, past the deb-ris left be-hind in the wa-ke
of two storms-the thun-ders-torm from the night be-fo-re, and the emo-ti-onal
storm bre-wing bet-we-en them. They pas-sed earth-worms wig-gling help-les-sly
at the bot-tom of ra-in pud-dles, and gra-ve-si-de flo-ral ar-ran-ge-ments
that had be-en blown over by the storm, the-ir pe-tals and stems scat-te-red
ac-ross the ce-me-tery. A gre-en Styro-fo-am wre-ath lay in the mid-dle of the
ro-ad. Timmy pic-ked it up, exa-mi-ned it, then tos-sed it asi-de li-ke a
Fris-bee.
They avo-ided two mo-ur-ners, who we-re gat-he-red aro-und a sing-le gray
sto-ne, and nod-ded hel-lo to a jog-ger, Mrs. Nel-son, who li-ved on the
ot-her si-de of the Wahls and ga-ve out the best candy on Hal-lo-we-en.
Ap-pa-rently, Mrs. Nel-son had ig-no-red the no tres-pas-sing sign as well.
Timmy won-de-red alo-ud if Mr. Smelt-zer had hol-le-red at her abo-ut it.
But ot-her than the gra-ve-si-de vi-si-tors and the jog-ging wo-man, the
ce-me-tery was de-ser-ted.
Finally, they spot-ted Barry and his fat-her. They we-re using a cha-in
ho-ist to lift a fal-len tombs-to-ne.
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"Wow," Do-ug sa-id, spe-aking for the first ti-me sin-ce the-ir
ar-gu-ment. "The storm must ha-ve be-en even stron-ger than we tho-ught."
Timmy nod-ded, only half-lis-te-ning. He was stud-ying Clark Smelt-zer' s
pos-tu-re, lo-oking for clu-es to his de-me-anor. All signs po-in-ted to bad.
Barry mo-ved li-ke a whip-ped dog, and even from this dis-tan-ce, they co-uld
he-ar Clark sho-uting or-ders at him.
"We can' t get to the Du-go-ut with them wor-king down the-re." Timmy
pic-ked a bla-de of grass and put it in his mo-uth, che-wing the tip. "Mr.
Smelt-zer wo-uld see us for su-re."
Neither Barry nor his fat-her had spot-ted them yet. They we-re too
ab-sor-bed in the-ir task. The mo-ur-ners had got-ten back in-to the-ir car
and left, and Mrs. Nel-son was all the way on the ot-her si-de of the
ce-me-tery now.
"Come on," Timmy sa-id. "Let's sne-ak over to the shed whi-le they're
busy. We'll ta-ke a lo-ok at the ca-ve ent-ran-ce."
"What if he catc-hes us? If we're down in-si-de the tun-nel, we might not
he-ar him co-ming."
"We'll he-ar him. Be-si-des, it's not li-ke we can ac-tu-al-ly go in-si-de
it right now, any-way.
We pro-mi-sed Barry that we' d wa-it for him. I just want to check it out
a lit-tle mo-re."
"Okay," Do-ug ag-re-ed, still so-un-ding un-su-re.
They cut thro-ugh the grass, duc-king be-hind tombs-to-nes and
mo-nu-ments, trying to stay out of Clark Smelt-zer' s li-ne of sight. Timmy
no-ti-ced mo-re sun-ken gra-ves, and when they pas-sed by his grand-fat-her '
s plot, he was dis-ma-yed to see that the dirt had fal-len in even mo-re. For
a mo-ment, he ima-gi-ned him-self exp-lo-ring the ca-verns be-low, and
stumb-ling ac-ross his grand-fat-her 's cof-fin-or even a body. A hi-de-o-us
ima-ge, but one he'd se-en a tho-usand ti-mes be-fo-re in the pa-ges of Ho-use
of Sec-rets and The Witc-hing Ho-ur.
They we-re al-most to the shed when Mrs. Nel-son circ-led ro-und aga-in,
this ti-me on the ro-ad that ran bet-we-en the old por-ti-on of the ce-me-tery
and the new one. They hid be-hind a mo-nu-ment un-til she 'd pas-sed by, and
then dar-ted out and cros-sed the path. They duc-ked be-hind the shed and
knelt at the win-dow.
"What the hell?" Timmy po-un-ded his fist aga-inst the new bo-ards that
had be-en na-iled up over-night. "Barry' s old man must ha-ve fo-und out. No
won-der Mrs. Smelt-zer sa-id he was pis-sed off."
Doug slap-ped at a mos-qu-ito. The squ-is-hed in-sect left a red sme-ar on
his palm. "Oh, man. Won-der how much tro-ub-le Barry got in-to?"
"God," Timmy sa-id. "I don't even want to think abo-ut it. De-pends on
whet-her or not his dad fi-gu-red out we we-re the ones clim-bing thro-ugh
the-re when he wasn't aro-und." Timmy pa-used to la-ce up his Con-ver-se
All-Stars, which had co-me un-do-ne, whi-le Do-ug ins-pec-ted the win-dow. "I
don't see what the big de-al is. Barry's al-lo-wed in the-re when he has his
old man' s keys." "Ye-ah, but no-body 's sup-po-sed to be in the-re when he
isn't aro-und-espe-ci-al-ly us. And be-si-des, when ha-ve any of Mr.
Smelt-zer' s ru-les ma-de sen-se? He ma-kes a big de-al out of everyt-hing."
"If he do-es know, you think he 'll tell our pa-rents?" "I don't know," Timmy
sa-id. "I do-ubt it. He knows that my dad do-esn' t think much of him." Do-ug
po-ked the dirt with a stick. "You don 't think& you don't sup-po-se he'd hit
us? The way he do-es Barry?" "I'd li-ke to see him try," Timmy sa-id. "I' d
kick his drun-ken ass."
From be-hind them, Clark Smelt-zer sa-id, "Is that so?" Timmy and Do-ug
both jum-ped, and Do-ug let out a frigh-te-ned squ-awk and drop-ped his stick.
Mr. Smelt-zer se-ized them by the ears, pinc-hing and twis-ting the
car-ti-la-ge. The boys sho-uted for help as he yan-ked them to the-ir fe-et
and spun them aro-und. He grin-ned. "Kick my ass, will you?"
"Let go," Timmy de-man-ded. "You 're hur-ting us." Do-ug star-ted to
whim-per. Timmy si-lently wil-led him not to cry, not to gi-ve Barry' s
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fat-her the sa-tis-fac-ti-on. "You 're hur-ting us," Timmy re-pe-ated. "You'
re god-damn right I am, you lit-tle brat." He re-le-ased them both and to-ok a
me-na-cing step for-ward. Crying out, Do-ug scramb-led back-ward, trip-ped,
and tumb-led over on-to the dirt pi-le, lan-ding flat on his back. Timmy
shrank aga-inst the wall of the shed. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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