《The_House_on_Maple_Street》(11)

'Well?' Laurie asked. She was dancing from foot to foot like someone who needs to go to the bathroom.

'I'm on hold. They're getting him.'

'What if he doesn't come?'

Trent shrugged. 'Then we're sunk. But he'll come. You wait and see.' He wished he could be as confident as he sounded, but he did still believe this would work. It had to work. 'We left it until awful late.'

Trent nodded. They had left it until awful late, and Laurie knew why. The study door was solid oak, plenty strong, but neither of them knew anything about the lock. Trent wanted to make sure Lew had only the shortest time possible to test it.

'What if he sees Brian and Lissie on the corner when he comes home?' 'If he gets as hot under the collar as I think he will, he wouldn't notice them if they were on stilts and wearing Day-Glo duncecaps,' Trent said.

'Why doesn't he answer the darn phone?' Laurie asked, looking at her watch.

'He will,' Trent said, and then their stepfather did.

'Hello?'

'It's Trent, Lew. Mom's in your study. Her headache must have come back, because she fainted. I can't wake her up. You better come home right away.' Trent was not surprised at his stepfather's first stated object of concern - it was, in fact, an integral part of his plan - but it still made him so angry his fingers turned white on the telephone.

'My study? My study? What the hell was she doing in there?'

In spite of his anger, Trent's voice came out calmly. 'Cleaning, I think.' And then tossed the ultimate bait to a man who cared a great deal more for work than wife: 'There are papers all over the floor.'

'I'll be right there,' Lew rapped, and then added: 'If there are any windows open in there, shut them, for God's sake. There's a storm coming.' He hung up without saying goodbye. 'Well?' Laurie asked as Trent hung up.

'He's on his way,' Trent said, and laughed grimly. 'The son of a bitch was so stirred up he didn't even ask what I was doing home from school. Come on.' They ran back to the intersection of Maple and Walnut. The sky had grown very dark now, and the sound of thunder had become almost constant. As they reached the blue U.S. mailbox on the corner, the streetlights along Maple Street began to come on two by two, marching away from them up the hill.

Lissa and Brian hadn't arrived yet.

'I want to come with you, Trent,' Laurie said, but her face proclaimed her a liar. It was very pale, and her eyes were too large, swimming with unshed tears.

'No way,' Trent said. 'Wait here for Brian and Lissa.' At their names, Laurie turned and looked down Walnut Street. She saw two kids coming, hurrying along with lunchboxes bouncing in their hands. Although they were too far away to make out faces, she was pretty sure it was them, and she told Trent. 'Good. The three of you go behind Mrs. Redland's hedge there and wait for Lew to pass. Then you can come up the street, but don't go in the house and don't let them, either. Wait for me outside.'

'I'm afraid, Trent.' The tears had begun to spill down her cheeks now.

'Me too, Sprat,' he said, and kissed her swiftly on the forehead. 'But it'll all be over soon.' Before she could say anything else, Trent went running up the street toward the Bradburys' house on Maple Street. He glanced at his watch as he ran. It was twelve past three.

The house had a still, hot air that scared him. It was as if gunpowder had been spilled in every corner, and people he could not see were standing by to light unseen fuses. He imagined the clock in the wine-cellar ticking relentlessly away, now reading

00:19:06

What if Lew was late?

No time to worry about that now.

Trent raced up to the third floor through the still, combustible air. He imagined he could feel the house stirring now, coming alive as the countdown neared its conclusion. He tried to tell himself that imagination was all it was, but part of him knew better. He went into Lew's study, opened two or three file-cabinets and desk drawers at random, and threw the papers he found all over the floor. This took only a few moments, but he was just finishing when he heard the Porsche coming up the street. Its engine wasn't snarling today; Lew had wound it up to a scream.

Trent stepped out of the office and into the shadows of the third-floor hallway, where they had drilled the first holes what seemed like a century ago. He rammed his hand into his pocket for the key, and his pocket was empty except for an old, crumpled lunch-ticket. I must have lost it running up the street. It must have bounced right out of my pocket. He stood there, sweating and frozen, as the Porsche squealed into the driveway. Its engine cut out. The driver's door opened and slammed shut. Lew's footsteps ran for the back door. Thunder crumped like an artillery shell in the sky, a stroke of bright lightning forked through the gloom, and, somewhere deep in the house, a powerful motor turned over, uttered a low, muffled bark, and then began to hum.

Jesus, oh dear Jesus, what do I do? What CAN I do? He's bigger than me! If I try to hit him over the head, he'll - He had slipped his left hand into his other pocket, and his thoughts broke off as it touched the old-fashioned metal teeth of the key. At some point during the long afternoon in the park, he must have transferred it from one pocket to the other without even being aware of it. Gasping, heart galloping in his stomach and throat as well as in his chest, Trent faded back down the hall to the luggage-closet, stepped inside, and pulled the accordion-style doors most of the way shut in front of him.