A Time of Predators

Of course. A lookout clown below, a relay on the porch.

Curt walked down the drive, crossed the blacktop, shut the door of the booth, and returned to the porch. Perfect. And in April the foliage would not have been as full as it was now, in high summer. In April a relay lookout couldn’t help seeing the girl in the booth if she stood up, pulled shut the door to make the light go on, and pretended to dial. The relay merely opened the front door, shouted...

But... a girl?

There were such women, of course, consorts of motorcycle gangs in leather jackets and stomping boots and Nazi helmets, but...

But who cared what sort? Not an individual girl, a human being at all, to Curt. Just... one of the predators. Tomorrow it would begin. The new search. No need of Archie Matthews now. Just find Glenn Way, start looking. Asking questions. Her folks had moved away previous to last April? Well, she hadn’t. Not just a street, not just a stone-faced house he had, but a name. Marsden. No first name, but again, who cared? He would learn it, would find her, would ask questions.

As he started up the stairs toward the bedroom, a momentary worry stopped him. What if she were innocent, not one of the gang, just a girl who had been out with a fresh date, had slapped a face, had begun walking home and had stopped at the phone booth to sit down and rest?

Curt shook it off. Too much coincidence. And besides, how had the predators known where to find Jimmy Anderson, if not through the girl in the phone booth? He had recognized her, it was reasonable to assume that she also had recognized him. Tomorrow...

Only when he was in bed with the lights out did Curt think again of Barbara Anderson, and then she returned to his memory with a warm rush of vaguely realized excitement. Sun-frosted brown hair, steady jade eyes, rounded mature curve of breast and hip and thigh as she moved between sink and cabinet with the dried dishes.

And she had asked him to call her — had almost demanded that he call her, in fact. Nothing more than a very natural desire to know about the predators who had threatened her and her child; and yet...

Perhaps just some tiny part of it personal, also? Some tiny part of it just between her and Curt? Some spark of emotion, perhaps?

Chapter 21

Debbie left her French exam and started back toward the dorm. As of right now, summer school was over; and summer itself rapidly was drawing to a close. But Debbie felt none of the sadness attributed by pops songwriters to that passing, because a path of joy, beginning tonight, stretched down the years for her and Rick. In half an hour he would pick her up and they would drive down to his folks’ cabin on the coast for the weekend. Just the two of them. It bothered her a little that she’d had to lie to her parents, tell them she was going to be staying at Cynthia’s place in San Jose — but it was so right with Rick!

Walking along she felt flushed, almost feverish, but knew that it was just excitement. Tonight... Cynthia said it wasn’t too bad, even the first time, if the boy was gentle. And Ricky would be gentle.

Up in her room, drifting on her dream, Debbie packed her Lady Baltimore train case with cosmetics and swim suit and the half-used card of C-Quens she had gotten from Cynthia, whose father was a druggist. She had been taking them for ten days, ever since deciding that she would give in to Rick’s entreaties and go to the cabin with him.

She snapped down the catches on the train case, picked it up, and saw for the first time a note that the house mother had put on her pillow. Debbie caught her breath. What if Ricky couldn’t... If she didn’t go through with it now, she wasn’t sure she could ever get herself steeled to say yes again.

But it was a university extension number. Whew. Probably just something to do with the French exam, or the glee club during the upcoming fall term, or maybe even with the student newspaper. It could wait until Monday when she got back and...

But she’d be rushed on Monday, clearing out her room to go stay with her folks until the new term started. Better call now, Ricky wasn’t here yet anyway. She went downstairs to the pay phone in the little alcove off the wood-paneled common room, dialed the university central switchboard and asked for the proper extension.

“Anthropology Department, Miss Reeves.”

Anthropology? She didn’t have any anthropology courses. “This is Debbie Marsden. I’m returning a call to your number that—”

“Oh yes,” said the flatly efficient voice, “I’ll connect you.”

“But...” But the key already was flicked. Anthropology? Who...

The line opened, a heavy voice said, “There you are, Miss Marsden. Curt Halstead here. I’m sorry I left no name on my message, but I wasn’t sure you would return my call in that case.”