shrieking of the car alarm combined with the unmistakable bellowing of the giant. The alarm seemed to be echoing everywhere, but the scream of the giant had pinpointed it.
“Over there!” shouted River, and he dashed in the direction he’d pointed. Penn was hot on his heels.
They arrived in time to find a Newcomer bum poking tentatively at the overturned car. He was examining the destruction with the fascination of a child discovering a dead animal. Penn and River looked around desperately. They knew that only the giant would have been capable of such a feat of strength and anger. But their target was nowhere in sight.
River pointed and said, “Let’s try down there.”
They took off at a fast run down the side street. River knew it was a long shot. The giant might already be a mile or so from the scene.
They did not notice the alleyway that they ran past. An alleyway that was filled with garbage and debris . . .
And in the darkness of the succoring shadows, the giant sat. His long legs were curled up against his chest, his massive arms holding them close. He stared up at the night sky . . .
And sobbed piteously.
C H A P T E R 8
G EORGE F RANCISCO ALWAYS looked forward to the family interaction that occurred around the dining room table. After a typical workday of dealing with—as Sikes so generously called them—the scum of the earth, George needed these nightly groundings back in the simple virtues of family.
Yes, that was all they were. A nice, simple, typical family.
George emerged from the kitchen into the dining room, a plate of raw meat carefully balanced on one hand, silverware clutched in the other. He called over his shoulder to his son, “Buck? There’s a jar of thymus sauce in the fridge. Would you bring it? Oh, and a spoon for the roundworms,” he added as an afterthought.
He glanced around. “Where’s your mother? And Emily?”
Upstairs in the bedroom, Susan checked her appearance in the mirror one more time.
All that discussion about the loyalty of husbands had gotten Susan somewhat edgy. She knew, beyond any question, that she had every reason to trust George and no reason not to. Still, the problem that women had with their husbands straying was certainly not something that Jessica had fabricated. Before she’d gotten a job, Susan had seen many daytime television programs—talk shows, soap operas—and spouses sleeping with people other than their mates appeared to be a preoccupation.
She wondered if there wasn’t something that she should be doing to make sure that George didn’t get—what was the word?—a roving eye.
Originally she had put on a totally comfortable sweatshirt and jeans. But now she had changed to one of her shorter skirts and a loose green blouse that she knew George liked in particular. It wasn’t exactly a come-hither outfit, which wouldn’t have been appropriate during a family dinner. But it was enough to draw some appreciative looks from her husband, that was certain. And later on the evening, well . . . who knew?
She smiled into the mirror and then walked out of the bedroom and down the hallway.
She heard George’s voice floating up the stairs. “Susan, are you up there? And Emily?”
“Coming down, George!” she called back, and paused at the door to Emily’s room. She rapped authoritatively. “Emily. Dinner.”
Instead of the door to Emily’s room opening, the bathroom door opened instead. Emily emerged with a towel wrapped around her, having just stepped out of the shower. “Two minutes, mother. I’ll be down in two minutes.”
Emily seemed to be walking a little oddly, as if reluctant for her mother to see her back. Susan frowned and said, “Are you all right? Have you injured yourself?”
“I’m fine. Really.” She sidled past her mother, and then Susan saw them. The startled gasp from her tipped Emily to the fact that her secret was out, and she turned to face her mother.
“I know, I know.”
Susan’s hands went to
“Over there!” shouted River, and he dashed in the direction he’d pointed. Penn was hot on his heels.
They arrived in time to find a Newcomer bum poking tentatively at the overturned car. He was examining the destruction with the fascination of a child discovering a dead animal. Penn and River looked around desperately. They knew that only the giant would have been capable of such a feat of strength and anger. But their target was nowhere in sight.
River pointed and said, “Let’s try down there.”
They took off at a fast run down the side street. River knew it was a long shot. The giant might already be a mile or so from the scene.
They did not notice the alleyway that they ran past. An alleyway that was filled with garbage and debris . . .
And in the darkness of the succoring shadows, the giant sat. His long legs were curled up against his chest, his massive arms holding them close. He stared up at the night sky . . .
And sobbed piteously.
C H A P T E R 8
G EORGE F RANCISCO ALWAYS looked forward to the family interaction that occurred around the dining room table. After a typical workday of dealing with—as Sikes so generously called them—the scum of the earth, George needed these nightly groundings back in the simple virtues of family.
Yes, that was all they were. A nice, simple, typical family.
George emerged from the kitchen into the dining room, a plate of raw meat carefully balanced on one hand, silverware clutched in the other. He called over his shoulder to his son, “Buck? There’s a jar of thymus sauce in the fridge. Would you bring it? Oh, and a spoon for the roundworms,” he added as an afterthought.
He glanced around. “Where’s your mother? And Emily?”
Upstairs in the bedroom, Susan checked her appearance in the mirror one more time.
All that discussion about the loyalty of husbands had gotten Susan somewhat edgy. She knew, beyond any question, that she had every reason to trust George and no reason not to. Still, the problem that women had with their husbands straying was certainly not something that Jessica had fabricated. Before she’d gotten a job, Susan had seen many daytime television programs—talk shows, soap operas—and spouses sleeping with people other than their mates appeared to be a preoccupation.
She wondered if there wasn’t something that she should be doing to make sure that George didn’t get—what was the word?—a roving eye.
Originally she had put on a totally comfortable sweatshirt and jeans. But now she had changed to one of her shorter skirts and a loose green blouse that she knew George liked in particular. It wasn’t exactly a come-hither outfit, which wouldn’t have been appropriate during a family dinner. But it was enough to draw some appreciative looks from her husband, that was certain. And later on the evening, well . . . who knew?
She smiled into the mirror and then walked out of the bedroom and down the hallway.
She heard George’s voice floating up the stairs. “Susan, are you up there? And Emily?”
“Coming down, George!” she called back, and paused at the door to Emily’s room. She rapped authoritatively. “Emily. Dinner.”
Instead of the door to Emily’s room opening, the bathroom door opened instead. Emily emerged with a towel wrapped around her, having just stepped out of the shower. “Two minutes, mother. I’ll be down in two minutes.”
Emily seemed to be walking a little oddly, as if reluctant for her mother to see her back. Susan frowned and said, “Are you all right? Have you injured yourself?”
“I’m fine. Really.” She sidled past her mother, and then Susan saw them. The startled gasp from her tipped Emily to the fact that her secret was out, and she turned to face her mother.
“I know, I know.”
Susan’s hands went to
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