which could almost have been sleek locks of slick hair. He felt something, all right. Perhaps it was nothing but childish awe of the unknown, the terror kids feel when standing in front of houses their hearts tell them are haunted. Or perhaps it was really what Curt said. Perhaps it was watching them. Gauging the distance.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
They looked at it, hardly breathing. It sat there, as it would sit for all the years to come, while Presidents came and went, while records were replaced by CDs, while the stock market went up and a space shuttle exploded, while movie-stars lived and died and Troopers came and went in the Troop D
barracks. It sat there real as rocks and roses. And to some degree they all felt what Mister Dillon had felt: the draw of it. In the months that followed, the sight of cops standing there side by side in front of Shed B became common. They would stand with their hands cupped to the sides of their faces to block the light, peering in through the windows running across the front of the big garage door. They looked like sidewalk superintendents at a building site. Sometimes they went inside, too (never alone, though; when it came to Shed B, the buddy system ruled), and they always looked younger when they did, like kids creeping into the local graveyard on a dare.
Curt cleared his throat. The sound made the other two jump, then laugh nervously. 'Let's go inside and call the Sarge,' he said, and this time
NOW:
Sandy
'. . .and that time I didn't say anything. Just went along like a good boy.'
My throat was as dry as an old chip. I looked at my watch and wasn't exactly surprised to see that over an hour had gone by. Well, that was all right; I was off duty. The day was murkier than ever, but the faint mutters of thunder had slid away south of us.
'Those old days,' someone said, sounding both sad and amused at the same time - it's a trick only the Jews and the Irish seem to manage with any grace. 'We thought we'd strut forever, didn't we?'
I glanced around and saw Huddie Rover, now dressed in civilian clothes, sitting on Ned's left. I don't know when he joined us. He had the same honest Farmer John face he'd worn through the world back in
'79, but now there were lines bracketing the corners of his mouth, his hair was mostly gray, and it had gone out like the tide, revealing a long, bright expanse of brow. He was, I judged, about the same age Ennis Rafferty had been when Ennis did his Judge Crater act. Huddie's retirement plans involved a Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
Winnebago and visits to his children and grandchildren. He had them everywhere, so far as I could make out, including the province of Manitoba. If you asked - or even if you didn't - he'd show you a US map with all his proposed routes of travel marked in red.
'Yeah,' I said. 'I guess we did, at that. When did you arrive, Huddie?'
'Oh, I was passing by and heard you talking about Mister Dillon. He was a good old doggie, wasn't he? Remem-ber how he'd roll over on his back if anyone said You're under arrest?'
'Yeah,' I said, and we smiled at each other, the way men do over love or history.
'What happened to him?' Ned asked.
'Punched his card,' Huddie said. 'Eddie Jacubois and I buried him right over there.' He pointed toward the scrubby field that stretched up a hill north of the barracks. 'Must be fifteen years ago. Would you say, Sandy?'
I nodded. It was actually fourteen years, almost to the day.
'I guess he was old, huh?' Ned asked.
Phil Candleton said, 'Getting up there, yes, but - '
'He was poisoned,' Huddie said in a rough, outraged voice, and then said no more.
'If you want to hear the rest of this story - ' I began.
'I do, 'Ned replied at once. .
' - then I need to wet my whistle.'
I started to get up just as Shirley came out with a tray in her hands. On it was a plate of thick sandwiches - ham and
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
They looked at it, hardly breathing. It sat there, as it would sit for all the years to come, while Presidents came and went, while records were replaced by CDs, while the stock market went up and a space shuttle exploded, while movie-stars lived and died and Troopers came and went in the Troop D
barracks. It sat there real as rocks and roses. And to some degree they all felt what Mister Dillon had felt: the draw of it. In the months that followed, the sight of cops standing there side by side in front of Shed B became common. They would stand with their hands cupped to the sides of their faces to block the light, peering in through the windows running across the front of the big garage door. They looked like sidewalk superintendents at a building site. Sometimes they went inside, too (never alone, though; when it came to Shed B, the buddy system ruled), and they always looked younger when they did, like kids creeping into the local graveyard on a dare.
Curt cleared his throat. The sound made the other two jump, then laugh nervously. 'Let's go inside and call the Sarge,' he said, and this time
NOW:
Sandy
'. . .and that time I didn't say anything. Just went along like a good boy.'
My throat was as dry as an old chip. I looked at my watch and wasn't exactly surprised to see that over an hour had gone by. Well, that was all right; I was off duty. The day was murkier than ever, but the faint mutters of thunder had slid away south of us.
'Those old days,' someone said, sounding both sad and amused at the same time - it's a trick only the Jews and the Irish seem to manage with any grace. 'We thought we'd strut forever, didn't we?'
I glanced around and saw Huddie Rover, now dressed in civilian clothes, sitting on Ned's left. I don't know when he joined us. He had the same honest Farmer John face he'd worn through the world back in
'79, but now there were lines bracketing the corners of his mouth, his hair was mostly gray, and it had gone out like the tide, revealing a long, bright expanse of brow. He was, I judged, about the same age Ennis Rafferty had been when Ennis did his Judge Crater act. Huddie's retirement plans involved a Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
Winnebago and visits to his children and grandchildren. He had them everywhere, so far as I could make out, including the province of Manitoba. If you asked - or even if you didn't - he'd show you a US map with all his proposed routes of travel marked in red.
'Yeah,' I said. 'I guess we did, at that. When did you arrive, Huddie?'
'Oh, I was passing by and heard you talking about Mister Dillon. He was a good old doggie, wasn't he? Remem-ber how he'd roll over on his back if anyone said You're under arrest?'
'Yeah,' I said, and we smiled at each other, the way men do over love or history.
'What happened to him?' Ned asked.
'Punched his card,' Huddie said. 'Eddie Jacubois and I buried him right over there.' He pointed toward the scrubby field that stretched up a hill north of the barracks. 'Must be fifteen years ago. Would you say, Sandy?'
I nodded. It was actually fourteen years, almost to the day.
'I guess he was old, huh?' Ned asked.
Phil Candleton said, 'Getting up there, yes, but - '
'He was poisoned,' Huddie said in a rough, outraged voice, and then said no more.
'If you want to hear the rest of this story - ' I began.
'I do, 'Ned replied at once. .
' - then I need to wet my whistle.'
I started to get up just as Shirley came out with a tray in her hands. On it was a plate of thick sandwiches - ham and
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