[Oxrun Station] The Bloodwind by Charles L. Grant Page A

thought with a sour grin, then turned to the clock and gasped when she saw it was fifteen past nine.
    A race, then, to finish her breakfast, to sweep on her makeup, to dress and get halfway to the door before she remembered that Kelly and Abbey were taking her car today. She cursed her generosity and ran back to the kitchen, dialed their number and cursed again, loudly, when nobody answered.
    "Great," she said to the room. "Just great."
    Neither Greg nor Janice was at home, either, and she almost despaired until she remembered Harriet. One block over on Fox Road. The telephone book was in the cabinet under the sink, and she wasted a few moments looking under the H's until she caught herself, forced herself to sit down and regain some control.
    It was more than the dream that had unnerved her. And it was more than the wind that had driven her to her knees. Somewhere, back where she tried to imagine herself the best possible teacher, she could not quite believe that Greg had been right, that Harriet and the two boys were that angry with her simply because she hadn't gotten them their show as quickly as they'd hoped. Had he been talking about anyone else she would have had no trouble; Oliver, however, despite his excesses and his carefully tended temperament, surely had to be more realistic than that. And even if he wasn't, there was no way she could imagine dour Ben holding a grudge. Not against her. My god, not against her.
    A shuddering inhalation, and she dialed Harriet's number. Six rings later she answered.
    "So," Pat said, after explaining her predicament, "you think maybe I could hitch a ride with you?"
    There was a hesitation, a murmuring in the back ground. Then: "Sure, Doc." Brightly, almost too loudly. "Give me a couple of minutes, okay? I got to get my stuff together. Gee, you really shouldn't lend your car like that, you know? My pop always screams when I do something like that. Like I was lending it to Bonnie and Clyde, you know?"
    Pat told her she understood, then mentioned the weather and the snow and what they would be doing in class today until finally, several minutes after she'd begun, Harriet cut her off politely.
    "Doc, we're never going to get there, you know , if I don't start now. Though I guess it won't make any difference if I'm late, will it? I mean, you're my first class and since you're coming with me, I guess it doesn't make any difference at all."
    "You're right," Pat said, and rang off, leaned back in the chair and put a palm to her forehead. Shifted it to her throat, to the table, and watched the veins rise slowly on the back. It always happened when she was tense, or when she'd avoided something she'd feared might be unpleasant. Like asking Harriet if she'd known where the boys had been last night, or if it was true they were all so disappointed with her that they were slip ping away.
    She hadn't asked because she hadn't wanted to hear what the girl would say.
    And in that moment she felt a rush of indignation against Greg, for planting a seed that refused to be dislodged no matter how hard she tried.
    "Hell!"
    She took her time fetching coat and gloves and muffler, spent a useless ten minutes searching the apartment for her cap before she remembered —the last time she'd seen it, it had been lying in the middle of the street.
    The wind. It had been the wind.
    She opened the door slowly, her breathing sporadic, her tongue working at her lips as she took the stairs in a virtual crawl. The banister was wood-cold. The foyer tracked with melting snow brown around the edges. On the mail table by the door was a shoe box with a tented sheet of typing paper resting on top. She glanced at it as she reached for the doorknob, saw her name scrawled across it. A look to Goldsmith's door, to Kelly's, and she picked it up.
    The note was short: Found this on the walk before we left. You must have lost it last night. Is it yours?
    Abbey had signed it, and Pat smiled at the woman's thoughtfulness, finding her