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

cap and bringing it in. She was, indeed, a rare creature, and despite all Kelly's grousing, Pat hoped she would find the man she was looking for before long. Whoever he was, he was never going to know just how lucky he would be.
    She lifted the lid and reached in, snatched her hand back as her eyes focused on what lay inside.
    It was a glove. Brown leather, and fringed at the cuff.

9

    THE discovery was something akin to a physical blow. Expecting to find her cap in the box, she found instead Oliver's glove, usually seen poking out of one of his hip pockets. She almost dropped it. Changed her mind and stood by the door, looking at but not seeing the frame-high glass panel so marked with facets you couldn't look through it without your eyes watering. Her arm dropped slowly and the glove dangled toward the floor. Oliver, she thought; how long had he been out there last night? And what had he seen?
    She passed a hand over her forehead, made a fist and rubbed at her left eye. This was silly. It was obvious he had been at Harriet's to whatever hour and had walked by here, perhaps on the chance of seeing a light on in her apartment. He might have wanted to apologize for his less than generous moods lately. Or maybe he was just nosy. Whichever it had been, the hedge had proba bly snagged the glove from his pocket and he hadn't noticed.
    A slow, brief constriction in her chest made her hold her breath. And who, she asked silently, is being less than generous now?
    The nightmare. The wind. She knew as she opened the door she was in no condition to face her classes today, despite the triumphant news she'd received at the meeting. She glanced over her shoulder at the stairs ,, thinking she might be able to get back up in time to call Harriet. A horn stopped her, and she was down the steps and rapping on the passenger window of a much- traveled sedan. Harriet leaned over and rolled it down.
    "I'm not going," Pat said apologetically. "I'm sorry, Harriet, but something's come up and I'll not be in today. You can spread the word if you want, and I'll call the dean. If you have a chance, would you mind tacking a sign to my office door? I'll be in on Monday, for sure."
    Harriet's face pinched in concern. "Doc, you okay?"
    "Nothing I can't handle, Harriet. And I'm sorry again for dragging you over here."
    Harriet looked toward the street. A snow plow had been by at least once, but the snowfall had been too great, the temperature still too low —there was a thin and browning sheath over the blacktop, already begin ning to glisten where ice patches had formed. She looked back. "It's all right," she said, though her tone was unable to mask the reproach. "Maybe, if you feel better later, you can call Mr. Curtis and see about . . . you know."
    "Yes. Maybe I'll do that."
    She stepped away from the curb, kicking back through the hillock of plowed snow until she was on the sidewalk. She watched as Harriet drove away, rear tires spinning for a moment in apparent indication the girl was angry and wanted desperately to speed. Then, with a white-breathed sigh, she hurried back upstairs and called Constable. Neither he nor Danvers was in his office, but she left a message with both secretaries and assured them vigorously she would return on Monday in one piece. Once done, she stood by the kitchen's back window and stared at the trees.
    The pressure was supposed to be over. She was not supposed to continue to have these fantasies of surveil lance and menace. It bothered her to think she might not be as strong and resilient as she'd thought, bothered her more that she could not stand being in the apartment one moment longer. Yet there was no escaping the sensations that trailed after her as she headed quickly toward the door: that the ceilings were beginning to lower by incredibly slow inches, that the furniture was more suited to a funeral parlor than a home, that there were whisperings in the corners that could have been the hot water streaming through