The Orchard by Charles L. Grant Page A

worry. “Jesus, what am I gonna do?”
    Brett sagged against the door and waved a weary hand. “Where were you?” he asked. “Where the hell have you been?”
    “Out.”
    “No shit,” he snapped. “I’ve been looking for you all goddamned day!” He raised his head and glared. “Stockton wants me to bring you in. To talk,” he added hastily. “There aren’t any charges; you don’t have to worry.”
    Les laughed, but there was no humor in his smile. “Oh, right, Dad, sure. No charges. But let’s not forget that Les was with each of those girls before they died, okay? And I suppose you know that Amy and I went for a walk in the park, too. I know she talked to you. She told me.” And his arm lashed out at Brett’s chair, knocking it several inches to one side.
    Brett nodded, wanting to go over there and put his arms around the boy, comfort him, say something that would banish the fear. But he couldn’t move. Not now. Now he was a cop, and now he was a father, and now he wished to hell Stockton wasn’t so goddamned understanding.
    “So now what?” Les said dully.
    “Now … now you tell me how you knew about this. The radio? Someone call? What?”
    “Denise,” the boy said.
    Brett stared at him stupidly. “Denise?”
    “Right. That’s where I’ve been since school practically. Jesus, didn’t you know any of that?” He laughed again, and sniffed as if he were trying not to cry.  “She  talks to me, Dad.  She  had the time.  She’s  the one who told me I ought to think about moving out.”
    “She … what?”
    Les started for the kitchen, changed his mind, and stopped in front of him. “Yeah, right. I’m eighteen, remember? It’s legal. And I sure don’t get much sympathy around here.”
    Brett covered his face, dropped his hands. “That’s crazy, boy. This isn’t the time to talk about it, but you aren’t moving out. Certainly not now.”
    “Why? Because you think I killed my friends?”
    Brett raised a hand to slap him and Les grabbed the wrist to force it back down. “You can’t hold me anymore, Dad. You can’t. You don’t let me breathe, I have to check in and check out like I was some kind of—”
    Brett yanked his hand free and slammed its heel against the boy’s shoulder, knocking him back to arm’s distance. “I told you this wasn’t the time for that. You don’t seem to realize, boy, what the hell’s happening.” He stopped to take a breath, take another. “Now listen to me and no arguments. Get your coat. You’re coming with me so we can straighten it all out. Now. Before it gets any worse.”
    “The hell I am. I’ll go by myself.”
    He was too shaken to resist when Les moved him out of the way and opened the door; he was too torn between rage and weeping to prevent him from running down the walk, vaulting the gate, and disappearing into the dark. And when he finally stopped trembling, finally dispelled the sensation he was suffocating in a coffin, he grabbed up the telephone and dialed Denise’s number.
    Who the hell did she think she was, handing out advice like that, especially to his son? She knew full well the kind of trouble the boy was facing. What she was doing didn’t make any sense.
    “Hello?”
    And she had told Amy that practical was out and dreaming was all right.
    “Hello?”
    “Denise,” he said, his voice hollow.
    Jesus, it was as if she actually wanted him—
    “Oh, Brett, thank god! I was so worried about you. I heard about poor Amy and I couldn’t imagine—”
    He hung up.
    He stared at the receiver, heard her voice, heard echoes of other words and finally cornered them, listened to them, and realized what they’d been doing.
    He was being isolated.
    He was being eased into a room with no doors, no windows, and only she had the means to get him out again.
    Dream, she had told Amy; dream, and it’ll be yours.
    With a directionless oath he raced for the door, flung it open, and charged down the walk. The gate latch jammed, and he