Free And the Angels Sing by Kate Wilhelm Page A

the coast had not changed that. A storm like this, by God, should make news!
    Still scowling, he pulled on his own raincoat, a great, black waterproof garment that covered him to the floor. He added his black, wide-brimmed hat, and was ready for the weather. He knew that behind his back they called him Mountain Man, when they weren't calling him Fat Eddie. He secretly thought he looked more like The Shadow than not.
    He drove to Connally's Tavern and had a couple of drinks, sitting alone in glum silence, and then offered to drive Truman Cox home when the bar closed at two.
    The town of Lewisburg was south of Astoria, north of Cannon Beach, population nine hundred eighty-four. And at two in the morning they were all sleeping, the town blackened out by rain. There were the flickering night lights at the drug store, and the lights from the newspaper building, and two traffic lights, although no other traffic moved. Rain pelted the windshield and made a river through Main Street, cascaded down the side streets on the left, came pouring off the mountain on the right. Eddie made the turn onto Third and hit the brakes hard when a figure darted across the street.
    "Jesus!" he grunted as the car skidded, then caught and righted itself. "Who was that?"
    Truman was peering out into the darkness, nodding. The figure had vanished down the alley behind Sal's Restaurant. "Bet it was the Boland girl, the young one. Not Norma. Following her sister's footsteps."
    His tone was not condemnatory, even though everyone knew exactly where those footsteps would lead the kid.
    "She sure earned whatever she got tonight," Eddie said with a grunt, and pulled up into the driveway of Truman's house. "See you around."
    "Yep. Probably will. Thanks for the lift." He gathered himself together and made a dash for his porch.
    But he would be soaked anyway, Eddie knew. All it took was a second out in that driving rain. That poor, stupid kid, he thought again, as he backed out of the drive, retraced his trail for a block or two, and headed toward his own little house. On impulse he turned back and went down Second Street to see if the kid was still scurrying around; at least he could offer her a lift home. He knew where the Bolands lived, the two sisters, their mother, all in the trade now, apparently.
    But, God, he thought, the little one couldn't be more than twelve.
    The numbered streets were parallel to the coast line; the cross streets had become wind tunnels that rocked his car every time he came to one. Second Street was empty, black. He breathed a sigh of relief. He had not wanted to get involved anyway, in any manner, and now he could go on home, listen to music for an hour or two, have a drink or two, a sandwich, and get some sleep. If the wind ever let up. He slept very poorly when the wind blew this hard. What he most likely would do was finish the book he was reading, possibly start another one. The wind was good for another four or five hours.
    Thinking this way, he made another turn or two, and then saw the kid again, this time sprawled on the side of the road.
    If he had not already seen her once, if he had not been thinking about her, about her sister and mother, if he had been driving faster than five miles an hour, probably he would have missed her.
    She lay just off the road, face down. As soon as he stopped and got out of the car, the rain hit his face, streamed from his glasses, blinding him almost. He got his hands on the child and hauled her to the car, yanked open the back door and deposited her inside. Only then he got a glimpse of her face. Not the Boland girl. No one he had ever seen before. And as light as a shadow. He hurried around to the driver's side and got in, but he could no longer see her now from the front seat. Just the lumpish black raincoat that gleamed with water and covered her entirely. He wiped his face, cleaned his glasses, and twisted in the seat; he couldn't reach her, and she did not respond to his voice.
    He cursed