Free The Animal Hour by Andrew Klavan Page A

of them. All the beggars on the two rows of benches lining the path. All the grimy faces under the low boughs of the trees. They were all murmuring at her. Their lips were moving. Their eyes were all bright, white and bright. Their whispers floated up around her like tendrils of smoke, encircled her, enclosed her like wisps of smoke. And their words were like flies, like horseflies, swarming around her, nipping at her face as she swung her hand— Stop. Stop —to try and brush them off. The words closed over her:
    â€œEight o’clock.”
    â€œThat’s the hour.”
    â€œThat’s the Animal Hour.”
    â€œThat’s when he dies.”
    â€œYou have to be there.”
    â€œEight o’clock.”
    â€œThe Animal Hour.”
    â€œYou won’t forget now.”
    â€œDon’t forget.”
    With a small, frightened cry, she spun away from them. Turned her back on the double row of eyes and faces. Tears spilling down her cheeks, she raised both hands. Brought her purse up in front of her face as she tried to press both hands to her ears. But the whispers were still curling around her, the words still swarming at her ears.
    â€œDon’t forget.”
    â€œEight o’clock.”
    â€œThat’s when he dies.”
    â€œThat’s the Animal Hour.”
    It’s a dream , she thought. She felt the panic swelling in her. Swelling out of her stomach, into her chest, into her throat. She felt it was too much. She felt it would explode, that she would explode. A dream. A nightmare. Got to be. Got to be dreaming. Walking down that old nightmare road, that’s all. That nightmare highway. Her eyes were shut tight. The purse was in front of her face. Her hands were over her ears.
    â€œDon’t forget now.”
    â€œThe Animal Hour.”
    â€œDon’t forget.”
    In a second, in a second, I’ll be in my bed. My heart’ll be bumpety-bumping against the old mattress. Good old Mom’ll be in the kitchen. “Time to get up, Nancy. Time for work.” The sizzle of a pair of eggs frying. I don’t even like eggs, but that Mom, she always makes ’em for me. Good old Mom. Making those eggs. Those stupid, oppressive, insistent eggs. Why didn’t I move out? Why didn’t I leave home like an adult, for Christ’s sake? For Christ’s sake, they’re driving me crazy. They’ve driven me crazy!
    â€œThat’s when he dies, Nancy.”
    â€œDon’t forget.”
    â€œEight o’clock. Eight o’clock.”
    Oh, Jesus, wake me up, wake me up, Mom. Make this stop, okay? You can make the damned eggs. Fry me right up a hearty pair of those over-easies, okay? Okay, Mom? Just make this stop. Just please make this …
    A hand clapped down upon her shoulder: The smell of sulfur went up her nose, down her throat. Her eyes wide, wild, she swung around. She screamed—or tried to scream. The sound turned to dust in her mouth. It choked her. Made her gag.
    The beggar. That first beggar. With his hanging jowls and his knotted hair. He was right there, right in front of her. His clawed hand, his festering hand, was on her shoulder. The chancres on his loose-fleshed cheeks pressed into her face. That thin screak, that mocking cackle:
    â€œYou won’t forget now.”
    He grinned and pressed down on her.
    She cried out. She tore herself out of his grip. Stumbled backward, away from him.
    â€œLeave me alone!” Her voice was ragged with tears.
    The gray-haired beggar grinned. He shuffled toward her. The other beggars hunched on the benches grinned behind him. They murmured at her. They glared at her with white eyes.
    â€œEight o’clock,” said the beggar before her.
    Nancy’s hands were down now in front of her. Her purse hung open in front of her. She looked down and saw it. Oh God! she thought. She jammed her right hand into the open purse.
    â€œGet away from me,” she said. Spit flew from her