Free The Orchard by Charles L. Grant Page A

silent order to stop worrying about the boy.
    “It must be hard,” she said quietly when they’d moved on.
    “Hard?”
    “Seeing that girl last week. The one who was killed, I mean. And having Leslie.”
    He nodded. It was. It was damned hard, and he could tell she wanted him to talk about it, share some of it, ease the concern by shifting some of the burden. But he couldn’t. He had, over the course of their friendship, told her virtually everything else, but trying to explain what it was like to be a parent would have to wait—because she couldn’t know, she couldn’t possibly know how it felt whenever his son walked out of the house and left him alone.
    Victoria understood, he thought then, with a suddenness that confused him, made him frown. Her own son lived with his father in California. But the difference there was, that boy had left and hadn’t returned.
    On the porch they kissed goodnight, but he sensed it wasn’t the same as it had been other times.
    Denise, and Victoria.
    Y’know, he told himself on the way home, you could wind up in a hell of a lot of trouble, pal, if you don’t watch your step.
    But was he ready for another wife? And if he was, would it be her?
    He paused in midstep; for a disconcerting moment he didn’t know which woman he meant.
    “Oh, boy,” he whispered, not sure if he felt pleased or on edge. “Oh, boy, Brett, you’re asking for it now.”
    He turned left at the corner, listening to his shoes on the pavement, listening to the nightbirds stir through the mist, slowing three doors from home when he found himself listening to something walking behind him.
    Quiet steps, muffled, as the mist thickened to fog and sifted down across his face, making his skin feel clammy, making his shirt feel as if it had just been washed and not dried.
    Arrhythmically, then in cadence.
    Just as they had been on all the other nights.
    He didn’t turn around; he didn’t sense imminent danger. But that didn’t prevent him from stopping at his front walk and reaching down to flick a dead leaf off the flagstone while he looked back up the street and saw nothing but the fog blowing through the streetlight.
    Nice move, cop, he thought as he hurried to the steps and took them two at a time; nothing like being a little obvious, huh?
    He was reaching for his keys when he heard them again, and this time knew he was wrong; this time there was someone out there who didn’t like him at all.
    He spun around, dropping into a crouch, his jacket slipping with a hiss to the damp porch floor.
    The walk was empty; there was no one in the yard.
    Nerves, he decided when he finally went inside. Those women have got you thinking about things you’d best forget. He poured himself a drink and looked out the window, shuddering when he saw the moon glowing in the mist, nearly dropping the glass when the night filled with sirens.
     
    Rising like a nightflower against the full of the moon, lifting slowly to a grey silhouette that raised its head high, that held its forelegs still, that turned a red eye to the land spread below and listened for the sound that would signal its charge …
     
    On Monday morning, Brett decided he was going to run away and join the Foreign Legion. He knew, he just knew this was going to be one of those days.
    The Saturday night sirens had only been a signal for a fire on the Pike, but the state of his nerves had him call Denise for an hour’s mindless talk. And no sooner had he hung up than Victoria had called; she’d been looking at a picture of her son and needed to hear someone’s voice. Another hour passed, and he met her for lunch the next day, and took a Sunday stroll in the park. Not once did she ask him how Leslie was doing. Not once did he feel guilty about not being with Denise.
    And last night, he’d been up late, waiting for his son, who had insisted that going out on a Sunday wasn’t the end of the world; besides, he was only going to do some studying with Evelyn. Brett had