didn't he walk out of here years ago?"
"Because he had it made here. He had his little empire."
Wynn shook his head and rolled his eyes heavenward, as exasperated with Loomis as Loomis was with him. "Then why did he take off from here all of a sudden?"
"Because . . ." Loomis had a strong, idea why: for the same reason why he was probably heading for Haddonfield. But if Wynn hadn't bought any of Loomis's explanations up to now, he sure as hell wouldn't accept any now. "I don't know why," Loomis snapped. "Why won't you announce this to the press?"
"You know why."
Loomis clapped his hand to his skull. "Yes, it looks bad for the hospital. You're willing to let a butcher roam the countryside so you can save your job. Oh, God , save me from bureaucrats!" he repeated more fervently. He started the car and rolled down the window. "I tell you this, Doctor Wynn, when the bodies start turning up, your job won't be worth an orderly's salary. You'll be lucky they don't send you to prison for gross negligence." He rolled up the window, jammed the shift into drive, and skittered out of the parking lot like a drag racer.
About three miles down the highway he was flagged down by a state policeman, who peered casually into the back seat and didn't even bother to make Loomis open the trunk. Loomis shook his head sadly and roared away from the roadblock, steering the nose of his car toward Haddonfield.
After an hour he came to a sign announcing "Haddonfield 73 miles," beside which was a telephone booth. Just beyond it, a red pickup truck was parked. The door of the dilapidated vehicle was open, but Loomis could not see anyone.
Loomis frowned and pulled over to kill several birds with one stone. He had to phone his wife, he had to take a leak, and he wanted to look at the truck with the open door.
In order of least importance, he called his wife.
"No," he said after a few familiar homilies, "not since Thursday . . . Yes, I'm all right. Stop worrying. After this I'll sleep for a week, two weeks. But for now, I must stop him. Of course it's possible," he replied to a conjecture as fatuous as some of Wynn's, "but I know him. And when he gets there, God help us." He gave her some more time-wasting assurances, drumming his fingers impatiently on the coin box. Then, as he was about to ring off, he said, "Oh, listen, dear. When they come around trick-or-treating tonight, why don't you just not answer the door. I know it's ridiculous, but just this once?"
He hung up and walked to a mound of high grass hidden from the road and relieved his burdened bladder, then went over to the truck to examine it. Perhaps it was merely one abandoned months ago. On the other hand . . .
On the seat lay a newspaper. Loomis pulled it out and looked at the date: October 30, 1978. Yesterday's.
He was about to return it to the seat when he noticed a crushed cigarette pack and a pack of matches half obscured by the dirt at his feet. He stooped to pick them up and read the message on the matchbook with fear clawing his heart: "The Rabbit-in-Red Lounge—Entertainment Nightly."
He raced back to the car, jumped in, started it, and roostertailed back onto the highway.
About six paces beyond where he'd urinated, a man lay in the grass. Except for his shorts, he was naked. His eyes stared in sightless horror at the clouds that had begun to roll in the sky. His body, however, lay stomach downward.
8
" . . . And the book ends, but what Samuels is really talking about here is fate."
Mrs. Fredericks shut the book with a thump, then went to the blackboard and with the side of a piece of chalk wrote the word fate in large bold letters. She then wrote the name Rollins in smaller letters about three feet away from fate , and connected the two with four arrows going from Rollins to fate, one of them direct, the other three describing large arcs.
Laurie had not been paying much attention to the morning lesson, for her mind kept drifting to the image of a six-year-old
"Because he had it made here. He had his little empire."
Wynn shook his head and rolled his eyes heavenward, as exasperated with Loomis as Loomis was with him. "Then why did he take off from here all of a sudden?"
"Because . . ." Loomis had a strong, idea why: for the same reason why he was probably heading for Haddonfield. But if Wynn hadn't bought any of Loomis's explanations up to now, he sure as hell wouldn't accept any now. "I don't know why," Loomis snapped. "Why won't you announce this to the press?"
"You know why."
Loomis clapped his hand to his skull. "Yes, it looks bad for the hospital. You're willing to let a butcher roam the countryside so you can save your job. Oh, God , save me from bureaucrats!" he repeated more fervently. He started the car and rolled down the window. "I tell you this, Doctor Wynn, when the bodies start turning up, your job won't be worth an orderly's salary. You'll be lucky they don't send you to prison for gross negligence." He rolled up the window, jammed the shift into drive, and skittered out of the parking lot like a drag racer.
About three miles down the highway he was flagged down by a state policeman, who peered casually into the back seat and didn't even bother to make Loomis open the trunk. Loomis shook his head sadly and roared away from the roadblock, steering the nose of his car toward Haddonfield.
After an hour he came to a sign announcing "Haddonfield 73 miles," beside which was a telephone booth. Just beyond it, a red pickup truck was parked. The door of the dilapidated vehicle was open, but Loomis could not see anyone.
Loomis frowned and pulled over to kill several birds with one stone. He had to phone his wife, he had to take a leak, and he wanted to look at the truck with the open door.
In order of least importance, he called his wife.
"No," he said after a few familiar homilies, "not since Thursday . . . Yes, I'm all right. Stop worrying. After this I'll sleep for a week, two weeks. But for now, I must stop him. Of course it's possible," he replied to a conjecture as fatuous as some of Wynn's, "but I know him. And when he gets there, God help us." He gave her some more time-wasting assurances, drumming his fingers impatiently on the coin box. Then, as he was about to ring off, he said, "Oh, listen, dear. When they come around trick-or-treating tonight, why don't you just not answer the door. I know it's ridiculous, but just this once?"
He hung up and walked to a mound of high grass hidden from the road and relieved his burdened bladder, then went over to the truck to examine it. Perhaps it was merely one abandoned months ago. On the other hand . . .
On the seat lay a newspaper. Loomis pulled it out and looked at the date: October 30, 1978. Yesterday's.
He was about to return it to the seat when he noticed a crushed cigarette pack and a pack of matches half obscured by the dirt at his feet. He stooped to pick them up and read the message on the matchbook with fear clawing his heart: "The Rabbit-in-Red Lounge—Entertainment Nightly."
He raced back to the car, jumped in, started it, and roostertailed back onto the highway.
About six paces beyond where he'd urinated, a man lay in the grass. Except for his shorts, he was naked. His eyes stared in sightless horror at the clouds that had begun to roll in the sky. His body, however, lay stomach downward.
8
" . . . And the book ends, but what Samuels is really talking about here is fate."
Mrs. Fredericks shut the book with a thump, then went to the blackboard and with the side of a piece of chalk wrote the word fate in large bold letters. She then wrote the name Rollins in smaller letters about three feet away from fate , and connected the two with four arrows going from Rollins to fate, one of them direct, the other three describing large arcs.
Laurie had not been paying much attention to the morning lesson, for her mind kept drifting to the image of a six-year-old
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