professor’s head must have clicked on. She homed in on Marshall sitting there and simply would not look away from him. He had no desire to draw any attention to himself—he was rapidly getting too much of that anyway, from the class—so he said nothing. But the professor seemed to examine him, searching his face as if it were familiar to her, as if she were trying to remember someone she had known before. The look that suddenly crossed her face gave Marshall a chill: she gave him a knifelike gaze, like the eyes of a treed cougar. He began to feel a corresponding defense instinct twisting a knot in his stomach.
“Is there something you want?” the professor demanded, and all Marshall could see were her two piercing eyes.
“I’m just waiting for my daughter,” he answered and his tone was courteous.
“Would you like to wait outside?” she said, and it wasn’t a question.
And he was out in the hall. He leaned against the wall, staring at the linoleum, his mind spinning, his senses scrambled, his heart pounding. He had no understanding of why he was there, but he was out in the hall. Just like that. How? What happened? Come on, Hogan, stop shaking and think!
He tried to replay it in his mind, but it came back slowly, stubbornly, like recalling a bad dream. That woman’s eyes! The way they looked told him she somehow knew who he was, even though they had never met—and he had never seen or felt such hate. But it wasn’t just the eyes; it was also the fear; the steadily rising, face-draining, heart-poundingfear that had crept into him for no reason, with no visible cause. He had been scared half to death … by nothing! It made no sense at all. He had never run or backed down from anything in his life. But now, for the first time in his life …
For the first time? The image of Alf Brummel’s gazing gray eyes flashed across his mind, and the weakness returned. He blinked the image away and took a deep breath. Where was the old Hogan gut strength? Had he left it back in Brummel’s office?
But he had no conclusions, no theories, no explanations, only derision for himself. He muttered, “So I gave in again, like a rotted tree,” and like a rotted tree he leaned against the wall and waited.
In a few minutes the door to the lecture hall burst open and students began to fan outward like bees from a hive. They ignored him so thoroughly that Marshall felt invisible, but that was fine with him for now.
Then came Sandy. He straightened up, walked toward her, started to say hello … and she walked right by! She didn’t pause, smile, return his greeting, anything! He stood there dumbly for a moment, watching her walk down the hall toward the exit.
Then he followed. He wasn’t limping, but for some reason he felt like he was. He wasn’t really dragging his feet, but they felt like lead weights. He saw his daughter go out the door without looking back. The clunk of the big door’s closing echoed through the huge hall with a ponderous, condemning finality, like the crash of a huge gate dividing him forever from the one he loved. He stopped there in the broad hall, numb, helpless, even tottering a little, his big frame looking very small.
Unseen by Marshall, small wisps of sulfurous breath crept along the floor like slow water, along with an unheard scraping and scratching over the tiles.
Like a slimy black leech, the little demon clung to him, its taloned fingers entwining Marshall’s legs like parasitic tendrils, holding him back, poisoning his spirit. The yellow eyes bulged out of the gnarled face, watching him, boring into him.
Marshall was feeling a deep and growing pain, and the little spirit knew it. This man was getting hard to hold down. As Marshall stood there in the big empty hall, the hurt, the love, the desperation began to build inside him; he could feel the tiniest remaining ember of fight stillburning. He started for the door.
Move, Hogan, move! That’s your daughter!
With each determined
“Is there something you want?” the professor demanded, and all Marshall could see were her two piercing eyes.
“I’m just waiting for my daughter,” he answered and his tone was courteous.
“Would you like to wait outside?” she said, and it wasn’t a question.
And he was out in the hall. He leaned against the wall, staring at the linoleum, his mind spinning, his senses scrambled, his heart pounding. He had no understanding of why he was there, but he was out in the hall. Just like that. How? What happened? Come on, Hogan, stop shaking and think!
He tried to replay it in his mind, but it came back slowly, stubbornly, like recalling a bad dream. That woman’s eyes! The way they looked told him she somehow knew who he was, even though they had never met—and he had never seen or felt such hate. But it wasn’t just the eyes; it was also the fear; the steadily rising, face-draining, heart-poundingfear that had crept into him for no reason, with no visible cause. He had been scared half to death … by nothing! It made no sense at all. He had never run or backed down from anything in his life. But now, for the first time in his life …
For the first time? The image of Alf Brummel’s gazing gray eyes flashed across his mind, and the weakness returned. He blinked the image away and took a deep breath. Where was the old Hogan gut strength? Had he left it back in Brummel’s office?
But he had no conclusions, no theories, no explanations, only derision for himself. He muttered, “So I gave in again, like a rotted tree,” and like a rotted tree he leaned against the wall and waited.
In a few minutes the door to the lecture hall burst open and students began to fan outward like bees from a hive. They ignored him so thoroughly that Marshall felt invisible, but that was fine with him for now.
Then came Sandy. He straightened up, walked toward her, started to say hello … and she walked right by! She didn’t pause, smile, return his greeting, anything! He stood there dumbly for a moment, watching her walk down the hall toward the exit.
Then he followed. He wasn’t limping, but for some reason he felt like he was. He wasn’t really dragging his feet, but they felt like lead weights. He saw his daughter go out the door without looking back. The clunk of the big door’s closing echoed through the huge hall with a ponderous, condemning finality, like the crash of a huge gate dividing him forever from the one he loved. He stopped there in the broad hall, numb, helpless, even tottering a little, his big frame looking very small.
Unseen by Marshall, small wisps of sulfurous breath crept along the floor like slow water, along with an unheard scraping and scratching over the tiles.
Like a slimy black leech, the little demon clung to him, its taloned fingers entwining Marshall’s legs like parasitic tendrils, holding him back, poisoning his spirit. The yellow eyes bulged out of the gnarled face, watching him, boring into him.
Marshall was feeling a deep and growing pain, and the little spirit knew it. This man was getting hard to hold down. As Marshall stood there in the big empty hall, the hurt, the love, the desperation began to build inside him; he could feel the tiniest remaining ember of fight stillburning. He started for the door.
Move, Hogan, move! That’s your daughter!
With each determined
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