Savage Streets

Chapter Eleven

Lights gleamed on the first floor of Wayne Norton’s home. Norton stood in the doorway of the kitchen looking down at the dinner place that had been set for him in the yellow breakfast nook; square modern silverware, a service of white plate, salt and pepper shakers in the shapes of a rooster and hen, all of it placed neatly on a black plastic mat. He had been staring at the table for several minutes, standing motionless with his hands limp at his sides. His dinner was on the electric range: a tunafish casserole, salad and rolls.

Norton put a fist against his forehead and pressed hard against the pain pulsing heavily above his eyes. He wasn’t drunk; he was agonizingly sober. For another moment he stood in the doorway of the kitchen, and then he went quietly through the house and stepped into the powder room in the hallway. He scrubbed his hands thoroughly with soap and hot water, dried them on one of the tiny blue guest towels Janey’s mother had sent them last Christmas. There was a bottle of cologne in the cabinet above the hand basin. Norton rubbed the lemon-scented essence on his hands and face, then carefully combed bis smooth black hair.

For an instant he looked at himself in the mirror. There was nothing in his face to betray him; mild, incurious eyes stared back at him, in harmony with handsome undistinguished features, a tab-collar and neatly knotted tie. Except for the muscle twitching at the corner of his mouth, it was the reflection he bad observed with casual approval since he had reached maturity.

“Wayne?” It was Janey’s voice. “Wayne? Is that you?”

Norton’s face seemed to shimmer in the mirror, breaking with pain. Не leaned against the wall, breathing through his open mouth.

Janey called again, her querulous and rather childish voice drawing his name into two syllables. “Way — ane? Are you downstairs?”

Norton opened the door of the powder room and stepped into the hallway. He called up the stairs: “Hi, honey. I thought you were asleep.”

“No, I was reading. I’m glad you’re home.”

“Can I bring you anything when I come up?”

“I’d love a glass of hot milk. With just a little sugar in it. Would you mind, honey?”

“Of course not. I’ll be right up.” He rubbed his forehead and blisters of cold sweat broke under his hand. “How’s Junior? All tucked away for the night?”

“He wanted to wait up to kiss you good night, but that’s just his clever way of getting another half hour of TV. He’s dead to the world.”

Norton went back to the kitchen and put a saucepan of milk on the stove. He set a tray with cup and saucer, sugar bowl, napkin and spoon.

Suddenly he had an impulse to shout: she liked it, she liked it. He could feel the words swelling in his tight throat, vile and blasphemous as prayers to the devil. With trembling fingers he put a cigarette in his mouth, and went into the dark living room. He paced the floor as if trying to escape his thoughts, his footsteps muffled on the thick carpet, his hands pressed tightly against his temples. But he could not exorcise the demons in his mind. Of course she liked it. The struggles and pleadings were all a trick, a clever act...

Cleo Soltis. He had picked up the things that had fallen from her shoulder bag and had seen her name lettered neatly on the identification card of a key chain. For some reason it had seemed important to put her purse back in order. He had collected her compact, her address book and coins, crawling about on his knees to do so, and all the time she had lain on the sofa with her face turned away from him, slight breasts rising and falling with her uneven breathing, her legs white and languid against the coarse fabric of the sofa. She was no longer crying.

He had put the purse in the crook of her arm and touched her warm wet cheek. The words he had said to her sounded wildly in his mind: “You’re not mad, are you? I’m a good man. I have a wife and a little son. They know I’m a good man.”

And then the blond boy on the floor had stirred and Norton had leaped away from the girl’s side to run through the darkness to his car.

His thoughts were like desperate prayers. Of course she wouldn’t give in without a struggle; that was part of the game. When she was older she would understand that.

He sat down at the telephone desk and snapped on the lamp. The room was neat and clean, efficiently poised for tomorrow; pillows straightened and plumped up, ashtrays emptied, Junior’s school books piled on a straight-back chair in the hallway. If I could just talk to her, he thought in despair. Why in God’s name had it happened? If they could meet in some quiet place, the two of them at ease, the things said forgotten, the shame and guilt dead between them, then he could make everything all right. He could explain it.

The image of this, and the peace it would bring him, were more vivid than the familiar room, the school books and soft lamplight, the fragrance of milk warming in the kitchen. She would listen to him quietly, that was important, that she listen to him without interrupting. Let him talk it out. She would understand then. She might even be a bit ashamed of herself. He would say, “I’m sorry if I seemed, well, impatient, but that is actually a compliment to you, don’t you see?” It was a good angle, he thought. He imagined her reaction to this flattery, a smile, winsome and knowing, and then her reply: “Well, there’s nothing to be sorry about, I guess. We both know that, don’t we?”

Then it would be over, everything just as it was before last night’s dreadful moment of fury and need. But he was in her power; only she could forgive him.

Norton reached out slowly and touched the telephone book. He felt the quickening stroke of his heart and had the sudden frightening feeling that he was being observed; he looked quickly into the shadows of the dining room, half-expecting to see someone watching him, but the room was empty and in the kitchen there was steam rising from the saucepan of milk.

He opened the telephone book to the suburban section. The figures and letters misted before his eyes, merging into meaningless whorls and angles. But finally the page came into focus. There were two Soltises listed, Frank L., and Jeremiah and Sons, Plumbers. The emergency address of the plumbing company was in Rosedale. And Cleo lived in Hayrack. That meant — he tried desperately to think clearly — that meant Cleo must live with Frank L. Soltis. Who was he? A father? An uncle?

Until that instant Norton hadn’t thought of her as belonging to anyone else or living in relationship with other people. She had been an isolated human unit, without a past or future, with whom he had hoped to talk without interference or interruption; what had happened between them didn’t concern anybody else. But as Norton stared at the name of Frank L. Soltis, he felt a sharp, primitive fear — how could he explain that instant of blind compulsion to a father or brother? Naturally they would take her side; they’d think of her with cloying sentimentality, remembering her childish cuteness, the sleepy head snuggled against daddy’s shoulder, the games of girlhood, the jacks and skiprope, and the little-mother act, doing dishes in a big apron, dusting and sweeping like mommy and big sister. That’s what they’d remember — all the sweet things you could associate with any child. And he’d be the vicious degenerate who had destroyed that innocence.

The bitch, he thought. He knew her better than her family did. He knew all there was to know about that particular little piece.

As he lifted the receiver Janey’s voice sounded: “Way — ane? Isn’t that milk about ready?”

An uncomfortable dryness in his throat made it difficult for him to swallow. Little bitch, he thought. Wise and hard and cold. He started as Janey called again; he hadn’t heard her the first time.

“Way — ane?”

“Coming, honey.”

Janey was sitting up in bed with two pillows behind her back, her smooth, pretty face shining with cold cream. There was a blue ribbon in her dark hair. The room was a snug and scented little box, and Janey stretched out her arms to him like a child welcoming its father.

“You poor thing,” she said. “Am I such a nuisance?”

He kissed her on the cheek and put the tray on the bedside table. “I enjoy having a little nuisance around,” he said. There was cold cream on his lips and when he turned to pull up a chair he rubbed it off on the back of his hand. “Your mother make her train all right?” he asked.

“Naturally, she almost missed it. She had to have a last-minute conference with Junior about something I’m not supposed to know anything about for the time being. Honestly, what a pair of conspirators. It’s hard to tell which one is younger from the way they act.”

“That’s fine,” Norton said. He touched his forehead with his fingertips. The pain was intense. “And how was your day?”

She smiled as he raised the cup of milk to her lips. “I think you should miss dinner every now and then. It’s kind of exciting to be waiting for you for a change. What did John want?”

“John? Yes, John Farrell.” Norton struggled to control his thoughts; they were speeding in dangerously swift circles now, filling the inside of his head with bursts of white heat. “John wanted some information on one of our new services. Our bank, in the case of guaranteed accounts, will pay the depositor’s fixed bills on the first of the month — that is, items such as rent, insurance, car payments and so forth. The client can just forget about these details. We pay the bills from his account, and make sure they’re paid on time, which is particularly important in the event there’s a discount for payment before a specified date.” The familiar phrases, evoking a sane and orderly world, acted as brakes on the perilously spinning wheels of thought. “I explained how it worked to John, and he seemed quite interested.”

“Oh. Well, speaking of problems, mother and I solved one today.” She put the cup down and wiped a tiny cat’s whisker of milk from her lips. “You know how we planned to have the new baby in here with us for the first five or six months? Well, mother and I decided to start her off like a little lady with a room of her own. Now don’t say anything until you see what we’ve figured out: we’re going to make the guest room into a nursery. The curtains are white, and mother thinks they’ll do perfectly — for the time being at least. Then we’re going to find some bookcases for toys, and a daybed with some kind of a chintz fabric for the cover and the cushions. Cradle, bathinette and presto!” She smiled with happy eyes. “A nursery. Didn’t I tell you mother would figure it out?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Well, wait; here’s the second phase of Operation Nursery. We’re going to turn the study into a room mother can use when she stays overnight. It won’t be a proper guest room, but we don’t have overnight guests often enough to make any difference. Anyway, it will be just for mother and you know she doesn’t expect the bridal suite.”

“It’s not a very attractive room,” Norton said.

Janey laughed. “You know what mother said today? She said she could sleep hanging on a coathook if it meant being near Junior.”

“The television’s in there,” Norton said. “And those old books of mine. They can come out, I suppose.”

“Well, the TV could stay. Don’t you think she’d like it?”

“Yes, I’m sure she would.” He felt his thoughts spinning again and pressed the tips of fingers to his forehead. “I brought home some work to look over,” he said. “You’d better get to sleep now.”

She slid down in bed and he adjusted the pillows.

“I’m afraid I’m getting one of those cramps in my leg,” she said. “Just when I’m so sleepy I can’t keep my eyes open.”

“That’s a shame. Would you like me to massage it a bit?”

“It may be all right. It may go away.”

“There’s no point grinning and bearing it. Come on, turn over.”

“You’re so helpful I feel guilty sometimes.” She pushed the covers aside and rolled carefully onto her stomach. The room was warm and still and the lamp beside the bed gleamed on her slim smooth legs; she wore a pink nightie but the twisting of her body had pulled it up above her knees.

“Which is it?” he asked.

“The left. It always is, for some reason.”

He rubbed the back of her leg with the palm of his hand. The muscle in her calf was hard as India rubber. She had very pretty legs, rounded like a child’s with neat, slender ankles. Her skin was smooth and cool as ivory under his hands.

She snuggled her cheek against the pillow and made a murmuring sound of contentment.

“Better?” he said.

“Much! It’s like a miracle.”

“Is that enough?”

“You’re tired, aren’t you?”

“No, not a bit.”

“You’ve no idea how relaxing it is.”

“Well, fine.” He wanted to get away; his throat was unbearably dry. The flesh of his wife under his hands, smooth and soft and fragrant, meant nothing to him; it was the memory of another body, hard, wiry, young, the flesh less perfectly kept, less grateful and complaisant, it was that memory that had brought the cold tight ache to his stomach.

“I think that’s enough,” she said at last, her voice blurred with drowsy contentment. She was like a kitten or an infant; caresses soothed her, put her to sleep.

“I’ll go on down and get at my work,” he said. He adjusted the covers under her chin, murmured a good night and left the room quietly. Downstairs he took a bottle of whiskey from the emergency shelf in the kitchen, made himself a strong drink and drained it in two long swallows. How many had he had, he wondered. Four Martinis with Farrell, and a big whiskey.

That was more than he normally drank in a week, but he still wasn’t drunk; steady and bright, unblurred by liquor, was the knowledge that he must see this girl and set everything straight. Only she could absolve him from sin, release him from this rack of guilt. And if she understood and forgave him he would do anything at all for her. It wasn’t impossible that they might become friends later on. In fantasy’s sustaining warmth Norton saw a vision: in four or five years she would probably go to work in the city, and he might help her with the problems and adjustments that were part of anyone’s first job. He could tell her how to avoid the slippery ground of office politics and advise her on savings programs and pension and hospital plans. They might meet in a small bar after work and talk about these things. He saw himself in sharp kaleidoscopic patterns, striding down a street in the late fall, everyone else hurrying for trains and taxis and the cold wind pounding with excitement against the tall gray buildings. She would be waiting for him and smiling. They wouldn’t talk of the past but it would be a strong bright thread weaving itself nostalgically through their relationship.

Norton pressed both hands tightly against the sides of his head. For a sickening instant he was convinced that he was going mad; the pressure behind his eyes made him stagger and he sat down and bent forward until his head touched his knees. “God!” he murmured in a thick heavy voice. He did not want absolution and forgiveness. He didn’t want tilings as they used to be, neat and orderly. It was this knowledge that shook him to the core of his being.

Later — how much later he did not know — he found himself standing beside the telephone desk. He picked up the receiver without haste, without thinking, and dialed the number listed after the name of Frank Soltis.

She answered the phone herself and this seemed a miracle to him; behind her voice was the canned sound of radio or television laughter, and she spoke above it, saying, “Yes?” quite loudly, but drawing the word into a teasing complaint.

“Please listen to me,” he said. “Just listen. Please. You won’t hang up, will you?”

“Who’s this, for Pete’s sake?”

“Cleo, you’ve got to listen. I’m — this is the man. I... I saw you last night, remember.” He heard the sharp intake of her breath, and he cried softly: “Please listen! I’ve got to see you. I’m sorry. It was a mistake.”

“Who are you? What’s your name?”

“That doesn’t matter. I want to apologize, Cleo. I want to see you. Are... are you all right?”

“What do you mean, am I all right?”

He couldn’t interpret her mood from the tone of her voice; but she sounded more querulous than angry. “You know what I mean. I’m terribly sorry, Cleo.”

“That’s fine, that’s great. Everything is dandy now.”

“Please, please,” he said, whispering the words like prayers. “I want to see you. I swear before God I won’t bother you again. But I must see you. Are you alone?”

“My father’s here.”

“Did you tell him?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” she said, but a thread of coquettish insinuation ran through the scorn in her voice; Norton felt himself tremble with hope.

“Don’t be like that, Cleo,” he said. The hope became stronger, exultant; they were discussing it like a pair of conspirators. “Can’t you slip out for a few minutes?” he said. “Will you try?”

“I’m not supposed to go out this late.”

“Say you’re going to borrow a book or something from a girl friend. You’ll only be gone a few minutes.”

She was silent and he heard the sibilance of her breath in his ear. A dismaying thought struck him: was she having the call traced? Signaling to her father, pointing frantically at the phone, telling him with silently straining lips who was on the line. The scene was garishly illuminated by the bursts of whiteness in his mind; he saw her crouched at the phone, the father large and angry, hurrying to a neighbor’s house to call the police.

“Cleo,” he said. “Trust me. Please.”

“I’m thinking. Do you know where Raynes Park is? There’s a statue in the middle of it, and some benches.”

“Will you meet me there?”

“If I can. If I’m not there in half an hour, it’s no use. My father’s pretty strict.”

“I don’t blame him.” The sense of relief was so great that Norton almost laughed aloud; the guilt and terror were draining from him like poisons, and in their place flowed the warm restoring balm of peace. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

“Don’t stand me up now.”

At that he did laugh, giddily but silently. “Not a chance. I’ll be there.”

When he replaced the receiver Norton sat perfectly still for half a minute. He was hot all over, his shirt sticking to his body with perspiration. How would he explain going out to Janey? The dog, of course. He went quietly upstairs and opened the door of their bedroom. The light was out and Janey’s body was a soft slight mound under the covers.

“Janey?”

She stirred and murmured sleepily, “Coming to bed?”

“I’m going to take Cinder for a walk.”

“All right, dear. Put on something warm.”

He closed the door and went to his son’s room. Cinder slept at the foot of Junior’s bed. “Come on, Cinder,” Norton said in an urgent little whisper. “Want to go for a walk?” Cinder, a glossy black dachshund, squirmed and leaped off the bed, crooning with excitement.

Norton picked her up and tucked her under his arm. “That’s a good dog,” he said. A bar of light fell across his son’s face. Norton looked at the sleeping boy for an instant, and the serenity in his face, so unknowing, so vulnerable, went through him like a knife. He knew intuitively that salvation was close at that instant; in his excitement he could imagine the drumming beat of wings, the appearance of soft, miraculous lights, but deliberately and ruthlessly he turned away from all this, closing the door and running quickly down the steps with the frantically squirming puppy in his arms.

The night was black and the yellow street lamps reached up and touched the low limbs of the trees with gold. There was a small soft wind and the only sound in the breathless silence was the occasional dry creak of a branch above his head; it was how the twist and strain of rigging would sound, he thought, canvas and ropes tightening powerfully against the massive press of great quiet winds. He had never sailed in his life, but he imagined a sailing ship would be like that on a calm night.

He put Cinder in the front seat and fastened her leash to the door handle. Without lights he moved carefully away from the curb, drifting in a closed dark silence along the block. The dog was puzzled; she whimpered and worried her leash. Norton patted her head and said, “It’s all right, old girl, we’re just taking a little ride.”

At the first intersection he snapped on the headlights and stepped hard on the accelerator. The forward thrust of the engine forced him back against the cushioned seat, and he sensed the power and urgency of the leaping car infusing his whole body. He felt giddy and weightless, but enormously strong; it was as if the machine were part of him, an extension of his energies, so that he had the sensation of hurling himself forward and being hurled forward at one and the same instant, a delirious balancing of the active and passive which canceled all responsibility and left him suspended in a vacuum of reckless, irrepressible excitement.

Raynes Park had been named for a suburb of London. The small holding of land had been left to the Township of Rosedale by a descendant of one of the original South Shore settlers, chiefly for tax purposes it was rumored, but ostensibly to commemorate the birthplace of the ancestor who had established the family’s fortune in America. It covered a half-dozen acres and was attractively landscaped with yew hedges and dwarf shrubbery. Graveled walks twisted through lawns and neat columns of poplars. In the central plaza iron benches were placed about a small pond, and here, in good weather, nurses and an occasional pipe-smoking old gentleman watched children sailing boats or wading in the warm green water.

Norton parked in the darkness a hundred feet from the entrance to the park. From where he sat hidden in the shadows of trees, he could see the pond shining faintly in lamplight. The benches around it were empty. Damn, damn, he thought. If she can’t make it...

If she came to him, he knew he would be saved. Free. But his fate hung on such whimsical threads. Her father’s mood. He might smile at her, not taking his eyes from the television, hardly hearing her question: “Okay, sure.” Or he might have had a bad day. A chewing-out from his boss. And take out his bitterness on her, exercising parental spleen to restore his ego. “No, and that’s final. Do you see the time? Do you think I want you running around the streets like a damned whore?”

Norton saw her then, walking slowly along a graveled pathway toward the plaza, her small figure moving through the symmetrical shadows cast by the tall poplars. She must have come in from the Hayrack side, he thought, watching as she sat down on an iron bench facing the pond. She was all alone in the park, her face a white blur in the pale lamplight and her body small and huddled beneath the arching limbs of the poplars.

Norton got out of his car and closed the door gently, the sound losing itself in a wind that whispered in the yew hedges. He stood in the protective darkness and watched her for several minutes. When it became apparent that she intended to wait for him some of his nervousness abated; he was by temperament and training a frugal, realistic man, and he knew that she would not be here unless she hoped to get something from him. It was the situation he faced every day in the loan department at the bank; people wanting something and prepared to bargain for it. In this case he didn’t feel like insisting on any particular terms or arrangements, but simple professional habit warned him to watch out for his own interests.

Norton walked into the park, his footsteps on the gravel loud and clear in the cold air. She turned toward the sound and when he emerged from the shadows she stood up and smoothed down her skirt with nervous little gestures.

“You’re late,” she said. “I can’t stay long.”

“I’m sorry.” They were only a few feet apart but he whispered the words as if they were conspirators on a dangerous mission. “I’m sorry, Cleo.” The sight of her youth had unnerved him; a blue kerchief was bound about her hair and beneath this her face was childishly small and vulnerable. She wore a loose-fitting sweater and skirt, loafers and thick ankle socks, a teen-ager’s uniform, sloppily amusing, childishly provocative. Last night she had been different; she must have been different, he thought with something like horror. In his panic he wondered if this were the same girl.

He couldn’t think of anything to say. “I don’t have much time,” he said at last. “Are you all right? Are you afraid of me?”

“Why should I be? It’s all over.” She was staring up at him but he could not see the expression in her eyes. “But how about you? Aren’t you afraid of me?”

“Please try to understand — I lost my head. I shouldn’t have done it, I know. But I couldn’t help myself.” He was suddenly caught in an agony of remorse. “I’m sorry. I swear to God I didn’t mean to hurt you. Can’t you believe that?”

“You thought it didn’t matter what you did to me. I could tell that much.”

“You’re wrong, Cleo. Please listen to me. I’m older than you are and I understand some things better than you can. It happened because I liked you — do you see what I mean? Right from the start, from the instant I laid eyes on you, I felt that you were special.”

“Well, you took a funny way to show it.”

“But I lost my head completely. I couldn’t help myself. Some men are like that, Cleo. I’m ashamed, Cleo, ashamed of what I did, you’ve got to believe me.” This was not as he had envisioned their meeting in the sustaining warmth of fantasy. Instead of graceful, ameliorating phrases he was blurting out his guilt in accents of fear, his hands opening and closing convulsively, his voice rising in a trembling bleat. “I apologize from the bottom of my heart,” he said. “And I’m desperately sorry. Can’t you believe me, Cleo?”

“Well, that doesn’t cost anything to say.”

Norton got his nerves under control. He realized that she was preparing to bargain with him, for there had been more petulance than animosity in her tone. This was touching, he thought. It was sweet and brave of her to think she was a match for an experienced man.

“Now listen to me,” he said, attempting to harden his voice with authority. “I’ve apologized and I think you know I mean it. So there’s no further need for fussing. It’s always pleasanter in the long run to talk things over reasonably. Not much business would get done in the world if everyone went around with a chip on his shoulder. I guess you can see that, Cleo, for you’re obviously a smart little girl. What’s past is past, and there’s no point crying about it. The future is important — that’s the thing to worry about. And as far as the future is concerned, well, I could make up for last night, if you want to look at it that way.” As he saw interest quicken in her face Norton’s instinctive caution asserted itself; there was no point in overselling himself, he thought. In fact, the less she knew about him the better. “I’m not a rich man,” he said, smiling. “But we might have fun, Cleo. Do you know what I mean?”

“Well, it’s pretty obvious, I guess. But I don’t want money.”

“What do you want?”

“I don’t know. It’s nothing you can put into words, I guess.”

Norton realized with something close to wonder that all of his anguish and fears had been unnecessary; the dread of exposure, humiliation — that had all been a waste of emotion. He understood her perfectly now; and he knew he had never been in any danger.

Norton was suddenly aware of the silence, the faint wind above them in the trees, and of the simple fundamental fact that they were alone here in the shadows of the night, understanding each other without reservation or regret. The soft lamplight made her smooth cheeks shine like gold, and he could see the slight sweet rise of her breasts beneath the heavy wool sweater.

“I’ll drive you home,” he said.

“No, I can walk.”

“I told you I’d be nice to you. I mean it, Cleo.”

“No, not tonight.” She smiled quietly.

“Don’t tease,” he said. “Don’t do that, Cleo.”

“I’ve got to go.” She took a step backward, moving from light to shadow, her skirt flaring in the wind. He saw the flash of her bare legs, thin and white and heartbreakingly lovely in the yellow brightness. “No, Cleo, don’t go,” he said. “I won’t let you.”

Norton was reaching for her shoulders when a bolt of fire exploded across his face and shoulders. As he staggered under the blow, dimly but fearfully aware that he had been struck from behind, his first sensation was one of shock and confusion; but then the pain came dreadfully alive, flaming unendurably on his face, and he cried out and covered his head with his arms.

The girl said: “It’s him, Duke, it’s him all right.”

Norton twisted awkwardly, still holding his arms about his head. “Don’t,” he cried weakly. “Listen to me. It’s a mistake.”

A boy in a red sweater stared down at him. A leather belt was looped around his fist, the end of it flicking slowly along the graveled pathway.

“You like taking things,” the boy said. “Well, you’re going to take a beating now.”

“No, listen...” Norton straightened slowly, still holding his arms protectively about his face. “You’re wrong, she’ll tell you you’re wrong.” He turned desperately to her, his breath coming in great, uneven gasps. “Tell him, Cleo. For God’s sake, tell him I’m sorry — I apologized from the bottom of my heart. Tell him I...”

The belt sang in the air, an ugly, vindictive sound. Norton cried out as the leather cut across the back of his hands. He dropped to his knees. “Cleo, for God’s sake,” he said.

She was laughing at him, her face and eyes bright with excitement. “We’ll be friends, won’t we? You’ll be nice to me now, I know.”

“You begged for this,” Duke said. “You busted up Jerry, five of you to one, and you raped a girl young enough to be your daughter. You guys begged for it, and you’re going to get it.”

“Please,” Norton said. Blood from a cut on his forehead was running into his eyes. “I’m hurt. It’s different from what you think. Let me go. Please.”

“Sure you can go,” Duke said. “I got your license number. I can find you when I want you. Get started.”

The belt sang again, cutting across Norton’s face as he scrambled to his feet and ran. Steps sounded behind him and the belt whistled again and again, exploding viciously across his back and legs. The blood running into his eyes blinded Norton. He stumbled and fell, got up and ran again. Tears mingled with the blood on his cheeks and he could not stop the low animal sounds of pain in his throat. He ran in a staggering circle around the pond until he came to the pathway that led to the entrance of the park.

“Run, you bastard,” Duke said.

The belt sang for the last time, and Norton staggered on alone into the darkness.