Beyond the Chocolate War

Part One

Ray Bannister started to build the guillotine the day Jerry Renault returned to Monument.

There was no connection between the two events. In fact, Ray Bannister didn't even know Jerry Renault existed. The truth of the matter is that Ray began to construct the guillotine out of sheer boredom. More than boredom: loneliness, restlessness. He was a newcomer to Monument and to Trinity High. He hated both — well, maybe hate was too strong a word, but he had found Monument to be a dull and ugly mill town of drab tenement houses and grim factories, with no class at all, a terrible contrast to Caleb, the resort village on Cape Cod where he'd grown up with beach sand between his toes and salt spray stinging his cheeks. Trinity was a suffocatingly small school, filled with guys who were suspicious of strangers or, at the very least, unfriendly. The Headmaster and the teachers were brothers, those strange people who wore stiff white collars but weren't quite priests and yet weren't quite like ordinary men. Ray's father insisted that brothers made the ideal teachers, dedicated and loyal to education. They have nothing to distract them, his father said. They don't have to worry about earning a big salary — the Order takes care of all their needs — and they don't have wives or children to support, except maybe a girl friend or two in these crazy, liberal times. That last remark was supposed to pass for wit: Ray Bannister's father was renowned for his wit at cocktail parties, but Ray, frankly, didn't find him amusing at all. Particularly since he'd accepted the company promotion that meant a transfer from the Cape to this rotten city in the middle of New England.

Ray had always been a loner, even on the Gape, where he had spent long hours roaming the beaches and dunes or sailing his beloved skiff in the warm waters south of Caleb. In a fit of disgust and disillusionment, he'd practically given his boat away, sold it for a quarter of its worth to Joe Scerra, his best friend in Caleb. Ray had built the boat himself, lovingly, knew every section and area of its surface just as he knew the tone and texture of his own body.

Monument looked as if sailing weather didn't exist Snow melted on the Cape as soon as it kissed the land; Ray was dismayed to find Monument covered with the dirty rags of old snow when he arrived in February. The landscape of city streets was bleak and forbidding, like a movie set from one of those old late-night films about the Depression. Lonely, unable to make friends at Trinity and not really trying very hard, Ray pursued his interest in magic. His rather, who had been an amateur magician years ago, had given him a magic kit for Christmas as a kind of bribe to compensate for the transfer to Monument. At first Ray had only gone through the motions of showing interest. But, bored and restless, he began to fool around with the kit and found, to his surprise, that the tricks were not merely kid stuff but sophisticated and challenging, almost professional. He discovered the Stripper Deck and the Cups and Balls and the Silk Scarves and soon found himself adept at sleight of hand. With no one to entertain, he performed before the mirror in his bedroom.

As winter changed into spring or, rather, as the grayness of February and March yielded to the soft yellow of April, Ray grew bored with the simple finger tricks. He rummaged around the cellar, remembering that his father had all kinds of paraphernalia left over from his days as an entertainer at club and organization parties when Ray himself was just a kid. His father had carefully packed the stuff away when they had moved to Monument. During his search, Ray came across an old cardboard box that contained complicated tricks and effects he couldn't do anything with because there were no directions. Then he discovered an old leather-bound book, copyright 1922, that provided instructions for hundreds of magic effects. The book included plans and illustrations for various stage illusions, like levitation and disappearances. Ray was disappointed to learn the secrets of the illusions, how mechanical they were. He thought: There's no magic, really, anywhere in the world. It was like finding out there was no Santa Claus.

The plans for the guillotine attracted his immediate attention, however. The secret was so simple and yet so effective. He imagined himself on the stage in the Trinity auditorium, performing for the student body—"May I have a volunteer from the audience?" — and hearing the guys gasp with astonishment as the blade fell, seeming to penetrate the volunteer's neck Ray's hands itched to build the guillotine, just as they had itched to build his skiff. He'd always been clever with his hands. In fact, his father had said that he bated the idea of squandering money on Ray's college education when he'd probably do better as a carpenter — and a carpenter didn't need a college degree.

At any rate, lonely, indifferent to both Monument and Trinity, tired of the perennial gray clouds that haunted the early days of spring, wistful for those bikini girls who would be emerging on Caleb's beaches any day now, Ray Bannister assembled his tools and the lumber required to build the guillotine. He bought the blade at a magic store in Worcester. And, as he told Obie later: Honest, he'd never heard of Jerry Renault or Archie Costello or any of the others.

Obie was in love. Wildly, improbably, and wonderfully in love. The kind of thing he thought happened only in the movies. Can't eat, can't sleep love. Daydream in class love. Can't concentrate an your studies love. The hell with doing homework love. Her name was Laurie Gundarson and she was beautiful. Obie's legs dissolved at the sight of her, and he felt as though he would sink into the earth and disappear. He had never known such happiness or such sweet torture. He lived his days and nights in a rosy haze and went around with a stunned and radiant expression on his face. Which disgusted Archie Costello, of course.

Like at this moment when the Vigils had gathered to put the finishing touches on the new assignment. The other members, plus the three sophomores, awaited in tense and silent anticipation, a little nervous about what was going to happen. Archie always kept them on edge, springing his small surprises now and then to keep them alert and on their toes. But Obie sat there with that stupid expression on his face. That's why Archie turned to Bunting, the sophomore.

"Okay, Bunting," Archie said, "bring us up to date."

The selection of Bunting to present the report didn't immediately register on Obie. Obie wasn't actually here in the stupid storage room near the gym where the Vigils held their meetings. He was off somewhere with Laurie Gundarson. They were driving on the freeway toward Mount Wachusum. They were climbing the mountain on a sparkling spring day. He assisted her over the rough terrain, allowing his hands to roam across the marvelous geography of her body. He couldn't get enough of touching her, caressing her, although she kept that kind of stuff down to a minimum. Only on special occasions would she allow those intimate caresses for which Obie lived, to which he had dedicated his every waking moment.

"Are you with us, Obie?" Archie asked, his voice cool as always, never allowing an emotion to show, making it seem as if he was doing you a favor by using your name.

"I'm here, Archie," Obie said, reluctant to leave the warmth and softness of Laurie's flesh.

"Go on, Bunting," Archie said.

At that moment Obie saw the notebook in Bunting's hands. Startled, he checked his jacket pocket to make certain that his current notebook was safe and intact. Obie's notebooks were legend on the Trinity campus. Not only did they contain the assignments Archie dreamed up, but they had information about every student at Trinity, stuff that didn't show up in the school's official records. Observing Bunting now with his own notebook, Obie felt some surprise, but he wasn't as disturbed as he might have been if this had occurred before he'd met Laurie Gundarson. Laurie made all the difference: let Bunting have his notebook.

Bunting stood there with the cheerful insolence that was the hallmark of being a sophomore. Obie hated sophomores; most seniors did. Sophomores had lost the timidity of freshmen and hadn't attained the casualness of the juniors or the coolness of the seniors. Sophomores were feeling the first stirrings of arrogance, and believed that the school — and the world — existed for them alone. They barged into places nobody in his right mind would go. One example: Bunting now throwing a glance of triumph and superiority at Obie, smirking maliciously. Obie summoned a small smile to his own lips, a smile that was supposed to communicate to Bunting that he didn't give a damn who gave the report. But despite the sweetness of Laurie's presence in his life, he felt a flicker of jealousy. Not jealousy, exactly. Who could be jealous of a sophomore, for crying out loud? Hate, maybe. But not really for Bunting. A renewal of his hatred for Archie. Or was it hatred, after all? He wasn't sure. He was never sure of anything about Archie. Nobody was.

"Plans are proceeding according to schedule," Bunting sang out "Every guy has been contacted, either directly or indirectly. A lot of guys don't know what it's all about. Nobody gave us any shit, though."

"Bunting, Bunting," Archie said, chiding, like a father scolding an errant son.

"What's the matter?" Bunting asked, puzzled.

"Your language."

"What language?" Not only puzzled but uneasy now.

"That word you used."

"What word?" Voice going up half an octave.

Archie didn't reply, regarding Bunting with utter contempt.

"You mean shit?" Bunting asked, incredulous.

Archie nodded. "You broke the rule, Bunting. You used profane language. A no-no. Taboo."

Obie shook his head in reluctant admiration. That Archie. Leave it to him. There was, of course, no rule about language. That's what was intriguing about Archie — you never knew what was coming next Obie relaxed now, prepared to enjoy the game, whatever it was, that Archie was playing with Bunting. And he also alerted himself to be on his guard, knowing that he would inevitably become a part of it.

"You mean there's a rule against swearing?" Bunting asked, his confidence rapidly deteriorating.

"That's right, Bunting. The rule — no profane language, no more swearing at Vigil meetings. No taking the name of the Lord in vain." Archie and that mocking voice. Archie shaking his head in simulated disappointment with Bunting. "Hey, Obie, how long has the rule been in effect?"

"Six days," Obie responded automatically.

"See, Bunting? You're ambitious. You want to scale the heights of the Vigils. But you missed out on a new rule."

The other two sophomores — a skinny kid with bulging eyes named Harley and a brooding, sullen kid with an acne-ravaged face called Cornacchio — sat immobilized. They had never seen Archie in action before, and they obviously felt threatened. The Vigil veterans watched the proceedings with amusement, having instantly recognized along with Obie another Archie improvisation.

"Tell Bunting why we adopted the new rule, Carter."

Carter hated this sort of thing. As president of the Vigils, he usually didn't participate in the games but enforced the rules, wielding the gavel, slamming it down on the wooden crate that served as a desk to provide exclamation points to Archie's commands. Carter didn't approve of Archie's psychological games. He liked stuff you could see, something you could hit. The tragedy of Carter's senior year was the ban on boxing imposed by Brother Leon. Carter had been captain of both the boxing team and the football squad. With the boxing team disbanded and the football season a distant memory, he was now captain of exactly nothing. His simple claim to distinction these days was his presidency of the Vigils. And as president he had to respond to Archie, play his games, shadowbox with words.

"We instituted the rule because of the need to clean up the atmosphere," Carter said, the words issuing easily and glibly. The fact that he was a boxer didn't mean he was stupid. "It's impossible to clean up the crap and junk that gets tossed out of cars. But at least we can keep the air pure of profanity."

Archie smiled at him, pleased, and Carter hated himself for responding so quickly to one of Archie's gimmicks.

"And the penalty for anyone who swears, Obie?"

"Whoever breaks the rule," Obie said, mind racing as he pondered all the possibilities, "has to stand naked for one hour at the bus stop downtown at Monument Square." He squirmed, knew instantly by Archie's dour expression that it was a rotten punishment.

"That's right," Archie said, looking at Obie with disgust. "A mild-enough punishment, Bunting, you must admit. That's because we're saving the real good stuff for the second offense. It'll be a nice surprise for whoever swears a second time."

Bunting nodded, abashed, confused, wondering what had happened, how he had become so quickly a victim instead of a perpetrator, realizing, simultaneously, Archie's power and unpredictability. A small part of his brain had also registered the antagonism developing between Archie and Obie, and he tucked it away for future reference.

"Okay," Archie said. "We'll excuse your error this time, Bunting. Next time, though, you get the penalty." His eyes swept the gathering. "That goes for everybody else. No more swearing at Vigil meetings." Again to Bunting: "Go on with your report, please."

Bunting plunged ahead without waiting for any more instructions. But he chose his words carefully.

"Like I said, it looks as if there'll be no trouble. Almost everybody has been alerted. Some of the guys are organizing parties and stuff. A bunch are going to the beaches, Hampton, some to the Cape. Other guys are hitching to Boston. We gave them the word: If you stay in town, stay out of sight. We don't give a sh — We don't care what you do. Just don't come to school, and lay low. . " Bunting couldn't resist glancing at his notebook, knowing this would get a rise out of Obie. "We expect some stragglers, but we're about ninety percent organized."

"I don't want stragglers," Archie said. Deadly, in command, the Archie who ruled the school. "I want one hundred percent."

Bunting nodded. And so did everyone else.

This latest assignment wasn't really an assignment but one of Archie's entertainments, something to break up the boredom that always settles over a school in that no-man's-land of time between spring and summer vacations, when the days seem endless and pointless, when even the teachers are caught in the lethargy and boredom of the stagnant hours. The seniors had lost interest in school and now had their sights set on the coming year; most had already been accepted at colleges. The juniors meanwhile were caught in an in-between stage, almost finished with the junior year and not officially seniors. Even the freshmen were straining a bit, tired of their role as lowly underclassmen, eager to confront the new batch of freshmen arriving in the fall. The school was not really as placid or lethargic as it seemed; there was an undercurrent of restlessness.

Sensing all of this, knowing that only the sophomores were content (but sophomores were a breed apart), Archie had responded with a perfect solution: a day off from school. But not a day arranged through subtle blackmail of Brother Leon. No, this day would have an Archie Costello sting. Every student at Trinity — and there were almost four hundred of them — would simply stay away from class on a certain designated day. They would vanish. No one would be able to find them. When the brothers, began frantically to call the various homes — absenteeism was always checked with a telephone call to the student's home — they would learn that Jimmy or Joey or Kevin or whoever had gone off to school as usual. Thus, the scheme would have a double impact: on the school, and on the homes of the students. And then Archie had gone one step further. He had learned, in advance, the date of the Bishop's visit to Trinity. The traditional annual visit always began before classes with a high mass and holy communion in the school auditorium, which was converted into a chapel for the occasion. This year, the auditorium would be without students.

Carter had been horrified at the thought of humiliating the Bishop, an act that could have serious repercussions. But he had said nothing. Like everyone else, he had learned not to oppose Archie's schemes. Play along and go along. He felt helpless, wishing he had the courage to make a protest. He had courage enough on the football field and in the boxing ring. But that was different. He felt alone these days, an exile in this school he loved. Everybody thought he was only bone and muscle. Didn't see that a jock could be sensitive. And his sensitivities told him that the Bishop's visit would spell disaster. He didn't want to be a part of that disaster, not at this point, so near to graduation when he'd be rid of Archie Costello once and for all time.

"I've got a suggestion," Bunting said.

Obie looked at the sophomore with new respect, the way he was bouncing back after the earlier attack by Archie and risking another with a suggestion. Ordinarily, only Archie made suggestions. And they weren't suggestions, they were orders, more or less.

"Let's hear it," Archie said "But watch the language, right?" Almost primly, lips pursed.

Bunting nodded.

"What I figure is this," he said, gathering confidence. "Why not have everybody stay out of school except one kid? I mean, if everybody's absent, there's no. ." He was at a loss for a word.

Archie grabbed one out of the air. "No contrast." Then another: "No emphasis." He regarded Bunting with admiration, or what passed for admiration coming from Archie because he still maintained his coolness, the distance he managed to keep between himself and everyone else. "Beautiful, Bunting. I can see it now. The Bishop and Brother Leon and all the faculty up there on the stage, near the altar. And one kid sitting in the audience, right in the middle of the place, surrounded by all those empty seats, not another kid in sight."

"We have to pick the right kid," Bunting went on, really rolling now. "He'll be part of the plot, with orders to act normal, like he's not alone in the audience. As if everything is happening as usual."

Archie lifted his hands, palms downward, almost as if he were about to bless the congregation, but the Vigils had come to know that the gesture meant he wanted instant silence. Suddenly the gathering seemed to be holding its collective breath, a stillness pervading the room. Obie marveled at Archie's ability to take command of all situations, the way he was able now to take the spotlight away from Bunting effortlessly and bring all eyes in the place to himself. Archie's eyes were mere slits: he was thinking, concentrating. Or pretending to be thinking and concentrating. Obie bad seen him perform this stunt a thousand times. Or was it a stunt?

The heat in the storage room had grown almost unbearable, heat saturated with the smell of boys' bodies. Vigil meetings were always brief, because Archie couldn't stand the smell of perspiration, couldn't stand the sight of sweat on flushed skin. Obie surreptitiously surveyed the boys as they sat there immobile, focused on Archie, not daring to move. Nobody wanted to be noticed or singled out by Archie. Bunting alone seemed at ease, sure of himself, his black curly hair glistening in the harsh glow of the unshaded bulb hanging from the ceiling. He looked as if he'd just stepped from a shower: cool and refreshed. Obie almost shuddered. He knew that Archie was grooming Bunting to be the new Assigner, the student who would take Archie's place next year. Although Bunting was short and dark and muscular in contrast to Archie's tall and slender blondness, there was a similarity between them, something Obie could not pin down precisely. Maybe ruthlessness.

"Okay," Archie said, coming out of his trance or whatever it was. Voice crackling. Blue eyes flashing, "What we need is one more touch. The kid who's coming to school that day." He shot a glance toward Obie. "I want a new kid. Somebody who hasn't been involved in anything yet."

As if by reflex, Obie flipped his notebook open. And hated himself for leaping to action at Archie's slightest wish. "There's a kid who came to Trinity for the second term. His family moved here from the Cape. His name is Raymond Bannister. He's a sophomore. B-minus average student but got a D in chemistry. He's a loner."

"Why haven't we heard about him before?" Archie asked, a mild rebuke in his voice as he used the editorial we, as if he was the Pope, for crying out loud. We.

Obie shrugged an answer. New kids were always Vigil bait. Archie loved nothing better than putting a new kid through the hoops.

"Did you slip up, Obie?" Archie asked. Slyly, tauntingly.

Obie felt the color creep into his face, like a stain of guilt. Archie was a master at this, humiliating someone in front of others.

"I didn't think it was the right time psychologically," Obie replied. "Ray Bannister is a loner, like I said." He looked meaningfully at Archie, wondering if he was getting the message. The message of the chocolates.

Something flickered in Archie's eyes, as if an invisible branch had snapped across his face. Pause. But only for a beat "Maybe it's time to get around to him," he said, looking directly at Obie. "Get to this Bannister kid. If he's a loner, he'll love sitting there all by himself. Fill him in. Tell him the part he has to play. Impress upon him the importance of his role. How we don't put up with failure."

The Vigils murmured their approval.

Archie turned to Bunting, swiveling away from Obie as if dismissing him.

"Nice work, Bunting."

Bunting glowed and couldn't resist shooting another glance of triumph at Obie.

"Any other business?" Archie asked, addressing nobody in particular.

Silence, as Archie looked around the room, inspecting each of them in turn, studying them with those cold, intelligent eyes and managing as usual to look superior to them.

"What about Fair Day?" Bunting asked.

A shadow crossed Archie's face. Obie thought with glee: Bunting has pushed his luck too far.

"What about Fair Day?" Archie's voice held a hint of cool mockery.

What Bunting didn't know: Archie was less than enthusiastic about Fair Day. Bored, in fact Fair Day was a family fun day at Trinity, the last social event before graduation, a day of hot dogs and hamburgers, booths and merry-go-rounds and other rides for the kid brothers and sisters of Trinity students. The Vigils always kept a low profile during the day except, of course, for the Fool. The Vigils even maintained a hands-off policy during Skit Night (which some guys called Shit Night), the evening of Fair Day. All of which Bunting should have known. But Bunting was the classic sophomore: Act now, think later.

"Let's get the visit over with first," Carter growled, exercising his privilege as Vigils president. Wanting to end the meeting, tired of all this crap.

Archie chuckled, looking with feigned exasperation at Bunting, the father now indulging the favorite son. "Slow down, Bunting," he said. Then nodded at Carter.

Carter banged the gavel and stood up. The atmosphere became tense, like an elastic band stretched to the breaking point Carter drew a black box from a shelf within the crate. He held it in his hands as if it contained all the crown jewels of Europe.

Archie sighed, wearily, resignedly. He turned to Harley and Cornacchio, the two sophomores who had watched the proceedings with awe and wonder and maybe a bit of fear.

"Your first meeting, right?" Archie asked them, kindly, gently. The master actor, Obie thought, turning facets of his personality on and off to suit his purposes.

The sophomores nodded in unison, gulping, as if they had rehearsed their response.

Archie nodded toward the black box.

"This is what I have to face after every assignment," Archie said. Then, wryly: "To keep me honest." Looking at Bunting now. "This is what you'll have to put up with, Bunting, if you step into my shoes."

The sophomores regarded the box warily. The box was legendary at Trinity and had been seen in public on only one occasion.

As Carter held the box reverentially aloft now, Archie said: "Whenever an assignment is given out, I have to face the box. There are six marbles in there, five of them white, one black. If I pull out a white marble, no sweat. The assignment stands. But if I pull out the black, I have to take on the assignment myself. Some creep years ago came up with this concept. It's supposed to keep an Assignor from getting too fancy, too dangerous, if he knows there's a chance he'd be carrying out the assignment."

Carter and Obie approached Archie, Carter extending the box, Obie holding the key. The box was an old jewelry container some nameless student years ago had stolen from his mother's bedroom.

"In this particular case" — Archie continued his explanation to the sophomores—"if I draw the black marble, I have to take Bannister's place in the audience. Which isn't bad at all. There have been worse risks."

Archie laughed again, this time with obvious delight Obie wondered, as usual, what kind of blood ran in Archie's veins. Or was it blood at all?

"Look at Obie," Archie said.

Obie almost dropped the key. Uncanny, as if Archie could reach into his mind.

"Obie's hoping the black marble will turn up. He never used to hope that. But now he does." As he spoke he reached up and shoved his hand into the box, swiftly, without hesitation. In almost the same motion, he withdrew his hand and tossed a white marble in the air, the whiteness glinting in the bulb's stark glow, and caught it effortlessly as it came down. In all his time as the Assigner, Archie had never drawn the black marble.

"Sorry, Obie," he said, laughing.

Obie realized that somehow he and Archie had become enemies. He didn't know when it had happened or why. He knew only that something existed between them now that hadn't been there before. As Carter banged the gavel, adjourning the meeting, Obie shivered in the heat of the storage room and realized that he had just gone five minutes without thinking of Laurie Gundarson.

Everything had been going along smoothly, life returning to normal, the horror and the betrayal receding and diminishing — and then the telephone call came.

He had started running again, flying over the streets, up and down the hills, moving with easy, fluid grace, invigorated by the chilly morning air, eyes dazzled by the sun setting fire to eastern windows. A collie that belonged to someone on Spruce Street had taken to running beside him, and he felt a sense of kinship with the animal. Often he and the collie were the only living things on the streets at that hour.

His father was happy to see him running again. "Good, Roland, good," his father said, meeting him at the end of the run as he departed for work.

Drawing up beside his father, breathing deeply, the air sweet in his lungs, his moist body cooling in the morning breeze, the Goober felt great.

"You see, Roland? Time heals all things," his father said, waving the lunch pail as he made off down the street.

His father was a very formal man. He didn't believe in nicknames; he never called his son the Goober or Goob as others did. The Goober watched him walking off to work, erect, head held high, and was overcome with an emotion he could not identify. Love? Affection? He wasn't quite certain. Maybe it's what a son felt for his father when the father had helped the son through a bad time of his life. Time heals all things. .

The Goober lived five miles from Trinity, too far to run, especially with books and other stuff to carry. He ran part of the way, though, passing up the bus stop nearest his home and boarding a bus downtown near the library. This bus didn't carry as many Trinity students as the other, which was fine with Goober. He still planned to transfer to Monument High next fall; his father had frowned at a midyear transfer and had asked him to stick it out until June. But although he felt much better about Trinity these days, the Goober still didn't mix much with the other guys. No problem: He was a freshman and hardly knew anybody. Trinity drew students not only from Monument but from the entire area, and only a few had enrolled from St. Jude's Parochial School, where Goober had gone. Anyway, he had decided to play it cool until June. The fourteen-year-old heart is a marvelous thing, his father had said. It can be ruptured but it does not really break, no matter what the poets say.

The Goober wasn't sure whether his heart had ruptured or broken completely during those terrible chocolate days last fall. All he knew was that a numbness had finally seeped through him, like a novocaine of the spirit. But time and the running had also helped him emerge from the bad days. He still felt like a traitor, however, and he avoided, whenever possible, Archie Costello and Obie and the other Vigils. He also avoided Room Nineteen, even though it sometimes meant a long detour through the halls and stairways. Room Nineteen and Brother Eugene. The chocolate days and Jerry Renault. Under control now, he passed his hours at school without undue panic or depression. He could do nothing about Brother Leon, of course, and had learned to live with his presence. Leon popped into the classrooms now and then, turning up when he was least expected, substituting for teachers on occasion or observing the class and teacher from the rear of the room. The Goober felt he had scored a personal triumph recently: He had met Leon in the corridor and was able to look into those milky moist eyes without feeling nausea gathering in his stomach.

And then the telephone call.

He was alone in the house when the phone rang: his father at work, his mother out shopping. He picked up the receiver.

"Roland?"

For a moment he thought his father was on the line. And panicked slightly. His father never called from work. An accident? No one else but his father called him Roland.

"Yes," he said, warily, tentatively.

"This is Jerry Renault's father."

The words echoed in the Goober's ears as if they'd been shouted, bellowed.

"Oh, yes," Goober heard himself say. He had met Jerry's father only once. The night they had admitted Jerry to Monument Hospital. His memory of the man had been blurred by the incidents of that night, plus the tears that kept welling in his eyes. "How's Jerry?" the Goober asked now. Forced himself to ask. Afraid of the answer. Am I being a traitor again? he wondered.

"Well, he's home," Mr." Renault said, voice quiet and subdued, as if he were speaking from a sickroom where the patient must not be disturbed.

"Oh," the Goober said. Stupid, unable to say anything more. He felt the old November panic again, the novocaine wearing off, the pain coming back.

Jerry Renault had spent several weeks at Monument Hospital before being transferred to a hospital in Boston. A few weeks later Mr. Renault had called to report that the boy had gone to Canada to recuperate with relatives. "I think the change of scene will do him good," Mr. Renault had said. And then had added: "I hope," his voice filled with a tone of impending doom. The Goober had not seen Jerry since those first days at the hospital.

"I think it might do Jerry some good to see old friends," Mr. Renault said now. "He always spoke very warmly of you, Roland." Pause, then: "The Goober, isn't it?" Then hurried on: "At any rate, I'm hoping that seeing some of his friends, people like yourself, will help him."

"You mean he's not okay?" Goober asked. And thought: Don't answer that. He didn't want to hear the answer.

"I think he needs to get adjusted after being away so long. He has to pick up the pieces of his life." Was he choosing his words carefully? "That's why I think a friend like yourself can help."

But what kind of friend am I?

"When would be a good time to visit?" Goober asked, hating the thing in him that hoped Mr. Renault would say, Forget it, this is a mistake, Jerry's not home, he's still in Canada, he'll be there forever.

"Anytime. We're just getting settled. How about tomorrow afternoon? After school?"

"Fine," Goob said. But it was as if somebody else was using his voice.

He held the receiver at his ear a long time after Jerry's father had hung up, the dial tone like a warning signal of disaster.

The Stripper Deck is a trick deck, but its secret is simple: The cards are tapered at one end. Thus, if a particular card is turned around and slipped back into the deck, it can be detected by touch because it sticks out from the other cards. The object of the trick is to locate the projecting card with fingertips or thumb tip. This is called "stripping the deck."

When Ray first tried the trick he was instantly discouraged. He picked up the cards at odd moments, however, and as he fooled around with them, shuffling and reshuffling, his fingertips developed sensitivity. After a few weeks he was able to locate the reversed card without hesitation. The Stripper Deck was a good time-killer, blunting the edge of his loneliness.

As spring burst into vivid life without warning, Ray became aware for the first time of the beauty of an inland spring. Weeping willow trees that he had never noticed before wore halos of soft yellow as the buds came to life. He grudgingly admitted that Monument was not as gray and ugly as it had been at first sight. Sweet fragrances filled the air, and the hills surrounding Monument, while not exactly alive with the sound of music, were beautiful in their sweep and radiant in their colors.

Lounging in the shade of a maple tree in front of Trinity, inhaling the zesty spring air, Ray manipulated the deck as he waited for the school bus to take him home. He watched the other guys coming and going, ignoring him as usual. Screw them all, Ray thought.

He removed the ace of spades from the deck, reversed it, and riffled the cards. As he blew on his fingertips, he looked up to see a kid standing nearby, hands on his hips, watching him with small, squinting eyes.

Ray waved a greeting.

The kid ignored the greeting but advanced toward him, face neutral, neither friendly nor unfriendly.

"You a card sharp?" the kid asked, hovering over him now.

Feeling suddenly vulnerable, Ray scrambled to his feet "No, I just like to fool around with cards," he said.

"What do you mean, fool around?" the kid asked. Ray changed his mind: The kid's face wasn't neutral. The small eyes were watchful, challenging. His lips were thick, poised on the edge of a sneer. He wasn't particularly big or muscle-bound, but he gave an impression of strength. Brute strength, maybe.

"Tricks. I do tricks," Ray said, putting the cards in his pocket, shuffling his feet, looking away, searching the distance for the bus.

"Do one," the kid said quietly. His hands were still on his hips. He barely moved his lips when he talked. Like a ventriloquist.

Ray hesitated, having only performed before a mirror. He knew lie would goof it up if he attempted to strip the deck before an audience. A hostile audience of one, at that.

"Well, I'm not too good yet," he said lamely, feeling his heart quicken. "I'm still at the practicing stage."

"Do, one," the kid said, lips still not moving, voice still quiet except for a slight demand, a slight menace in the words. A caricature of a tough guy. But still menacing.

"Look, when I really get good at it, I'll do one." Keep it tight. "In fact, I'll see that you get a complimentary ticket for opening night. . "

No response from the kid except that aura of menace his presence created.

"Hello, Emile."

Both Ray and the kid turned at the greeting.

"Hi, Obie," the kid said, disgust in his voice, his menace evaporating. He was suddenly just a slightly overweight guy.

"Introducing yourself to the new student?" the kid called Obie inquired.

A kind of secret signal seemed to pass between them, an unspoken understanding. Ray looked away, kicking at a stone on the grass. Sometimes Trinity gave him the creeps. Something in the air, in the attitude of the kids, something he couldn't pin down or put his finger on. A mood, a sense of mysterious goings-on. Like now: the kid called Obie intervening as if challenging the lad called Emile. And Emile backing off, backing down although he looked as if he could pick up Obie and throw him against a wall. "Hell, I was just curious, Obie. I saw him playing with those cards and thought he might do a trick or two. I thought he might be a magician. . " Voice trailing off.

Obie ignored him, turning away as if he hadn't heard his words or, if he had heard them, didn't consider them worthy of attention. "You're Ray Bannister, aren't you?" he asked. As if Ray was a long-lost friend.

"That's me." Surprised and trying not to appear surprised.

"I'm Obie." Extending his hand Ray took it.

"I'd like to see those tricks sometime," Emile called, lingering at a distance, directing his remarks to Ray, the menace back in his voice. Ray felt as though he had made an enemy. Cripes, he thought, I was better off when nobody paid any attention to me.

As Emile finally left the scene, Obie chuckled. "You've just encountered the one and only Emile Janza," he said.

"I'm glad he's the one and only," Ray replied. "Two of him would be too much."

"He's an animal," Obie said. "He thinks the world is out to put the screws to him. So he tries to put the screws to everyone else." Shifting gears: "How are things going, Ray?"

"How do you know my name?"

Obie pulled out a small frayed spiral pad, flipped the pages. "Ray Bannister. From Caleb on the Cape. Height, five ten. One hundred forty-two pounds. Father an insurance executive. Doesn't make friends easy. Likes to play with cards."

"You seem to know a lot about me," Ray said, feeling positively spooky, as if somebody had been spying on him all this time. "This school is weird."

"Not really," Obie said. Suddenly Obie hated what he was doing and wanted to turn on his heel and get the hell away from Trinity and everybody here. He had approached guys like this too many times. For Archie. Setting up yet another assignment. Carrying out orders. Like some. . stooge. He hadn't always felt this way: he used to enjoy Archie's schemes and strategies. Now other things seemed more important All because of Laurie, of course. But more than Laurie. A name surfaced from the depths of his brain and memory. He denied the name, concentrating on the notebook and then looking up at Ray Bannister. The name came anyway — Renault.

"Look, Ray. Trinity isn't as weird as it seems. We had a rough first term — hell, our football team lost more games than it won, and our boxing squad — boxing used to be the big thing here — folded up. And then the Headmaster got sick and retired and somebody new took over—"

"Brother Leon?" Ray asked. Leon gave him the willies.

"Right." Obie seemed about to say something about Leon but didn't. After a pause: "Anyway, it's been a tough year. Actually, Trinity is a great place, a great school." He tried to inject enthusiasm, heartiness, into the words, but they sounded unconvincing to his ears, and he wondered if Ray Bannister heard the phoniness in his voice. Ray merely nodded as if his real thoughts were elsewhere.

"You waiting for a bus?" Obie asked, knowing that he had to stop acting like a press agent for Trinity and get down to business.

Ray nodded.

"I'll drive you home. My car's in the parking lot."

Suspicion ran like a chill through Ray's bones. After weeks of being ignored, why this sudden attention?

"Come on," Obie said, plastering his friendliest smile on his face. Like a label, he felt, on a stick of dynamite.

Ray shrugged and picked up his books. What the hell. He'd been alone too long. Maybe he was getting paranoid about the school. Actually he should be grateful for this kid called Obie. Trudging behind him now, Ray thought wistfully of Caleb and the Cape, and the sea lapping the shore like the tongue of an old and friendly dog. No sea here, no benevolent sun. No girls lounging on the beach. He'd better make do with what he had: at the moment, a ride home with a guy who might become a friend.

Obie was properly impressed by Ray Bannister's manipulation of the Stripper Deck, watching in awe as the card Obie had selected, the queen of hearts, appeared magically before him, unerringly drawn from the deck although Ray had not known its identity. Ray did it again — although magicians should never repeat their tricks, he said — with the three of diamonds and the ace of clubs, and Obie was fooled each time.

"The hand is quicker than the eye, to coin a cliche," Ray said, laughing, obviously delighted with the effect on Obie. He had been hesitant about performing for Obie at first, but the kid had seemed so genuinely interested and friendly that he had taken a chance. His nervousness had disappeared as he shuffled the deck. He was pleasantly surprised to see his fingers behaving so beautifully.

"Wow," Obie said, sincere in his admiration. But his mind was also working. Here was a kid with an obvious talent: how could it be used for the Vigils? "Do you do anything else?" he asked.

Ray hesitated once more. He was not as skilled with the Cups and Balls, but the effects were simpler to attain. Frowning, studying Obie, trying to judge if Obie was really being sincere, Ray thought: Why not give it a whirl?

So he took out the cups, balls, and a small table and was amazed once more at his performance, making the red balls appear, it seemed, at will from under the cup of his choice. Palming one ball, he passed it swiftly to his other hand and then appeared to be taking it out of Obie's ear.

Obie looked thunderstruck, his mouth open in astonishment.

"What's the matter?" Ray asked, puzzled. Hadn't Obie ever seen the ball trick before?

"Will you do that again, Ray? I mean, make the ball disappear in your hand and then appear someplace else?"

"I'm not supposed to do it twice," Ray said. But did it anyway, because he liked the challenge. Obie would be watching him closely now, anticipating his every move. And anticipation was fatal to illusion, making it difficult for Ray to use misdirection, a magician's most powerful tool. He wondered if he should tell him about the guillotine.

The red ball, no larger than a marble, flashed in the air. Obie watched closely. Ray's hands moved, open-palmed; fingers wiggled and then nothing — the ball vanished. Ray reached out with his right hand — Obie could swear the hand was empty — and popped the ball into view, as if he had removed it from Obie's shirt pocket.

Turning away, blinking into the sunlight that slanted into the bedroom, Obie whistled softly, thinking of Archie. Had Archie all these years used sleight of hand when he drew the white marble from the box? Was that how he had avoided the assignments he would have had to take on if the black marble had appeared in his hand? The possibility dazzled Obie. Nothing was beyond Archie. Archie was always one step ahead of everybody else. The members of the Vigils had always been amazed at Archie's luck, resented, in fact, the way he laughed mockingly when the white marble appeared in his hand time after time. Archie had been taken by surprise only once, last fall during the chocolate fracas. That time Archie had also pulled out the white marble, but sweat had danced on his forehead — Archie, who never perspired — and he had looked apprehensive.

Obie regarded Ray Bannister once more. "Great, Ray," he said, "simply great." Then, carefully: "How long did it take to learn the ball trick?" Trying to sound only casually interested.

"Not long. A few weeks. I've had time on my hands," Ray said. "Frankly, Obie, Trinity isn't the friendliest place on earth." Rolling the red ball between thumb and forefinger as Obie watched fascinated. "In fact, the school is kind of spooky. Is there something wrong with the place?"

Obie snapped out of his contemplation of the ball, wondering how much he should tell Ray Bannister about Trinity.

"Like I said, we've had a tough year," he began. A perception formed itself in his mind: Ray Bannister and his sleight of hand, something Archie didn't know about, a secret weapon Obie might be able to employ in the future. Maybe he should level with Bannister, let him know what was really going on at Trinity. What had gone on. .

"It's like this," Obie said. "We had our usual chocolate sale last fall. Our biggest fund-raiser. And a kid by the name of Jerry Renault, a freshman for crissake, refused to sell any. The only kid in school who refused to participate. ."

Ray Bannister lifted both hands in a so what? gesture.

"The problem is that one rotten apple can spoil the barrel. And this kid became a kind of symbol. Other lads started to follow his lead. Everybody hates school sales to begin with. Brother Leon was ready to have a nervous breakdown. The Headmaster was in the hospital, Leon was in charge of the place. ."

"All over chocolates?"

"It was twenty thousand boxes of chocolates."

Ray whistled.

"Right," Obie went on. "Leon bought them on the cheap. They were left over from Mother's Day. He bought them for a dollar a box. Which sounds okay except that means he spent twenty thousand dollars of school money — which he wasn't authorized to spend — for the chocolates. Which also means that each lad had to sell fifty boxes at two dollars to make a killing."

Obie was reluctant to say more, had been avoiding thoughts about the chocolate sale and Jerry Renault for months, sorry he had started to tell Ray Bannister the story. But he couldn't stop now.

"Anyway. The school was in an uproar. The guys were in an uproar. And the Vigils—"

"The Vigils?" Ray asked. "What's the Vigils?"

"Oh, boy." Obie sighed. How do you begin to explain the Vigils? The word was seldom spoken aloud on the Trinity campus. The brothers knew the organization existed but preferred to ignore it, allowing it to function because it served a purpose: kept peace at Trinity during a time when unrest and violence were sweeping the nation's schools and colleges. How to explain all that to a newcomer, someone who didn't know of the long tradition of the Vigils?

"Well, the Vigils is, like, a secret organization at Trinity. A guy by the name of Archie Costello is the Assigner. The Vigils has officers like any club — a jock named Carter is president and I'm secretary — but the Assigner is the key officer. In fact, the Assigner, Archie Costello, is the Vigils."

Ray turned away, puzzled. He didn't like this kind of stuff. Secret organizations. Assignors. . "What the hell is an assigner?" he asked. And had a feeling that he really didn't want to know.

"Well, he assigns kids to certain. . duties," Obie said, his words limping as if on crutches. "They have to perform certain acts—"

"Like in a college fraternity? Staying all night in the woods, stuff like that? Pranks? Stunts?"

Obie nodded, knowing that Archie would be furious to hear his meticulous assignments described as fraternity pranks and stunts. But he let the description stand. He couldn't tell Ray everything about the Vigils: in fact, he had probably told him too much already.

"Anyway, Brother Leon asked the Vigils to support the chocolate sale," Obie went on. "The first time Leon or any other faculty member acknowledged the existence of the club. That's how the Vigils got mixed up in it. ."

"What about that kid? Jerry What's-his-name?" Ray asked.

"Renault," Obie supplied As if he could ever forget that name or that kid. "Renault still refused to sell the chocolates. Despite. . pressure."

"What kind of pressure?"

"The usual," Obie said. How to describe Archie's methods to a stranger? "Archie Costello doesn't like physical violence. But in this case—"

"Violence was used, right?" Ray said, dismayed, head in a whirl. A couple of hours ago he hadn't known anything about Trinity, was a complete outsider. And now this kid named Obie was here in his home, telling him crazy things about the place.

Obie shrugged. "A kind of violence. A boxing match. Between Renault and Emile Janza—"

"The animal I just met at school?" Ray asked. Mimicking Janza's tight-lipped delivery: "Show me a card trick, kid."

"Right," Obie said, a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

"And the Renault kid got beat up, right?" Ray asked.

"Right," Obie said reluctantly. "Look, the kid was hurt, but he survived. Actually, he was a tough little character. They say he went to Canada to recuperate." Obie paused. "Anyway, that's all over now. The chocolate sale was a success. The Headmaster retired. And Brother Leon became top man. . "

"All's well that ends well," Ray Bannister said, wondering if Obie detected the sarcasm in his voice.

"Right," Obie said heartily, slapping his hands against his sides. Then frowned. "But. ."

"But what?" Ray prompted.

"The thing rocked the school," Obie said, putting into words what he had avoided for so long. "That night. The kids calling for blood. Renault's blood. The chocolates became more important than anything else, more important than a kid's blood. . "

I wish we had stayed in Caleb, Ray Bannister thought.

"And now," Obie continued, "it's as if those chocolates exploded last fall and we're walking around in the 'leftovers, the crap. See what I mean? Everybody being careful, playing it cool."

"Like you've all got a guilty conscience?" Ray offered.

"Right," Obie agreed. But uncomfortable now, wondering if he had said too much.

"How about that club — the Vigils? They still playing it cool?"

"Well, not exactly," Obie said.

Which brought him to his reason for being here in Bay Bannister's house. To introduce him to the Vigils and how it worked.

Poor Jerry Renault, Obie thought suddenly.

And now poor Ray Bannister. About to learn the facts of life at Trinity High School.

In this corner, Archie Costello, five feet nine and a half inches tall, one hundred forty pounds, unchallenged champion of Trinity High School. Champion of what? Of all he surveyed — the classrooms, the corridors, the campus, his power extending even into the residence where Brother Leon and the other faculty members lived.

In that corner, the opposite corner, Brother Leon, formerly Assistant Headmaster of Trinity High School, now full-fledged Headmaster, ruler of the school, the faculty, the curriculum, the extracurricular activities, responsible for (and ruling) 387 students between the ages of thirteen and eighteen (with the exception of Richard O'Brien, who had turned nineteen on the fourth of April). Brother Leon of the pale face, the quick and sudden classroom movements in which a student was usually the loser, struck with a teacher's pointer or a piece of chalk flying across the room faster than a speeding bullet. Brother Leon. Whose eyes could flash with malice or quicken with a cold intelligence in which there wasn't an ounce of pity or mercy. Brother Leon of the swift short steps, who had gone moderately mod these days. His thinning hair threatened to cover his collar at the back. Sideburns dropped to his ear-lobes. He wore a silver chain, from which dangled a cross so fancy that you had to squint to make certain it was a cross. Brother Leon, who sometimes seemed a bit ridiculous to Archie. Which didn't deny the fact that Leon could also be dangerous.

And now, gentlemen, step to the center of the ring. .

There was no ring, of course, except in Archie's mind He often thought about Brother Leon as he strolled the grounds of Trinity and stopped at the far end of the parking lot, from which point he could inspect the rear of the brothers' residence. Leon's private study, to which students were summoned occasionally, looked out on the parking lot Archie enjoyed standing there, sensing that Leon was hidden behind the stiff white curtain drawn across the window pane. In his mind he was the champion and Leon the challenger, although on the surface one would suppose that Leon had the upper hand. Archie, a student; Leon, the Headmaster. In any contest, the Headmaster would be sure to emerge victorious, wouldn't he? Wouldn't he? Ah, but not according to Archie. Not according to the gospel of Trinity as written by Archie Costello.

Now he stood at that particular spot, glancing up at the residence, not knowing what he was looking for. Certainly not a confrontation with Leon. Archie realized that he and Leon had not talked or even run into each other for weeks. Leon was famous for surprise visits to classrooms, but he either avoided or did not happen to enter any of Archie's classes. Once in a while Archie saw Leon at a distance, across the campus or on the stage of the assembly hall or getting into a car. But their paths never crossed. Accident or design? Archie didn't know and didn't care. He kept his emotions under control, in cold storage, in neutral. He allowed himself measures of enjoyment — for instance, in the car with one of the girls from Miss Jerome's School across town — but always holding a part of himself aloof, never letting go completely. He enjoyed what he saw in the eyes of the other students when he directed his attention to them — fear, apprehension, resentment. He was aware of how others felt about him, but frankly, he paid only passing attention, preferred not to think about other people. People thought too much, anyway. Or talked too much.

Once in a while he expressed his thoughts to Obie. Obie was the only person he allowed into his privacy. But not recently. He and Obie had grown apart. No, that was wrong, not grown apart They had been pulled apart by that girl, all that nonsense of Obie being in love. Love, for crissakes. Obie of all people. Although he hated to admit it to himself, Archie missed the talks with Obie. He could bounce ideas off Obie although Obie was unaware of what Archie was doing. Obie was so normal, so regular, so average, so typical of what a high school guy was like, that Archie, by being close to Obie, knew all the time what the school was thinking. Okay, so he used Obie. But wasn't that what life was all about? Using? Just as Obie, no doubt, used him, used his proximity to the Assignor of the Vigils to set him apart from, probably above, the other students.

The afternoon was dying, turning the campus into long shadows, hidden doorways, bushes and shrubbery hugging the residence, many places now for people to hide. Archie always envisioned lurkers, predators, watchers in the shadows or around corners, peeking out of windows, waiting behind closed doors. That was why he always stood tense, alert, at the ready, keen, eyes shifting, on guard under his exterior of coolness. It was a rotten world, full of treachery and evil, and you had to be on your toes at all times, ready for combat, to outfox, outwit, outdeal everybody else. Archie endorsed the graffiti he had once seen scrawled on a downtown brick wall: Do Unto Others, Then Split.

He heard the footsteps behind him at the same moment the voice reached his ears.

"Are you expecting an apparition, Costello?"

Archie didn't turn but winced slightly, instantly humiliated by allowing Brother Leon to creep up and surprise him. He didn't like to be surprised, particularly by Leon. He remained still, waiting for Leon to swing around and come into his view. Which Leon did, a satisfied look on his face, as if he had gained some kind of advantage. Leon was dressed in his black and whites, black suit, stiff white collar.

The campus was still. A car with a ruptured muffler violated the air far down the street.

"You're lurking late here, aren't you, Costello?" Leon asked.

Lurking and Costello. Leon had a trick of choosing certain words and pronouncing them so as to make them seem sinister, unsavory. As if Archie by lurking here was doing something illegal, dirty, shameful. And Costello. Since assuming the authority of Headmaster, Brother Leon called all students by their last names, kept a strict formality with them. He had never been the buddy-buddy type anyway; now he treated the students as if they were underlings, mere subjects in the kingdom of his royal highness, Leon the First.

Archie shrugged, didn't bother to answer Leon's Question; it didn't require an answer, in fact. To Leon, the question itself was important, not the answer. The question and how he asked it, with that faint smirk, the suggestive curl of his lips. But Archie knew Leon's methods — and Leon knew he knew — so Archie permitted himself a smile at Leon, a smile that told Leon exactly how he felt about it all. And then Archie decided to answer, seeing an opportunity to level his own shaft at Leon.

"Just checking the" premises," Archie said. "Some of the neighbors have been complaining about a child molester — wearing a white collar — lurking in the area."

A glitter in Leon's eyes, a quickening, like a sudden touch of cold sunlight on the surface of a lake. His face was expressionless, but Archie sensed a tension in the flesh of Leon's cheeks. He and Leon had always dueled this way, tossing veiled barbs at each other, in a game that wasn't quite a game.

Leon waved his right hand, almost limply, dismissing Archie's barb, showing that he recognized it for what it was, verbal retaliation.

"The campus has been quiet for some time," Leon said, his tone now more conversational, as if some prologue had ended and he could get on with the business at hand. "You have been holding them in check."

Archie knew who he meant by them.

"I must express my admiration, Costello. For you. Your methods. I know that your odd activities go on, but you have been discreet. And life has been kind, hasn't it?"

They had made a pact months ago, after the chocolates and immediately after Leon had assumed the Headmastership of Trinity. "Life at Trinity can be very pleasant, Costello, for both of us," Leon had said. "My desire is to continue the fine traditions of Trinity, to make it the best preparatory school in New England. And this takes faculty working together with the student body. Our dear retired Headmaster was a wonderful man but did not comprehend the ways of students, Costello. He was not vigilant." Vigilant. Leon had caressed the word with his tongue, his lips, his voice, giving it a special meaning, the word leaping into the air and hanging there. Archie had nodded. Knew Leon's meaning. "I, however, am vigilant. Will continue to be. I also know that boys must be allowed their games, their sports, must indulge their idiosyncrasies on occasion. This I understand and allow. But within limitations. Without obstructions to the lofty goals and purposes of Trinity. And its administration."

Words, of course. Bullshit. The administration of the school was under the strict control of Brother Leon. In fact, he had arranged a transfer for Brother Jacques, the only member of the faculty who had ever showed signs of independence — Jacques had objected to the events surrounding the chocolate skirmish last fall — and Jacques was no longer on the scene at Trinity. So much for Leon's pretensions. But even though Leon's words were bullshit, the meaning came through straight and true to Archie. He and Leon spoke the same language, not the verbal language of ordinary communication but the between-the-lines language of conspirators and plotters. What Leon meant: Play your tricks, Archie, carry out the assignments, let the Vigils have their fun. But keep your distance from me. Don't do anything to embarrass me as Headmaster of the school Otherwise. .

"Incidentally, Costello, I have some bad news."

Not so incidentally, Archie figured. He knew now the reason Brother Leon had sought him out, confronted him here on the campus as the sun began to droop. I have some bad news. He had never known Leon to bring good news.

"It's news from provincial headquarters. In Manchester, New Hampshire."

Get to the point, Brother Leon, and spare the geography.

"Brother Eugene — remember him?" Leon asked, guilelessly, innocently. But not so guileless, not so innocent.

Archie nodded, glad that he seldom perspired, whether under pressure or during heat waves, glad that beads of moisture on his forehead would not betray him.

"He is dead, Brother Eugene. He died yesterday in the infirmary at Manchester."

For a moment, in the shadows, Archie saw the soft, quizzical face of Brother Eugene superimposed on Leon's features, then shrugged it away.

"He never fully recovered," Leon said.

Archie knew what Leon wanted him to ask: Recovered from what? But Archie wouldn't give him the satisfaction. And, anyway, they both knew.

"The Order has lost a wonderful, sensitive teacher," Leon said. "Have you anything to say, Costello? Perhaps a tribute of your own? You had Brother Eugene in class, didn't you?"

"History," Archie said. "One semester."

"Room Nineteen?" Brother Leon asked, malice in his voice as he shifted his body suddenly so that the last flash of the sun's rays struck Archie's eyes, causing him to blink, to look away. Room Nineteen and its beautiful debris, a legend now at Trinity.

"I never had Brother Eugene in Room Nineteen," Archie said, holding his voice steady. "It was some other room in my freshman year." He squared off, changed position so that he could look Leon in the eye again.

Their gazes held for a moment, and it was Leon who broke the contact this time. Casting his eyes downward, he said: "We shall have a special memorial mass for Brother Eugene at assembly. But I think you should make a special visit to your church and offer up prayers for the repose of his soul."

Archie said nothing. He had not prayed for years. Went through the motions during the masses in assembly hall on special occasions. Attended mass with his parents when they insisted, and followed the rituals that pleased them. He didn't care whether he pleased them or not, but peace reigned in the house when he played the role of dutiful son.

"Have you nothing to say, Costello?" Leon said, anger showing through the words.

"Brother Eugene was a nice guy," Archie said. "I bleed him." Having to say something. He spoke the truth, really. There had been nothing personal in the Room Nineteen assignment. There was never anything personal in the assignments.

"I don't want to dwell on the past, Costello," Leon said. "But prayer is always good for the soul. Your own, for instance."

Archie remained silent, and Leon seemed willing to accept his silence as acceptance, because he sighed expansively, as if he had just done his good deed for the day and could go on with his usual routine. He glanced around the darkening campus, the buildings shrouded in silence, the white clapboards of the residence gleaming like dinosaur bones.

"I love this school, Costello," Leon said.

Like a criminal loves his crime, Archie thought. That was the secret of the world's agony, and the reason crime — and, yes, sin — would always prevail. Because the criminal, whether a rapist or a burglar, loves his crime. That's why rehabilitation was impossible. You had to get rid of the love, the passion, first. And that would never happen.

Leon looked at Archie again, seemed about to speak, and then changed his mind.

"Carry on, Costello," he said, and padded away, in those short mincing steps the guys imitated so easily and frequently.

Archie allowed himself a moment of loathing as he watched Leon disappearing into the gloom. What a fake he was. All that phony concern about Brother Eugene. Leon had done nothing about Room Nineteen, too worried about his own career. Archie had always been able to depend on that. And that's what had made him and Leon allies. Which always bothered Archie, being linked with someone like Brother Leon. Then he remembered a surprise that awaited Leon — the day of the Bishop's visit. And maybe some others.

Walking toward his car at the parking space nearest the entrance, the choice space in the lot that no one else dared occupy, Archie sought the surge of satisfaction that usually filled him when he contemplated assignments.

The wind came up, trembling the limbs of trees, rattling a shutter on the residence. Archie was suddenly elated, knew he was apart from other people. It was a dark and beautiful secret he shared with no one.

Halting near his car, he pivoted, lifted his face to the rising wind, and whispered: "I am Archie." Heard his voice withering away in the darkness. No response, no echo. Which was what he wanted: to be alone, separate from the others, untouchable except by the knowing hands and mouths of the girls at Miss Jerome's.

"Too far."

"No it isn't."

"Yes it is."

"Just once. Just this once."

"Once won't be enough."

"Yes it will."

"No it won't. It never is."

It was a game they played, a delicious delightful game, that made every nerve end and something else stand up at attention. A cat-and-mouse game. An inch-here-and-inch-there game. Give a little, take a little. Squeeze here and caress there. A daring, terrific game that never moved beyond a certain agonizing point which, crazy, only made him love Laurie Gundarson more and more each time they played.

The game had become a ritual. They would drive to the Chasm and park in their favorite spot, an apron of land jutting out from the hillside. The lights of Monument winked below them like neon fireflies. Obie ignored the lights, Monument, Trinity, the Vigils, as he immersed himself in the marvel of Laurie's presence here in the car, in his life.

As he kissed her she moaned softly, low, husky, a slight tremor of her body betraying her own horniness. No, not horniness. He didn't want to think of her in those terms. She was more than a body to him, more than a girl to fondle and caress. Even this game was more than a game: it was a ritual in which they expressed their love, their desire for each other, the sweet, aching longing. But Laurie would let them go only so far. So far and no further. And he always complied. He complied because he had to proceed cautiously with Laurie, never knowing when she might turn away for good. Because of Trinity, for one thing.

The night they first met, at a dance, instantly attracted to each other, coming together beautifully in a slow number, she had stiffened and drawn away when she had learned he was a student at Trinity.

"What's the matter?" he had asked.

"That place is creepy," she said, wrinkling her nose.

"All schools are creepy," he retorted, trying to pull her against him again.

"I always hear weird things about it," she said, against the music, resisting his body.

"Rumors. Don't judge me by my school." He felt as though he was betraying Trinity but realized this girl in his arms was suddenly more important than Trinity. "Judge me by what I am."

"What are you?" she asked, looking directly into his eyes.

"One of the good guys," Obie said.

And she smiled.

But Trinity always stood between them. More than Trinity, of course: the Vigils. Actually they seldom spoke of the school, continually skirting the subject, which often left gaps in their conversations. As a result, Obie was constantly on his guard with Laurie, fearful of losing her, of doing anything to make her draw away and grow distant as she had that first night on the dance floor.

She was not distant from him now, in the car, close to him in this delicious game, responding, throbbing until, breathless, she drew back.

"Obie, please. ."

"One more minute," he whispered.

"It's for your own good," she said, but he could hear the huskiness in her voice that always betrayed her own desire.

"Let me count to sixty."

As he spoke he squeezed tenderly and delicately, his thumb and index finger moving as if he were playing some precious instrument.

After a few moments she put on the brakes again, wrenched her mouth from his, pulled away. "Too much, and too fast," she said. Strangely enough, he was relieved. Obie had always been terrified of going all the way. He had a feeling that he would somehow fail at the last minute, botch it all up, and leave himself humiliated in her eyes. He couldn't risk that. Thus, despite his passionate protests, he was grateful for Laurie's caution, the limits she had drawn.

Holding her tenderly, he whispered: "I love you. . " She cupped his cheek in her hand, an endearing gesture that almost brought tears to his eyes.

A sudden slash of headlights illuminated the interior of the car. Instinctively Obie and Laurie ducked their heads. As the favorite spot in town for parkers — fellows and girls making out, caressing, or maybe just shyly talking — the Chasm was also a target for bushwhackers, wise guys who got their lacks out of driving into the area with swiveling spotlights and squealing tires, scaring hell out of everybody. Obie and Laurie clutched each other as the intruding car swept past, the spotlights spraying the air with brilliance. The only compensation was that Laurie was close to him again, her warm and puking body melting into his. Darkness enveloped them completely as the car roared away and his mouth sought hers. His hand also moved in the dark, feeling the soft flesh he loved.

The delicious game again.

"Now, Obie. ." Warningly.

"Once more."

"Obie. ."

"Please. A ten count."

"Obie."

God, how he loved her. Wanted her. Needed her.

"No," she said, finality in her voice, removing his hand in a swift, impatient motion.

It was at moments like this that doubts riddled him. Did she really love him? Was she really doing this for his own good? Theirs had been a whirlwind romance, four weeks of movies and burgers at McDonald's and these sweet tortures here at the Chasm. But he realized he knew very little about Laurie Gundarson. Had never met her mother and father, few of her friends. As if he was a secret part of her life. Plenty of time later for introductions, she'd said. Or was she afraid to bring him into her life? Obie drew comfort by telling himself that she wanted him exclusively for her own.

He watched lovingly as she tucked in her blouse, patted her hair. Thank God for Laurie. She balanced the lousy things in his life, like his visit to Bay Bannister this afternoon. Watching Ray's face collapse like a folded tent in the wind when Obie had told him about the role he must play in Archie's new assignment.

"It's getting late," Laurie said, hands folded in her lap.

"I know," he said, resigned.

She could be ardent and loving one moment, prim and practical the next.

He started the car, wishing they could drive away together and keep going, never stopping, away from Monument and Trinity, Archie Costello and the Vigils.

Carter hit the wall with his fist. Bare-knuckled, unprotected by the nineteen-ounce glove he wore in the boxing ring. The impact reverberated throughout his body like an earthquake, his head snapping a bit as his fist crashed against the plaster wall. The pain, however, was sweet and fulfilling. The action had responded to Carter's need to strike out At something, someone. Until recently Carter had drifted with the Vigils, letting things happen, indifferent, because he'd had his boxing and football. There had been a time, in fact, when he had been amused by Archie's assignments. But no more. He knew that he would never forgive Archie for the chocolate assignment, the result of which had been Brother Leon's edict disbanding the boxing team. And now the Bishop's visit.

Carter looked around the gym, this place he'd always loved. The camaraderie of the boxing squad, the smell of the place — that sweet-sour aroma of liniment and sweat-soaked clothing — and the equipment, the big bag and all the beautiful paraphernalia of the sport. Gone now. Surveying the gym, the empty bleachers, the basketball nets hanging limply at either end, the absence of the boxing ring, dismantled and gone forever, Carter felt his anger returning, mixed with sadness. All gone because of Archie Costello.

He hit the wall again, despite his bruised knuckles, and the hit felt good. He was striking back at more than Archie. Striking at the entire world. Because the world looked at him and saw the jock, the rugged football guard, the slugger in the ring. Not only the world but the officials in charge of admissions at Daleton College, which specialized in physical education. Made to order for a guy like Carter. Carter had gunned for a scholarship but had been unsuccessful. He had not yet even received an acceptance. Which kept him dangling on a string. Okay, he was not a brain, but his SAT scores were adequate. He made the honor roll now and then. But nobody saw beyond his jock image. Was there anything else to see? Yes. There was. Had to be. He had to show people, had to show everybody he was more than just a jock, an ex-jock, in fact, who stood around and did nothing.

"I've got to call Obie," he said to no one in particular. Nobody in the gym at this time of day. Lately he'd fallen into the habit of talking aloud to himself when no one was around.

He called Obie from the telephone booth in the main corridor on the first floor across from Brother Leon's office. The phone book had long ago disappeared, and he had to call information for Obie's number. The door of the booth had been torn off and never replaced. As the phone rang, Carter glanced around the corridor, his eye coming to rest on the trophy case farther down the hall. Looking at the case always made him feel good.

When Obie answered, his voice sounded thin and reedy. Carter had never spoken to him on the phone before.

"What's up?" Obie asked.

"The Bishop's visit, that's what's up," Carter said, plunging in. "I think it's a mistake, Obie."

Silence at the other end of the line.

"Archie's going too far with this one," Carter went on. "It's too much, Obie."

"With Archie it's always too much," Obie said "Haven't you gotten used to that by now?"

"It's okay when he confines it to tie school. But this new deal involves the diocese, for crissake. And the priests in town who always come as guests. It's a mistake, Obie. Archie's setting out to humiliate the Bishop. It's big trouble. Heap big trouble."

"What do you want to do about it?" Obie asked.

"I don't know."

"You're not going to make Archie change his mind, that's for sure."

Carter paused, took a deep breath, wondering how far he could go with Obie but following his instincts, the instincts that told him Obie was not exactly buddy-buddy with Archie these days. Not like the old days.

Carter plunged again. "I wasn't thinking of changing Archie's mind."

"Who were you thinking of?"

"Brother Leon."

He heard Obie's sharp intake of breath. He looked around at the same tune, as if invoking Leon's name could cause him to appear. But the corridor was deserted.

"We've got to get Leon to call off the Bishop's visit," Carter said.

More silence at the other end of the line. Finally Obie asked: "And how do we do that, Carter?" Sarcastically.

"That's what I want to talk to you about. I mean, two heads are better than one, right?"

"Sometimes."

"Sometimes?" Carter asked, worried suddenly. Maybe he had misjudged Obie. Maybe Obie's first loyalty was to Archie, after all. "Am I talking out of line, Obie? Do you agree with me that Archie's plan for the visit is a mistake?"

"Okay, okay," Obie said, impatient, anger in his voice. "Look, I'm sick and tired of Archie Costello and his assignments too. But leading a mutiny is something else."

"I'm not talking about a mutiny, for crissakes," Carter said. "I'm talking about a quiet little plan to stop the Bishop's visit."

He heard a long-drawn-out sigh.

"I don't know, Carter. I don't like getting mixed up with Leon. Maybe there's some other way—"

"Think about it," Carter said.

"I'll do that." Pause. "Look, I've got to go. I'll talk to you later." Hurried, as if he couldn't wait to hang up.

Carter frowned as he replaced the receiver on the hook. He listened to see if his coin would be returned. No luck. He knew now he could not depend on Obie. Obie had his own problems: he also had. Laurie Gundarson. Carter realized that he could not depend on anyone. Only himself.

Stepping out of the booth, he was aware of the emptiness all around him. Enjoying the sense of aloneness, Carter walked toward the trophy case with the gleaming silver and gold statuettes testifying to Trinity's triumphs on the football field and in the boxing ring. His triumphs, really.

He was hypnotized by the glow of the trophies, which almost shimmered as the corridor lights caressed them. Even if he never got to college, never won another championship, they would remain symbols of his accomplishment. Nothing, nobody, could ever take that away.

Not even Archie Costello.

The eyes, of course. Mostly it was the eyes. They followed him around the room, like those eyes in certain paintings that haunt the viewer. Jerry looked like a figure in a painting, his face expressionless, as if caught by an artist and frozen forever. After the first few minutes of sitting across from him, unnerved by the silence in the room and those terrible eyes, the Goober had started wandering around, glancing out the window, stooping to relace his sneaker, anything to avoid that terrible, empty stare.

But it really wasn't empty. It was like the difference between a vacant house where the windows are shuttered and boarded up and a house where someone might be peeking out of the windows when you're not looking, where a billowing curtain might hide prying eyes. Crazy, Goober thought, as he looked up from his sneakers, crouched on the floor. He told himself to cool it, take it easy, start from the beginning. This was his friend, Jerry Renault. They had played football together, had run the streets together after school although Jerry had had no interest in the track team. They had shared a lot of stuff. Like the chocolates. The goddam chocolates.

Goober was determined to try again.

"How about Canada, Jerry? Did you have a good time up there?" The question sounded stupid to Goober — Jerry had been sent to Canada to recuperate. How could he have had a good time up there?

"Yes," Jerry said. The word fell between them like a heavy stone.

That was the problem. Jerry wasn't mute or completely silent, but he answered Goober's questions in monosyllables, squeezing out one-word answers that left Goober dangling. How are you, Jerry? Fine. Glad to be back home? Yes. And asked no questions of his own. Did not seem at all interested in Goober. Looked at him, in fact, as if Goober was a stranger. At one point he was afraid that Jerry would lean forward and ask: Who the hell are you, anyway?

He wished Jerry's father had let him know what to expect when he'd arrived at the house. In response to Goober's inquiry—"How's he doing?" — Mr. Renault had merely shrugged, his face tightening as if his flesh had been drawn taut from behind his skull by invisible hands. Jerry's father was a mild, soft-spoken man who seemed to drift away even as you spoke to him. An air of sadness pervaded him and the apartment as well. More than sadness. The apartment seemed lifeless, like a museum. Goober knew without any doubt that the flowers on the dining-room table were artificial, fake. He had the feeling that Jerry and his father occupied the apartment the way mannequins inhabited rooms of furniture in a department store.

The Goober had forced himself to turn off the morbid thoughts as Jerry's father led him to a den at the far end of the apartment. At first glance Jerry looked fine. No signs of the beating he had absorbed, his skin pale but unblemished. Sitting in a rocking chair, he didn't look disabled but seemed fragile, sitting stiffly, as though he might fall apart if he relaxed.

"Hi, Jerry, good to see you," Goober said, hoping Jerry didn't catch the false heartiness.

Jerry smiled remotely, said nothing, offered nothing.

That's when the one-sided conversation began, Goober like an inquisitor and Jerry like a reluctant witness, answering grudgingly or not at all.

Settling down in a chair across from Jerry now, Goober thought: One last try and then I'll go. Actually he was eager to leave, to get out of Jerry's sight. He realized that Jerry's reluctance to talk or to communicate probably stemmed from Goober's betrayal last fall. He had betrayed Jerry, hadn't he? He had allowed Jerry to face Archie Costello and Emile Janza and the Vigils all by himself. Had gone, finally, to help his friend when it was too late, Jerry bloody and beaten and broken, urging the Goober in painful gasps not to defy the Vigils or anybody else. Don't disturb the universe, Jerry had whispered out of his agony. Don't make waves.

Okay, one last try:

"Trinity's still the lousy school it's always been," the Goober said, immediately disgusted with himself. He had vowed not to bring up Trinity unless Jerry specifically asked about the school. But, desperate, he found himself going on stupidly about the place, meaningless stuff about courses and report cards, avoiding certain topics, picking his way through the monologue like someone avoiding broken glass while walking barefoot.

Surprisingly, Jerry seemed interested, eyes a bit brighter, head tilted slightly, rocking gently, long fingers gripping the arms of the chair.

The Goober decided to take a chance, to say what he had waited all these months to say:

"I'm sorry, Jerry, about last fall." Taking a deep breath, plunging on. "I let you down. Let you face Archie Costello and Emile Janza and the Vigils by yourself."

Jerry's hands flew up as if holding off an attack. He began to shake his head, eyes troubled now, not vacant or staring but shining with — what? Sadness? More than that. Resentment, hate?

"Don't. ." Jerry said. The word as if dredged up from deep inside of him. "I don't want to talk about that. . "

"I have to talk about it," the Goober went on.

Jerry began to shake his head furiously, rising from the chair as if in panic, as if the building had suddenly caught fire. Tears threatened his eyes.

"That's all done with now," he said. "It's got nothing to do with me now." He turned away, walked to the window, and the Goober sensed that he was making a tremendous effort to control himself. Jerry faced him again and Goober was struck once more by how pale and fragile he seemed.

"I didn't invite you here," Jerry said, in control again, no tears visible, chin tilted a bit, defiantly. "My father did." He seemed to be groping for words. "I. ." And turned away again, shutting out Goober as he stared out the window.

"I'm still sorry," the Goober said. Having to say it all, like confession, not expecting absolution but needing to confess. "That was terrible. What I did last fall. I just wanted you to know."

Jerry nodded, without looking back at him, still concentrating on something outside the building, still unreachable, still looking frail and vulnerable. Which heaped further guilt on the Goober.

"Better go now," Jerry said. Sounding weary, spent. He turned around, facing Goober, but avoided his eyes.

"Right," Goober said. "Don't want to tire you out." Pretending everything was normal. "I've got an appointment with my dentist." Throwing in an easy lie — was that another betrayal? "I'll come back again sometime." Never in a million years.

Jerry's father appeared at the doorway as if summoned by a bell the Goober had not heard.

"Going already, Goober?" he asked, false, voice off key, fake.

Goober nodded turned back to say good-bye to Jerry, hoping that Jerry might say: Stay awhile, Goob, stick around. But not really wanting him to say that. Hoping Jerry might also say: You didn't betray me, Goober. And even if you did, I understand I'm still your friend. Knowing those were impossible words for Jerry to say.

Jerry said nothing. Merely stood there, looking troubled and abandoned as if wounded somehow, although there was no visible mark on him.

"I've got a dentist's appointment," Goober heard himself say inanely to Mr. Renault.

"Of course, of course," Mr. Renault replied gently, understandingly. "I'm sorry. . "

Sorry for what?

"So long, Jerry," Goober said.

Jerry lifted his hand in a limp salute, still avoiding his eyes, and looking somewhere beyond Goober.

The Goober got the hell out of there.

Later he ran the streets of Monument, pounding the pavement, not the leisurely pace of his usual stride but a frantic tempo, not singing as he sometimes did, lungs bursting now, full of pain and hurt but accepting the pain and the hurt Like a sacrifice. Like the psalm they recited at mass sometimes: I offer up myself as an evening sacrifice.

Hours later, safe in his bed, pulling the covers around his shoulders, eyes tightly shut, he saw only Jerry's face. Vowed never to go near him again. But he knew somehow he must. But would think about that later, next week, next year. He slept finally, a strange blank sleep, as if he had been erased from all existence.

The next morning at school he learned that Brother Eugene had died. Which was worse even than Jerry Renault's return to Monument.

"What's her name?"

"Laurie Gundarson."

"School?"

"Monument High. A senior. Interested in drama. Played one of the leads in the senior class play." Bunting paused, then added: "She's really built. Stacked, like they say."

Bunting hesitated, coughed, a bit nervous. He and Archie were alone on the front steps of the school, the entire student body and faculty inside at the special memorial mass for the soul of Brother Eugene. Bunting had approached Archie as the students had filed into the assembly hall, asking to speak to him later. Archie had motioned him outside.

"Now?" Bunting asked. "This minute?"

The odor of burning candles filled the air.

"Why not?" Archie asked, a dare in his voice. "They'll never miss us."

Bunting had followed, swaggering, unwilling to let Archie see his apprehension about skipping the mass. He sat uneasily now beside Archie, unable to fully enjoy giving his report about Obie and the girl.

"Old Obie," Archie mused. Was that fondness in his voice? "I knew he was hooked, had it bad." He said no more. He had dispatched Bunting to find out details about the girl, a test of Bunting's effectiveness as a gatherer of information. He was also curious about her.

Bunting studied Archie, wanting to play it cool: always had to play it cool with Archie. Archie was unpredictable, and Bunting had to always be on the alert, trying to stay one step ahead. You never knew whether Archie was pleased or pissed off. So Bunting walked a continuous thin line. But it was worth it, of course. His future was linked with Archie, for the remainder of the school year, anyway. His burning ambition was to succeed Archie as the Assigner of the Vigils, and he had the inside track on the job. Archie hadn't singled out anyone else for special attention, and he was relying more and more on Bunting. In fact, Bunting was slowly but surely taking Obie's place.

Bunting had always envied Obie's nearness to Archie, which meant being near the center of power. Now he had something else to envy Obie for — his involvement with Laurie Gundarson. She was too beautiful for somebody like Obie. The other night, while he and Harley and Cornacchio were bushwhacking, they had spotted Obie and Laurie clinging together in Obie's car. Bunting had started to burn with both lust and jealousy. He was a virgin, muck to his dismay and disgust, except in wild dreams in the privacy of his bed or the bathroom. He dreamed of girls exactly like Laurie, went weak sometimes with desire and longing. Yet when he came within range of a" girl, something went wrong. He was tongue-tied, blushed furiously, didn't know what to do with his arms and legs. So he kept his distance and, not wanting to betray himself with the guys, he maintained a sort of world-weary demeanor, as if he'd seen it all and done it all.

Bunting looked toward the doorway — was someone standing there? One of the brothers on the search for delinquents?

"They're all too busy praying," Archie said, intercepting Bunting's glance. "You're always safe when someone's praying for the dead. Go on. Give me some specifics about that Laurie Gundarson."

So Bunting gave him specifics, a routine he'd learned observing Obie at the Vigil meetings, flipping open the pages of his notebook.

"Laurie Gundarson, straight A's, high honor roll, Honor Society, Debating Club, Drama Club."

Enough specifics. Looking up, he added, confidentially: "She's gone out with lots of guys, but I think she's one of those touch-me-not types." Bunting was improvising now, letting himself be carried away by his vision of Laurie Gundarson. "Stuck up, too. A teaser." Bunting had given her a big hello once at a dance, after a half hour of summoning up his courage, and she'd looked at him as if he was transparent. Made him feel like a pane of glass. "Under all that sweet stuff and the honor roll crap, she's a bitch."

"Stick to the facts," Archie said dryly.

"Hell, anybody can tell by just looking at her that she's a tease," Bunting said. "Stacked but acting like she doesn't know what she has, what it's all about. Poor Obie." He chortled. "She's probably driving him up a wall."

Archie took his attention away from Bunting. That described his action precisely. He didn't merely look away or become distracted. He had the ability to shut a door in people's faces, dismissing them immediately, indicating his boredom or disinterest or indifference by a slight movement of his head.

Bunting realized that Archie had shut him out, leaving him alone, exposed here on the school steps.

"We saw them the other night," Bunting said, needing to capture Archie's attention again. "Making out at the Chasm."

Interest flashed in Archie's eyes.

"How far did they go?"

Bunting shrugged. "I don't know. I recognized Obie's car — he hasn't washed it for like ten years. It's lousy with dirt. We got a quick glance. They were close, maybe kissing, arms around each other."

"That all?"

"Listen, for a tease like Laurie Gundarson, that's going a long way."

Long pause, Archie thinking, eyes far away.

"You want us to do something about Obie and the girl?" Bunting asked. Gently, tentatively.

"What would you do?" Archie asked.

"Whatever you want."

Archie chuckled, a sound as dry as rolling dice.

"An interesting offer," he said, looking at Bunting again, amused.

Bunting smiled. Was that a look of admiration on Archie's face? Approval? He wanted Archie to know that he was loyal, that there were no limits to what he would do for Archie and the Vigils.

The doorway behind them exploded with bodies. Trinity students never simply left a classroom or school building: they stampeded, jousting for position, using arms and elbows, knees and thighs, to best advantage. Guys now swarmed down the stairs, swiveling, braking to avoid Archie and Bunting. Bunting leaped aside, but Archie remained on the steps, calm, unruffled, letting the tide of bodies flow around him. "I'll see you later," Archie called to Bunting, mouthing the words so that the sophomore would understand the dismissal over the noise.

Archie watched Bunting fleeing into the mass of bodies, glad to be rid of him. Archie disliked his know-it-all attitude, his smirks and strutting walk, his eager display of willingness to carry out orders. Oh, Bunting was smart enough, but he lacked style. He was gross and obvious and superficial. Not subtle at all. Subtlety was an element Archie considered precious, the most important commodity of all for the Assigner. He had never bothered to tell Bunting that.

If Bunting had been a proper pupil, Archie would have been willing to share his secrets. To tell him, for instance, how to pick victims and about the secrets of passion. Find out a person's passion and you have him in the palm of your hand. Find out what a person loves or hates or fears, and you can play that person like a violin. Find someone who cares and what he cares about, and he is yours on a silver platter. So simple, so obvious. But some people never saw this. Particularly Bunting. Bunting also wanted to generate excitement by physical means — setting up fights, crowding people, looking for blood. He had once, for crissakes, suggested loosening a banister on the third-floor stairs so that a kid would go crashing through space. Stupid. Dangerous. Not worthy of Archie Costello. Not worthy of the Vigils. When physical combat entered the scene, trouble came with it. The chocolates, for instance, even though the violence had been controlled. Yet it could have been a disaster. He could have told Bunting to remember the chocolates. But hadn't. He gave no warnings to Bunting.

"How can you stand that little bastard?"

Carter spoke directly behind Archie. He had seen Archie and Bunting leaving the assembly hall before mass, not surprised at Archie's lack of respect, his lack of guilt. Knowing that Archie was invulnerable, he focused his anger on Bunting. Somebody should be angry about what had happened to Brother Eugene.

"Bunting serves a purpose," Archie replied, not turning, letting Carter do the approaching. Which he did, of course, sitting down beside Archie.

"Got a Hershey?" Archie inquired.

Carter shook his head impatiently. Some stooges always had Hershey bars in their pockets to keep Archie in supply. Thank God Archie didn't indulge in drugs.

"Bunting is such a bastard," Carter said, flexing his arms, opening and closing his fists. "He's another Janza, for crissake. A little smoother, maybe. Doesn't pick his nose or his ass. But another Janza, all right."

Archie didn't say anything and Carter brooded, resting his chin in his hands.

"I always wonder about guys like that, Archie. Guys like Bunting and Janza." He could have added: You too, Archie. But didn't. Hated himself for his cowardice but accepted it. "Know what gets me? They're bastards and it doesn't bother them. They enjoy it. They don't even think of themselves as bastards. They do lousy things and think it's great."

"You know what the secret is, Carter?" Archie asked in that superior tone of his.

"Tell me."

"This: Everybody likes the smell of his own shit," Archie said, looking away.

Carter frowned, looked about him at guys running for buses, cars roaring out of the parking lot with shrieking brakes and wheels, the frenzy of an improvised touch-football game on the lawn.

"That's the story of life, Carter, and why things happen the way they do." Pause. "You like the smell of yours, don't you?"

"Jesus, Archie. ." Carter began to protest but he didn't know what words to use, didn't know what to say to a thing like that. A few minutes ago he had bowed his head in prayer for the soul of Brother Eugene. Felt guilty for some reason, although he had had no part in the Room Nineteen assignment. Prayer hadn't helped. He had felt a void within himself, an emptiness, couldn't wait for the mass to end, for a chance to escape. Escape to what? To Archie Costello and his terrible words.

"Think about it, Carter," Archie said, rising to his feet, stretching, yawning, moving off. Without saying good-bye. Archie never said hello or good-bye.

Archie walked across the lawn, passing easily through, clusters of students, knowing they were all conscious of his presence and making way for him, stepping aside to allow him passage.

Everybody likes the smell of his own shit.

Archie's voice echoed in Carter's mind.

You like the smell of yours, don't you?

Okay, okay.

There had to be more than that.

Had to be.

But Carter couldn't say what it was.

David Caroni waited until he was alone in the house, his father still at work at the Hensen Transportation Company, where he was employed as traffic manager, and his mother downtown shopping with his brother, Anthony. Anthony was a terrific tennis player, a natural, and he was shopping for a new racquet. His mother, who couldn't resist a shopping trip, had left a note saying she'd run her own errands while Anthony cruised the sports stores. His mother liked to write notes and make lists. Anyway, David knew that it would be at least an hour, maybe an hour and a half, before anyone came home. That was enough time.

He had not known this morning when he emerged from sleep at the ringing of the alarm that this would be the day. Yet this act he contemplated now was not the result of a sudden decision. The knowledge that his life would end sometime this year, probably before summer arrived, had been with him for weeks, months. He wasn't quite certain when the knowledge had flowered within him, at which precise moment he knew that he must end this desperate, pointless thing his life had become. He knew only that it must happen, that he must terminate what had become not even a life, really. Then what was it? A sunless, airless desert in which he trudged wearily and purposelessly, like a being from an alien planet, out of place and out of touch, Without appetite or desires. Blank, unreachable, friendless, loveless. Funny. Only the knowledge that he would end this life made it bearable. Until the right moment, the right time. Which was now, this afternoon, this hour.

He seemed lifted by a light breeze as he went upstairs, placed his books tidily on the table near his bed, looking at them lingeringly, knowing there would be no need to do homework tonight, that marks did not matter. This made him smile, but it was a smile without joy or warmth. All during these past weeks he had continued to do his homework, eat his meals, take showers, shampoo his hair, wait for the school bus, take notes in school, carry on conversations with his classmates and his family, and nobody but nobody could see that he wasn't really there, that he was contributing nothing of himself to conversations or classes or mealtimes, holding back the essential ingredient that was himself. Me. David Caroni, son, brother, student. But it didn't matter, really, it was merely amusing in an unfunny land of way because it would all end soon. He was thankful for that knowledge, clung to it. Otherwise he might not have made it through the dry monotony of his days and evenings.

Yet there were moments of startling surfacings, as if he were emerging from deep waters into sunlight, and for a brief moment, suspended in time, he would see the ridiculous thing his life had become, making no sense. Just as the Letter made no sense. (Of course the Letter made no sense in itself — the use of the word Letter was a sly and furtive substitute for the real thing.) And then the burst of sunlight would end and he would be plunged again into the sterile, austere life that was the life he now knew, no sun, no sky, nothing. No place to go and no place to hide.

He surveyed his room for a final time, remembering a poem he had read once long ago:

Look thy last on all things lovely,

Every hour.

His stereo, which he had loved once and played now only as a cover, a disguise, pretending that the music had meaning. The books lined up on his shelves, well-thumbed paperbacks that he had not opened for weeks although he'd always had a compulsion to read and reread favorite passages time and again. He sighed, thinking of all the faking he'd had to do in order to act normal, protecting his family so that they would not know, would not suspect, talking, listening, acting, Academy Award stuff, but hugging all the time his little secret within him. His eyes encountered now the posters he had plastered to his walls. Stupid, they were, really. After the Rain, the Rainbow. Words. Meaningless. Vowels and consonants. Letters. Twenty-six letters in the alphabet. That one fatal deadly letter. But don't think about that now. Look thy last. .

He began to undress. Removed his shirt and pants. Folded them neatly on the bed. Slipped off his socks, frowning at the faint smell of foot odor, his feet having a tendency to perspire even on the coldest winter day. Pulled off his blue-plaid boxer shorts and drew his T-shirt over his head, dropped socks and shorts and shirt into the hamper, Stood naked, a bit chilly, avoiding his reflection in the full-length mirror near the closet. He had avoided his reflection for months, grateful that he hadn't yet begun to shave.

He was strangely calm and almost lifted himself on tiptoe as he felt that pleasant rising wind again, but within him, not outside. He was more than calm: it was a sleepwalking kind of feeling, drift, as if he were being drawn by some invisible current to an inevitable destination. He had contemplated other forms of the act but had discarded them. Had read books at the library, studied statistics, looked up methods in an encyclopedia, pondered stories in newspapers — astonished but gratified by the frequency of the act — and had finally decided on the best way. For him.

He walked, seemed to glide, toward the bureau, still avoiding the mirror, and opened the bottom drawer. He shifted odds and ends of clothing around, then lifted the white lining paper. He withdrew two envelopes and held one in each of his hands for a moment, as if his hands were plates on a scale. One envelope contained a letter that would explain to his mother and father and Anthony why this act had become necessary. He had struggled long and hard with it, knowing they must not feel guilt or blame. He had written and rewritten the letter a hundred times, finding it, guiltily, the only act of any pleasure in the previous months. Now he placed the letter on the bureau, against the picture they had taken of him when he won highest honors at his graduation from St. John's Parochial School. All A's for eight years. He stared at the picture, thinking of the Letter, and then turned away, eager to open the other envelope.

The other envelope contained a steel single-edged razor blade, gleaming lethally in the slant of afternoon sunlight. Pleasantly lethal. His friend, his deliverer. Carrying the blade delicately between the thumb and index finger of his right hand, he walked to the bathroom, placed the blade on the top of the toilet tank, and began to run water into the bathtub. After a few moments the hot water splashed steamily into the tub, vapors rising from the water's surface, clinging to the tile walls, fogging the mirror above the small sink. He looked at the turbulent water, feeling neither hot nor cold, feeling nothing, really. He tested the water with his right hand and then increased the flow of cold. He waited patiently, conscious of the blade nearby. He tested the water again and found it to be satisfactory. He shut off the faucets.

He placed the razor blade on the side of the tub and then slipped into the water from the end opposite the faucets, letting the warmth flow over him. He was grateful for once that he was a blank. Without thought or emotion. As if he were transparent, without weight. He realized he hadn't sat in a tub for years, showering instead each morning on arising. He sighed, felt the warmth of the water seeping into his pores, the steam forming rivulets on his forehead, cheeks, and chin. Beautiful here. Soon this terrible, ugly, desperate, despicable world would come to an end along with his utterly useless place in it. Kill yourself and you also kill the world, someone had said He would always spare his family, but how he would love to obliterate Trinity and all it stood for. Brother Leon and the Letter. Look thy last. .

He reached for the blade.

But could not touch it.

Stared at it, a small steel rectangle catching the ceiling light.

His finger touched the blade but remained there, as if pinning the blade to the tub.

He knew he couldn't do it, could not perform this act. Not now. Not today. Today was not the day, after all.

A small glimmer lit up a corner of the dark thing his mind had become. Brother Leon's face glowed in that glimmer. Why should he go alone, leaving Leon behind, sparing him?

He drew his hand back from the razor.

Weary, exhausted, knowing he must endure this bleak existence for a while more.

And remained in the tub, weeping, until the water grew cold.

During Vigil meetings or holding court on the school steps or simply walking around the campus, Archie was always in command, in control. The only place he was not in control — although he admitted this to no one — was in Leon's office. Leon never summoned Archie to a meeting without a solid reason for doing so, and Archie always went to the meetings with his guard up, a bit on edge. Not exactly nervous: Leon didn't have the power to make him nervous.

Archie admitted to a degree of uncertainty now, as he stepped into Leon's study, but he didn't allow it to show. In fact he sat down without invitation, slouched in the chair, assuming a don't-give-a-hell attitude.

Leon regarded him critically but said nothing. They stared at each other, the old game that always had to be played. This time Leon looked away first. He pulled open the center drawer of the desk and withdrew a white envelope. His slender, dainty fingers took a sheet of folded paper out of the envelope. He unfolded the paper, shot a glance at Archie.

"Do you know about this?"

"About what?" Archie asked, alert.

Leon handed the sheet of paper to Archie. Slowly Archie reached out and took it, the motion deliberate and unhurried. He stifled his curiosity, holding the paper in the palm of his hand for a moment. Then he read the words.

Brother Leon:

It is imperative to cancel the Bishop's forthcoming visit to Trinity. Bad things will happen if he comes. This is friendly advice, not a warning.

The letters were printed in blue ballpoint ink. Awkward letters, slanting both left and right as if the writer of the note were drunk or didn't have full control of his hands. Or wanted to disguise his handwriting. As Archie's eyes took in the message, slowly reading again each word, another word leaped to the forefront of his mind.

Traitor.

For the first time in his years at Trinity, a traitor had appeared. Oh, there had been the expected enemies, the stubborn kids (like Renault), the animals (like Janza). The reluctant guys, the timid ones, the protestors. But never a whistle-blower, a turncoat, a traitor. Never someone tipping off the Headmaster. The ultimate act of betrayal. Because even the students who feared and hated the Vigils realized that the Vigils were on their side. The common enemy was Trinity itself, the faculty, the Headmaster, whether Brother Leon or anyone else. By their very natures the faculty and the student body were enemies. And one did not consort with the enemy. This was the worst thing that someone could do, the most despicable act of all. Thinking of all this and also: Who could it be? Not just anybody. Not just any student. Most students had been delighted by the prospect of a day off. Most students didn't care whether the Bishop or the school would be embarrassed. Most students probably wanted something to happen, to end this boring school term. So who?

He looked up to see Leon glaring at him. More than a glare. A baleful look full of contempt.

"This I cannot condone, Archie. Your foolish pranks here at school have been one thing, along with your stupid adolescent behavior. If your fellow students are ignorant enough to indulge you, fine. As long as it concerns only them and not me." Leaning forward, he snatched the letter from Archie's hand. "But involving the Bishop in one of your pranks. ." He let his voice die, but the snap and crackle of his words continued to echo in the room. "This is unforgivable and could threaten the school."

Archie was always at his best when he was under attack. That's when his blood seemed to sing as it coursed through his veins, when every fiber of his body was alert and standing ready, when his brain was clear and swift, not bogged down as sometimes happened during a test, particularly math. And so he felt himself responding to Leon's attack by cooling down, becoming calm, relaxed, forming his thoughts as if they were battalions of soldiers marshaling for a defensive maneuver. Go easy, slow and easy and cool. And play the ace up your sleeve when the time comes.

"I don't blame you for being upset, Brother Leon," Archie said, voice reasonable but dignified. Mustn't give any hint of apology, because that would indicate guilt. "I've always been careful to limit. ." Groping for the word, impossible to use assignment.". . our activities to the school, the campus." Pausing, watching Leon intently — but not too intently, must remain cool and yet permit a bit of his own anger and outrage to emerge little by little. "This is the kind of thing I've warned the guys about. But there's a lot of jealousy among the students. This jealousy. ."

Jealousy was the key word, of course. That's why he had repeated it. Jealousy was the hook Leon had to grab. And he grabbed. "Jealousy?" Puzzled, caught off guard for a split second.

"Yes. I've heard rumors that some of the students want to disrupt the school." He knew the words sounded phony — hadn't he, more than any other person, disrupted the school through the years? — but he had to convince Leon that the words weren't phony. "The Vigils, Brother Leon, have always worked with the school, never against, never destructive. Oh," we probably went overboard now and then, but all in the interest of school spirit."

Archie could tell his words were having an effect.

And knew why.

Because Leon wanted to believe him.

That was the card up Archie's sleeve.

The fact that he and Leon had to be allies. And if Leon couldn't trust Archie any longer to keep the students in check, then all hell could break loose.

And so Leon listened intently, nodding his head as Archie talked, selecting careful words, each designed to show Brother Leon that he was innocent of any scheme to embarrass the Bishop or the school or Brother Leon himself. He explained that one of his problems had always been jealous students who attempted to discredit what he tried to do. And what he had tried to do, of course, was keep peace on the campus. The Vigils had served a purpose, didn't Brother Leon agree? Monument High, for instance, had been ravaged by student misbehavior, bomb scares, vandalism. None of those things had occurred at Trinity. Because of the Vigils.

Leon listened, expressionless now, eyes impossible to read, the eyes of a fishlike creature in a tank. He cleared his throat and indicated the letter with an accusing index finger. "What about this? I have some questions. First, what do you think the plotters planned to do during the Bishop's visit? Secondly, do you know who the plotters are? Do you have any clues to go on?"

The important thing was to assure Leon that he was on top of everything. "I know who they are, Brother Leon. Believe me, I will take care of them."

Leon seemed to be measuring Archie's words. "With discretion? I want no civil wars on this campus, no revenge or retaliation."

"Don't worry. This is a minor matter."

"Do you know what they were up to? In what way could they embarrass the Bishop and the school?"

"I have some inkling, heard some rumors," Archie said, more careful now. "A demonstration before mass, on the Bishop's arrival." Improvising. "Some signs, like a picket line."

"What kind of signs?"

Archie knew he had him now. And this is what he loved, improvising and embellishing. "Signs asking for a shorter school day, more vacation time."

"That's impossible. We must operate under state law."

"The kids know that. A nuisance effect, that's all they're after."

Doubtful now, Leon regarded the note once more.

"Bad things will happen. That doesn't sound like a nuisance. That sounds suspiciously like a threat."

"Guys get carried away. Believe me, Brother Leon."

Actually, Brother Leon had no choice but to believe. Archie knew that Brother Leon could do nothing about the situation without embarrassing himself. Fighting the Vigils or what he believed to be a group of dissidents would be like fighting fog, impossible to grasp or penetrate. He had to depend on Archie, take Archie's word.

Leon sighed, frowned, tugged at his chin. Even from five or six feet away, Archie smelled his stale breath, rancid breath. Then a smirk developed on Leon's lips. Slowly Brother Leon opened the drawer once more, withdrew another sheet of paper, glanced at it and then at Archie.

"Whatever the conspirators planned was all in vain, at any rate," he said. "I received a letter from the diocese yesterday. It has been necessary for the Bishop to cancel his visit this year. The National Council of Bishops has called an important meeting in Chicago." He placed the letter on the desk, on top of the other, squared them off neatly, meticulously, the delicate fingers like insect legs.

Leon regarded Archie with triumph, smiling almost grotesquely, a caricature of a smile really. Leon was not accustomed to smiling. But something else was behind the smile, behind those icy cold eyes, the moisture frozen now, a smile that said Leon had not believed a word of what Archie had said. Which did not bother Archie in the least. The important thing is that Leon had chosen to pretend he had believed.

"Let me reiterate, Archie," Leon said, and the smile was gone now, so quickly that it might never have been there. "I want no embarrassments, no violence, no incidents here on the campus. We have less than two months to graduation. This has been a difficult year. A year with great triumphs — the most successful chocolate sale of all time, for instance — but a year of change and uncertainty. I want this year to end on a note of triumph."

Archie made ready to leave, didn't want to linger here any longer than necessary, never knowing what other surprises Leon had up his sleeve.

"You may go," Leon said, settling back, the smugness on his face as he fanned himself with the letter from the seat of the diocese.

Archie wasted no time getting out of there, rose from his chair without hesitation and made his way to the door. No good-bye, no thanks a lot, Brother Leon. Thanks for nothing.

Outside, Archie paused in the corridor as if to catch his breath, but it wasn't his breath he needed to catch, it was something else, someone else. His mind raced, zigzagging all over the place.

Who wrote that note?

Who was the traitor?

Their favorite spot at the Chasm was occupied by another car, so Obie steered toward an unfamiliar area at the far end and finally parked near a big old maple tree, with branches so low they scraped the roof of the car. He killed the motor and turned toward Laurie.

She sat in the far comer of the front seat, hunched up, her arms wrapped around her chest, shivering once in a while. She had a cold. Her nose was red. So were her eyes. One of those sudden spring colds that arrived overnight, without warning.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"About what?" Sniffing, voice nasal.

"About making you come out tonight, bringing you here." But he hadn't seen her for three nights: she'd been busy with a play rehearsal, homework, a shopping trip with her mother. Or had she been avoiding him for some reason?

She wiped her nose with a Kleenex, looked at him, eyes watery. "No fooling around, though, Obie. Besides, you'd probably catch a million germs."

I wouldn't mind, he thought, face warm with guilt. Despite how miserable she looked, he still felt a surge of desire, would love to kiss her, touch her, even if she were hot with fever. God, what a pervert I am, he thought. But you're not a pervert when you're in love, are you?

He reached out to, touch her hand and she drew away. "Now, Obie. ." she said.

Hey, I can't catch your cold by holding your hand, Obie thought. But didn't say anything. He pondered the terrible baggage of love: all the doubts, the jealousies, the questions he didn't dare ask. Like: Do you really love me?

Instead he asked another question: "Is something wrong?"

"I've got this cold," she answered, with a trace of impatience.

Instinct drove him on. He hated that instinct. "Sure it's not something else?"

"Lots of things. This cold I missed the honor roll by one lousy C plus. . "

"I didn't know that. You never talk about school—"

"And Trinity," she said, the word like a bomb thrown in Obie's face. "What I keep hearing about Trinity. All my friends say—"

"What do your friends say?" he asked, trying for sarcasm but failing, his voice suddenly hoarse.

"Well, for one thing," she said, "they say there's a monster operating at Trinity. Archie What's-his-name. He's the head of a secret society and he's surrounded by a bunch of. . stooges. Worse than stooges: They run his errands and do all lands of gross things. . " The words tumbled out, as if she'd been saving them up and couldn't get rid of them fast enough.

Obie was at a loss for a reply.

She turned toward him. "Do you know this guy? This character? This Archie Whatever. ."

He had a feeling that Laurie knew Archie's last name. Did she know everything else, too?

"Costello," he said. "His name is Archie Costello. And I know him. Hell, Trinity's not that big."

"They say he runs Trinity like some kind of Mafia gangster. Is that true, Obie?" Wiping her eyes as if weeping. But she wasn't weeping. She sounded like a lawyer in court, for crying out loud.

"There's no Mafia at Trinity," he said.

"Is there a secret society there?"

Damn it. He always had to proceed carefully with Laurie Gundarson, always in sweet agony, never certain of her feelings. Why did she have to bring Trinity up tonight? Because she felt miserable, because of the cold? Was she the kind of person who wanted to make other people feel rotten just because she felt rotten?

"Is there?" Laurie asked, wiping her nose like mad with the Kleenex.

"Okay," he said, sighing. "Yes, there's a secret organization at Trinity—"

"Are you a member of it? One of the. . you know. ."

He had to deny her words. Turning to her, he ached to tell her everything. He wanted to tell her that he had already defected from the Vigils — in spirit, at least — that he was merely going through the motions these days, that he and Archie were no longer friends. They'd never been friends, really. But he knew he couldn't say anything about that. What could he tell her, then?

He reached out and took her hand. It was cool, impersonal, like a piece of merchandise on a store counter. "Look, Laurie, every school has its traditions — some are okay, some are crazy. Stuff goes on all the time. Monument High's the same. I'll bet it has some weird traditions, too. So Trinity has the Vigils. But it's not all bad." He squeezed her hand to emphasize his words but there was no response: she could have been wearing surgical gloves. "The most important thing in the world for me now is you. You're the greatest thing that ever happened to me." He heard his voice crack, the way it used to when he was an eighth grader and his voice was changing. "I love you, Laurie. You're all that matters. Not the Vigils, not Trinity, nothing. ."

That's when the spotlight caught him and Laurie in its glare, illuminating the entire front seat. Laurie's face was ghostly white in the harsh radiance. "Lock your door," he called to her, moving to do the same to the door on his side. But it was too late. The front door on Laurie's side was flung open and a lewd laugh rose out of the darkness behind the light. Obie squinted, trying to see beyond the burst of light, sensing that there was more than one person out there, felt as though he and Laurie were surrounded. He hoped it was all a joke, a prank. A sick prank but still a prank.

"Everybody out," a voice called. Muffled, a voice he did not recognize.

"She's juicy, right?" another voice said. "Can I be first?"

Obie knew instantly that this was not a prank. The door beside him swung open and at the same moment Laurie began to scream, a scream like a knife plunged into his heart. Rough hands gripped him, pulling him out of the car. Laurie's screaming was cut off abruptly, like someone snapping off a stereo.

And the sudden silence was even worse than the screaming.