Beyond the Chocolate War

Part Three

The heat wave came without warning. In May, for crying out loud. Out of season, too early, arriving before the body was prepared, blood too thick, skin too pale. The heat rose from the streets and sidewalks as the sun hammered at the earth without mercy, shimmering from budding trees and flowering shrubs.

The heat turned the Trinity student body into a sluggish army of sleepwalkers. The exhilaration of the seniors, aware that final days had arrived and that classes were meaningless now, was muted by the waves of heat and humidity that moved indolently across the campus. Fosters plastered to corridor walls and classroom bulletin boards announcing the coming of Fair Day, the last event of the year, were met with indifferent stares or yawns.

Archie loved the heat. He loved it because other people were so uncomfortable, sweating and groaning, stalking through the heavy air as if their shoes were made of lead.

He had many ways of avoiding the blistering temperatures. Keeping cool thoughts. Controlling his emotions. Laying low. No Vigil meetings or activities. His leadership of the Vigils was a tiling of delicate calibration, and he knew instinctively when to call meetings, to adjourn them, or to allow the Vigil members to go their way. Like now. Knowing everyone's discomfort, knowing they would resent any extra effort, any assignment.

The heat also took the pressure off current events. Although maintaining a reserved attitude, Archie had as usual been keen-eyed without seeming to be, watching, observing. Two targets of observation, Obie and Carter, seemed like twins. Both walking trancelike, preoccupied with their thoughts and worries. Which meant they would be unlikely to do anything foolish or threatening. At certain moments Archie was a bit apprehensive — what was going on inside Obie? Was he plotting revenge in a quiet way or merely accepting his fate? Carter was easier to read. The swaggering athlete had turned into a shoulders-hunched, narrow-eyed specimen these days, like a hunted creature, passing quickly by, not talking to anybody. Archie knew what was going on inside him and delighted in the knowledge. Let him stew awhile in his thoughts and fry in the heat. Time enough to take care of Carter, the traitor, in his own way. Meanwhile, Carter was torturing himself — a sweet Archie touch, letting the victim be his own torturer. All in all, Archie found a certain satisfaction in the heat wave.

The heat did not touch Caroni, either.

He had erected a screen around himself, invisible obviously, which the heat could not penetrate. Neither could anything else in this world.

His world was without seasons. And, thus, without weather. He operated beautifully in this atmosphere, his mind clear and sharp, a thing apart from his body. He marveled at the way he responded to the necessities of life, performing his silly but necessary duties as a student, son, brother. He could perform so well because he knew that he would not have to do so forever. He knew there was a moment when the command would be given, and events would be set in motion.

David was drawn incessantly to the parlor and the piano. The parlor was cool, windows closed, curtains drawn, isolated from the rest of the world. David raised the piano lid, sounding middle C. Waiting. For an echo? He didn't know.

He was a bit afraid of the piano, the keys grinning at him in the shadowed room. As he was staring at the keys one afternoon, a thought occurred to him. Transmitted somehow from the piano to himself. The thought was actually an image. A knife. The butcher knife his father used on occasion for big roasts and turkeys. He checked to see if the butcher knife was in the special drawer with the other kitchen utensils. He touched the knife, ran his finger across the blade, and announced: "Yes, I found it." He did not know whom he had said his words to. But knew that someone, something, had heard him. And that he was drawing closer to the time of the command.

Thus, in the heat, David Caroni waited. For the signal. Knew it must come soon. He didn't mind waiting, he didn't mind the heat. Every day he went into the cool parlor and stood near the piano, waiting.

The heat always made Emile Janza horny. Actually he was almost always horny, but the heat intensified his feelings. Girls dressed flimsily" in the heat, of course, wearing sleeveless, see-through blouses, brief skirts, or short shorts that exposed their bodies beautifully.

Other things made him horny as well, something he noticed increasingly as time went on. He noticed it first in football during plays in which he tackled his opponents bruisingly and without mercy. A distinct wave of sexual pleasure swept him on these occasions. Sometimes when he engaged in a scuffle in the parking lot — Trinity was a very physical place — he would be instantly aroused. He had felt that kind of swift pleasure last fall when he had faced the Renault kid in the boxing ring, and even earlier when he had beat him up in the woods behind the school. Those were beautiful moments, really.

The beauty had returned the other day when he spotted Renault in the park. Sitting on the lawn with his creepy friend whose name Emile did not know. Spotting Renault, recognizing him even from that distance, he was surprised to find he had returned to Monument. Janza had heard the kid had run off to Canada, afraid he might get beat up again. And now he was back. Asking for more trouble. Janza was tempted to tell Archie Costello about Renault's return. Then decided against it. He wanted to keep Renault for himself.

Now, in the heat, in his house, nobody home, Janza picked up the telephone book. Looked up the R's, Felt nice and sexy.

Flipping the pages, he found Rathburn. . Raucher. . Red Cross Hdqtrs. . Reed, and, finally, Renault. Two Renaults in the book. Easy to check out.

Renault, that little jerk. He should not have come back to Monument. He should have stayed in Canada.

Sudden booming thunderstorms interrupted the hammering of the heat. The skies exploded with thunder, split radiantly with lightning. Rain sluiced down as if from giant faucets turned on full force. Steam hissed from the concrete pavement as rain drummed on heated surfaces. Gutters overflowed, debris bobbed along like tiny boats to the catch basins and sewers. Drippings from the edges of buildings and trees struck like a thousand small water tortures. Or so it seemed to Obie, who was undergoing a special land of torture. The torture of losing Laurie.

It had taken a few days to track Laurie down after her brother had disclosed the news of her return to Monument. The telephone route still did not work: she was never at home when he called or, at least, did not come to the phone. Making his way wearily through the steaming streets, he stood watch in front of Monument High, checked out her friends, all those Debbies and Donnas who regarded him with blank faces as if they had never seen him before, giving him no information whatever. Laurie? She was here a minute ago. Or Haven't seen her for, oh, two or three days. He hounded bus stops and the stores in the vicinity of the school, moist with sweat, eyes stinging from the relentless sun, itchy and sniffling, realizing with dismay and disgust that he had somehow caught a cold. He sneezed three times in succession — maybe an allergy? Catching a cold in a heat wave would be the final indignity.

His vigil was finally rewarded when he saw her emerging from Baker's Drugstore (he had missed her going in) and walking to a mailbox, where she slid a letter into the slot. A farewell letter to him, saying good-bye forever? Not even that. A renewal of her subscription to Seventeen, she told him.

On a busy sidewalk with the smell of bus exhaust fouling the heavy air, one of her girl friends, a blonde with bangs that almost covered her eyes, waiting near a yellow fire hydrant, a screaming child being pushed in a baby carriage while a young mother licked a melting strawberry ice cream cone, that was where Laurie Gundarson said good-bye to Obie. No throbbing background music, no hushed intimacy. Her eyes told him the truth before she said a word, her expression distant, as if her mind was on more important matters than Obie's plight. He could have been a beggar asking for a handout, somebody passing out leaflets, a stranger asking directions. She answered his questions — he couldn't remember afterward what words he'd used, what questions he'd asked — in monosyllables, patiently, as if talking to someone slightly retarded. Until she said: "Obie, it's over." Addressing him at last directly, recognizing him as a person.

A kid on a skateboard zipped by, brushing Obie's sleeve, spinning away.

"Why?" he asked.

"A million things," she said. "God, it's hot." Touching a stray strand of hair. "But mostly because I don't feel anything anymore. Nothing."

"Was it because of what happened that night?"

She shook her head. "That was bad, Obie. And I always thought your creepy friends at Trinity did it. But don't blame them. Blame me." She looked around, as if the words she wanted were written in a store window or on the side of a passing bus. "I don't know. It was all too physical. We hardly knew each other—"

"We went out four weeks," Obie said. "More than that. Thirty-one days. ."

Laurie lifted her shoulders, dropped them. Christ, she acted bored.

"I don't believe what you're doing, Laurie. People just don't fall Out of love like that—"

"Who said it was love?" she asked.

"You did. More than once."

"Love. . it's just a word," she said.

He wiped his nose, jammed the damp Kleenex into his pocket, and braced himself. Then asked the question he had been dreading to ask:

"Was it all that stuff about Archie Costello? And that secret society?"

She looked away. "I knew you were lying, Obie. I knew you were a part of it. One of the. . bunch." Had she almost said stooges? "I heard all about the dirty tricks you guys played on people."

"Okay, okay. But after we met, after we started going together, things were different. I was breaking away—"

"But you didn't, did you? You still belonged, still served your lord and master, that monster Archie Costello. . " Her voice lacked conviction, as if she were only going through the motions of responding.

"Yes, but. ."

And saw the futility of explanations. Because the spark was gone, the glow had disappeared, replaced by a terrible indifference. Something rare and precious that had flowed between them was no longer there. Nothing left. That monster Archie Costello. .

Her girl friend, tossing her long hair impatiently, called: "Hey, Gundarson, you coming or what?"

Laurie turned toward her, answered: "I'm coming, I'm coming." Then, looking at him again: "Obie, it was nice while it lasted, but then it was over. It happens like that. Blame me — it's happened to me before. I mean, I like someone and then I don't feel the same way anymore. . " She ran her hand across her forehead, wiping away a small cluster of perspiration. "I'm sorry." Looking up at the sky, she said, "I hope it rains pretty soon." And walked away, out of his life, catching up to her girl friend, going down the street and around the comer without a backward glance. While he stood there, motionless. I hope it rains pretty soon. Her final words to him, banal, a comment on the weather, for crissakes, something you'd say to a stranger.

In the terrible vacancy left by her departure, he floundered, turned around, mouth agape, as if appealing to the world to witness what had happened to him. Hey, look, I loved this girl and she loved me and it all went wrong. What went wrong? The attack, yes. Bunting, that bastard. He had avoided Bunting since his encounter with Cornacchio. A showdown was meaningless without Laurie in his life. But he knew without any doubt whatever who the real villain was. Archie Costello. He doubted that Archie had given any direct orders to Bunting to attack Laurie, but he also knew how Archie worked, playing one kid against another, toying with Bunting, dangling the role of Assignor before him so that Bunting would be willing to do anything to impress Archie Costello. Including an attempted rape. So he hated Bunting and would someday, somehow, make him pay. But the attack had not broken up his relationship with Laurie. They could have weathered that together. The breakup had been caused by what he had become and what Laurie had discovered him to be — a stooge of Archie Costello, a member of the Vigils, one of the guys playing dirty tricks on others. How could she love him, knowing that?

The rain that Laurie Gundarson hoped for came with the thunderstorms — Obie would never again see rain fall without being haunted by all the possible heavens he might have missed. He walked aimlessly in the rain, aching with longing and, under the aching, a growing anger, an anger that was almost sweet as it surged within him. The ache and the anger warring inside him. The ache for Laurie, acknowledging his loss of her. And a seething anger focused on Archie. Archie, who had ruined his chances for Laurie, ruining his life as well. He thought sadly of graduation, how he was lucky to be escaping Trinity with a dull B average, no honors, no achievements. He had been a top student at Monument Elementary, with great promise for his high school years, both in scholastics and athletics. His parents had long ago stopped asking: What happened to you, Obie? The Vigils had happened. Archie Costello had happened. Because of Archie he had lost everything, his high school years and the only girl he had ever loved.

The relief brought by the rain was only temporary. Within an hour the heat returned with a vengeance, worse than before, penetrating, merciless. The sales of air conditioners boomed although summer was officially a month away. The Monument Times published a photo showing a reporter trying to fry an egg on Main Street. In this new blast of heat, sneezing and wheezing, swallowing capsules and chewing aspirins, Obie held on. Held on to what must happen, what he must make happen. Soon. Before school ended. When the heat subsided. Must make happen to Archie Costello. And through Archie to the rest of this terrible World he now inhabited.

The heat vanished.

With a final thunderstorm, more violent than earlier storms. Trees fell, power lines snapped, a small bridge over the Moosock River collapsed, sweeping a seventy-two-year-old man to his doom. Darkness enveloped Monument, broken only by occasional lightning splits.

Toward morning thunder echoed wearily in the distance and lightning scrawled feint flashes near the horizon. Bird cries greeted the dawn, and dawn itself brought the sun and fresh breezes. The breezes leaped from tree to tree, through the streets and avenues of the town. Early risers stretched magnificently, filling their lungs with the clean, bracing air of morning.

At seven thirty Obie left for school, his cold miraculously gone with the heat and the thunder and lightning. Maybe it had been an allergy, after all. He drove through the streets with purpose and determination, knuckles pale as he grasped the steering wheel, impatient with traffic lights. He drove with hope in his heart. Hope and hate. The hate, he knew, was his only means of surviving.

That, and Fair Day.

Some people called it Fool Day.

This year he would make it Fear Day for Archie Costello.

Afternoon: classes over for the day. Air sizzling with a thousand scents and colors, sun dazzling on car roofs, setting Trinity windows aflame, but the heat of the sun benevolent now, the sun of springtime.

The Trinity campus leaped with activity — baseball players jogging to the athletic field, volleyballers lunging in the air, students in the assembly hall rehearsing the sketches for Skit Night.

Obie searched for Archie in the halls and classrooms, on the steps, in the parking lot. He finally found him in the stands at the athletic field, languidly watching the action below.

The hardest thing of all: approaching him.

"Hi, Archie."

The long slow look from Archie, the slight lifting of eyebrows but quick to hide surprise, proud of his ability to remain always cool. Ah, Obie knew him like a book, like he knew himself.

"Obie." The name hung in the air, noncommittal. Not welcoming, not rejecting. Letting Obie make the move.

"How's things?" Obie asked, trying to keep his voice normal.

"In control."

Down on the field the baseball practice went on. Players throwing the ball, hitting the ball, scooping up the ball. All that activity centered on a small round object. Obie thought of that other small round object, the black marble.

"How's things with you?" Archie asked.

Obie felt as if he were poised on the edge of a chasm, a thousand feet above sea level. Tensing his stomach, he leaped.

"Not so good. But I'll recover." Not wanting to say too much, letting Archie draw the information from him.

"Recover from what?"

Another leap:

"That girl. Laurie Gundarson." Despite his determination, her name on his lips almost brought tears to his eyes. "We broke up."

And then, astonishingly — but Archie was always astonishing — Archie turned to him, eyes melting with compassion, face twisted in an attitude of commiseration, understanding. As if Obie's pain was his own pain, Obie's loss taken upon himself like a cross.

"Tough," Archie said. But the single solitary word was imbued with such emotion that Obie felt Archie Costello was truly his only friend in the world, the only person who could understand his misery and loss. He had to forcibly remind himself that Archie was the architect of his defeat with Laurie.

He was surprised to find Archie reaching out, touching his shoulder. Archie, who never touched another guy, who always held himself isolated.

"Welcome back," Archie said.

Obie did not move. The leap was over. He had plunged into the deep, not knowing if he would sink or swim. He had come to the surface. The scheme was launched.

Down on the field, a throaty voice called: C'mon, Croteau! Joined by other voices: Get the lead out, Croteau. Hey, Croteau, you dumb or what?

"Poor Croteau," Archie said. "Whoever he is."

Archie seemed to be having one of his compassionate days. Obie wondered: Should he press his luck? Why not?

"Fair Day," he said, as casually as possible.

"What did you say?"

"Fool Day."

"I thought you said Fair Day."

"I did."

They laughed, sharing the joke, the old play on words. Maybe he's actually glad I'm back in the fold, Obie thought. Which encouraged him to go on.

"It's coming up soon."

"Got to go easy on Fair Day," Archie said. "All those fathers and mothers and little kids." A touch of W.C. Fields in his voice.

"I know. But we have the Fool."

"True. Any candidates?"

"I'll check the notebook."

Archie looked down at the field. "Croteau," he said. "He'll make a great Fool. Sign him up, Obie."

Poor Croteau. So much for Archie's compassion. Then Obie tensed himself again. Big moment coming up. Walking the tightrope, with the drop far below.

"How about Skit Night?"

"What about Shit Night?" Archie parried.

"Remember that lad, Ray Bannister?"

"The new one?"

"Right. He's a magician, Archie. Does all those magic tricks."

Archie said nothing, eyes on the field, waiting.

"He does tricks with cards and balls. Stuff like that." Paused, hoped Archie didn't notice him taking a deep breath. "He also has a trick he does with the guillotine—"

"The guillotine?" A question in Archie's voice, and a flash in his eyes. Guillotine was a deadly word, an Archie Costello kind of word.

"Right. The guillotine. This kid, Ray Bannister, has built an honest-to-God guillotine. A trick, of course. But it seems too good to pass up. The guillotine and Skit Night. Some tad's head — like the Fool — on the block. ." Get the picture, Archie? He waited for Archie to get the picture.

"Let me think about it," Archie said, moody suddenly, brooding, going deep within himself. Obie knew all the signs. He had gone as far as he dared at the moment.

"See you later," Archie said, dismissal in his voice. But something else, too.

He's hooked, Obie thought gleefully.

The Goober spotted Janza across the street from Jerry Renault's apartment building in the dusk of evening and stopped short, fading into the shadows. He swallowed hard, pressing his body flat against a stone wall. After a while he peeked around the corner to make sure it was Janza, and saw without a doubt the figure of Emile Janza pacing the sidewalk.

What was he doing here? And why was he out in the open like that, walking up and down like someone in a picket line? The Goober didn't know the answers to those questions, but he knew that there was something sinister about Janza's presence on the street. Every once in a while Janza's eyes swept over the building, his head thrown back, as if he were issuing some land of silent challenge to Jerry, a challenge only Jerry could hear, the way a dog hears the high-pitched whistle that human ears can't pick up.

What do I do? the Goober thought. Should he run by Janza, show himself? Or slink away in the direction he had come from? The Goober wanted to do the right thing. He didn't want to betray Jerry Renault again.

I've got to warn him, he said silently. Then stopped short. Janza was making no secret of his presence, strutting around like that in the open. Jerry must have already seen him. Okay, so what do I do? Do I face Janza now? Tell him to bug off? Get out of there? He shivered in the night air, as he always did when he paused in his running.

What would Jerry want him to do? Christ, I've got to do the right thing. This time. Can't let him down.

He peeked around the corner, carefully, squinting, one-eyed, didn't see Janza. Had he gone away or was he hiding in the shadows? Probably gone away. No reason for Janza to hide in the shadows. When Goober first spotted him, he was obviously making his presence known.

Goober looked up at Jerry's bedroom window. The window dark, curtain drawn. Other windows also dark, no signs of life. Jerry was not home, apparently, and neither was his father. Nobody home.

He glanced again toward the spot where Janza had paced the sidewalk. Still not there. No confrontation, then. He knew what he had to do. He had to warn Jerry. Put him on his guard, in the event he didn't know about Janza. And, for God's sake, offer his assistance. Jerry was in no condition to face Janza, the animal. Not alone, anyway.

Best thing was to suspend the rest of his run and go home. Start calling Jerry. Keep calling until he returned to the apartment. Keep calling all night if necessary.

Checking the front of Jerry's apartment again, satisfied that Janza was no longer there or in the vicinity, the Goober struck out for home. As he ran he told himself: I won't betray Jerry again. I won't let him down this time.

The balls, colored marbles really, danced in the air, playing games with the lights, and Obie learned that you didn't look at all of them but only at the ball that concerned you.

The ball. Playing hide-and-seek, peekaboo, here today and gone tomorrow or, rather, here this minute and gone the next. Ah, the ball, sleek and eloquent in its tiny perfection, the ball that would provide him with the means of revenge.

"Beautiful," Ray Bannister said. "You really catch on fast, Obie."

Pleased, Obie decided to try the ultimate test. Holding the ball out, on the tips of his fingers, he made a pass with his other hand, felt his fingers fighting their own impulses and following his commands. Lo, the ball appeared against Ray's cheek, held between the thumb and middle finger of Obie's right hand.

Ray shook his head in undisguised admiration.

"Now show me how the guillotine works," Obie said.

Ray hesitated, drawing back, frowning. "Hey, Obie, what's going on; anyway?"

Obie squirmed, wondered: Is it too soon to tell him? Stall a bit. "What do you mean?"

"This magic stuff. You and the Cups and Balls. You and the guillotine. You figure on going into business for yourself? Like, magician business?"

No more stalling, Obie.

"In a way, you're right, Ray."

Ray walked over to the guillotine, his hands caressing the polished wood.

Obie said: "I thought we'd go into business together. You, the magician." He waved his hand slowly in the air, his finger like a plane skywriting. "Bafflement by Bannister," he announced dramatically. "Assisted by Obie the Obedient. ."

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about," Ray said, sorry he had shown Obie his tricks, feeling as though Obie had invaded the most private part of his life.

"The annual Fair Day is coming up. And Skit Night. Skits, songs, and dances, making fun of the faculty."

Ray nodded. "I've seen the posters."

"Right," Obie said. "Anyway, I thought your magic act would be perfect. As the big climax, in fact. You know, the Scarves, and Cups and Balls." Careful now, Obie. "And the guillotine. Every magician needs an assistant — I figure I'd be yours."

Ray stepped behind the guillotine, as if for protection.

"I don't know, Obie. I've never performed in public before."

"Look, it's just the school. The guys and the teachers. And it's a loose kind of night. Everybody hams it up. Even if you goof a bit — and I don't think you will — nobody will care. . "

Ray Bannister was tugged by the fingers of temptation. He had often longed for an audience, besides Obie, particularly when he worked one of the effects to perfection, yearning for admiring glances, whispers of awe and delight. The guillotine, he knew, would knock their eyes out. And it was a thing of particular pride to him because he had constructed it himself, had not merely spent money on an effect. He also considered how sweet it would be to announce himself to the world of Trinity, to let them know he existed after months of being ignored and neglected.

"We'll see," Ray said, still behind the guillotine.

Obie was elated. We'll see: the words his mother and father used when they meant yes but wanted to postpone the decision for a while.

"Okay," Obie said. "Take your time. Let me know later."

As he left he glanced back at Ray, who was still standing behind the guillotine. But his face held a soft, dreamy expression, his eyes far away, and Obie knew that Ray Bannister was at that moment already performing on the stage of the assembly hall.

He answered the telephone, finally. Had listened to the rings, too many to count, and then picked up the receiver, knowing that whatever had to be done must begin with answering the phone.

Glancing outside once more — Janza not in sight at the moment — he said: "Hello."

Goober's voice took him by surprise.

"Jerry, I've been trying to reach you since last night. Where've you been?"

Do I lie or not? Jerry wondered. And knew he had to tell the truth.

"I've been right here."

"Are you sick? Anything wrong? I called last night, then this noon during lunch. Something wrong with the phone?"

"My father's away," Jerry, said. "On a swing around New England On a business trip. But I've been here. And I heard the phone ringing. ."

"You know about Janza, then?" Goober asked. Because why else wouldn't Jerry answer the phone?

"I know." Weary, accepting.

"He's been pacing up and down across the street from your apartment. I saw him last night. I spotted him again today, after school. I made a detour to check up on him."

"Thanks, Goob."

"I wanted to warn you," Goober said. "Wait. More than that, I wanted you to know, want you to know that we're in this together. Janza's always looking for trouble. Okay, he'll get it. From both of us."

"Wait a minute, Goob. You're going too fast."

"What do you mean, too fast?"

"Slow down. Just because Janza's been down on the street a couple of times doesn't mean it's an emergency—"

"What is it, then?" Goober asked, slowing down, curious, as if waiting for Jerry to come up with some marvelous, stunning truth.

"I don't know. But it's time to sit and wait awhile. . "

Silence from Goober. Which Jerry expected.

"Look, Goober, I'm glad you called. I appreciate what you're doing. But I don't know yet what I'm going to do. That's why I didn't answer the phone. I thought it might be Janza and I wasn't ready to talk to him — I'm still not ready."

"You don't have to do anything, Jerry. He can't keep this up forever. He'll get tired of it. Just sit tight for a while, Jerry. When's your father coming home?"

He heard the nervousness in Goober's voice.

"Tomorrow night. But that doesn't matter, Goober. Whether my father comes home or not doesn't matter."

"You shouldn't be alone, Jerry. Janza's such an animal, you never know what he's going to do. He's one of Archie Costello's stooges. He might be doing this on an assignment from the Vigils."

"You're going too fast again, Goob. Way too fast All we know is that Janza's been walking up and down out there. He's not there right now. So the best thing to do is wait and see."

"Want me to come over? I can spend the night—"

"Hey, Goob, I don't need a bodyguard. Janza's not going to launch an invasion."

Another pause, more silence.

"Why didn't you answer the phone, Jerry? Last night I must have called three, four times. Again today. Why didn't you answer?"

"I already told you, Goob. Because I'm not sure what I want to do. I don't know yet—"

"Well, don't do anything crazy. Don't try to fight him. That's probably what he's looking for."

"I'm not going to fight him," Jerry said. "But I have to do something. I can't sit in this apartment forever."

"Wait him out. Let me come over."

"Course not, Goob. I'm safe here. Janza's not going to murder me. Look, it's getting late, and Janza hasn't shown his face for an hour. Wait a minute. Let me look. . "

He glanced out the window, saw the empty street, all grays and shadows like a scene in a black-and-white movie. A car passed, headlights probing the shadows. Nobody in those shadows. No Janza.

"He's not there. We'll probably never see him again. Get some sleep, Goob. I'll be okay. Let's wait and see what happens tomorrow." Felt the need to say more. "I appreciate your call. You're a good friend, Goob. . "

"What are friends for, right, Jerry?"

"Right. ."

After he had hung up, Jerry glanced out the window again.

And saw Janza again. Rain had started to fall, the sidewalks glistened with wetness, but Janza stood there, hands on hips, looking up, black hair plastered to his skull, ignoring the rain.

Jerry thought of the fight last fall and he thought of Trinity and he thought of the chocolates and he thought of his father, and his thoughts were like a tired caravan of images.

Most of all, he thought of Canada. Wistfully. Those beautiful moments on that frozen landscape, the wind whispering in the Talking Church. He suddenly felt homesick for a place that was not really home. Or maybe it was. Or could be.

"I'm going back to Canada," he said, speaking the words aloud to give them life and impact like a pledge that had to be spoken in order to verify its truth.

Back to Canada.

But first — Janza.

While Janza continued to stare up at the building, his short blunt figure dripping with rain, cold and dark and implacable, as if he had emerged from a block of ice.

Carter was reluctant to help.

But then Carter was reluctant about everything these days, walking around school like a zombie.

Obie needed him, however.

"I don't know," Carter said, rubbing his chin. Dark sharp bristles on his chin, cheeks. Carter hadn't shaved yet today. And probably not yesterday.

They were sitting in Obie's car in front of Carter's house. Twilight muffled the neighborhood sounds of evening.

"I thought you were all hot to start a mutiny against Archie," Obie said. "Remember when you called me about the Bishop's visit?"

"What's the Bishop's visit got to do with this?" Carter asked suspiciously.

"Nothing," Obie said, studying the athlete, his bloodshot eyes, damp, pale face. Like he was suffering a hangover or the aftermath of drugs. But Obie knew that Carter didn't do drugs, didn't want to ruin that precious physique. It was evident, however, that Carter was in turmoil. Obie felt, crazily, as if he was looking into a mirror. He didn't know what kind of demons had invaded Carter's life, but he recognized a suffering, kindred soul. "This has got nothing to do with the Bishop's visit. It's got to do with Fair Day. And Skit Night. ."

Carter raked his hand along his unshaved cheek. "What do you want me to do?" he asked, still reluctant.

"It's simple," Obie said. "I need you to create a diversion. For a minute or two." He couldn't spell out the entire scheme. Hell, Carter would head for the hills if he knew the plan.

Now it was Carter's turn to study Obie. Obie had changed in the past few weeks. Not physically, of course: he was the same scrawny kid. But something was different about him. His eyes, for instance. Carter remembered Brother Andrew in Religion describing missionaries who challenged jungles and cannibals as "God's holy men." That was Obie now, the gleam in his eyes, his intensity, his missionary zeal. Carter knew, of course, that Obie had broken up with his girl. Had heard rumors of a gang rape. He also knew that Bunting had split Archie and Obie apart Otherwise he wouldn't trust Obie at all.

"Tell me about the diversion," Carter said.

Obie told him. He required two pieces of action by Carter. The first at the Vigil meeting when the Fool would be chosen. The second during Skit Night.

"Is that all?" Carter asked.

"That's all."

"Then tell me why. Why you need these diversions."

"It's better if you don't know the details, Carter. Then you can't be blamed for anything later."

"Archie's the target, right?"

"Right."

Carter wondered if he should confide in Obie, if he could tell him about the letter to Brother Leon and the telephone call, about these terrible days and nights while he waited for Archie to take his revenge.

But Obie, he realized, was too preoccupied with his own concerns. And suddenly Carter felt a wave of optimism. Obie was taking action against Archie. And this action, whatever it was, could draw Archie's attention away from himself.

"Okay," Carter said.

Obie punched his shoulder. "Terrific," he said.

"Details," Carter ordered.

"Later. But I'll tell you this much. Archie Costello will never be the same again."

"Good," Carter said, slapping his hand against the dashboard, the sound like a gunshot in the car.

"Unfinished business," Obie said, flipping through his notebook, using it as a prop in order to avoid looking Archie in the eye.

"The Fool, right?" Archie asked, running his hand over the hood of his car, flicking a speck of dust off the gleaming metal.

"Right," Obie said.

"And the guillotine," Archie added, studying his car with a critical eye. He disliked dust and dirt, kept the car properly polished and shining all the time. "Frankly, Obie, it doesn't excite me. . "

But then nothing ever excited Archie.

Obie was prepared for that reaction but could not show too much eagerness.

"I've got a few ideas," Obie said.

"What ideas?" Having concluded his inspection of the car, Archie leaned against it now as he fumbled in his pocket for a Hershey.

Obie told him, spelled it all out in detail, as much detail as he dared to risk, knowing Archie would want to provide the final finishing touches. Which he did, of course.

"You surprise me, Obie," Archie said as he opened the car and slid easily behind the wheel. "You're developing a devious mind."

"I learned it all from you, Archie."

But Archie had already roared away, leaving Obie in a cloud of blue exhaust.

As Carter turned into the main corridor, a book slid from the bunch he was carrying and dropped to the floor. The others also spilled out of his hands. Sheepishly, he bent to pick them up. Disgusted with himself, he pondered the possibility that he was losing his coordination along with everything else.

A commotion farther along the corridor caught his attention. A group of guys had gathered at the trophy case across from Brother Leon's office. Marty Heller, pimple-faced, greasy-haired, called down the corridor: "Hey, Carter, take a gander at this. . "

Carter hurried toward the cluster of students, curious about what he would encounter at the trophy case. His case, because most of the trophies in it had been won through his efforts.

Marty Heller stepped back and swept the other kids aside. "Look," he said.

Carter looked. Aware that the other guys were not looking at the trophy case but at him as he looked.

It was a trophy case no longer. A trophy case has trophies and this case no longer had any. It was empty. But not really empty. On the middle shelf stood a small porcelain ashtray, the land purchased in a joke shop or trick store. The ashtray was in the shape of a toilet.

"Who the hell would steal the trophies?" Marty Heller asked in his squeaky off-key voice. His voice had been changing for three years now, was still totally unpredictable.

"They're not stolen," somebody said, a voice Carter did not recognize, probably a Vigil plant, courtesy of Archie Costello.

Stunned silence then, but a silence filled with the knowledge of what the voice meant. There was only one alternative to the theft of the trophies. The Vigils. And everybody knew that.

"Jeez," Marty Heller said, "Brother Leon'll go ape when he finds out. . "

But Brother Leon did not go ape. Because he never found out. He was away for the day at a conference of headmasters and school principals in Worcester. By the time he returned the next day, the trophies were mysteriously back in place, the small toilet gone.

Marty Heller confronted Carter before the bell rang the next morning. "What the hell's going on?" he asked.

"I don't know," Carter told him, hurrying on his way.

But he did know, of course. The knowledge had kept him awake most of the night. And had given him nightmares when he slept.

The cafeteria. First lunch period. A group of guys huddled around the table nearest the entrance to the kitchen. They were staring so intently at a hidden object on the table that everyone else felt it must be a pornographic magazine, something dirty.

Richard Rondell stumbled away from the table in utter disgust. He had in fact expected to see a beautiful dirty picture when he made his way into the group — Rondell was the raunchiest guy in the senior class, with only one thing on his mind — and he was angered to learn what all the excitement was about. Newspaper headlines, for crying out loud.

STUDENT BEHEADED IN MAGIC ACT

And below, in smaller type:

AMATEUR MAGICIAN

GETS PROBATION

The dipping was frayed and wrinkled, edges tattered, obviously ripped from a newspaper. Obie handled it delicately as he held it up for display. He had chosen this moment carefully, making certain that Bannister had been assigned to the second lunch period. The clipping needed only a minimum amount of exposure. Only a few students had to see it. But Obie knew the outcome. The word would be carried to all reaches of the school, exaggerated and embellished probably, racing from student to student, class to class.

By the time the last bell had sounded and everyone headed home or to afternoon jobs, the effect of the newspaper story was firmly established. Now everyone thought that Ray Bannister was a killer.

With a guillotine.

Nobody knew yet that Ray Bannister and the guillotine would become the highlight of Skit Night.

Nobody but Archie Costello and Obie, who'd had the fake newspaper made to order at the magic store in Worcester.

The command came to David Carom from the piano in the parlor as he went down the stairs on his way to take a walk. He had taken a lot of walks in recent days. Had to get out of the house. Away from prying eyes.

The command was earsplitting, a chord played off-key, followed by another, as if a maniac were in the parlor playing madly away at a song no one could recognize.

Except David Caroni.

He walked to the kitchen, through the dining room, drawn by the sound of the broken music. The French doors had been thrown open. His mother, her hair hidden in the white cap she wore when she charged into her spring housecleaning, an event that shook up the entire routine of the Caroni household for at least a month, was dusting the keyboard with a white cloth. David stood transfixed, surprised but somewhat pleased that his mother was the medium through which he would receive the message. He had been waiting for so long. For the sign, the signal, the command, the order. Knowing that it must come and trying to be patient. And now it was here.

He listened, silent, still. His mother, unaware of his presence, continued to produce the discordant music that was telling David what he must do.

David listened, smiling. Listened to what he must do and how he must do it and when it must be done.

At last.

Bunting caught up to Archie at his locker, timing it beautifully, waiting until most everyone else had left the vicinity.

"Hi, Archie," Bunting said, a bit breathless and not sure why.

"What do you say, Bunting?" Archie was arranging his textbooks on the shelf of the locker. Bunting realized that he had never seen Archie Costello carrying books out of the building. Didn't Archie ever do homework?

In Archie's presence, he abandoned all his preconceived notions and the conversation he had been rehearsing in his mind.

"Know what gets me, Archie?" he asked instead, going in a direction he hadn't intended.

"What gets you, Bunting?"

"If I didn't come to find you, you'd never come to find me."

"That's right, Bunting." Archie continued to shuffle his books around on the shelf.

"Suppose I stopped coming around?"

"Then you'd just stop coming around."

Bunting wanted to say: Look at me, will you? Instead: "Wouldn't you want to find out why?"

"Not particularly. It's a free country, Bunting. You can come and go as you please." Archie had opened a book, looked through the pages, speaking absently as if his mind were on more important matters.

Dismayed, Bunting said: "But I thought—" And paused, wondering how he could say what he wanted to say delicately, diplomatically.

"Thought what?"

"I thought, you know, next year. ." And let the sentence dribble away. Archie sometimes made him feel like he was still in the fourth grade, for crissakes.

"Next year?"

Bunting knew that Archie was making him spell it out. He knew he should just walk away, tell Archie Screw you and split. But knew he couldn't There was too much at stake.

"Yes, next year. Making me, like, the Assigner. You know. After you graduate."

Archie replaced the first book on the locker shelf and took down another. A math book, spanking new, it looked as if it had never been opened.

"You are going to be the Assigner, Bunting."

"What did you say?" Bunting asked, blinking.

"I said, Bunting, that you are going to be the Assigner next year."

"Oh." He had a desire to leap and shout, go bounding down the corridor, but maintained his cool. Let the "oh" echo. Had to play it smart. The way Archie always played it. "Don't the Vigils have to vote on it or something?" Bunting said, knowing he had blundered as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Asking that question was definitely not playing it cool.

Archie looked at him for the first time, a pained expression on his face.

"Don't you take my word for it, Bunting?"

"Sure, sure," Bunting said hurriedly. "I just thought—"

"There you go, thinking again, Bunting," Archie said, turning back to the locker, taking down another textbook, looking at it as if he'd never seen it before. "There's one condition, however."

"Name it," Bunting said.

"You'll need an assistant A strong right arm, right?"

"Right," Bunting snapped.

"I know you've got your stooges. Cornacchio and Harley. Keep them around, if you want. But your right arm will be Janza. Emile Janza. ."

"Janza?" Trying not to betray his dismay. Dismay? Hell, disgust. Complete disgust.

"Emile will serve you well. He's an animal, but animals come in handy if they're trained right."

"Right," Bunting said, but thinking: When you're gone, Archie, I'll be boss and I'll choose my own right arms.

"Bunting," Archie said, looking up again, looking at him with those cool blue appraising eyes. "I'll be telling Emile about it. Emile Janza will be looking forward to his job as your assistant. And Emile doesn't like to be disappointed. He's very unpredictable and gets very physical when he's disappointed. Never disappoint Emile Janza, Bunting."

"I won't," Bunting said, trying to swallow and finding it difficult, his throat dry and parched.

"Good," Archie said, studying the book in his hand, turned away from Bunting now.

Bunting stood there, not knowing what else to say. Wanting to ask a million questions about the duties of the Assigner, but not quite sure how to proceed. And afraid to ask another dumb question.

Archie looked up, surprised. "You still here, Bunting?"

"Oh, no," he said, which was stupid. "I'm leaving. I'm just leaving. . "

Archie smiled, a smile as cold as frost on a winter window. "We'll go into details later, Bunting. Okay?"

"Sure," Bunting said, "sure, Archie."

And got out of there as fast as he could, not wanting to risk screwing up the biggest thing — despite Emile Janza — that had ever happened in his life.

Later, leaving school, without any books in his arms, of" course, Archie paused to drink in the spring air. He spotted Obie walking across the campus in his usual hurried stride, as if hounded by pursuers. Poor Obie, always worried.

Obie saw him and waved, waited for Archie to catch up to him at the entrance to the parking lot.

"What's up, Archie?" Obie said, the mechanical greeting that really asked nothing.

But Archie chose to answer. "I've just spent a few minutes guaranteeing the ruin of Trinity next year," he said.

And said no more.

"Are you going to explain what you said or just let it hang there?" Obie asked, trying to mask his impatience and not doing a very god job.

"I just told Bunting that he will be the Assigner next year," Archie said, "and that Emile Janza will be his right-hand man."

"Boy, Archie, you really hate this school, don't you? And everybody in it."

Archie registered surprise. "I don't hate anything or anybody, Obie."

Obie sensed the sincerity of Archie's reply. The moment seemed suspended, breathless, as they walked toward their cars. Obie wanted to ask: Do you love anything, then, or anybody? Or is it that you just don't have any feelings at all?

He knew he would never find out.

Carter saw his chance: Archie parking his car in the driveway at his house, stepping out of the car, pausing as if testing the atmosphere, his thin body knifelike and lethal silhouetted against the rays of a spotlight above the garage door.

The pause propelled Carter into action. Otherwise he might have hesitated, and then Archie — and the moment — would be gone.

"Archie," he called, walking toward him.

Archie turned, saw him, waited, his head haloed by the spotlight.

Carter stopped within a few feet of Archie, was tempted to turn away and get out of there but instead heard himself saying:

"I did it, Archie."

"Did what, Carter?"

"Wrote that letter."

"What letter?"

"To Brother Leon."

"I know that, Carter."

What do I do now? Carter wondered. He had never faced Archie as an adversary before.

"I want to explain about the letter."

"There's nothing to explain," Archie said, cool, unforgiving.

"Yes, there is!" Carter cried, a tremor in his voice. He had to get this over with, couldn't endure the waiting anymore, waiting for Archie to strike. He knew the trophy case was only the beginning and dreaded what would come later. "Archie, I wrote that letter to protect the school. I didn't do it for myself. I was afraid the assignment would screw us all up. I didn't do it to double-cross the Vigils. . "

"The Vigils are more important than the school," Archie snapped. "You should have come to me, Carter. Told me your doubts. I'm not the enemy. Instead, you went to the enemy—"

"I thought it was the right thing to do."

"The right thing to do," Archie mocked. "You guys make me want to vomit. With your precious honor and pride. Football hero. Boxing champ. Strutting the campus with your chest out and your head high. Carter, the ace of aces. ."

Carter had never heard such rancor, such venom in Archie's voice, Archie who was always so cool, so detached, as he had been a moment before.

"I'm sorry, Archie. I made a mistake. And I'm sorry."

Archie studied him for a moment and then turned away, his movement indicating finality, meeting over, so long, Carter.

Panicky, Carter stepped forward, hand shooting out, almost touching Archie's shoulder but stopping short at the last moment.

"Archie, wait."

Over his shoulder, Archie asked: "Something else, Carter?"

"No. . yes. . I mean. ." Flustered. Groping for words and not finding any. But having to detain Archie somehow. "What happens now?"

Archie turned full face toward him again.

"What do you want to happen?"

Is this the moment? Carter wondered. Is this when he should make his move? He had approached Archie with a bargain on his mind. First, to make his confession about the letter. Then, as amends, to tip Archie off to Obie's plan for revenge, on Fair Day and Skit Night. He paused now, deciding to stall awhile longer.

"I guess I want things to be like they were before. Hell, we're almost ready to graduate."

"Tell you what, Carter," Archie said. "Let things stay the same as before, like you just said. Let the last days come and go. Graduation. But that's not the end of it, Carter. You were a traitor and you're going to pay for that. Some way, someday. Not tomorrow, not next month. Or even next year, maybe. But someday. And who knows? Maybe next month, after all. That's a promise, Carter. When you least expect it. When everything is rosy and beautiful. Then comes the payoff. "Because you can't be allowed to get away clean, without paying for it, Carter."

God, Carter thought, all those years ahead. He had never heard Archie's voice so deadly, so somber, almost sad, and this sadness gave his words a devastating impact and power. Carter had thought graduation would be the end. Of Archie Costello and the Vigils and everything rotten in this world. He knew, too, that the bargain he had been about to propose would serve no purpose now, that his best course was to help Obie, although he shied away from what that meant, what Obie had in mind.

"Remember that, Carter. Nobody double-crosses Archie Costello and gets away with it. When you least expect it, the revenge will come."

Without a further word, Archie stepped across the driveway, in front of the car, under the spotlight, and up to his front door. Then was gone into the house.

He left Carter there, shaken, not only by the prospect of Archie's revenge sometime in the future but by what he had almost done. He'd almost turned traitor against Obie. Which meant being a traitor a second time. Not once but twice. Christ, he thought, what have I become? Archie's words rang in his mind as he stood there shivering in the evening air. You guys make me want to vomit.

Carter left the driveway, empty, hollow, without honor or pride, like something haunted, and he was both the ghost and the thing that was haunted.

Archie, Obie, and Carter always examined the black box just before Vigil meetings began. From that moment on, the box was not touched by anyone and rested on the small shelf in the crate Carter used as an improvised desk.

Carter held the box aloft now, opened, the six marbles rolling and clicking together as he tilted the box this way and that, the black marble ugly and forbidding in sharp contrast to the five white marbles. Carter avoided Archie's eyes. After the encounter in Archie's driveway last night he wanted to avoid Archie altogether, but knew he had to play his part in Obie s drama. Archie barely glanced into the box, indifferent as always. He nodded his satisfaction and turned away.

That was Obie's chance, a chance calling for swift movements in a matter of seconds. He passed his hand over the box as Carter began to lower the lid. Carter delayed the closing, paused, turning his head as if interrupted by someone calling his name. In that brief interval Obie deftly picked up three white marbles. Carter looked panicky, couldn't help glancing at Archie, who was walking toward the center of the storage room. With his other hand Obie dropped three black marbles into the jewelry box, the sound of their dropping muffled by the velvet interior. So now the score stood: two white marbles remaining in the box and four black. Obie glanced at Archie, who was watching the members of the Vigils entering the storage room and taking their places. As Obie and Carter moved toward the desk, Obie's hand shot out again, like a darting bird, and plucked up the other two white marbles, pocketing them.

Carter then closed the box with a clap of finality, looked at Obie doubtfully, unconvinced the trick would work. Because now there were only four marbles in the box. All black, of course. But two missing. Wouldn't Archie notice that two were missing when he put his hand into the box to pick a marble? No, Obie had explained, because of the illusion. All magic is illusion, that's what Ray Bannister had said. A magician guided the audience to see what the magician wanted them to see, made them think they were seeing one thing while another surprise awaited them. Archie thought there were six marbles in the box; thus, he would believe they were there. We can't go wrong, Obie had said. But now he was feeling nervous and tried to cover up with a weak smile. He regained his composure looking at Archie, letting the full force of his anger and hate overcome him. Archie, you bastard, you are about to get the black marble.

But first the meeting and Tubs Casper standing there, the bathroom scale at his feet. Poor Tubs, bloated and miserable, perspiring as usual.

"Step up, Ernest," Archie advised.

Tubs stepped on the scale that Bunting, always the brownnose, had brought from home. He felt immense, ponderous, and slightly nauseated as well. Ashamed, too. Ashamed? Yes, for following Archie's orders, eating like a madman, having, for once, an excuse to eat, making a pig of himself. Ashamed and guilty and, more terrible than anything: enjoying himself.

"Read the numbers, Bunting," Archie commanded.

"One hundred ninety-nine," Bunting sang out, bending over the scale. "Four pounds over."

"Terrific," Archie said, smiling his approval. "You look great, Ernest. What you have to admit is that you are fat. Don't fight it Follow Archie's advice: Eat and be happy. Right, Ernest?"

"Right," Tubs echoed, wanting to end the ordeal and get out of there. And thinking: I'm not going to be fat all my life. I'll go on a diet. Curb my appetite. Get nice and trim. Maybe even ring Rita's doorbell again.

"That's all, Ernest," Archie said, voice flat, indicating his sudden uninterest in Ernest Casper and his weight problem. "Send in Croteau on your way out. . "

Tubs stepped down from the scale, slowly, deliberately. He'd show Archie Costello and everybody else what he could do: lose weight, slim down. He marched to the doorway, turned, and paused, knowing he looked ridiculous now but later a different Tubs Casper would be seen. First things first, though: get out of here and upstairs to his locker. Where a box of Ring Dings waited. They would satisfy his craving, relieve his tension, and then he would map his plans for dieting. Beginning tomorrow. He managed a smile for the benefit of the Vigils, a smile that said: Someday you'll see a new Tubs Casper.

Obie watched him as he departed. Poor Tubs. Obscene in all that fat. Another score to settle with Archie Costello: what he had done to Tubs Casper.

Croteau entered, wearing his baseball uniform, for crying out loud. Sweat stains at his armpits. A thin kid, a shortstop, with long arms hanging apelike at his sides. Poor Croteau. Worried looking, of course. Everybody summoned before the Vigils wore worried looks.

Archie proceeded to outline the rules as usual, in his friendliest fashion. Nothing personal, Croteau. A Trinity tradition, Croteau.

"You are scheduled to play the Fool," Archie ordained.

Croteau swallowed hard, his chin almost meeting his chest.

"Don't look so worried, Croteau," Archie said pleasantly. "You won't get hurt. You'll have the Water Game. And the Sign, of course. . a little fun. . and a bit of magic. ."

Suddenly Archie seemed to grow bored with the entire proceedings, looking at Croteau impersonally, as if he had strayed in here by mistake. He stifled a yawn, sniffed the stale air of the storage room.

Turning to Carter, he said: "The gavel."

Carter banged the gavel automatically, his eyes seeking Obie. But Obie was looking elsewhere, looking at nothing.

"Any other business?" Archie asked diffidently.

Obie snapped his notebook shut. "That's it," he said briskly.

Archie gestured toward Carter. "The box," he commanded.

Were Carter's hands trembling as he drew the box from the shelf and held it aloft? Obie couldn't tell. He blinked as Archie walked slowly toward Carter. Tension gathered in the room, all eyes fastened on Archie. Croteau regarded the box with a mute appeal in his eyes, knowing that the proper marble drawn by Archie could deliver him from the humiliations of Fair Day.

Archie reached into the box, pulled out a marble, tossed it carelessly into the air. The black marble caught the light. The marble like a streak of black lightning sizzling through the air.

Startled, Archie failed to catch the marble as it fell. It bounced off the tips of his fingers and clattered to the floor, rolling crazily across the concrete surface, lost somewhere in the shadows.

"Jesus," someone murmured.

Not a prayer or a curse but an expression of awe and wonder. As if a world had just been destroyed. And that's exactly what had happened. Archie's world, shattered, annihilated by a rolling black marble.

The Vigil members looked at each other in bewilderment. Archie was not supposed to choose the black marble, just as the sun was not supposed to rise in the west. Logical, a fact of life. But logic had been demolished. And all eyes turned to Archie as if he could do something, anything, to show them that what they had seen had not really happened.

Archie smiled at the gathering. But Obie had never seen such a smile. Without mirth or joy or warmth, an arrangement of lips, as if an undertaker had fashioned flesh into a grotesque parody of a smile. But Archie's eyes did not smile. The eyes pinned Obie as if Obie were an insect struggling to be free. Held and caught, Obie stared helplessly at Archie. Then the spell broke. The smile on Archie's lips was suddenly the smile of someone who had just lost a bet or a fortune, gracious enough to accept defeat without whimpering.

"See you at the fair," Archie said, looking directly at Obie.

He turned back to the assembly of Vigils.

"Dismissed," Archie called.

For a split second, nobody moved, nobody dared move, and then there was the thunder of sound and action as everybody tried to get out of there at the same time.

See you at the fair.

As Obie joined the throng rushing toward the single doorway, he wondered whether those words were a statement of fact, a promise, or a threat.

They picked up Janza's trail at the Sweet Shoppe where he was operating, business as usual. Which meant that he was going from booth to booth and table to table, intimidating, threatening, and extorting, not always in that order. Intimidating by merely standing at the edge of a booth and glaring at the occupants, inspecting them up and down.

Janza's presence was always a threat. Violent vibrations emanated from him. He seemed liable to explode into violence without warning or any reason at all, and that's why animated conversations stopped when he came into view, why kids turned half away from him or refused to meet his little pig eyes.

Now as he strolled around the Sweet Shoppe, pausing here and there, "borrowing" a dollar from a nervous sophomore whose name he had forgotten, a dollar the sophomore would never see again, Janza was in his element. Swaggering, strutting, knowing the effect his presence had on other people, and enjoying it all.

Jerry and the Goober watched from outside the store, standing in the shadows. The Goober stood on one foot, then the other, whistling softly, impatient, uneasy. Jerry merely stood there, watching Janza's every move, craning his neck now and then to keep Janza in sight.

After a while Jerry said: "Here he comes."

"I hope you know what you're doing," Goober said.

"Don't worry," Jerry replied.

Actually, Jerry did not know what course he would pursue with Janza, what steps he would take. It was all too hazy in his mind to explain to the Goober. All he knew was that he must confront the animal, had known this from the moment he had spotted Janza across the street from his apartment.

When Janza left the Sweet Shoppe, slamming the door and rattling the window, a typical Emile Janza exit, he began walking south toward the downtown district. Jerry and the Goober fell in behind him, keeping a distance of about thirty yards between them.

"If he turns around, he'll see us," the Goober whispered.

"Good," Jerry said.

They followed Janza down West Street across Park to Elm and into the area of the Apples, a new development, so called because all the streets were named for apples. McIntosh Street, Baldwin, Delicious. Imagine telling people you live at 20 Delicious Street, Jerry thought, half giggling, knowing the giggle came from nervousness.

"I wonder where he's going," the Goober said. "He doesn't live around here."

Another neighborhood now: decayed buildings, sagging apartment houses, littered streets, ashcans at the curb. Sudden yawning alleys, like dark forbidding caves.

Janza turned a corner and they quickened their steps, anxious not to lose him. Old-fashioned streetlights threw feeble light on the street, emphasizing the many shadowed areas. Janza was not in sight.

Jerry and the Goober stood there, puzzled. The Goober was anxious to get away. He felt somehow responsible for Jerry's safety. Jerry kicked at a telephone pole.

"Hi, fellas."

Janza's voice came out of the shadows of a nearby alley.

"You think I didn't know you were following me?" he asked, leaning against a wall, enjoying himself as usual. "Jesus, Renault, you're a glutton for punishment, know that?"

"You're the glutton, Janza," Jerry said, pleasantly surprised at how calm he was, heartbeat normal, everything normal.

Emile stepped out of the shadows. Anger glinted in his eyes. Mouth turned down. Nobody talked to Emile Janza that way, least of all this scrawny freshman.

"You always were a wise guy, Renault. That's why I had to beat you up last year. That's why I've got to beat you up again." He scratched his crotch. "Welcome to my parlor, said the spider to the fly," he added, half bowing, indicating the alley behind him. "See? I know poetry, too."

Poetry? "The Spider and the Fly"? If the situation hadn't been so dangerous, the Goober might have laughed. Instead, he urged: "Let's go, Jerry. . "

Jerry shook his head. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Hit the road, kid," Janza said to the Goober. "I got no gripe with you. Your buddy here. He's the one—"

"I'm not leaving," the Goober said, hoping the quaver in his voice wasn't discernible.

Janza stepped forward threateningly. "Yes you are."

"Go ahead, Goob," Jerry said. "Wait around the corner."

The Goober stood his ground, stubbornly, shaking his head.

Emile Janza's foot shot out, caught Goober in the groin, the pain excruciating as it spread through his lower body, nausea developing in his stomach. He felt himself capsizing, legs buckling.

As Jerry turned to help his friend in distress, Janza struck him from his blind side, a blow to the cheek that touched off an explosion of lights in Jerry's eyes. He raised his hands to his face and knew immediately that he had made a mistake. Two mistakes. The first mistake was not expecting Janza to strike without warning. The second mistake was to leave his stomach unguarded. The blow to the stomach was soft. Janza's fist sank into Jerry's flesh almost tenderly, but an extra thrust made Jerry cave almost in two. He heard the Goober retching beside him where he was kneeling on the ground.

Janza stepped back, smiling, fists up and ready. "Come on, Renault," he said, retreating, beckoning Jerry into the alley. "Your friend's not interested anymore, is he?"

And Jerry saw now what he must do. Cheek still dancing with pain, his intestines twisted sickeningly inside him, he stalked toward Janza, determined now, not unsure or uncertain anymore. Arms at his sides, looking defenseless but knowing where his strength was, where it had to be, he advanced toward Janza.

Two or three lights flashed on in windows facing the alley, spraying the narrow passage with light. A window went up. Jerry had a sense now of spectators, people watching the scene, elbows on sills. Nobody said anything. Nobody cheered or booed.

"Put 'em up, Renault," Janza said, his own fists ready at chest level.

Jerry shook his head.

"I don't put them up." Voice steady.

"You afraid to fight?"

"You're the one who fights, Janza." Taking a breath. "Not me."

"Okay," Janza said. "It's your funeral, buddy."

Jerry braced himself, remembering last fall, when Janza had struck him in the boxing ring, but both of them then at the mercy of Archie Costello, puppets playing roles Archie had created. This time, however, Jerry was on his own two feet, by choice.

Janza hit him twice in succession, both blows to the face, first his jaw, then his right cheek. Jerry's head swiveled instinctively with the blows, which took some of the sting out of Janza's fists.

Janza paused, setting his feet again, squinting, taking aim. He faked a blow to Jerry's face, hit him instead in the stomach, but his fist did not land with full force. Grunting in disgust at his lack of efficiency, he lashed out at Jerry's face and body, a series of one-two blows. Jerry stood his ground. Tasted blood in his mouth, knew one eye had closed, absorbed the pain but found it bearable. And surprised by the fact that he was not only on his feet but steady, having taken a pace or two backward but solidly planted there.

Janza's breathing tore at the silence of the alley. He looked up, taking a deep breath, saw the scattered faces at the windows, bellowed: "What are you looking at?" And lashed out again, but not looking at Jerry as his fists flew. A glancing blow, Jerry's right cheek absorbing it. Jerry was surprised to find how strong, impregnable really, cheeks were. Hard bones, not much flesh. But one of his teeth had been jarred loose, and the taste of blood was stronger in his mouth now.

"What's the matter with you, Renault?" Janza asked, arm cocked, fist ready. But pausing, his breath ragged. "Why don't you fight?"

Jerry shook his head, beckoned with his hands, the gesture saying, Come on, hit me again.

Janza hit him again. A furious telling blow that sent Jerry back three paces, his knees turning liquid, sending a sheet of flame up the right side of his head, snapping his neck. He fell against the brick building but pulled himself away from it. Another blow followed before Jerry could recover and establish himself solidly on his feet again. This one to the chest. Then another that almost missed his jaw but scraped his ear, tearing his earlobe a bit.

Wobbly, weaving, Jerry remained on his feet, his body arranging itself somehow to meet the blows and absorb them.

"Hit back, will ya?" Janza said, pausing again, breath still ragged. Was the great Emile Janza out of shape? Running out of steam? Had he used up his best blows?

"I am hitting back," Jerry said.

"You crazy?" Janza yelled, outrage in his voice. Or frustration, maybe. "This is for the birds—"

"Come on, Janza," Jerry said, lips swollen, that loose tooth beginning to throb, voice bubbling with either saliva or blood. He swallowed both, not wanting to spit, not wanting Janza to see his blood.

"You're nuts, know that?" Janza cried, arms at his sides. "You're crazy. . "

Jerry smiled at him. He knew it must be a grotesque and pathetic smile. But a smile all the same.

"Tell you what I'm going to do, Renault," Janza said, calmer now, having caught his breath, rubbing his fists together, massaging his knuckles. "I'm letting you go. For now. You've had enough. I've had enough. But every time I see you — I don't care where it is — I'm gonna beat you up. So keep your ass away from me. . "

A solitary person clapped his hands at one of the windows, a hollow pathetic sound in the alley.

Janza walked toward the building to his right, leaning against it, sucking his knuckles, studying Jerry. He felt drained, something missing, not feeling horny, nothing sexual in his combat with Renault. Like he had lost something. But what? And he hated that smile on Renault's face. Hated what that smile said. What did it say? He didn't want to think about it. Christ, his knuckles hurt. He wanted to get out of here.

"Remember what I said, Renault," Janza threatened, pushing past Jerry, and then over his shoulder: "Keep out of my way. . "

Renault watched him go. He looked around for the Goober. He had forgotten about Goob. He stumbled to the corner, saw Goober leaning against the mailbox. Still clutching his groin.

"Jesus, Jerry," he said. "I'm sorry. I should have—"

"Forget it," Jerry said.

"You look terrible. I let you down again. The thing I'm best at."

"No," Jerry said, placing his hand on the Goober's mouth. "It's something I had to do. And I had to do it without you."

They turned and watched Janza's retreating figure, still swaggering as he walked, arms swinging, shoulders moving as if to some unheard bully's music.

"Know what, Goober?"

"What?"

"I'm not going back to Canada next fall."

"You're not?" Feeling miserable, never felt so lousy in his life, worse than last year during the chocolate sale.

"I'm not going to Monument High, either."

"Where are you going, then?" Goober asked, automatically responding. Am I doomed to let Jerry Renault down forever?

"I'm going back to Trinity."

Jerry's words struck Goober like blows.

"That's crazy, Jerry. Why do you want to do something like that?"

"I don't know. It's hard to explain." He limped painfully as they walked, had somehow wrenched his knee during the fight without realizing it. His knee felt swollen, twice its size, but he refused to look down. He needed to concentrate on what he must tell Goober. "Just now, Janza was beating me up. But he wasn't winning. I mean, you can get beat up and still not lose. You can look like a loser but don't have to be one." Saw Goober's puzzled expression and felt frustrated because he couldn't make him see what he knew was the truth. "Janza's the loser, Goober. He'll be a loser all his life. He beat me up but he couldn't beat me. . "

"It's not only Emile Janza," the Goober said. "It's the school itself. Brother Leon, who lets the Vigils and guys like Archie Costello get away with murder. Okay, Archie Costello's graduating, but somebody else will take his place. And what about the chocolates, Jerry? There'll be another chocolate sale. And what will you do?"

"Sell them," Jerry said. "I'll sell their chocolates. Every stupid box." The pain of Janza's blows still resounded in his body, and he knew somehow that the answer to everything was in the echo of that pain. And in the fact that Janza had walked away. "They want you to fight, Goober. And you can really lose only if you fight them. That's what the goons want. And guys like Archie Costello. You have to outlast them, that's all."

"Even if they kill you?"

"Even if they kill you."

The Goober kept shaking his head as he walked along beside Jerry. He didn't understand what Jerry was talking about, just as he hadn't understood why Jerry hadn't sold the chocolates last fall. All he knew was that he didn't want to return to Trinity. And if Jerry did, then he'd have to return, as well. And he sure as hell didn't want to do that. Couldn't. From the moment that Jerry's father had called him a few weeks go, everything had gone wrong. Tracking down Emile Janza. The fight in the alley and Janza's kick that had immobilized him, leaving Jerry to face Janza alone. Now this: Jerry returning to Trinity. All Goober wanted was to run. Get on the team at Monument High. Find a girl, maybe. No complications, no fights or talks about fighting. Or winning. Or losing.

"I'm not going back to Trinity," he said stubbornly.

Jerry glanced at his friend, saw the utter misery on his face, as if he were being tortured, and realized suddenly how his decision to return to Trinity was affecting him. He felt stricken with guilt, inflicting guilt on his friend, Goober. And knew instantly what he must do.

"Look, Goober, okay, I'm not going back. Forget what I said. I guess that was just crazy talk."

Goober looked at him guardedly. "You sure?"

Jerry nodded. "I'm sure."

The Goober relaxed visibly, slowed his pace.

"Good, Jerry. For a minute there—"

"I know. It was crazy." But it isn't crazy. I'm going back. To Trinity.

"Nothing to be gained by going back. ."

"Right." Wrong. A lot to be gained but not sure what. His tooth was hurting now, killing him, and he felt blood gathering on his gums, the taste warm and sweet on his tongue. And his knee still hurt. He hurt all over, but a clean hurt.

"Summer's coming. We'll have a great summer. Running, swimming. ." The Goober's voice vibrated with excitement as he thought of good times coming.

Jerry knew what he had to do. Break off with the Goober, end their relationship. Gradually, over the course of the summer, so that when next September came and he returned to Trinity, the Goober wouldn't know about it. Or care. Because by then Jerry would be a stranger. Jerry felt rotten about that, his only friend becoming a stranger.

For a moment Jerry wavered, poised between decisions, overcome by a sadness, drenching him with — what? — loneliness, maybe. Longing for the peace of the Canadian countryside and his uncle and aunt and the Talking Church. Or maybe Monument High with Goober as his friend. Trying out for football, the snap of the ball, calling signals, the pass. . good-bye to that. For a while. He knew somehow he would make his way back to Canada. And especially to the Talking Church. And beyond that to something else. Something he could not even consider now. But first he had to return to Trinity.

"We'll have a great summer," Jerry said, hoping the words did not sound as false to Goober as they sounded to himself.

He ran. Through darkened streets, taking occasional walkers or strollers by surprise, his feet on the pavement keeping time to his beating heart.

He heard the sound when he was a half mile from his home. At first he thought the sound was behind him. Or ahead. And then realized it came from inside him. A sound like something wounded. Or crying. Or maybe sobbing. Him? Yes, him.

This little piggy went to market. .

When he was just a little kid, his mother used to recite the nursery rhyme to him, every night at bedtime. And later when he began running, he would run to the rhythm of songs he knew. And sometimes that old nursery rhyme.

And this little piggy stayed home.

Not wanting to think about Jerry Renault and the way he had betrayed him again tonight, groveling on the sidewalk, clutching his stomach in pain. Not wanting to think that he had done it again. And knowing, too, that Jerry was going back to Trinity. Pretending for Goober's sake that he wasn't, but going. And the Goober not wanting to go. He'd had enough of Trinity. Of being put to the test. Of betrayal. He'd break off from Jerry, a bit at a time this summer, little by little. Because, damn it, he did not want to go back to Trinity. Wouldn't. Couldn't. He didn't want to betray him again.

And he sang silently as he ran:

This little piggy cried wee, wee, wee, all the way home.

Wee, wee, wee. .

For Obie, at this moment, it was not Fair Day or Fear Day but Fool Day.

And Archie Costello was the Fool, being led now across the campus to the parking lot where the Water Game had been installed, Obie surveying the scene with a kind of satisfaction he had never known before. If only he still had Laurie and could share with her this beautiful moment and all the other beautiful moments to come: Archie as the Fool. Archie walked with his head held high, despite the Sign on the back of his white jersey, block letters spelling out KICK ME. The Fool was required to wear the Sign throughout the day and students understood that it was proper to kick the wearer. One of the traditions of Fair Day, a mild enough diversion allowed by the brothers. No one had yet kicked Archie. Ah, but the day was young, barely an hour old.

Obie watched at a discreet distance as Archie arrived at the Water Came. His arrival didn't cause a big stir; too much other activity was going on. The campus was thronged with parents and students and smaller children. Music blared over a loudspeaker, clashing with the tinny sound of a calliope. Squeals of laughter and delight came from the merry-go-round. Clerks dispensed amazing amounts of pizza and submarine sandwiches and soda pop. Booths with all kinds of merchandise, from handmade crafts to home-baked goods, did a thriving business. All profits for the Trinity School Fund. Thus, Archie Costello's drama was only a small part of the entire scene. But an important drama for most of the students at Trinity. Nothing their mothers or fathers or younger brothers or sisters knew about as they participated in the day's activities, but important to the Trinity student body.

Archie did not protest as he was directed to the Water Came chair. The arrangement was simple. The chair was situated above a pool of water. The price was one dollar for three balls. The balls were thrown at a bull's-eye target to the left of the chair. If the center of the target was hit by a ball, an unseen mechanism dropped the chair into the water, submerging the occupant. The occupant at this moment was Archie Costello. Neat and spotless in his chino pants and white jersey, the KICK ME sign hidden from view, Archie sat quietly, feet dangling, his Nikes almost touching the water. He waited patiently, looking at the crowd with cool, appraising eyes.

"Okay, okay, a dollar for three balls," the hawker called, juggling the balls as he talked. His face was sunburned, his scalp beneath his thinning gray hair also fiery red. His voice was hoarse, challenging.

Obie detached himself from his vantage point at the front steps and made his way closer to the game. He wanted full measure, wanted to hear the splash of water when Archie dropped, wanted to see him soaked and struggling in the pool.

"Let's go, let's go," the hawker urged.

Nobody went forward to buy the balls. The crowd hung back. While Archie sat, silent and unmoving, patient, waiting.

"What d'ya say, kids," the hawker yelled. "Not only do you dunk the victim, but you win a teddy bear for the girl friend. C'mon, kids, step right up. . "

Nobody stepped right up. Obie studied the gathering, puzzled, disappointed. He nudged John Consalvo, who stood beside him. Consalvo was a silent member of the Vigils, someone who never questioned a decision, always carried out orders.

"Here's a buck, Consalvo," Obie said, handing him a dollar bill. "Get in there and throw the balls. . "

"Not me," Consalvo said, backing away.

"Why not? It's fun time on Trinity campus. . "

Consalvo shook his head, his black-olive eyes shining with apprehension. "I'm not throwing any balls at Archie Costello."

"You don't throw the balls at him. You throw them at the target and Archie Costello gets dunked—"

Consalvo had backed away several feet now. Having achieved what he considered a safe distance, he said: "I'm not dunking any Archie Costello."

A chorus of shouts drew Obie's attention back to the scene. A sophomore by the name of Bracken had stepped up, paid his money, and taken the three balls. He turned to the crowd, flexing his muscles comically. The crowd responded, a chorus of cheers and catcalls. Obie added his voice to the vocal fray.

Bracken was one of the wise guys. Loved dirty jokes, sly pokes in the ribs of other kids, tripping people in the corridor. Always sneaky, though, then putting on an innocent act.

He faced Archie, holding one of the balls in the palm of his right hand. As if weighing it. He looked over his shoulder at the shouting crowd, and as he turned to Archie again, the volume of shouts and calls died down. The immediate area had suddenly become a pocket of stillness. Bracken studied Archie for what seemed a long time while Archie sat there imperviously, untouched by it all, looking merely curious, apparently wondering what Bracken was about to do. As if it had nothing to do with him, really.

Bracken cocked his arm, stuck his tongue in his cheek, leaned back, pumped his arm, and let the ball fly. The ball was a bit wide of the mark. Hoots and jeers from the crowd, which Bracken accepted with an exaggerated bow.

He turned to the target again, pumped his arm, paused, waited. Studying his target. The crowd was quiet, the calliope music faint in the air. Bracken threw the ball. But softly. No pep, no steam in the throw, Obie realized. He also realized that now Bracken was only going through the motions, not intending to hit the target. Sure enough, Bracken threw the last ball without hesitation, without a windup, and again it went wide of the mark. He turned, shrugged, smiling weakly.

Obie couldn't help glancing at Archie, although he did so against his will. Archie was still perched in the chair and now there was a half smile on his face — what was the other half? Obie didn't know. Didn't want to know.

The small crowd began to disperse as the hawker tossed his balls in the air again, imploring someone to "hit the target, dunk the kid." The guys ignored his plea as they drifted away, avoiding one another's eyes. Sensing a lost cause, the hawker shook his head in dismay and looked at Archie curiously, a question in his eyes. Obie knew what the question was: Why won't anybody dunk you? Good question, Obie thought, and he knew the answer. The answer angered him. More than angered, frustrated him. Even as a victim, Archie retained his goddam hold over them.

"Okay, guy," the hawker said, motioning to Archie. "Out. I'd go broke with you there all day long. . "

Archie leaped from the chair in a graceful motion, landing lightly on his feet. Obie saw the flash of KICK ME on Archie's jersey as he joined the crowd No one kicked Archie, of course. Several guys glanced at the Sign and then looked quickly away. Obie tried to stifle his disappointment. He knew that if nobody was willing to dunk him, nobody would be willing to kick him.

But wait for the guillotine, Obie said silently. That's what counts, the guillotine. Just wait for the guillotine to fall. And Archie Costello will smile no more.

"What are you doing here, Caroni?" Brother Leon asked, looking up from his desk. He squinted toward the doorway. "It is Caroni, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is," David answered, closing the door soundlessly, hiding the object in his hand behind his back.

The windows were closed, but he could hear the sounds of Fair Day faintly: the carnival calliope, the muffled shouts of hawkers, typical crowd noises.

Brother Leon regarded him sternly. "I didn't hear the doorbell. Were you announced, Caroni?"

David Caroni shook his head. He was glad to see the surprise on Brother Leon's face. Surprise had been a key element in the command. Catch Brother Leon on Fair Day when he least expects it. David was pleased at the clarity of that inner voice. Pleased, too, at how much he was in control of the situation, everything sharp and beautiful in its clarity. Clarity, that was the word of the day.

"Repeat," Brother Leon snapped. "Repeat: What are you doing here?"

"Detention," David said.

"Detention?"

"Yes," David said, enjoying Leon's bewilderment, puzzlement.

"I don't understand."

"Detention, Brother Leon, is from the word detained. Students are detained after class when they break a rule or do something wrong—"

"I need no lectures, Caroni," Brother Leon said, beginning to rise to his feet, pushing himself away from the desk.

"I'm not going to lecture you," Caroni said. "I am merely saying that you are having a detention. For breaking the rules, for doing something wrong. . "

Ah, he loved the look on Brother Leon's face, the look that said: Have you gone mad, Caroni? An unbelieving look, a look of surprise and a bit of curiosity, too. Nothing more, yet. No fear yet. Caroni was eager for that moment of fear. But not yet, not yet.

"Have you gone crazy, Caroni?"

"I am not crazy, Brother Leon. Not now. I may have been crazy before. Before the Letter. ."

"What letter?"

For a moment he had forgotten about the code and had called it the Letter. To disguise the disgusting thing to himself. But now he could use the real letter again. Especially to Brother Leon.

"F," David said, exulting. It was going beautifully, exactly as planned, his mind clear, the words glib and perfect as he pronounced them. "The sixth letter of the alphabet. But a terrible letter. ."

Leon had gained his feet and leaned a bit against the desk.

"Tell me what this is all about," he demanded, his voice crackling with sudden authority. But a false authority, Caroni knew.

"It's about the F you gave me," Caroni said, exactly as he had planned to say the words for so long. "And about this," he added, drawing his arm from behind his back and brandishing the butcher knife.

"Put that down," Leon snapped, immediately becoming the teacher, as if this office were a classroom and Caroni his only student.

Caroni did not answer, merely smiled, allowing the smile to permeate his features.

Leon stepped to his right, but David anticipated his move. As Leon came around the corner of the desk, David intercepted him, slashing the air with the knife, causing Leon to fall back against the wall. Which was a mistake on Leon's part. As the Headmaster instinctively lifted his hands to protect his face, David thrust the knife into Leon's neck, just above the Adam's apple, the knife point penetrating a bit into Leon's flesh. Caroni smiled, enjoying the spectacle of Leon pinned to the wall, at bay, eyes wide with fright, skin gushing perspiration.

"Be careful, Caroni," Leon managed to say without moving his lips, as if any movement would bring death. Which, David considered, was exactly correct.

"I am being very careful, Brother Leon," he said. "I don't want to harm you, don't want to injure you, don't wish to kill you." Perfect, exactly as rehearsed. "Not yet. ."

The effect of David's last words—"not yet" — and the knife at Leon's throat was marvelous to behold. More than David had hoped for. Brother Leon immobilized, paralyzed by fear. David felt strong and resolute, felt as though he could stay like this for hours, both he and Leon in this wonderful tableau, as if frozen on a movie screen, the projector halted or broken or both.

"Caroni, for God's sake," Leon said through gritted teeth. "Why are you doing this?"

"Let me tell you why," David said. And this was the best part, this is what he had been waiting for all this time, all these months. This moment, this opportunity, this chance. "The F, Brother Leon. You haven't forgotten that F, have you?"

"Take the knife away, David, and we'll talk," Leon said, squeezing the words out slowly as if each utterance were painful.

"It's too late for talk," David said, holding the knife steady. "Besides, we already talked, remember?"

Ah, how they had talked. About that F. Brother Leon and his evil pass-fail tests. The kinds of tests that kept students on edge. Questions with ambiguous answers, answers that called for educated guesses. As a result, Leon in complete command of the results. Could pass or fail students at will. No other teacher did this. Worst of all, Leon used the tests for his own purposes. Brought students into his classroom for discussions of the probable results. Meanwhile, probing, questioning. Using the students. Sounding them out about their classmates, seeking secrets, confidences, by dangling a possible F in front of them. Leon had used David, too. David Caroni of the straight A's, top-ranking student, a certainty for valedictorian at graduation. Until the F. David Caroni had told Leon what he wanted to know during that sly questioning, fed him information about Jerry Renault during the chocolate sale last fall, told him why Renault refused to sell the chocolates. Thus assuring his passing mark, but sickeningly, nauseatingly, realizing for the first time how terrible a teacher could be, how rotten the world really was, a world in which even teachers were corrupt. Until that moment, his ambition had been to be a teacher someday. He had stumbled home after that terrible session with Brother Leon, feeling soiled, unclean.

When the test results were published, he was shocked to find an F on his paper. The first F of his life. He had appealed to Brother Leon, hating himself for doing so. And Leon had dismissed his appeal, ho-humming David's concern away. I have more important matters at hand, Leon had said. The F had stood. A mark of shame as well as corruption.

"Please," Brother Leon said. And now it was his turn to plead, his turn to speak with a quivering voice.

"It's too late for pleas," David said, delighted with his pun. Please and pleas. You see, Brother Leon, I am not stupid, despite the F. I commit a pun with a knife at your throat and commit murder with the same knife. "It's even too late for an A."

"A's. . F's. ." Brother Leon said, voice gurgling. "What's all this about A's and F's?"

At last. Now he could tell Brother Leon, get it all off his chest.

"C's, too," David said. "Don't forget the C's. I never got a C in my life before the F. But then I got another F. Because I didn't care. And then a C from Brother Armand in Math. Which I never got before."

Leon stared at him in disbelief. "You mean all this is about marks? F's and C's?" He giggled, an idiot giggle. As if, lo, the problem was solved: This is only a misunderstanding about marks. Which angered David, causing him to thrust the knife point just a bit deeper, wondering if it was deep enough to draw blood. And then speaking his anger, not with the knife but with his mouth:

"Yes, all this is about marks. And about my life. And my future. And my mother and father. Who wonder now what happened to their nice smart son David. Who doesn't always get A's anymore. They don't say anything, they are too nice to say anything, but their hearts are broken. I can tell their hearts are broken. They look at me with hurt in their eyes because they know that I am the bearer of F's. I, who do not deserve F's. I am an A student." Screaming the words, having to make Leon see his sin, having to let the world know what had happened. "I deserve A's. My mother cries at night in her room." He had refused to acknowledge the truth of her tears until this moment. "Over what I have become. . "

"Yes, yes, I remember now," Brother Leon said, voice scrambling, rushing. "That F. . an oversight. I had meant to correct it, to give you the mark you deserved. But we've had terrible months here at Trinity. The illness of the Headmaster, the violence of the chocolate sale. . I did not realize you were so sensitive to the mark. All that can be changed."

"Not just the mark, Brother Leon," David said, unimpressed by Leon's arguments. "You can change the mark, but it's too late. There are other things you can't change. . "

"What? Tell me. Nothing is irrevocable. . " Suddenly David was weary, felt energy draining from the arm that held the knife, from his entire body. He did not want to argue anymore, knew he could never express to Brother Leon or anyone the sickness of his soul, the despair of his life, the meaninglessness of his existence. He clung to one thing only, the voice inside him, the voice that had emerged from the broken music of the piano, the voice that was a command. A command he could not ignore or dismiss although it filled him with sadness. Sadness for all that might have been and could be no more. Brother Leon had said: Nothing is irrevocable. But some things were. The act he was committing even now with the knife at Leon's throat. The act he must commit if only to find peace.

"Listen," Brother Leon said, lips still stiff in order not to disturb the knife. "Listen to what is going on out there."

David listened, granting Leon this much at least, a man's last wish. The sounds of Fair Day, still faint, still far removed. Distant voices breaking into laughter. All of which made David sadder still.

"That is Trinity too, David," Brother Leon said, his voice a whisper. "Not only marks. Not only F's and A's and C's. Education. . families. . listen to the voices out there. . students and parents. . enjoying themselves. ."

"What has all this got to do with—" David began.

And saw that Brother Leon had tricked him, diverted his attention, gotten him to let down his guard, loosening his grasp on the knife, losing his concentration as he inclined his head to listen to the sounds from outside. Astonishingly, without warning, he was seized from behind and a hand struck his wrist, pain shooting up his arm, stinging and burning, causing him to drop the knife. Cries filled the room, and scuffling, and David closed his eyes, flailing his arms, striking out blindly at whoever had sneaked in while he was talking to Brother Leon. Anger or madness or something beyond both gripped him. He whirled, tore at his attackers, kicked out, heard clothes ripping, tasted something warm in his mouth as he spun away.

"Watch out. ."

"Get him. ."

He opened his eyes and found himself at bay facing Brother Leon and Brother Armand.

They were crouched, hands on their knees, stalking him as if he were an animal on the loose.

"Give up, Caroni," Brother Leon urged. "You cannot escape. . "

Brother Armand's voice was softer, more compelling. "You need help, David. We will help you. ."

But the voice within him was stronger:

Get away. Leave this place. It's too late to carry out the command now. You have botched it up.

Ah, he answered, there's one other thing I can do. That I won't botch up.

The knife lay on the floor, useless to him now.

He knew he had one advantage:

The door was at his back.

He backed toward it cautiously, one step at a time, hoping no one else was in the residence. Please, dear God, he prayed silently, let me get away and then end this agony.

He was in the doorway at last.

Saw Brother Leon's hand reaching for the telephone on the desk. A call to the police would doom him.

Knew this was the moment when he must act, get away. Yet had to wait for the command. He stood there breathless. At last the command came.

He turned and ran.

The Trinity grounds lay battered and bruised in the fading sunlight. The lawn and parking lot were free now of the debris left by hundreds of people playing, eating, drinking, cavorting, and making merry in the carnival atmosphere of Fair Day. Ground crews had moved in to scoop up the accumulation of paper cups, popcorn boxes, hot dog containers, and all the other rubbish left over from the event. The lawn was trampled and tired, the abandoned booths and tables looming like the skeletons of awkward animals in the dying light.

It had been a typical Fair Day, thronged with young and old, blessed with sunshine and high spirits. The only sobering incident had been the arrival of a police cruiser at midafternoon, howling its way to the front door of the residence, where Brother Leon greeted the officers as they leaped from the vehicle. A small crowd flowed toward the cruiser and rumors immediately ran rampant. A bomb scare, someone said, which was not at all unusual. A robbery foiled by Brother Leon, someone else reported, with the robber running off toward Main Street. In fact, Brother Leon pointed in that direction as he talked to the police officers. When a second cruiser arrived a moment later, the first cruiser sped off in the direction of Main Street. Meanwhile, a massive policeman, with beefy jowls and a huge stomach that rippled as he walked, waved off the onlookers, dispersing the crowd. "It's all over," he kept saying, and refused to answer any questions.

A few minutes later Brother Leon's voice crackled over the loudspeakers, interrupting a medley of disco tunes.

"We have had a minor disturbance in the residence, but all has returned to normal," he said. "Please continue to enjoy yourselves. There is no cause for alarm or a disruption of this pleasant occasion."

The music resumed, and so did the festivities. By the time the fair drew to its conclusion in early evening, the visit of the police cruisers had either been completely forgotten or had become an object of idle curiosity and speculation, apparently not serious at all.

Ray Bannister wished the afternoon incident had been serious. . serious enough to call a halt to the proceedings of Fair Day and, in particular, the evening program. He walked reluctantly toward the main school building, head down, as if searching for dropped money. He was not searching for money. He was searching for a valid reason to call off tonight's program. He honestly did not want any part of it. Earlier, of course, he had been excited about the performance, his stage debut before the student body: anticipating the attention and applause of the audience. But Obie's behavior of the past few days had made him uneasy. More than uneasy, suspicious. Obie had conducted himself like a madman, in a frenzy, rushing into Ray's house at all hours to rehearse the small part he would play as Ray's assistant, eyes too bright, talking too much, pacing the floor, then falling into sudden brooding silences.

"What's wrong, Obie?" Ray had finally asked.

"Nothing's wrong," Obie snapped. "Why do you ask?"

"Because you're acting. . strange. Like this is a life-and-death proposition. It's only a magic show. Hell, I should be nervous."

"I want everything to go right," Obie said. "This is the big senior night at Trinity."

"It'll go fine," Ray assured him, although himself unconvinced.

"Let's rehearse again," Obie said. "Show me again how the guillotine works. . "

Ray paused now, before entering the building, wishing he were home or back at Cape Cod. A few stragglers preceded him, one of the kids holding the door open, an unexpected politeness. Ray's name had appeared on posters announcing the "Magic Night" program — Bafflement by Bannister. He had felt like a minor celebrity, aware of students glancing at him. Tom Chiumento, one of the good guys, nodded in friendly fashion as they met in the corridor. All this pleased Ray, at first. Then made him uneasy. Not quite sure why, but then everything about Trinity made him uneasy. And especially Obie. More than once Ray had thought about canceling his appearance, but he hated the idea of disappointing Obie, the only student at Trinity to extend friendship. Or what seemed to be friendship.

Stepping into the building, Ray heard a rustling sound, like a distant gathering of insects. He followed it along the corridor, the buzzing now louder, now softer, inconsistent, strange to his ears. Not the usual rowdy sounds of typical Trinity assemblies or gatherings for basketball or baseball games. In the assembly hall Ray's eyes were drawn immediately to the stage, where he saw the reason for the curious attitude of the students. Center stage, in a spotlight, standing alone in what seemed like an immensity of space, was the guillotine. Ugly, dangerous, blade gleaming in the harshness of the spotlight's glare, a nightmare object suddenly thrust into reality. Or maybe, Ray Bannister thought, it's me, dramatizing, exaggerating. But as he looked around the auditorium at the other students leaning forward or tilting toward each other, puzzled, whispering, he realized the full impact of the guillotine on their sensibilities. He thought of Obie. He also thought: My God, what's happening here?

What was happening there was exactly what Obie had planned. Pressing himself against the wall backstage, listening to the murmuring of the students, imagining the effect of the guillotine, Obie smiled with satisfaction. In a moment the show would begin. Songs, sketches, the usual parade of antics that marked every Skit Night. All the while, the guillotine would be visible, at the side of the stage during the various acts but never out of sight of the audience, a grim reminder of things to come. Archie was out there, in the audience, waiting, surrounded by the members of the Vigils, knowing that when the last skit was over, he would face the guillotine.

Obie leaped a bit as a hand touched his arm. "Are you okay?" Ray Bannister asked.

"Of course I'm okay," Obie said, a giggle escaping his lips. "What makes you think I'm not okay?"

"I don't know," Ray said unhappily. And he didn't know, really. All he knew was that Obie still looked hyper, too excited, eyes fever bright.

"Look, the show's about to begin but it's got nothing to do with us," Obie said. "Maybe we can rehearse the guillotine act somewhere out back—"

"Without the guillotine?" Ray asked.

"I mean, the positions, where we'll be standing. The patter. . didn't you say the patter was important?"

"We already rehearsed a million times," Ray said. "And the patter is nothing. Cripes, Obie, you're getting spooky, know that?"

"I just want everything to go right," Obie said.

Ray sighed. "Look, I'm going to watch the show from out front. I'll come back when the skits are over, okay?"

"Okay, okay," Obie said impatiently. He wanted to be alone, anyway, didn't want company at this moment.

Ray drew back and started for the small hallway that led to the assembly hall. At the last moment he turned and looked doubtfully at Obie.

"Are you sure you know what you're doing, Obie?" he said. Allowing himself for one moment to contemplate a possibility he had avoided for a long time. He wondered whether this was a life-and-death matter, after all.

"Get going," Obie said. "The show's about to begin. . "

Ray lifted his shoulders and let them fall. He knew that Obie planned to give Archie Costello the scare of his life. He also suspected that Obie planned to go further, to carry out some kind of weird plot against Archie. But he refused to contemplate more than that. One last look at Obie, still pressed against the wall, and he hurried down the stairway as the first burst of music from a stereo filled the air. An old Beatles song, "Yellow Submarine."

He looks at me as if I'm crazy, but I'm not crazy, am I? Crazy people aren't eighteen-year-old seniors in high school. And anyway, I'm not going to do anything. I'm just going to scare the hell out of Archie Costello. Humiliate him in front of the entire student body. Get him on his knees. Okay, so nobody wanted to dunk him in the water and nobody wanted to kick him in the ass. But they'll have to sit there and see him on his knees, his neck on the block. That's all.

Ah, but that isn't all, Obie, is it? You know what you're planning to do. And that's where the crazy part comes in, the insane part. Insane, Obie baby. You are out of your mind. You can't do what you're planning to do. Not in a high school in Monument, Massachusetts, in the last quarter of the twentieth century.

Obie recoiled from the voice in his mind, paced the floor restlessly, let the Beatles song carry him, heard the scattering of applause as the first skit began, the whoops and cries of the actors. As usual, when he stopped thinking about Archie and the guillotine, he encountered Laurie Gundarson, a ghost lurking in his heart. He was doing all this for her sake, of course. Couldn't simply let her go out of his life without this gesture.

Christ, Laurie.

One more chance, he thought, one more chance.

He fumbled in his pocket for change, isolated a dime from the other coins, paused, tossed it in the air — it came up heads — and then made his way out to the corridor. He stopped at the pay phone, stared at it a moment, said out loud: "Okay, Laurie, I'll let you decide. . "

He inserted the coin, dialed her number, listened to the blurt of ringing.

"Hello." Her father, rough-tough voice, a heavyweight-boxer voice although he sold automobiles.

"Is Laurie there?" Obie's own voice thin and sparse by contrast.

"Is this you again?" A brutal, give-no-quarter voice.

He ignored the question, had become accustomed to ignoring her father's voice.

"Could I talk to Laurie, please?"

"Look, kid, she doesn't want to talk to you."

"Is she there?" he asked patiently. This was the last try. If she came to the telephone, if he heard her voice again, he would take it as a good omen. It would give him hope. And he could call it all off, wouldn't have to go through with the plan.

He heard an exasperated sigh at the other end of the line and then her father's voice, threatening now: "Do you know what harassment is, kid? You call here again and you'll be in big trouble."

The receiver slammed in Obie's ear and he sagged against the wall. Last chance gone. He had his answer now. Knew there was no turning back. Knew what he had to do.

Brother Leon arrived late for the performance. His late entrance was not a surprise. Everybody knew that Leon hated the student skits and sketches. Too often there had been hilarious takeoffs on the faculty and, a few years ago, a devastating burlesque of Brother Leon by a student named Henry Boudreau. Boudreau had minced across the stage, speaking in a prissy voice, wielding an oversized baseball bat the way Leon used his teacher's pointer, as a weapon. The performance had become a legend at Trinity. But funny thing about Boudreau: He had flunked out at the end of the year.

Brian Cochran, watching Brother Leon settle into the seat, looked at him with undisguised dislike. Leon had forced Brian into the role of treasurer at last fall's chocolate sale, meaning that Brian had had to consult with him on a daily basis. Since then Brian had avoided contact with Leon, which was about par, of course, for most students at Trinity. Looking at Leon now, Brian noticed that he was rumpled, hair a bit mussed, seemed distraught, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. Beautiful: Leon worried and apprehensive about something — the skits tonight? Or probably the incident this afternoon. Brian had heard rumors that an unidentified student had fled the residence after robbing the place. Another rumor, also unfounded: a student had attacked Brother Leon, threatened to kill him.

Brian Cochran was not a saint by any means, although he went to communion every Sunday, had served as an altar boy until his sixteenth birthday, knelt and said his prayers every night. He considered himself a good Catholic but admitted that he would have enjoyed seeing Brother Leon under attack by someone with a knife or a gun. He wouldn't wish for Leon to be killed or wounded, but a good scare would be terrific.

Turning his attention to the stage, Brian pondered the presence of the guillotine, acknowledged its ugliness and the threat it represented. He was aware of the wild stories about Ray Bannister accidentally cutting a student's head off down on the Cape. Another rumor, of course. Just like the rumor that Obie and the Vigils had engineered Archie Costello into picking the black marble the other day. After all these years. Which meant Archie would be placing his neck on the block.

Brian searched for Archie, saw him in the seat near the front, surrounded by the Vigil members as usual. He wondered whom he disliked more — hated, really — Brother Leon or Archie Costello. He conjured mental pictures: Leon wounded and gasping for help, the blade descending on Archie's neck.

Shuddering a bit, he tried to escape the images — and wondered whether these were sins he would have to tell the priest the next time he went to confession.

Carter sat next to Archie Costello.

He did not look at Archie at all during the entire program.

And Archie did not look at Carter.

Archie, in fact, did not seem to be looking anywhere. He stared at the stage, but he neither laughed nor groaned nor shook his head like other students as the antics unfolded before him. Some of the skits were downright funny, Carter thought, although Carter did not laugh either. He could recognize the funny part of a skit without having to laugh. Which was funny — strange, that is — in itself, wasn't it?

At first Carter had been uncomfortable sitting silently beside Archie. Carter did not like silences. But when Archie seemed content to sit there, immobile, like a figure in a trance, Carter shrugged and permitted himself silence as well. The other Vigil members took their cues from Archie and Carter, did not make conversation but responded to the crazy stuff on stage. Laughed at the good jokes, and groaned and hissed at the jokes that fell flat, the skits that failed. A lot of the skits failed, probably because this year nobody dared poke fun at the faculty. The skits mostly had to do with student life. And what was funny about homework, lockers with broken locks, the furnace that gave no heat, and all the other inconveniences of life at Trinity? That was not stage stuff. That was real life.

Carter moved only once. He glanced at his watch. Impatient for the show to end, for the entire evening to end. He refused to think of the guillotine, blotted it from his mind as if erasing a piece of music from a tape.

And all the while, Archie sat there, impassive, expressionless, looking as if he could sit there forever, through eternity, although Carter knew that Archie recognized no eternity, neither heaven nor hell.

The moment.

The stage cleared away, the lights subdued except for one spot on the guillotine.

And the hush.

Along with bodies leaning forward in the chairs, knees pressed together, faces thrust upward, eyes bulging slightly, an entire audience caught in one reaction, one pose, as if the students were multiplications of themselves in a hall of mirrors.

Even the faculty seemed to sense that this was a special moment, although Carter realized that they could not know what was going on.

Obie walked to center stage, dressed in a neat dark suit, plaid shirt, plain dark tie, followed by Ray Bannister, also in suit and tie, walking haltingly behind Obie as if maimed in a way, leg wounds. They stood on either side of the guillotine. Obie looked down, squinted, found Carter with his eyes, and nodded.

Carter touched Archie's shoulder but did not look at him.

"It's time," Carter said. Like a warden in a prison movie.

Archie rose to his feet, twisted away from Carter's hand. Like the condemned prisoner in the same movie.

This time the head of cabbage did not explode into a thousand pieces of raw vegetable as it had in Ray's cellar. Instead, the blade cut through the folds of cabbage precisely, and so swiftly the eye could not catch the movement as the cabbage split into two pieces, one piece remaining on the block and the other bouncing to the floor of the stage, then rolling awkwardly, crazily, drunkenly, to the stage's lip, where it hovered for a moment and then dropped out of sight.

The silence in the assembly hall was awesome as the audience regarded the figures on the stage — Ray standing beside the guillotine, his hand a fraction of an inch away from the button; Obie beside him, slightly hidden from the audience; Archie calm on the other side of the guillotine, looking at the apparatus as if it were the most fascinating piece of merchandise he had ever encountered; plus Carter, bulky and massive, like a bodyguard who didn't quite know whom he was guarding. After that immense silence, the audience drew one big collective breath that seemed to Carter strong enough to suck them all offstage.

Ray bowed, came up again, managed to say "Voilа" in his best imitation French, realized that his voice had been too soft and reedy, cleared his throat, and called out, stronger now, "Voilа!"

For some reason the audience began to applaud and whistle, as if someone had scored a touchdown or hit a home run. Ray flushed with pleasure — cripes, he hadn't done anything yet, wait until they saw the real tricks — and bowed again.

Obie prodded him gently, reminding him of the next step, and Ray, frowning, stepped aside, reluctant to share the spotlight.

"And now," Obie called, "the piиce de rйsistance." Pronouncing the words as Ray had taught him: the pea-ess duh ray-ziss-tahnce.

The audience hushed again.

Obie glanced at Carter. And Carter nudged Archie.

Archie ended his contemplation of the guillotine and looked up, beyond the audience somewhere, smiling remotely, as if he found this all very, very amusing but nothing to do with him, really: he was merely lending his body to the affair, as if it were out on loan like a library book.

Obie's hands were itchy, tingling. He realized it was nerves, like the nerves of an Olympic star waiting for the starting gun to go off, the nerves that sing a sweet song, not jangled or out of tune. He was eager for Archie to reach the guillotine, to stoop, kneel, and place his head upon the block. As Obie watched, Archie did those very things, easily and smoothly as if it had all been rehearsed, his body loose and relaxed as usual, all his movements casual and almost in rhythm. He'd always hated Archie's coolness and hated him more at this moment for displaying that cool, that aloofness, at a time when he should be shaking in his shoes or at least showing signs of embarrassment.

Archie was lodged now in the guillotine, neck resting on the block, facedown. Obie smiled, ignored his itching fingers, and looked at Ray Bannister.

"Begin. ." he said, letting his words carry over the audience.

And Ray began. His bag of tricks. Making the deck of cards appear as if at will and playing them along his sleeve, tumbling them this way and that. Ray felt in command. Went down the brief steps to the audience, asked a student to select a card and then cajoled the kid — he made sure ahead of time that he was young, a freshman from the looks of him — onto the stage.

While Obie watched. Watched Ray and his magic show, but also watched Archie in his perch on the guillotine. This was part of the plan. To let him squirm. To make him wait. To prolong the drama. To build up the anticipation.

Ray Bannister was performing beautifully. He wished his mother and father were here to see the way he had mastered the tricks. He had chosen surefire effects, blowing his savings on tricks at the magic store in Worcester. The deck of cards he now worked with would be effective in the hands of a ten-year-old, but the audience didn't know that. They also didn't know the secret of the unending scarves, the rainbow cascading from his mouth. So deceptively simple. The old Chinese ring trick was equally effective, although it required at one particular point a touch of sleight of hand, the kind of deception that Ray had been a bit apprehensive about. But didn't need to be, he learned. The audience was in the palm of his hand, and he was able to misdirect them without problems. He forgot about Archie Costello and Obie and everything else, even his rotten first semester at Trinity, as he clicked the rings in triumph, bowed, and felt carried away on the waves of applause.

He turned, breathless, exhilarated, the way people must feel when they take a whiff of oxygen from a tank, feeling light as air, and looked at Obie. Then at Archie. Archie still on his knees, waiting.

Ray had performed in silence, except for occasional thrusts of applause or approving murmurings from the audience. Now, as his final applause ended, a burst of music jarred the air, martial military music deafeningly loud, played on Obie's cue. The music stopped as Ray moved toward the guillotine.

Now the hush again.

Ray Bannister and Obie stepped up to the guillotine as they had rehearsed, with Obie nearest the button on the right side of the apparatus.

Obie glanced at the button, small, mother-of-pearl, no larger than a dime. His eyes traveled downward, saw the small disk in place. Which meant that everything was in readiness, that Ray Bannister had touched the almost-invisible disk that had placed the mechanism in the slice position, causing the blade to slice through the cabbage. The rehearsal had called for Ray to advance now to the guillotine, run his hand over the top bar casually but actually touch a lever, likewise almost invisible, that switched the mechanism to the second position, so that the lethalness of the guillotine was removed and the blade would fall harmlessly, without touching Archie's neck at all.

Obie observed Ray's casual movement and admired the offhand way he now ran his hand along the guillotine, touching the lever. Then bowing to Obie.

Obie turned to the audience:

"And now the climax of the evening, by the illustrious master of illusion. May we present Bafflement by Bannister!"

Good-natured cheers and jeers filled the air, the crowd enjoying itself, all of them vicarious magicians for the moment.

Now it was Obie's turn for deception, the sleight of hand, for putting to use again the lessons Ray Bannister had taught him. This was where Carter came in. And Carter acted perfectly on cue, following the instructions Obie had given him earlier.

As Obie stepped to the guillotine, Carter left his position at the side of the stage and approached Ray Bannister, catching his attention.

That was all the time Obie needed to imitate Ray's manner precisely. He ran his hand across the top bar of the guillotine. He had instructed Carter to distract Ray, using whatever gimmick he could come up with, it didn't matter. "Tell him he's got a speck of dirt on his cheek." By the time Ray had returned his attention to Obie and the guillotine, the deed was done.

I actually did it, Obie told himself, looking at the audience and then unable to resist glancing at Archie, still patiently waiting.

The hush continued. Obie felt as though a thousand suns burned down on him but it was only the spotlight. He glanced toward Carter and Ray Bannister, saw something on Ray's face — what? He couldn't place it, couldn't name it — and then looked down at Archie again, his neck white and naked and vulnerable.

Obie stepped forward.

I am going to press the button.

No you're not.

Of course I am.

But that's—

Don't say what it is. Whatever it is, it must happen. For Laurie, for me, for Trinity, for every rotten thing that Archie did and made others do.

His arm traveled a million miles as it went through the air, his finger like the barrel of a pistol. He touched the button, pressed, heart stopped, breath held, time halted, clocks frozen.

He heard the click of the mechanism as it changed gears inside the guillotine.

He waited for the blade to fall.

Thinking for the first time of blood.

All that blood.

At that moment he heard the swish of the blade.

The railroad tracks so far below looked like the tines of a fork, like his mother's best silver, gleaming in the twilight.

Leaning over the iron railing, he felt dizzy but a good dizziness, lightheaded really, and he drew back, started a prayer: Hail, Mary, full of grace. . sighed, why pray now? Prayer couldn't help. Too late for prayer.

He had botched everything, spoiled everything, but must not spoil this final act.

Lifting his head, he listened. For footsteps, for cars that might be following.

Heard no one, nothing.

Oh, he'd been clever enough, as if to compensate for failing so completely at the residence, allowing Brother Leon to trick him like that. Fleeing, he had known that he must hide. Like an animal. Ah, but with animal cunning.

He had slipped through the streets of Monument, running behind cars, through parking lots, heard sirens in the distance, felt hunted and at bay. Like in the movies. The movies, of course.

Purchasing a ticket to a matinee at Cinema 3, he had padded into the darkened theater, slouched in a seat, knees drawn up, only a few people scattered around, did not know the name of the movie, distantly recognized the actors on the screen, Dustin Hoffman maybe, whom he always mixed up with Al Pacino. Clung to himself. Waiting. Clever. Then out again, running the streets again, wanting to go home but not able to.

Listening, on the bridge, a car approaching, sweep of headlights interrupting dusk, making him feel like an insect pinned against a wall. But the light moved across and away, the car passing, motor purring catlike.

He looked down. A long way down.

It's now or never, David.

The last thing you can do to reclaim yourself, save yourself, obliterate the humiliation.

He grabbed the railing, testing it for firmness, and then climbed onto it, perched himself there, legs dangling over the edge, looking down into the blackness, pondering the height of the drop. Two hundred feet, maybe. To the tracks below.

This was the best way, the clean way, a flight through air, like a dive from the high board at the Y pool and then beautiful blessed oblivion. All of it over. And no one hurt except himself. And he himself did not matter.

Carefully, slowly, he slipped off the railing, stood on the narrow ledge where the bridge jutted out about a foot or so. Mustn't lose his footing and go hurtling below unprepared, undignified.

A sob escaped him.

Such a sad sound.

But it was too late now to cry.

This was the moment he had awaited for so long. The command he had been awaiting for so many days and weeks and months.

He took a deep breath, leaned his body into the night, but still held on, with his arms thrust behind him, his hands still grasping the rail.

Good-bye, Mama.

Good-bye, Papa.

Using the names he had called them as a baby.

Good-bye, Anthony. Little Tone-Tone, he had called him.

Paused. Sad now. Thinking how nice everything could have been.

All he had to do was loosen his grip on the railing, bring his arms forward, pretend he was diving — a swan dive, maybe — and then a nice flight through the air.

He did exactly that.

Relaxed his grip, let his fingers come loose. At the same time, he drew himself up, chest out, neck arched, face raised to the darkness, aware of a sweep of headlights approaching, the cough of a faulty engine. He thrust himself forward, felt the pull of gravity, the yawning emptiness of nothing in front of him or below him, he was falling, not diving, falling. .

And Mama, I don't want to. . I didn't mean to. . this terrible flash of clarity like lightning striking. . What am I doing here?. . Mama. . Papa. .

Trying frantically to hold on, grab something, not fall but, yes, he was falling, loosened from the bridge, wrong, a mistake, I didn't mean to do this. .

Heard his scream in the night as he fell.

But did not hear the hollow thudding sound his body made as it struck the railroad tracks below.

"You wanted to kill me, Obie."

Archie's voice was softened with a kind of awe and his eyes were wide with disbelief as he spoke.

"Right, Archie."

"But you couldn't do it, Obie, could you?" The old Archie voice restored, casual, edged with contempt.

"What do you mean — I couldn't do it?"

"Just what I said. You turned chicken at the last moment."

They were standing near Archie's car in the parking lot, watching the kids scattering after the program, heading home with hurried footsteps. The evening had turned cool, a chill in the air. The deserted booths gave the campus a surreal look, like an abandoned movie set.

"I wasn't chicken, Archie. I rigged the guillotine so the blade would fall, the real blade. . "

"And cut my head off?" Archie mocked. "But what happened, Obie?"

"Ray Bannister happened. There was a foolproof safety catch he had never bothered to tell me about. Not until tonight after the show."

Obie pulled away, still stung by the swift turn of events on the stage.

He had waited, eyes shut, knowing that in a split second the blade would fall and the screaming would start, plus the blood and Archie's head on the floor or dangling from the block. . murder, for crissake, he was committing murder. . and trying to deny the thought while knowing the terrible truth of it. Then, the absence of sound, a pause, only a split second but like an eternity, and then an explosion of sound, not screams of horror but applause, a thousand hands clapping and hoots and cheers, and Obie opened his eyes to look down and see the blade below Archie's neck and Archie safe and untouched, body intact. He had looked toward Ray Bannister for an answer. But Ray was taking his bows, responding to the wild applause and the drumming of feet on the floor, always reserved for special accolades. He gestured toward Archie, who leaped to his feet in a quick, graceful movement and stood motionless, erect as a knife blade as the air sizzled with applause and shouts of approbation.

Later, as the students filed from the hall, Ray Bannister confronted Obie: "I don't know what the hell you had in mind, Obie, and I don't want to know. But I'm glad the safety lock was working. Are you crazy or something?"

He turned away with such a withering look of disdain and disbelief that Obie began to shake and sweat, thinking how close he had come to murder, and didn't know whether to curse or thank Ray Bannister for the safety lock.

Archie, leaning against his car, shook his head, admitting for once that someone had been capable of surprising him, amazing him with actions he had been unable to predict.

"Congratulations, Obie. You've got more guts than I ever gave you credit for."

"Christ, Archie. ." Obie said, dismayed. For the first time in their relationship, Obie had heard admiration in Archie's voice, and words that could be construed as praise. For a sweet tempting moment, Obie almost succumbed to that praise and admiration. Then realized what had happened to him. What Archie had done to him. He had driven him to the point of murder. In order to earn Archie's praise, you had to be willing to murder someone, even if the murdered person had to be Archie himself.

He peered at Archie through slitted eyes, marveling at his confidence and ease despite the ordeal he had just endured, then saw something else, too, in Archie's eyes — what? — and made a leap of thought that almost took his breath away.

"Wait a minute, Archie," he said. "The black marble. ."

"What about the black marble?" Archie asked, amused. That was the light in Archie's eyes: amusement.

"You knew about the switch, didn't you? Saw Carter and me with the black box."

Archie nodded. "Never turn to a life of crime, Obie. You're too obvious. You always look suspicious. And you're clumsy."

"Then why did you go through with it? Why did you take the black marble?"

"I had to know, Obie."

"Know what?"

"What would happen. How far you would go."

"You took that chance?" Obie said, his turn to be awed now.

"Not much of a chance, Obie. I knew that I would win, that nobody at Trinity — you, Carter, even Brother Leon — could make me a loser."

"Why didn't you ever get the black marble all these years?" But Obie knew, of course. He realized he had known ever since Ray Bannister had demonstrated the tricks with marbles at his home, the day they met.

Archie waved his hand and produced a white marble from nowhere, rolling it on his fingers, tossing it from one hand to another, the marble like a small, pale moon leaping in space. "I knew about that Worcester store a long, long time ago," he said, laughing lightly. Then inclined his head and spoke almost dreamily. "But I didn't always play the trick, Obie. A lot of times I just took a chance. Had to do it that way. Testing. And I never lost. . "

Obie shook his head. Seemed he was always shaking his head when Archie was around. Shaking his head in dismay or admiration or disgust. And didn't quite know which at this moment.

"Can I ask you something, Obie?"

"Sure." But get it over with, Archie. He wanted suddenly to get away from him, away from Trinity, as if the crime had actually been committed. Like any murderer wanting to leave the scene of the crime.

"Why, Obie?"

"What do you mean — why?"

"Why did you want to kill me?"

"Why?" Obie asked, his turn to be surprised now. "Are you blind, Archie? Don't you see what's been going on at Trinity all this time? What you've done to me? To everybody?"

"What have I done, Obie? You tell me what I've done."

Obie flung his hand in the air, the gesture encompassing all the rotten things that had occurred under Archie's command, at Archie's direction. The ruined kids, the capsized hopes. Renault last fall and poor Tubs Casper and all the others, including even the faculty. Like Brother Eugene.

"You know what you've done, Archie. I don't need to draw up a list—"

"You blame me for everything, right, Obie? You and Carter and all the others. Archie Costello, the bad guy. The villain. Archie, the bastard. Trinity would be such a beautiful place without Archie Costello. Right, Obie? But it's not me, Obie, it's not me. . "

"Not you?" Obie cried, fury gathering in his throat, his chest, his guts. "What the hell do you mean, not you? This could have been a beautiful place to be, Archie. A beautiful time for all of us. Christ, who else, if not you?"

"You really want to know who?"

"Okay, who, then?" Impatient with his crap, the old Archie crap.

"It's you, Obie. You and Carter and Bunting and Leon and everybody. But especially you, Obie. Nobody forced you to do anything, buddy. Nobody made you join the Vigils. Nobody twisted your arm to make you secretary of the Vigils. Nobody paid you to keep a notebook with all that crap about the students, all their weaknesses, soft points. The notebook made your job easier, didn't it, Obie? And what was your job? Finding the victims. You found them, Obie. You found Renault and Tubs Casper and Gendreau — the first one, remember, when we were sophomores? — how you loved it all, didn't you, Obie?" Archie flicked a finger against the metal of the car, and the ping was like a verbal exclamation mark. "Know what, Obie? You could have said no anytime, anytime at all. But you didn't. . " Archie's voice was filled with contempt, and he pronounced Obie's name as if it were something to be flushed down a toilet.

"Oh, I'm an easy scapegoat, Obie. For you and everybody else at Trinity. Always have been. But you had free choice, buddy. Just like Brother Andrew always says in Religion. Free choice, Obie, and you did the choosing. . "

A sound escaped from Obie's lips, the sound a child might make hearing that his mother and father had been killed in an auto accident on their way home. The sound had death in it. And truth. The terrible truth that Archie was right, of course. He had blamed Archie all along. Had been willing to cut off his head, for crissake.

"Don't feel bad, Obie," Archie said, the tenderness in his voice again. "You've just joined the human race. . "

Obie shook his head. "Not your kind of human race, Archie. Okay, maybe I'm not the good guy anymore. I admit that, I accept it. Maybe I'll confess it at church. But what about you? You just go on and on. What the hell are you?"

"I am Archie Costello," he said. "And I'll always be there, Obie. You'll always have me wherever you go and whatever you do. Tomorrow, ten years from now. Know why, Obie? Because I'm you. I'm all the things you hide inside you. That's me—"

"Cut it out," Obie said. He hated it when Archie began to get fancy, spinning his wheels. "What you're saying is a lot of crap. I know who you are. And I know who I am." But do I, he wondered, do I?

He wrenched himself away from Archie although Archie had not been touching him or holding him back. Archie shrugged, opened his car door, movements casual and cool as usual, as he slipped into the seat. Obie could feel Archie's eyes on him as he walked away, those cold intelligent eyes.

"Good-bye, Obie," he called.

He had never said good-bye before.