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Show 54 "She'd better come home. She only has until tomorrow midnight." "I'm sure she knows." When the connection went bad, Fogarty let it stay bad. That happened with car phones. An indistinct Jackson, behind a panel of static, finally hung up. Called back. Fogarty ignored the ringing, wondered how the birthday party had been. From his window he saw another sign. Two loud motorcycles pulled up behind the van. Each had two riders, a male at the handlebars and a female clinging to the male. All sexes wore leather. The evening, thought Fogarty, was much too warm for leather. Again Fogarty recognized no one, and again they all disappeared into the heavy, silent building. That made eight of them, Fogarty calculated. What were they doing in there? Perhaps he should go over, now, before it was somehow too late, and give himself up to whatever was happening. It would not be so hard, he thought, to deliver himself into Sparkle's soothing hands. He could join them. Who was to say, perhaps they could even help him-after tomorrow he would be out of a job, free to start a new life. But he did not-could not-move from his place at the window. No one left, no one came out. Nearly an hour passed. Now it was almost eleven. Fogarty was exhausted, yet so alert and dry-eyed that he could hardly blink. He felt chemically and electrically charged. His vision was fixed. Then it happened. An old station wagon of indistinct make came to a screeching halt behind the line of motorcycles, van, and |
