become worse. He moaned in his sleep, shouted out, and waked up crying until she was
sure he would blurt the whole story out. Caught be .• tween her responsibility to Freedom
Five, her mother's finite supply of sedatives, and Paul's super energy, she strung him along
with hints of what would happen and promises and-when everything else failed-stole an-
other pill and slugged him with it. (Even Bobby ransacked Dr. Adams' things for pills that
might work, but there was little to find of any use.) Paul was holding on now only to a faint
expectation Dianne had given him,
a way out of the game that would be a lot of fun, his kind of fun.
It was all enough to make a seventeen-year-old girl just give up, free the prisoner and go
forward to ' 176
judgment, and of course, the alternative had occurred to her. Her punishment would
probably be the lightest. She had entered only after they had captured Barbara; she had
run the house, kept everyone fed and safe, and so on, and so on. She could make a good
case of it. But •.. and but. It wasn't what she wanted to do.
The game was right. They bad done nothing wrong, not really. To this she clung. Grown-ups
and children were on opposite sides; anyone who knew anything knew at least that. One
was fair game for the other, and always had been. If there was fairness or loyalty between
them, it was the grudging, exasperated affection between opposites ever opposite. Dianne
could not-in pride-imagine crying at injustice, nor given the rare circumstance, imagine
adults doing less. So out of proper beginnings, fortuitous circumstances, and good
managing had come a logical (to her entirely so) situation that must have-sometime, some
place-an ending in harmony with the opening. This was an article of faith with her, so much
so that she began-she tossed away the dry, uneaten part of her ice-cream cone with the
thought-to imagine in detail bow they might conclude their little game.
At the state road her father got out and walked around to the passenger's side while
Dianne slid over to the wheel. A fair amount was on her mind. The driving of the car was
automatic, but at the touch of the wheel again, the movement of the gearshift into "drive,"
an
- outside, unbidden thought occurred to her as if some one had spoken it in her ear: "The
Adams have a car." There was nothing more, not a clue, not a hint, not a suggestion of
utility, just the miracle of the voice. The Adams had a car. She felt struck blind with
some kind of wisdom. Barbara could be moved.
Suddenly Dianne wished that the going home, the watching television, and the going to
bed were over and done with. She wanted very much to be alone where she could imagine
things, make things. All at once, she had a "story" in mind.
177
Perhaps he had heard his name being called even as he slept. It came closer quickly in
short, distress whoops. Then there was a white splash of light in his eyes and he was being
shaken, pushed, and pummeled by Cindy, her face nearly against his own.
"Bobby, Bobby-there's someone looking in the window! Get up! It's a man out there looking
in our windows. Bobby, wake up, I mean it!" The noise went on and on like a radio at top
volume.
Somehow, between sleep and waking and still numb, Bobby knew that what he heard was
true. It had been coming since he had seen the light in the marsh last night; it had moved
from being one of the possibilities to that of being an absolute future event in his mind.
Now Cindy's panic was the proof. They were discovered. And still she shook and pushed
him and pulled at the sheet, whether to get him out or make hiding room for herself being
unclear. "Bobby, hurry/ He's here! He's coming," she was crying with fright.
The Picker.
He sat up so suddenly that his forehead hit hers, but neither noticed. "What?" he said
though he knew what. "Where? Which window?" He looked-frightened-at his own, which
was empty.
"The basement, Barbara, the rec room." All of Cindy's words poured out as one. "You
know"-she was in agony-" ... There!"
"What kind of man?" Bobby made no move to get out of bed. In spite of the room's heat,
he suddenly felt cold and sick.
"A man, that's all."
"Did he see her?"
_
"How do I know what he saw?"
"Are the doors locked?"
"You find out," Cindy hissed.
"Did you open any of them tonight?"
"I dunno--no-yes, I did. One. The kitchen." "Did you lock it again?"
"No!" Cindy began to really cry now. "No, no.
Just get up!"
-
·
178
He knew he had to do it,. and yet everything inside told him that this was the end.
Someone had seen their secret, had looked in the window of the basement, and seen it all-
Barbara, the way they bad left her, Cindy, the emptiness of the house, the whole works.
Now there would be a pounding on the kitchen door, heavy shouts, big footfalls in the
living room, pushes and shoves and hits, Barbara free and telling the whole story. "Be
quiet," he said, and waited for the end.
"What're you going to do?"
"Just be quiet." He finally threw down the sheet, swung his feet out over the edge of the
bed, and sat up. Cindy looked at him, her eyes wet enough but momentarily not crying, her
springy hair curled up into spirals around her face, her lips pursed. They waited.
In fact, nothing happened, and it was very puzzling to Bobby. What was to happen was not
occurring. There was only the sound of the cicadas outside, moths at the window of his
room, and the very distant, almost soothing sound of summer thunder. He reached up and
turned out the light. He did it slowly, fearfully, almost religiously.
"Don't do that." "We have to." ·
"I'm scared-I want to see."
"Go hide then. I don't want him to see us." "Hide where?"
"Anywhere."
"I want to stay with you-u-u-u .... "
"OK, then, but shut up, will you?" Bobby slowly stood up, testing the quietness of the house
with his ears-they felt as if they were sticking out a mile beyond his head. "Get away from
me, now. Stop getting in my way." He went to his window and squinted out. Nothing. Then
he went out into the hall and looked out the windows there. Nothing.
"What do you see?" "Shut up."
He went into the living room and stood in front of the .410 be had left there. It was far from
a warlike
179
move. He felt now that if he took a gun in his hand
. and an adult really did come in-a good adult-it would somehow make their whole crime
worse. It had all been well and good to go parading around with shotguns up to this point,
but he knew, he just simply knew, that he didn't have it in himself to shoot anyone tonight
Particularly somebody who oughtn't be shot. If a grown-up came in and just found Barbara
tied up and the two children being good (otherwise, of course), it would be better. There