not possibly take now that she knew.
"Well, maybe-" Bobby frowned.
In the end, they finished by rolling her completely face and stomach down and pulling her
ankles over behind her and tying them down to her wrists. No further movement or sound was
possible.
"That ought to do it until Bobby gets back."
Freedom Five bezan to cover its movements as quickly as possible. Dianne got in behind the
wheel of the wazon and whirled it back around to the main house. There she and Cindy and
Paul wiped it clean inch by inch. There was no sign that it had ever been used nor that Barbara
had ever been in it. Behind them John and Bobby swept back along the turnaround with
branches, removing the car tracks.
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It was now premature night, however much too early, but nightlike all the same. The
classic signs of squall were in the distant but visible sky.
The west was an impenetrable blue and black; the sun had vanished; and there was just
the beginning of a faraway "beard"-little, dirty, soap sudsy clouds making up before the
storm. The children were indecisive. There was a lot on Dianne's schedule yet to be done,
but. ...
"We better split," John said. "It's going to plow hard."
"Yeah." With Barbara in the tenant house alone, Bobby didn't want to see them go. What
was going to happen, however, just had to happen.
"I'll be back tonight," John said, "but it may be late."
"What about Cindy?"
"I'll take care of it." Dianne, cool and polite as could be-what a wonderful daughter--called
home and got permission for Cindy to spend the night. With minimum time for niceties, she
scrubbed the little girl's face, brushed her hair-six licks to a side-threw some things in one
of Dr. Adams' flight bags, and was ready to go. Outside, John, Paul, and Bobby waited,
scuffling around in the dust and looking anxiously at the sky.
"Ready?"
"Ready." Dianne and Cindy came out of the kitchen and down the steps.
"Let's cut and run then," John said.
Freedom Five--down to four-took off at a fast trot down along the garden, across the field,
and into the trees along Oak Creek. By himself Bobby watched them go, sighed, squared
his thin shoulders, and went inside.
Without the kids and the magnetic presence of Barbara in the house, the rooms seemed
quite abnormally silent and empty. The electric motors whirred refrigerator, kitchen clock,
window air conditioner but that was all. Outside, even the cicadas were silent.
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And, of course, there was the distant rumble of thunder.
He was lonely, self-pitying, and sad.
The loneliness was self-apparent and would continue until at least midnight. Bobby was not
optimistic; midnight would be the first he'd see of John, if then.
The self-pity was equally obvious. He had done the biggest share of the work and taking
risks all along, and they had had the fun. Now he was stuck with the worst job so far. For
hours it would be just him and her and a Picker out there-maybe-and the weather and the
rest.
The sadness was more difficult; he could not have explained it in any one way because it
was a thing of so many sharp-cornered parts. When he put his mind on it-and he did-things
became a blur too indistinct for
him to unsort.
Where, for instance, Bobby should have welcomed relief of any kind, in fact, be regretted
dreaded-the adventure's coming to an end, particularly the end planned. Like each other
one of Freedom Five, he had formed an individual relationship-s-if known only to himself-
with Barbara, and it was a dear one. After the initial capture, after the fears of her escaping
had passed, he had fallen to paying more and more attention to her for herself. Although
be did not feel any true body lust for her that could be consummated-indeed, his shyness
of her remained almost overpowering-still he was not so young that be could not observe
and admire. Barbara was beautiful.
Her shape-since she was his first experience, she both set and met all standards-was
pretty. Like Paul, Bobby was not without some idea of the female form-in a doctor's family,
surely not-and he found the girl's youthfulness and suppleness and slight immaturity all to
the good despite the many bruises that marred her now. Her grace even in the difficult
things they had made her do, her differentness from him and from them all, was
compelling. Her voice, her words, though she had been allowed to say little enough, were
quite enchanting. If he had a wish, it was that he could 222
keep her here for a long, long time-like a wild fawn or vixen, and train her and tame her-
until she could be let run free without a leash and come back at his call.
From here, Bobby's thoughts reached over toward an emotion a little too adult for him, but,
in fact, it was tenderness, protectiveness, what grown men feel for grown women. He
struggled with the feeling of wanting to cradle and shield her and found it just too complex.
Other things intruded.
Her struggles the morning she had waked up a prisoner, the ones that almost tore the bed
apart, her kickings and thrashings about, her attack on Dianne, her fight this afternoon,
told him well enough that the Barbara of his entirely private dreams was not there at all.
Inside of her was another person, indeed, and a possibly dangerous one.
Still beyond was his duty to Freedom Five, a duty that involved the penalty of not
performing the duty. Here again was a world he could not have been expected to
understand, that honor and responsibility became tangled up with loyalties which became
tangled up with requisites which-finally-involved personal pain and loss.
They could not keep her because his parents were coming home. For the same reason they
could not let her go free and be themselves caught. It all confused him and made him sad,
but as usual, be was in charge and there were things to be done. For the second time since
coming in the door to the kitchen, he squared up and set to work.
He closed all the windows against the advancing squall (his mother would be mad if the
wallpaper was streaked when she got home) and locked them all except one. That was
Bobby. He might want to get in unobserved some time later on. Then be went down to the
rec room and gathered up his rolled sleeping bag, his old windbreaker, and a good
flashlight. These he took upstairs and assembled neatly on the kitchen counter together
with his small shotgun (which he still favored for its short-range pattern spread) and extra
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shells. Finally he ate. He didn't feel like it, but his father said that the body was like a
fireplace: if you put fuel into the thing, it would run; otherwise not. Further he made himself
a second sandwich, carefully wrapped it in plastic wrap, got a quart of soft drink from the
refrigerator, and rolled everything into a camper's pack.
Lights on or off? Bobby wondered.
After some thought, he decided to leave them off.
If the Picker-his chief caution now-was drawn to shelter from the rain, he might be inclined