By Lucia Raatma
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By Mother. Or by Sheila's husband. So he had never done more than peer over its top. At night after Mother had gone to bed. During the day, those occasional times when Mother was away from the house without him. He'd seen a lot, but never enough. Never near enough. From now on, there would be no Mother in his way. He could do whatever he pleased. But now it was too late. The quake had seen to that. It just isn't fair, Stanley thought. From his height above the wall, he could see that the houses on both sides of Sheila's place still stood.
His head jerked Barbara. A quick, fierce, hateful glare. Then he turned to his windshield hole. 'Nobody stops me. ' 'Oh, great,' Earl muttered. 'Terrific. ' 'Shut your face,' Wellen said. ' Barbara asked, trying to be kind and sympathetic. ' Pete asked. 'A school,' Wellen said. ' He glanced again at Barbara. This time, his eyes didn't seem so mean. ' 'She's not in any grade. She's a teacher. ' At Fairfax, he slowed down only a bit. He drove onto a sidewalk to get past a line-up of waiting cars, bounced down from the curb, hit the brakes to avoid broadsiding a pickup truck, then gunned the engine and sprinted for the other side as cars in the way swerved and honked.
She didn't respond. Here goes nothing. He stepped forward fast. The head was on the passenger seat. It still wore its baseball cap which had lost its bill completely, and was no longer blue. The head lay face up. It was as red as the baseball cap and was staring at the ceiling, its stump of a neck aimed at the woman. No wonder she's freaked, Clint thought. He grabbed the door handle and pulled, but the door was locked. Instead of wasting time trying to get the gal to unlock it he put his arm through the broken window and found the lock.