The hours burned in cold white wintry flashes, as people scuttled in and out of Braling’s mansion, hoping against hope that he was Lazarus.

Calvin C. Quartermain careened about Braling’s porch like the captain of a wrecked ship.

‘Damn! I saw the boy’s gun!’

‘There’s no bullet–hole,’ said Dr. Lieber, who’d been called.

‘Shot dead, he was! Dead!’

The house grew silent as the people left, bearing away the husk that had been poor Braling. Calvin C. Quartermain abandoned the porch, mouth salivating.

‘I’ll find the killer, by God!’

Propelling himself with his cane, he turned a corner.

A cry, a concussion! ‘No, by God, no!’ He flailed at the air and fell.

Some ladies rocking on the nearest porch leaned out. ‘Is that old Quartermain?’

‘Oh, he can’t be dead, too – can he?’

Quartermain’s eyelids twitched.

Far off, he saw a bike, and a boy racing away.

Assassin, he thought. Assassin!

Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN

When Douglas walked, his mind ran, when he ran, his mind walked. The houses fell aside, the sky blazed.

At the rim of the ravine, he threw his cap–pistol far out over the gulf. An avalanche buried it. The echoes died.

Suddenly, he needed the gun again, to touch the shape of killing, like touching that wild old man.

Launching himself down the side of the ravine, Doug scrambled among the weeds, eyes wet, until he found the weapon. It smelled of gunpowder, fire, and darkness.

‘Bang,’ he whispered, and climbed up to find his bike abandoned across the street from where old Braling had been killed. He led the bike away like a blind beast and at last got on and wobbled around the block, back toward the scene of awful death.

Turning a corner, he heard ‘No!’ as his bike hit a nightmare scarecrow that was flung to the ground as he pumped off, wailing, staring back at one more murder strewn on the walk. Someone cried, ‘Is that old Quartermain?!’

‘Can’t be,’ Douglas moaned.

Braling fell, Quartermain fell. Up, down, up, down, two thin hatchets sunk in hard porch and sidewalk, frozen, never to rise.

Doug churned his bike through town. No mobs rushed after him.

It seemed the town did not even know that someone had been shot, another struck. The town poured tea and murmured, ‘Pass the sugar.’

Doug slam–braked at his front porch. Was his mother waiting in tears, his father wielding the razor strop …?

He opened the kitchen door.

‘Hey. Long time no see.’ Mother kissed his brow. ‘They always come home when they’re hungry.’

‘Funny,’ said Doug. ‘I’m not hungry at all.’

Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT

At dinner, the family heard pebbles pinging against the front door.

‘Why,’ said Mother, ‘don’t boys ever use the bell?’