“Wait here a second,” she said, when they had reached the end of the passageway, “until I get the other light on.”

Joey waited; then the girl’s voice said, “All right,” and he walked into the small supply room.

Ella McDaniel stood by the door. “Up there,” she said, turning and pointing, “on the top shelf. You see the box marked Pads?”

“Where? Oh, yeah. Under the two big ones.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“You want it down?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Is there a ladder around here anywhere?”

“I think so. Right there; it’s folded up, I think.”

Joey reached down and pulled out the small ladder. He set it on its legs and tested it. Then he looked at the girl and said, “You mind if I ask you a question, Miss McDaniel?”

She said nothing.

“How come you got me to help you?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “You looked strong.”

“Well, I’m glad to help. But I don’t think—I mean, maybe this isn’t such a good idea. For you, I mean. You know?”

“I didn’t think of it,” she said.

Joey smiled. “That’s a nice thing to say,” he said, and started up the ladder. It was just tall enough. He braced himself and moved the top box, laying it on its side. Then he moved the second box, which was a more difficult operation.

The one marked Pads was heavy, but he got a firm and professional grip on it, made sure of his balance, and walked backwards down the ladder.

He set the box on the concrete floor and looked up.

The girl was gone.

He felt a small prickling sense of fear, but brushed it away. “You want the whole thing?” he said.

There was no answer.

He walked to the open door and peered out into the cellar-darkness, and saw only the mountains of boxes.

“Miss!”

He was about to return to the room when he heard the girl’s scream.

It was high-pitched and hysterical, and instantly he knew what had happened. He knew what had happened and what was going to happen.

He stood listening to the screams; to the silence; then to the sounds of shoes slapping hard against cement, running, running down the stairs and across the floor, toward him; and he could only stand and wait.

27

27

They sat at the tables quietly, no one speaking, no one moving. The fat paddles of the dust-caked fan above revolved in lazy circles, but the air was not disturbed—it hung as still as mold in the café. Harold, dressed in white, sat dozing at the end of the counter; Joan was at the other end, reading a paperback book. The central table accommodated Bart Carey, Phil Dongen, and Abner West. They were playing gin rummy. Lorenzo Niesen watched them, but without interest. Several times he opened his mouth, but he did not speak.