Divine retribution. Peter rubbed his eyes, then put his hands back down on the desk he was sitting at and looked out over the newsroom. The fluorescent lights were on above his head. Outside, the sun was straining its way through the clouds and not having much success. It looked like it was going to snow. Peter didn’t think he’d stayed up all night without sleep for years.
Peter didn’t know if Amanda ever had. She was sitting at the desk she had staked out as “hers,” playing with a pencil and looking about ready to fall over, her blonde hair pinned to the top of her head. Timmy kept moving back and forth across the room, always coming back into her orbit, never letting himself get too far out of it. Timmy had always trusted Amanda.
“The printer isn’t open until nine o’clock,” Peter called across to Amanda. “That’s what comes of taking the low bid instead of using someone used to newspapers.”
“Most of the time,” Amanda said reasonably, “we don’t need somebody used to newspapers.”
“I have to go lie down now,” Timmy said. “I’m very tired.”
Peter was sure Timmy was very tired. He was sure they all were very tired. He almost wished he’d listened to old Mrs. Johnson’s advice, delivered when she was shrugging herself into her coat to make her own way home.
“This isn’t Boston,” she’d told them. “You won’t do anybody any good staying up all night and making yourselves sick. You should all go get your rest and start again in the morning.”
Right. Timmy was waiting by Amanda’s desk, hesitating, looking miserable and a little frightened. Amanda gave him a tired smile and said, “You go and lie down any time you want to. You don’t need permission.”
“Maybe I’m supposed to work,” Timmy said.
“You’re supposed to work during normal working hours. This was special. It was a favor you did the newspaper. You get paid extra. You don’t have to do it until you die.”
“Did we call Mrs. Jeanings? Did we tell her I was here?”
“I told her,” Peter said. “I told her about Gemma Bury, too.”
“I shouldn’t make her worry,” Timmy said. Then he looked around helplessly, and Amanda got up to find him his coat. When she did, Timmy brightened, and Peter felt himself go queasy. There really was something about watching the two of them together that was unsettling. Amanda found the coat under Peter’s and her own on the rack and handed it over. Timmy touched the place where her hand had been with a thoughtful expression on his face.
“Mrs. Jeanings will keep me up,” he said with a sigh. “Mrs. Jeanings will want to know all about it.”
“Tell her we’re putting out a special edition of the paper,” Amanda told him.
“Mrs. Jeanings won’t care. Mrs. Jeanings will want to know how I feel about it. She always wants to know how I feel about everything.”
“She means well.”
“I know. She makes good eggs, too. And she gives me Marshmallow Fluff.”
Timmy went plodding to the side door, his coat open, his hands hanging motionless at his sides. Peter didn’t think he’d ever seen a fully normal person walk with his hands like that. When he got the door open, Timmy turned and looked at the two of them, grinning, and said good night. Then he plodded out and closed the door behind himself. Peter heard him go through the vestibule and out the door.
“I wish you hadn’t talked me into hiring him,” he told Amanda. “He gives me the creeps.”
“He’s just a little retarded,” Amanda said. “He does a very good job. He’s very conscientious. And he’s more responsible than half the back-to-the-land refugees we hire. Can we go back to sleep now?”
“We’ve got to make arrangements for the printing.”
“We can leave a note for Sally or Jonathan. One of them can drive the mechanicals over.”
“I don’t want to leave a note for Sally or Jonathan. I want to—I don’t know what I want to do. I don’t think I’ve had this much fun in ages.”
Amanda cocked her head, giving him the strangest look. “Is that what this is to you? Fun?”
Peter was astonished. “Why not?”
“Well,” Amanda said, “for one thing, the poor woman is dead. I didn’t like her much, but she is dead. For another thing, she probably wouldn’t have been dead if you hadn’t given her those tickets. In fact, if Franklin Morrison is right instead of the state police and Tisha Verek’s death wasn’t a hunting accident, then just maybe Gemma Bury is dead because she came to talk to you. If you see what I mean.”