Draw One In The Dark(121)

The teapot escaped from Tom's grasp and fell, with a resounding crash and a spray of hot coffee onto the nearest bar stools and Tom's feet.



It took him a moment to realize the shattering sound had indeed come from outside his head.

* * *



Edward had never seen Tom tremble. He'd held a gun to the boy's head when Tom was only sixteen and he had never seen him shake. But now, he was shaking. Or rather, vibrating, lightly, as if he were a bell that someone had struck.



"I'm sorry I'm late with the warm-up," he said, and his face was pale, and his voice oh, so absolutely polite. "I dropped the carafe and had to brew another one."



"It's okay," Edward said. He'd been enjoying his conversation with Keith, partly because it distracted him from the fact that they might very well all be dead soon. And partly because in the middle of a lot of information about Keith—who apparently had parents and no less than four siblings somewhere in Pennsylvania—there was some comment and anecdote about Tom. Apparently Tom kept Keith's key and usually could be counted on to give it back when Keith came home drunk and confused, having left keys and jacket—and often other clothes—at the last wild party he'd attended.



Keith had engaged in some self-mocking on the subject of the number of times Tom had shown up without a stitch of clothing on, and how Keith had thought that Tom went to even wilder parties than he did. Now, of course, he understood. "He must go through an awful lot of clothes," Keith said. "They all must."



And Edward had nodded. He'd been relaxed. And Tom had looked happy and in his element. Why was he shaking now? Was it just the coffeepot? Was Tom so insecure he'd get that upset over a broken coffeepot?



"It's okay. I really don't need a warm-up," Edward said. "It's excellent coffee, but I've probably already drunk too much. Don't worry."



Tom nodded, and looked aside, as if getting ready to walk away. Then came back and sat down. He put the carafe down, with some care, on one of the coasters and leaned forward. "Father," he said.



It was the first time in five years he'd actually called Edward that. Edward took a deep breath. "Yes?"



"I need you do it for me, the delivery."



"What delivery?" Edward asked, puzzled. They were going to find the beetles, weren't they? What was there to deliver?



"The delivery of the Pearl," Tom said, lowering his voice. "In a few minutes, when I get a chance, I'm going to go into the bathroom and get it, I'll put it in the container before I take it out of the water, then put the container in the backpack. I assume you know where the center for the . . . Where their center is in Goldport, right?"



Edward nodded. "But . . . aren't we going to do that later? I thought we were going to—"



Tom pushed back the strands of his hair that had gotten loose in the course of the evening. "No. I . . . It's me. Look, it's just me. I know there's something wrong with me, but I just can't take it. I can't. I can't be around to watch it. So, you take the . . . delivery to the people looking for it, and I'll go, okay?"



Oh, no. This sounded far more serious than Edward had thought. And he didn't quite know how to handle it. The thing had always been, since Tom was two or so, that if he got something in his mind, no matter how misguided or strange, it was almost impossible to get it out. And if you pushed the wrong way, he only got mad at you and more determined to do whatever he'd set his mind on.



He didn't even want to ask about it in a way that would get Tom's back up. So he spoke as gently as he knew how. "Tom, I don't understand. What can't you take, and why are you going? And where?"



Tom shook his head, as if answering some unspoken question. "Kyrie. And . . . Rafiel. I can't take it. I know this is stupid, okay? I know it's puppy love, okay? But I've never been close to another woman. Well, not since I was sixteen. And I've never even thought about another woman as I think about Kyrie. I know it's stupid. You don't need to tell me—"



"I wasn't going to tell you that—" Edward started.



"But I know it's stupid. I know I never had a chance. Being as I am. Who I am. And I don't just mean the . . . shifting. I mean, just who I am. I know Kyrie deserves much better. I know that Rafiel is better. I've known that since I met him. But I'm too . . . I can't watch. I should be able to because they're both my friends, in a way, so I'm probably immature too, but there it is. I'm immature. I just can't . . . I'd end up getting in a big argument with her or him, or both of them. And I can't do that, because then . . . it would be worse than just leaving. So I'm leaving."