62

On the way back to campus, Schwartz told himself that he wouldn’t. Then he turned the Buick down Groome Street anyway, to see if what he’d heard was true. He parked on the far side of the street, one house down, in the shade of a massive maple. The curtains in the front room weren’t drawn. A TV flickered bluely, but as far as Schwartz could tell there wasn’t anyone watching it. He cut the engine. The cortisone helped; he had to admit it. He felt like horseshit, he was sweating like crazy, his heart pounded constantly, but his knees would make it through the weekend’s games. He took off his watch for no particular reason and strapped it around the uppermost segment of the steering wheel. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. If he didn’t leave now he’d be late for practice.

As he unclipped his watch from the wheel, someone walked up Groome Street and entered the low chain-link gate of 339. Long dark hair, knee-high leather boots, Burberry coat. It was Noelle Pierson. This was the place, then; he’d heard they were at Noelle’s place. But no sign. Schwartz fired the engine. Noelle climbed the three stairs to the porch. She was a junior, a history major; they’d hooked up a few times his sophomore year, when she still lived in the dorms. As her boot heel hit the porch, the TV ceased to flicker. A figure in a faded red T-shirt jumped off the couch and hurried from the room. He’d been there all along. Schwartz nosed the Buick away from the curb.