jaw and my shoulder and rapped my knuckles on the cast that still covered my upper left leg. I wrestled with a craven urge just to hang the telephone up and push this entire business away.
Then the phone was picked up again. 'Hello?' a wary voice asked, and the thought that burned across my mind with complete assurance was: That's not Arnie.
'Arnie?'
'It sounds like Dennis Guilder, the mouth that walks like a man,' the voice said, and that sounded like Arnie, all right - but at the same time, it didn't. His voice hadn't really deepened, but it seemed to have roughened, as if through overuse and shouting. It was eerie, as if I were talking to a stranger who was doing a pretty good imitation of my friend Arnie.
'Watch what you're saying, dork,' I said. I was smiling but my hands were dead cold.
'You know,' he said in a confidential voice, 'your face and my ass bear a suspicious resemblance.'
'I've noticed the resemblance, but last time I thought it was the other way around,' I said, and then a little silence fell between us - we had gone through what passed for the amenities with us. 'So what are you doing tonight?' I asked.
'Not much,' he said. 'No date or anything. You?'
'Sure, I'm in great shape,' I said. 'I'm going to go pick up Roseanne and take her to Studio 2000. You can come along and hold my crutches while we dance, if you want.'
He laughed a little.
'I thought I'd come over,' I said. 'Maybe you and me could see the New Year in like we used to. You know?'
'Yeah!' Arnie said. He sounded pleased by the idea - but still not quite like himself. 'Watch Guy Lombardo and all that happy crappy. That'd be all right.'
I paused for a moment, not quite sure what to say. Finally I replied cautiously, 'Well, maybe Dick Clark or someone. Guy Lombardo's dead, Arnie.'
'Is he?' Arnie sounded puzzled, doubtful. 'Oh. Oh, yeah, I guess he is. But Dick Clark's hanging in there, right?'
'Right,' I said.
'I got to give it an eighty-five Dick, it's got a good beat and you can dance to it,' Arnie said, but it wasn't Arnie's voice at al I. My mind made a sudden and hideously unexpected cross-connection
(best smell in the world . . . except maybe for pussy)
and my hand tightened down convulsively on the telephone. I think I almost screamed. I wasn't talking to Arnie; I was talking to Roland LeBay. I was talking to a dead man.
'That's Dick, all right,' I heard myself say, as if from a distance.
'How you getting over, Dennis? Can you drive?'
'No, not yet. I thought I'd get my dad to drive me over. I paused momentarily, then plunged. 'I thought maybe you could drive me back, if you got your car. Would that be okay?'
'Sure!' He sounded honestly excited. 'Yeah, that'd be good, Dennis! Real good! We'll have some laughs. Just like the old times.'
'Yes,' I said. And then - I swear to God it just popped out - I added, 'Just like in the motor pool.'
'Right.' I said automatically. 'See you.' I hung up, and I looked at the telephone, and presently I began to shudder all over. I had never been so frightened in my life as I was right then. Time passes: the mind rebuilds its defences. I think one of the reasons there is so little convincing evidence of psychic phenomena is that the mind goes to work and restructures the evidence. A little stacking is better than a lot of insanity. Later I questioned what I heard, or led myself to believe that Arnie had misunderstood my comment, but in the few moments after I put telephone down, I was sure: LeBay had gotten in him. Somehow, dead or not, LeBay was in him.
And LeBay was taking over.
New Year's Eve was cold and crystal clear. My dad dropped me off at the Cunninghams' at quarter past seven and helped me over to the back door - crutches were not made for winter or snow-packed paths.
The Cunninghams' station wagon was gone, but Christine stood in the driveway, her bright red-and-white finish sheened with a condensation of ice-crystals. She had been released with the rest of the impounded cars only this week. Just looking at her brought on a feeling of dull dread like a headache. I did not want to ride home in that car, not