She wanted to scream, but there was no one to scream for. ‘No. Lucy dug out an old light gray cotton miniskirt that had shrunk on Shari in the wash. She wanted to cry out upon herself for the uttermost fool in existence. The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable. Although she had said a great deal when she heard about the shooting that had left poor Jack so badly injured. “If he is not here now I can make myself safe.
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