Besides, there had been the studies-tough, heavy going that he had to wade through in order to get his teaching credentials. His luck, of course, that there had been a plethora of English masters, and no junior college slots open anywhere on this coast. Therefore, the high school job, at a hell of a lot less pay than Dallas had been looking forward to.

But there was Kathy Collins; oh yes-a fringe benefit that far outweighed the affair he had been carrying on, more or less desultorily, with Selena Johnstone, science teacher. The trouble with Selena was that she approached sex with the same clinical outlook as she dissected frogs in her biology class. It made Dallas uneasy, as if his cock was being examined through a microscope, as if some giant scalpel might dart out of the ceiling and whack him off at the balls.

“Come back soon, Mr. Bradburn,” the cute carhop said, and thanked him for the usual tip. He assured her he would, and turned the VW for the far side of town, as he’d always known he would.

He found Ivy Street, a gravel lane with a scattering of small houses along its winding way, and drove slowly past clumps of trees. Number 1128 sat at the very end, off the road.

Turning into the bush-guarded driveway, he passed the front entrance of the secluded house and parked where the bug couldn’t be seen from the road. There was no other car nearby, and by looking around as he climbed from his, he could see the track across the field, the getaway outlet set up by the kids, in case their hideaway pad was discovered. He hoped it was a good exit; he’d hate like hell to slam the bug into a fence or some big, hard tree, should the fuzz spring a raid.