Quotes from Dorothy B. Hughes

Wondering at the loneliness of the new dead, remembering Kitten and Kitten's need for light and life. She had no sorrow for Kitten dead; she had pity that scalded. She

The desperate need to be alone with Laurel, to force truth from her, began hammering against his temples until he wanted to cry out from the pain of it.

Dix lit a cigarette and also surveyed the room. Nice people, healthy and wealthy. Normal as you and me. Normal as Sylvia when she didn't have the megrims. But you didn't know what was beneath beach-tanned faces and simple expensive clothes. You didn't ever know about thoughts. They were easily hidden. You didn't have to give away what you were thinking.

Only when Brub had acknowledged the introduction and turned to his wife did the waver of fear come to her.

Even with her beside him, dreams drove him fretfully to the surface of the night. Too often. She too was restless. For he heard her stirring each time he half-awakened, heard her breath of wakefulness, not sleep.

showered, hating the sound of the rushing water; shaved, hating the buzz of the razor. He dressed quickly, not caring what he put on. He had no plan, only to get out of this room, to get away from the unremembered shape of his dreams.

Only a man off his trolley would consider riding around in a police car with Homicide. Homicide with psychic hunches.

His eyes were intense. "I hate killers. I want the world to be a good place, a safe place. For me and my wife and my friends, and my kids when I have them. I guess that's why I'm a policeman. To help make one little corner of the world a safer place.

For him there were the hours of day to pass, but they would trickle through his hands as quietly, as simply as sand. The sun and the day would pass; there would come night. And the night would flame with a radiance surpassing the sun.

She didn't say yes or no; she said nothing in a rush of words. After she had rung off, it began. Slowly at first. Like fog wisping into his mind. Only a small doubt. He could, at first, brush it away. But it moved in thicker; tightening around the coils of his brain, blotting out reason.

We'll fix up a date." It was so easy to say, and so easy to avoid doing it. He was feeling better all the time. It had been right that Laurel was delayed. It was in order that she wouldn't have to be inspected by Sylvia. Sylvia wouldn't like Laurel; they weren't cut out of the same goods.

He walked on, quiet as the fog.

A man couldn't live alone; he needed friends. He needed a woman, a real woman. Like Brub and Sylvia. Like that stupid Cary had that stupid Maude. Better than being alone.

He's a wonderful dancer,' Laurel cooed. She didn't know; she'd never danced with him. But as long as she didn't act up any more than this, he was satisfied.

Black rage shook him. He hadn't had a place to sleep, he hadn't had food, he couldn't even get a beer in this goddamn stinking lousy town. He was ready to turn and walk out when he saw wedged at a table against a wall, McIntyre. In the same silly hat, the red sash. Mac hadn't seen him yet. Mac was watching the dance floor. Sailor knew then that the Sen was here. The Sen and Iris Towers. He took his stance in the room.

At the top of the Incline he looked back down at the houses and the sand and the sea. But they were all helpless now, lost in the fog.

While he was thinking of her, the bus had bumbled away and she was crossing the slant intersection, coming directly towards him. Not to him; she didn't know he was there in the high foggy dark. He saw her face again as she passed under the yellow fog light, saw that she didn't like the darkness and fog and loneness. She started down the California Incline; he could hear her heels striking hard on the warped pavement as if the sound brought her some reassurance.

She knew he was watching her and she didn't care. She expected it.

He couldn't make her understand that. She'd not been educated beyond simple words. To her the most bitter cup was to be cut away from life. To lose this amber hair, this crimson mouth, this molten flesh; to receive in its place the cold ash of oblivion. He repeated, "There's worse things. There's wishing you could die. There's wishing you could close your eyes and your memory forever.

He waited for her to say more but only silence roiled about them.

He rang Laurel as soon as he reached the apartment. Before he fixed a drink, before even lighting a cigarette. There was no answer to the call. He rang her every fifteen minutes after that, and at six, when the dusk was moving across the open windows, and when there was still no answer to his call, he stepped out into the courtyard where he could look up at her apartment. But there were no lights in it.

Again in the dark, sea-scented night, he was filled with power and excitement and rhythm.

Liquor is such a nice substitute for facing adult life.

Nobody can take away your future. Nobody can take away something you don't have yet.