PRODIGAL BLUES

Gary A. Braunbeck

Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

© 2011 Gary A. Braunbeck

Copy-edited by:  David Dodd & Kurt Criscione

Cover Design By:  David Dodd

Background Image provided by:  Deena Warner

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I would like to thank Geoff Cooper, Alex Aminoff, and Lucy Snyder for their invaluable assistance, expertise, and support during the writing of this novel.

Dedication:

For Ed Gorman, one of the finest human beings and writers it has ever been my privilege to know; and also, with respect and admiration, for Stephen King, who may not have invented the road-trip horror story, but most of that particular dark highway was paved by him; thanks for letting me travel in your tire tracks.

"…at some stage a machine which was previously assembled in an allover manner may find its connections divided into partial assemblies with a higher or lower degree of independence."

—Norbert Weiner, The Human Use of Human Beings

"Everything passes away—suffering, pain, blood, hunger, pestilence.  The sword shall pass away too, but the stars will still remain when the shadow of our presence and our deeds have vanished from the earth.  There is no man who does not know that.  Why, then, will we not turn our eyes toward the stars?  Why?"

—Mikhail Bulgakov, The White Guard

"When I face myself I'm surprised to see

That the man I knew don't look nothing like me…"

—John Nitzinger, "Motherlode"

1. The Biggest Part of the Mess

I was in a bar called The Blue Danube on the OSU campus that was filled with too many, too-loud, too-pretty trust-fund college snots, all of them pulling hernias as they sucked on their clove cigarettes and tried to impress each other with how terribly individual and iconoclastic they were; one prick in particular, his mesmerized harem of prickettes in tow, was holding court near the end of the bar where I was seated.  He was wearing a black T-shirt with the words I SWEAR I DIDN'T KNOW SHE WAS 3! printed in big white letters across the chest.  To emphasize the depth of this wit, a pair of baby booties dangled from the exclamation point.  One of the harem whispered, "He's so controversial!" to the prickette beside her, then both went back to staring at him, slack-jawed and wide-eyed; viewed from the right angle, when the light hit their eyes, I could actually see the backs of their skulls.

Until the guy noticed me, he'd been spouting opinions about everything from Skinner to Faulkner to Kierkergaard and Hayo Miyazaki's Spirited Away.  Then he happened to glance over his shoulder, recognize me, and grin.

"Hey, I've seen you around campus, haven't I?"

"Probably."

He stared at me for a moment, then tilted his head to the side the same way a dog will when it happens upon a virgin fire hydrant.  "You're one of the maintenance dudes, right?"

"That's right."  Actually, I'm the supervisor of the entire maintenance department, but I didn't think he'd find that little tidbit of much interest.

He looked at his harem, gave a quick wink, then turned back to me and said:  "I got a great joke for you, the other guys on your crew are gonna love this:

"A pederast is walking through the woods one night with a six-year-old.  The kid looks around, then whispers:  'These woods sure are dark.  I'm scared.'

"The pederast looks at the kid and says:  'You're scared?  I gotta walk out of here alone!'"

The assault charges were thrown out after the judge (an ultra-Conservative—first time in my life I'd ever been glad of that) listened to the guy repeat the joke through what was left of his mouth, but I still have to pay the emergency room bill, plus all follow-up medical expenses (within reason) for the next six months.

Money well-spent.

When she came to post my bail that night, Tanya, my wife, wouldn't even look at me.  It wasn't until we were driving back to the house that she gave any indication I even existed:  her right hand flew out like a stone from a slingshot and hit between my nose and mouth.

"That's for the embarrassment you caused me tonight, forget about the money—which, in case you haven't glanced at our bank balance recently, we can ill-afford."

"Ouch?" I said, rubbing my face.

"Look, Mark, I'm sorry I did that, okay?  But... dammit, you haven't been yourself for a while now.  You don't just pummel someone like that—I'd expect it from any of those goons you work with, but not you.  This is twice you've hit someone since you got back.  What's made you react this way?  You're not a violent man."

I muttered something under my breath—an old tactic I use whenever I don't want to talk about something—but she was having none of it.

"Oh, you will not pull that with me, buster, understand?  I'm your wife and I deserve better than to be treated like this.  You haven't been the same since you came back from Kansas.  You're not eating, you've been going to bars way too much—you've drank more in the last ten days than you have in all the ten years we've been married—your sense of humor's been in the toilet, you don't sleep worth a damn and when you do, you have nightmares…

"I've been good about it so far, haven't I?  I haven't pushed you about things and I haven't bugged you.  You told me not to worry about the broken nose you walked in with; you told me never mind the cuts on your face and the bruises on your arms and wrists; you said forget about the blood on your shirt, you'd explain everything to me, you just didn't feel like talking about it then.  I've respected that—I haven't liked it, not one damned bit, but I've respected your wishes.  Well, guess what?  It isn't then anymore!  I just pulled your ass out of the slammer and Tanya's 'respect-his-wishes' gauge just hit 'E'!  My patience has been stretched to its limit, I am all out of understanding, and I'm done being quiet about this.  Something terrible happened to you during that trip; I want to know what and I want to know now."

"I wouldn't know where to begin."

She sighed.  "Pretend you're cleaning one of the buildings, then:  start with the biggest part of the mess and work down to the details."

"That's a good analogy, I'm impressed."

"I went to college and actually did something with my degree.  That's how come I get to be a Property-Pricing Analyst and have fantastic insurance for your sorry ass.  College people make impressive analogies.  Now, are you going to ruin my dental work as well or can we talk like a civilized married couple?"

"That part about the degree was kind of a cheap shot."

"I figure I'm entitled tonight—stop trying to change the subject.  And quit pouting.  I found it cute when we were dating but right now it just annoys the shit out of me."

Don't think from this that Tanya and I don't get along because we do.  She knows me better than anyone ever has or ever will and still loves me.  Go figure.  I knew I'd been a pain in the ass lately so I had at least one good punch coming.  This was the first time Tanya had ever done anything like that.  She's the most level-headed, pragmatic person I know, and if she was mad enough to hit me, then it was more than just anger and irritation; she was hurting.  This was a woman who worked a forty-five, sometimes fifty-hour week at a tedious job where no one appreciated what she did, and for her week's efforts came home to find that her pearl-of-a-human-being hubby—who for the last ten days or so had worn a jackass suit that fit so well you'd swear it was tailor-made, who hadn't so much as kissed her in a week, and who, instead of parlaying his English degree into a teaching position, decided he'd rather mop up after students than instruct them because somewhere along the line whatever spirit he had for things packed its bags and took the long and winding road—this glittering prize she permitted to be her husband had gotten himself thrown in jail.

I had hurt my wife's feelings, and in my eyes that's just as low as if I'd hit her or worse.

I reached over and placed my hand on her leg, then gave it a little squeeze.  "I'm sorry, hon."

"Uh-huh...?"

"I love you."

"You'd better."  Her voice still sounded hurt but she managed a little grin.

We stopped for a red light.  Still too ashamed of myself to meet her gaze, I glanced out at a telephone pole that was covered in fliers advertising everything from dating services to Goth bands to tattoo parlors and pizza delivery specials; most of these were ragged and torn and discolored, but one flier, deliberately placed on top of all the others so it faced the street, was new, and had been stapled in about a dozen places to make sure that the wind wouldn't tear any of it away.

I squeezed her leg a little harder.

She turned toward me.  "What?"

"Look at that."

She leaned over and stared out the window.  "What?  What am I supposed to be looking at?"

I pointed toward the flier.  "The biggest part of the mess."

2. From the House of Heorot

You see their pictures everywhere these days; they're so ubiquitous that, after a while, you force yourself to stop paying attention to them because they've become a perpetually sad and sick-making part of the background; this kid's face on a rectangular card lost amidst the rest of the junk mail—Have You Seen Me?—or that child's badly-photocopied picture on a homemade poster hanging inside the Post Office; maybe another kid's face stares out at you from a piece of paper thumbtacked to a cork bulletin board by the entrance and exit of your local grocery store; sometimes, if the parents and friends have exhausted all hope, you'll even see these fliers stapled to telephone poles or taped onto windows of abandoned and condemned buildings because, well, you never know, do you, who might have seen them in what god-awful parts of this city or the next?; if you're one of those who use the Internet like most people use oxygen, then you know there are websites dedicated to displaying these photographs along with their age-progressed counterparts (This is what Aaron may look like now, at age 10); whatever the source of your encounter, odds are you give the photo an at-best perfunctory glance (like I used to), then toss aside the card or look away from the poster or surf on to the next and less depressing website.  It doesn't make you a bad or unfeeling person; it only reaffirms your helplessness as an individual to do anything about it:  after all, how many kids do you see on a daily basis?  How many children do you pass at the mall, on the street, in the lobbies of movie theaters?  Every so often one of these kids might make a brief impression—a prolonged moment of eye contact, waving hello, giggling at a face you make because you want to see if you can get a laugh out of them—but most, if not all of them are in the company of an adult; so how are you supposed to tell if this adult is a parent, an aunt or uncle, an older sibling, or some monster who stole them away however many days, weeks, months, or years ago?  And in all honesty, how long does the image of that particular kid's face stay fixed in your memory? 

Have You Seen Me?

Maybe, possibly, could be; but I'm damned if I can remember.

So you look away—if you look at all—and try not to think about it.  If you have children of your own, maybe you hug them a little tighter than usual when they go to bed that night, look in on them a couple of extra times while they're sleeping, and watch them go all the way through the school's doors when you drop them off the next morning on your way to work.  You try not imagine how you'd feel if it was their face on the cards, the fliers, the websites.  These are your kids we're talking about here, after all, not one of the missing, and while you might feel bad for the families of those card-, flier-, and website-children, you have to look out for your own as best you can, and you don't need these constant reminders in the sad, sick-making background that ultimately, like it or not, you have no control over what happens; that anywhere, anytime, under any circumstances, regardless of how careful and watchful you are, a hand could reach out of the crowd, take hold of your kid's arm, give it a tug... and you're out stapling homemade fliers to telephone poles before dinner.  So you look but you don't see because you can't think about it.

This does not mean you are a bad or unfeeling person.  It means you love them.  It means you are concerned.

It means you are afraid.

And you damned well ought to be.

I probably think about this far too much than is really healthy, but I can't help it.  Tanya says I need to "see someone" about what happened, and she's right... but I'm not sure I'd know where to begin.  I distract too easily these days; if we pass a car on the road and I see a crying child with their face peering out at me from the window, my first thought is always:  They're scared to death and need help; if I see a kid in a store struggling to pull away from the adult who's got hold of them, I immediately wonder if they've only moments ago been snatched away from their mom or dad or other family member; if I hear a child yell or scream in the evening when our street is filled with children at play, it never occurs to me that the sound might just be one of glee or excitement or good-natured Let's-Scare-So-and-So because they're such a wuss—no; in my ears it is the sound of a terrified, helpless child being yanked into a stranger's car and shrieking for someone they love to come save them, please, please, Mommy, Daddy, somebody, anybody please help me.

I react this way because I am afraid, and when I tell this to Tanya she touches my cheek, smiles while trying to understand, and says:  "How could you not be, after what happened?"  Despite the strain it has put on our marriage (we were planning to have a child soon but now, I just don't know) she remains for me a rock, and I love her all the more for it, yet as soon as she says, "How could you not be...?" I snap back to that first phone call and it starts all over again....

His name was Thomas Davies and he was eleven years old.

He had been eight when Grendel stole him away. 

During those three years, Thomas, one of the youngest children from the House of Heorot in the burg of the Scyldings, underwent one of the worst transformations afflicted upon any of them:  burned skin hung about his neck in brownish wattles; one yellowed eye, looking like a rotten boiled egg, was almost completely hidden underneath the drooping scar tissue of his forehead; his mouth twisted downward on both sides with pockets of dead, greasy-looking flesh at the corners; and his cheeks resembled the globs of congealed wax that form at the base of a candle.  His only normal-looking facial feature was his left eye:  it was a startling bright blue, an azure gemstone. Buried as it was in that ruined face, its vibrancy seemed a cruel joke.

He looked nothing like the smiling, pink-cheeked boy from his second grade school picture, the one his parents circulated after his disappearance.

Thomas rarely spoke; mostly he sang to himself, a lullaby his mother used to sing when he was very young:

"Sleep my child and peace attend thee,

All through the night.

Guardian angels God will send thee,

All through the night.

Soft the drowsy hours are creeping,

Hill and dale in slumber sleeping,

I my loved ones' watch am keeping,

All through the night..."

Except Thomas never once sang it correctly (I knew this because my mother used to sing the same lullaby to me when I was a kid).  He did fine until the "Hill and dale" line:  every time he got to it, he sang, "Bill and Dale look dum-ber sleeping..."  I asked him why he sang it that way when he knew the actual words.

"It was a joke.  Mom always laughed when we sang it together because I messed up the words on purpose."

When it came time to deliver him I was the one who remembered that, and as reward for my good memory found myself standing behind an oak tree on the opposite side of the street on which Thomas's parents lived.  It was three in the morning and there was a chunk of panic in my throat, a cell phone in my hand, and the glowing red point of a laser-sight scope centered on my chest; at the other end of the vein-thin infrared beam, hidden somewhere among the foliage garnishing this middle-class Midwestern neighborhood, a young man holding a .45-caliber Heckler and Koch USP Tactical pistol with a silencer attachment was watching my every move, steady and focused. 

I stared at the phone in my hand as if it were some small, dead thing I'd picked up from the middle of the road.  In a minute or so I was to punch in a number, and hopefully someone on the other end would answer.  If I said anything other than what I'd been told to say, if I deviated even slightly from the context, if I so much as hinted that I was being forced to do this, the young man holding the pistol would squeeze the trigger and my torso would open up like some grisly flower.

I stood in silence, well out of reach from the streetlights' gleam, watching as a young woman named Rebecca came around the far corner pushing Thomas in his wheelchair.  Even from where I stood—some twenty yards away—I could see the seepage below Thomas's knees where his legs had been removed ten days ago.  Thomas's arms were shaking and he kept reaching up to rub his eye.  Rebecca pushed him past several darkened homes, then turned up the walk to an old but impeccably-maintained Victorian.  She stopped, bent down, set the brakes on the wheelchair, and then came around to face him, setting two large brown grocery sacks in his lap.

I couldn't hear what they were saying to one another but her body language told all I needed to know.  The flicker from the streetlights glinted from Rebecca's eyes and the tears running down her cheeks.  She knelt down as best she could and took hold of Thomas's trembling hands, then leaned in against him, whispering in his ear.  After a moment Thomas freed his hands and wrapped his arms around her.  Rebecca began to return the embrace, hesitated a moment, and then gave in.  They held each other in silence.  I could not even begin to imagine what was passing between them.  I can imagine better now, but I try not to.

Rebecca was the one to break the embrace.  She stood, wiped her eyes, tried to smile but didn't make it, and then simply walked away, leaving him parked halfway up the walk.

The beam from the laser-sight jumped up and down against my chest.  Twice.

This was the first signal.

As soon as Rebecca was out of sight I was to count to sixty, then make the call.

She rounded the corner and paused.  Her head made a slight half-turn as if she were about to take a last look at Thomas, but she stopped herself and resumed walking.  Our transportation was parked farther down that street, in an area where there was not a streetlight; by the time I reached sixty she would be back inside the vehicle, waiting for the rest of us.

Hidden somewhere near the young man with the pistol was another kid named Arnold.  He was wearing a set of headphones and was pointing a twenty-inch parabolic dish in my direction.  Grendel had ordered it through some online surveillance equipment company.  It ran on three AAA batteries and could listen in on any conversation within three hundred yards with pinpoint accuracy.  He wouldn't need to hear what was said by the person I was about to call, he was listening only for my side of the conversation; one mistake, and he'd tell the young man with the pistol and that, as they say, would be that.

They were an organized bunch, no argument there.

When I counted forty I thumbed the "talk" button and—

—and this isn't right.  Not at all.  Sorry.  Dammit.  I said I wouldn't know where to begin.

The biggest part of the mess.

Not always so obvious at first glance, I'm afraid....

3. The Twin Butter Dishes

I was stranded at a truck-stop near Jefferson City, Missouri.  It happened like this:

The drive from Cedar Hill to Topeka had taken the better part of eighteen hours because the car I was driving (borrowed from my brother-in-law's used car business—he'd assured me it was "...in top-notch condition!") kept overheating and frequent service-station stops were required.  The list of ailments it suffered from kept growing exponentially the farther I traveled, and one mechanic even went so far as to say, "Please tell me that you didn't actually walk onto a lot and buy this goddamn nightmare from someone.  The only things holding that engine together are spit and wishes, and I'm not all that sure about the spit.  I've done all I can.  I hope you make it home.  I'll remember you in my prayers."

I decided something along that line would be a good slogan for my brother-in-law's business:

Perry's Used Cars:  We'll Pray You Make It Home.

Despite the mechanic's dire assessment, I made it to Topeka and did what I'd gone there to do.  It took about as long as I'd expected, and after three days of dealing with redneck Kansas relatives I was more than ready for the comfortable, white-bread blandness of Ohio.  I packed up what was needed, said my goodbyes, got onto I-670 East, and had driven a couple of hundred miles toward home—almost far enough away from Topeka to allow myself to feel relief—when the engine made a sound somewhere between a screech and Godzilla's roar and did not so much stop as it did throw up its arms and say Good-bye, cruel world!  Smoke and steam billowed from underneath the hood in heavy tendrils that quickly formed heavier clouds, filling the car with a strong, burnt, metallic odor.  I count myself lucky to have made it over to the emergency lane without hitting another vehicle.  I sat there for a few moments, promising myself I'd remain calm—I'd kept it together for the last three days, I could keep it together now—then began beating the steering wheel with my fists and screaming like a madman.  The car was singularly unimpressed.  I waited until the cloud thinned out, then tried starting the engine once more.  Every time I turned the key and pressed down on the gas pedal, the engine made its feelings known.

Click.  Fuck it.

Click.  Fuck it.

Click.  Fuck it.

The burnt metallic odor became stronger with each attempt.

I popped the hood and climbed out.  I had no idea what I thought I was going to do.  My ignorance of the inner-workings of automobiles can be summed up in one word:  profound.  I knew you filled their tanks with gas.  Changed the oil every three thousand miles.  Took them in for a wash once in a while.  Rotated the tires when you felt whimsical.

I was screwed.

I propped up the hood with that hood-propping-upper thingamajig and leaned in for a better look, coughing from the stench of burned metal.

I rubbed my face, then sighed.

No doubt about it.

None whatsoever.

It was definitely an engine.

I shook my head, cursing my wife for being right, yet again.  This was going to be good for at least two weeks' worth of well-deserved I-told-you-so's.  How many times since we'd gotten married had Tanya asked me to get a cell phone?  "I know you think they're just expensive pampered-yuppie toys, but some day you might be stuck out in the middle of nowhere and need help—then what are you going to do?"

"I'm a big boy who can take good-enough care of himself.  I'll think of something."

What I thought of was to kick the fender.

Which came loose.

Then fell off.

Onto my foot.

I was so screwed—no, wait, scratch that:  I was so far beyond screwed that it would have taken the light from screwed a thousand years to reach me.

Cars whizzed by.  I considered stepping out in front of one; the driver would either stop to help or splatter me from here to Indianapolis; either way, I'd be on the road again.

I rubbed my eyes, stretched, then leaned against the side of the car and watched the traffic.  I wondered where everyone was going.  They all seemed in such a hurry.  I waved at them.  Nobody even looked in my direction.

It's a real education to find yourself in a position to observe the sorts of cars that are still on the road.  I saw everything from rusty Corvettes to reconditioned Gremlins to BMWs to Pintos and something I swear was a Volkswagen "Thing" (anyone else remember those?); I counted fourteen station wagons—not SUVs, not minivans, station wagons, replete with faux wood paneling on the doors ala The Mod Squad; I saw a couple of electric cars (which I still maintain look like four-wheeled suppositories), dust-caked Cadillac convertibles, and Novas whose like hadn't been manufactured since Nixon resigned office; but the blue-ribbon prize went to an honest-to-God VW Microbus, circa 1969-70; it was painted bright silver and reflected the afternoon sunlight so intensely I couldn't look directly at it for more than a few seconds. 

In case you don't happen to recall what this particular highway star looked like, the VW Microbus (incredibly popular in its day; immortalized by Arlo Guthrie in the song "Alice's Restaurant") had four doors—one on the driver's side, one on the passenger's side, and two side doors with directly opposing handles; neither of these doors slid open, mind you, they opened outward like a pair of metal wings.  Once inside you could relax in the comfort of the bucket seats in front and fold-down padded seats in the middle and rear.

I hadn't seen one of these in decades, which is why it caught my attention, but what made it really perfect was that this blindingly silver VW Microbus was hauling an equally-bright silver Airstream trailer; they looked like a pair of antique covered butter dishes making a run for it.

The VW slowed as it passed me, and for a moment I saw the passenger:  a little girl of perhaps nine or ten, with blonde hair, big eyes, and a killer smile.  She gave me a little wave, then was gone.

As I watched the twin butter dishes move onward, I noticed a break in the traffic from both directions.  For about two minutes I was standing beside a completely empty stretch of highway, and something about it struck me as funny at first—after all, it's usually during scenes like this in half-assed science fiction movies that a spaceship lands to set loose the intergalactic proctologists on the unsuspecting schmuck who's in a similar situation—but then it got eerie in a hurry, because I realized that at this moment, in this place, right now, this second, nobody—

—nobody knew where I was; not only that, but I had no way of letting anyone know.

If a mysterious Lovecraftian something-or-other was going to snatch me out of the world so my name could be listed along with those of Amelia Earhart, Jimmy Hoffa, and the guy who invented the water engine, this would be the time to do it.

Sounds silly now, but believe me, there wasn't a damn thing funny about it for those one-hundred-and-twenty seconds I was by myself out there.  Consider this:  how many times over the course of a week do you find yourself in transit from one place to another without anyone knowing exactly where you are for however long it takes to get from point "A" to point "B"?  You pop out for a pack of smokes and don't tell anyone; you run to the store for eggs or milk and don't leave a note; you head over to the Post Office to mail out some bills after the family's asleep.  Stop and really think about it—like I did during those two minutes—and you might be left a bit anxious by the total.  I figured there were about six hours (give or take) during any given week when I was not only alone (regardless of the size of your crew, janitorial work is mostly solitary), but completely out of reach with or from anyone (say, when moving between buildings).

The realization was, for me, anyway, incredibly creepy.

I was so relieved when cars started reappearing that I didn't mind their drivers ignoring me.  I promised myself to buy a cell phone as soon as I got home.  Tanya could gloat all she wanted.

I'd been standing there for about half an hour, resigned to spending the rest of my days in this very spot, when a Missouri State Trooper pulled over.

"Good morning," he said, approaching me slowly.  I could see his partner back in the cruiser talking into the radio microphone.

"Boy, am I glad you came by."  I read his name-tag—L. Murphy—and then saw my reflection in his mirrored sunglasses; even I thought I looked suspicious.

He gave the car a once-over and slowly shook his head.  "You be offended if I said I'm not surprised that this thing broke down on you?  Looks like—"  He leaned in for a closer look, then made a hmph! sound.  "—like a bad primer job, for one thing."  He scratched at a small section of paint.  It came right off, revealing the red underneath.  "We've be seeing a lot of this around here lately.  Got some boys from a Kansas City chop-shop been stealing cars and giving 'em a quick facelift.  'Course we ain't got 'em all, yet, but we're working on it."

This was more information than I needed.  He wasn't just making small-talk, he was deliberately making me nervous.  He looked at the paint under his fingernail, then wiped it against the side of his pants.  "Can I ask your name?"

I told him.

"This your car, Mr. Sieber?"

"Nope."

The response seemed to surprise him.  "Mind telling me whose car it is?" he asked, his right hand slipping just a little closer to his holstered weapon.

"Technically, no one's.  My brother-in-law loaned it to me.  He owns a used-car dealership in Cedar Hill, Ohio."  After that it was just a matter of showing him my license, giving him Perry's address and phone number, and waiting while he ran a check on the information.

Once he confirmed that I wasn't part of some tri-state car-theft ring he came back and returned my license.  "It all checks out, which I'm sure comes as a big surprise to you.  Sorry for the inconvenience, but we gotta be careful.  There've been a lot of car thefts in the last week or so.  A couple of folks were even bashed in the head and pulled from their cars at stoplights.  So we kind of want these fellahs real bad."

"I understand."  I shoved my wallet back into my pocket.  "I don't suppose there's any way you could give me a lift to the nearest service station…?"

"Afraid not.  Unless it's a life-or-death emergency, it's against regulations.  I already got 'hold of Cletus over at the truck stop—a better mechanic you won't find.  He'll be along with the tow truck in about forty minutes and you can ride back with him.  He'll get you fixed up, but I gotta warn you—he'll talk your ear off."

"If he gives me a ride and can fix this heap, he can sing arias from La Traviata in Esperanto for all I care."

The trooper grinned.  "Hey, you know opera?  My wife's a big opera fan.  I bought her season tickets last Christmas.  'Course that means I have to go with her, but I'm getting to not mind it as much as I thought I would.  Some of them singers can hit notes that'll shatter your bridgework.  Here," he said, handing me an ice-cold can of Coke and small plastic bag filled with carrot sticks.  "We keep a cooler of sodas and snacks and stuff in the back of the cruiser in case we come across folks like yourself.  I'd've brought you some water, but we're fresh out.  Anyway, it seemed to me like you could use some refreshment, so there you go.  I hope Cletus can get you fixed up all right.  Try to enjoy what you can of the day."

"Thank you."

He started back toward his cruiser.  "Don't you worry none about being stuck out here, Mr. Sieber.  If Cletus says he'll be here in forty minutes, he'll be here in forty minutes."

He was there in twenty-five.  While I stood waiting, the twin butter dishes cruised by a second time; once again the little girl smiled at me and waved, and I gave her the same in return.  Her folks probably took a wrong exit and had to get turned around.  I felt nothing but sympathy for them.  I noticed this time that the Airstream's windows were taped over from the inside; that seemed an odd way to keep out sunlight.  Maybe they'd lost their blinds.  Maybe the windows had been cracked by rocks shooting out from under the tires of passing semis.  Maybe I should watch that my ass didn't wander into oncoming traffic while I wondered about other peoples' trailer windows.

I'd just finished the last of the Coke and carrot sticks when Cletus pulled up in his rig.  "Mark, I take it?" he called out through the window.

"Cletus?"  Using first names like we were old friends.

"Appears we're all in our places with bright shiny faces, then."  He climbed out and handed me a brown paper bag; inside was a ham and cheese sandwich, a brownie, and another can of Coke.  "I had Muriel make this up for you.  My garage is attached to the truck stop restaurant.  Lorenzo said you'd been out here a while.  Figured you'd be a bit hungry."

"Thanks," I said.  "Who's Lorenzo?"

"Murphy.  The trooper who talked to you.  And, yes, that is his real name, don't ask me why, I wasn't privy to the discussion his parents had prior to saddling him with it.  The food's free of charge, in case you were wondering.  Figure folks stuck by the side of the road got enough headaches without their stomach giving them three different kinds of holy hell."

"I appreciate it."

He pulled a flashlight out from his bib overalls and snapped it on.  "Don't be too appreciative just yet.  You got no idea what the bill for this might be."

"I was afraid you were going to say something like that."

He went around to the passenger side of the car and crawled underneath.  As I ate the sandwich, the flashlight beam beneath the car danced round and round, then up and down and back again.  Cletus laughed a couple of times, coughed once, then stopped for a moment and muttered, "Diddle me with a fiddlestick," before emerging back into the light.

"Should I even ask?"

"Wouldn't if I was you," he said, leaning over the opened hood and shaking his head.  He reached in, jiggled a few things, checked the oil, licked his thumb and unscrewed a spark plug, then snorted a sad little laugh.

"Can you see this?" he asked me.

"What am I looking for?"

"The color.  Does this look green to you?"

"The stuff coating the spark plug?  Yes, it does."

"Remember that.  There's gonna be a quiz later."  He replaced the spark plug, then slammed closed the hood.  "Way I see, Mark, you got two choices; we can tow this thing to my garage, or I can pull out my trusty Savage over-and-under and put this thing out of your misery.  Your call; either way you're riding back with me."

"Is it that bad?"

"Your car or riding with me?  I see I've confused you with my home-spun wit, so I'll just keep talking 'cause I'm what you call a 'local character' and like the sound of my voice; this car—and I'm being charitable using that word—is an insult to pieces of shit everywhere.  You know much about how cars work?"

"Nope."

"Good, because I could pull a muscle explaining everything that's wrong with this over-priced paperweight.  Understand this:  I don't embellish, I don't pad the bill, and I don't talk down to folks who aren't as well-schooled about cars as my own resplendent self.  Ask anyone who knows me—and you can do just that when we get to the truck stop—and they'll tell you I'm as straight and honest as they come, unless we're talking Pinochle, where I cheat like a son-of-a-bitch.  You getting the gist of this long-winded preamble to the point or should I start again and talk slower?"

I think I liked him.  "I'm with you so far."

"That thrills me—see how I'm all a-flutter?  Okay, here goes:  you've blown a head gasket—not high on the list of 'good things,' trust me—and you've got coolant leaking into the oil and cylinder.  That's why the spark plug looked green.  You've also got a leaking master cylinder, which is a brake component, should have been caught before this thing left the lot, and is a damn serious safety violation.  If that isn't enough,  I've got thirty-year-old suspenders that my dog uses as a chew-toy that're in better shape than that alternator belt—and those are just the problems I saw right off the bat.  Further details would drive even Mickey Mouse to suicide.  Let me ask you something:  before this thing crapped-out on you, did the 'Check Engine' light come on?"

I thought about it for a moment.  "You know, I don't remember seeing it come on.  Why?"

He chewed on his lower lip, then shook his head.  "I just got a… a feeling about something, is all.  Nothing for you to worry about.  Would you like to shoot it or should I?"

"I can't do anything to it, and I can't just leave it here; it doesn't belong to me."

"Then let's get you and it back to something resembling civilization."

Fifteen minutes later we were heading toward the truck stop with my brother-in-law's loaner behind us.  I'd tossed the fallen fender into the front seat, tearing the upholstery.  Just let Perry try and charge me for the repairs.

After about two minutes' worth of travel, Cletus said, "Mind if I ask what brought you to these parts?"

"Had to sign some papers so my sister could get her share of an inheritance."

"Inheritance?  You lose a parent?"

"No, my grandmother."

"I'm sorry to hear that.  I truly am."

"Thanks."  I didn't want to get into the specifics—not because I figured it was none of his business, but because the less I said about my grandmother, the better. The important thing was that my sister now had a nice pile of money that was enabling her to move back to Ohio with my niece and nephew—and as far away from her hemorrhoid of an ex-husband as she could get.

I checked my watch; right now she and her kids were boarding a plane that would take them to O'Hare, where they'd transfer to a flight into Columbus.  Tanya was going to pick them up at the airport and drive them back to Cedar Hill, where they'd stay with us for a week or so, until my sister found her own place.  I was looking forward to having my niece and nephew around the house; their being nine and seven, respectively, would give Tanya and me a chance to rehearse being parents.

I felt a sudden twinge in my nether regions and looked up.  "Oh, hell."

Cletus laughed.  "Let me guess—you gotta make a pause for the cause?"

"Two Cokes within an hour in hot weather."

"That'd be a 'yes' then?"

"Uh-huh."

"I hate to spread even more sunshine over your day, but we're a good twenty minutes away from the garage, so you can either try to hold it or…"  He reached under the seat and pulled out a plastic, hand-held urinal, complete with snap-on cap, the kind they use for bed-ridden patients in hospitals.

I looked at the thing and blinked.  "You're not serious?"

"I'm not the one who's gotta whiz like a diabetic racehorse.  I also don't much embarrass easy.  For the record, I like women and don't have any you-should-pardon-the-expression fetishes, and if you're worried about maintaining your dignity, you pretty much gave that up when you climbed into that abomination back there."  He shook the urinal in front of my face.  "I promise not to look."

"Why in hell do you even have that thing?"

"You think you're the first guy I ever picked up who's had to go after being stuck on the side of the road?  Don't look at me like that, it's been sanitized."  He shook it one more time.  "It's calling your name, hear it?"

"Anyone ever tell you that you're an evil man?"

"I get a lot of complaints about that.  Especially from the fellows who play Pinochle with me.  Did I mention I cheat?"

I took the urinal and popped off the cap, then looked at Cletus.

"What?" he said.  "You need me to talk you through it?"

I turned a little to the side, unzipped my fly, and did what needed doing.

"Make sure that cap's on tight when you're done."

I did.  "What do I do with it now?"

Cletus looked at me.  "No offense, but I sure as hell ain't gonna hold it for you—this friendly roadside service only goes so far."

I started to say something, then blinked from a startling, blinding glint of light in the rear-view mirror.

"Talk about your blasts from the past," said Cletus.  "Get a load of this."

The twin silver butter dishes drove past.  I wondered how anyone could have missed the same exit twice—unless the driver had been having my kind of luck today.  This time when the little girl looked at me she neither smiled nor waved.  She seemed tired, hot, and bored.  I hoped they could find their exit this time, for her sake.

4.  Coincidence, Be It Meaningful or Not

Before we'd even gotten in sight of the garage, Cletus—after pontificating on the glories of Pinochle, letterboxed movies, good books, and women who had "…a little meat on their bones…"—informed me of the following:  "I'm not saying I can't fix it, understand—it'd take a couple of days, probably—but whatever I did would be:  A) expensive, and, B) really, really temporary.  I'm talking a Band-Aid on a gunshot wound, got it?  At best, I could slap that thing back together good enough to maybe, maybe get you another two-hundred-fifty, three hundred miles farther along, but it'd just crap out on you again, and the next time it goes, it's gonna be a helluva lot worse than it was this time, and it's gonna be permanent.  So I'm sorry to tell you, but unless you absolutely insist on it 'til you're blue in the face, I will not send you on your way in a car that I know isn't going to get you home."

I sighed and rubbed my eyes.  "There any motels near the truck stop?"

"There's a nice one that don't cost too much and they give discounts to my garage customers."

"What about the car?"

"They don't allow cars to stay in the rooms so the discount doesn't apply.  I see that once again my Mark Twain-like humor has flummoxed you.  Tell you what, give me your brother-in-law's number and I'll call him and make arrangements for the burial.  He can either sell it to me cheap for what parts are still working, or pay my appalling storage prices while it sits in the garage waiting for someone to come down here and haul it back to his lot.  Besides, I'd like to say a few words to him about the quality of automobiles he's pawning off.  As far as what you owe me goes, call it thirty dollars for the tow."

"There any place I can rent a decent car?"

"Not in the immediate vicinity, but we're not all that far from Jefferson City and you can rent one there easily enough.  I'd offer to take you on over right now but today's busy as hell.  Be more than glad to drive you there in the morning before I open the garage, though; otherwise you'll have to beg a ride off one of the truckers coming through and I wouldn't recommend that—not that they're bad fellows, most of them are top-drawer, but you don't strike me as the trucker-befriending type.  My guess is country music has never insulted your stereo's speakers."

I was hot, I was tired, I was nine-squared levels of aggravated, and—despite the sandwich and carrots—still hungry; I didn't feel like dealing with any more crises today.  I told Cletus I'd take him up on his offer.  I'd get something to eat at the truck stop, then check into the motel and call Tanya.

"A man with a plan," said Cletus as we pulled into the garage.

I was happy to see that the motel was also adjacent to the truck stop; at least there'd be no worries about crossing the highway.  If I got lost, I could always use their flagpole for a marker; it was about thirty feet tall and was currently flying the biggest American flag I'd ever seen.  Right now the flag was caught in a crosswind and was snapping back and twisting around like it was trying to bite itself on the ass.

"I'm not exactly the sharpest tack in the box first thing in the morning," said Cletus, pulling a business card from one of his pockets, "so in case I forget, or if something happens and I gotta have one of my boys drive you over instead, take this and make sure you call me once you get home."  He wrote something on the back.  "This here's my home number, call this one if you get in after nine in the evening.  I'm usually up until about midnight, midnight-thirty Ohio time.  Otherwise, call the garage number on the front."

"Mind if I ask why?"

"I'm a worrier, is what I am.  My girlfriend—Muriel, she's the gal who runs the restaurant—tells me I worry too much, but personally, between you and me, I think she finds it kind of erotic.  Plus it's good for business, being concerned that the folks whose cars you fix are happy with the service."  He smiled as I took the card from him.  "Besides, Mr. Mark, you strike me as a damn nice fellow and I've enjoyed our little adventures in Kerouac-land today."

"Me, too."

I tucked his card into my shirt pocket and we shook hands.  The last thing I'd expected today was to make a new friend.

I unloaded the four medium-sized boxes of toys, knickknacks, and family keepsakes that my sister (not trusting airline baggage-handlers) had asked me to take back to Ohio, grabbed my suitcase, made sure I had everything else I needed, then gave the car one last good solid kick before heading toward the garage's rest room to dispose of something. 

After a moment's consideration, I turned back, popped the cap off the portable urinal, opened the passenger-side door, and emptied the contents into the back seat.  If Perry had someone come down to haul this back to Ohio (and he would, he was just that type), I wanted to make sure the smell when he opened the door would let him know just what I thought about his assessment of "top-notch condition."

As I was leaving the garage I could hear Cletus behind the closed door to his office shouting into the phone, "…kind of a brain-damaged, greasy little, no-balls-to-speak-of pickpocket are you, anyway, Mr. Perry of Perry's Used Cars on Fifth Street in Cedar Hill, Ohio?  Don't bother answering that—the smell of your breath'd probably come through the phone lines and knock every buzzard off of every shit-wagon in a fifty-mile radius.  You got any idea the outright, call-the-mortician danger you put your brother-in-law in by letting him drive off in that miserable excuse for transportation?  What's that?  I am calm, dunder-dunce!  If I was mad, I'd be getting unpleasant…."

Oh, yeah:  I really liked him.

The woman behind the motel desk was in her sixties and wore the type of horn-rimmed glasses that had been around for so long they were actually fashionable again.  She took one look at me, smiled around the cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth, and said, "Hello, you.  I'm Edna.  You must be that Mark fellah Cletus went after."

"Word gets around fast here."

"That it does, son, that it does.  'Course this has been one of them days where we got nothing new or interesting to talk about, so your little predicament's the big topic…that, and my new cookie recipe, which I finally got right after about a dozen tries.  Don't look at me like that; you work a stop like this, you get your kicks where you can.  Now, let me see…oh, yes.  I got just the room for you."  She slapped down a key.  "Number Twelve, near the end, first floor.  You got nobody above you, and nobody on either side right now, so you can get yourself some rest and have some peace and quiet… if you can get past the trucks rolling in and out of here."

"That sounds lovely."  I watched the dangling ash at the end of her cigarette grow longer; no matter how much she moved and spoke, the ash never fell off.

As I was signing in, she looked past me to the small stack of boxes I'd left outside the door.  "If you want, I can have my husband store them boxes in a room we got for that stuff.  We don't have many thefts from here, but you never can tell."

I checked with my back and found it didn't feel like hauling any more than necessary.  "I'd appreciate that.  How much more will that be?"

"It's free for Cletus's customers."

"Sounds like he's quite a popular guy."

"Cletus?  He's a stinker, is what he is, but you gotta love 'im.  Unless you're a Pinochle player."

"So I gathered."

She laughed and shook her head and still the ash remained in place.

"How do you do that?"

"Do what?" she asked.

I pointed.  "Not lose your cigarette ash?"

She grinned.  "It's a gift."

"You have no idea, do you?"

A wider grin:  "That'd be telling, and I got to leave folks with something to remember me for, don't I?"

I left just as Edna's husband—who looked as if he'd been an even more powerful specimen in his younger days than he did now, which was nothing to sneeze at—began moving the boxes to the back.  He gave me a wide and bright smile and I waved at him.  He, too, had a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, and just like his wife's, the ash on the end of his smoke did not fall off, in spite of all his movement.  I figured it was some kind of family secret, passed from one generation to the next.  Maybe they'd turn it into some kind of roadside attraction for a little extra cash.  I'd buy a ticket.

I was suddenly glad that I'd had car trouble, otherwise I'd never have met any of these wonderful, interesting people.

The room was clean and surprisingly spacious—it had a king-sized bed complete with "Magic Fingers" (twenty-five cents for "Fifteen Minutes of Bliss")—although it appeared to have been last remodeled by some groovy decorator around 1974, but I dug it, anyway.

I decided to grab a shower and a change of clothes before doing anything else.  Once out of the shower, I called Tanya (who'd taken the day off from work) and got our voicemail.

"Are you naked?  Touch it for me, baby, touch it slooooooowly.  Hey, hon, it's me—Jesus, I hope you knew that.  Do me a favor?  After you pick up Gayle and the kids at the airport, stop at a Radio Shack or someplace like that and buy me a frigging cell phone, please?  You were right, but more importantly, I was wrong.  Alert the media.  Listen, I'm in a motel just outside Jefferson City.  I've had serious car trouble and… it's a long story, complete with motifs and subplots and nebulous symbolism and would probably bore you into a coma, so…. 

"I'm going to head over to the restaurant here and get something to eat.  I'll try you back in about an hour or so.  I miss you.  Hope you still love me when you get this."  I ended by giving her the motel's name and phone number, as well as the number of my room, then breathed heavily for a few seconds before hanging up.  I am nothing if not a class act.

Tanya was probably talking to Perry at this moment; after the earful he got from Cletus, he'd feel compelled to call his sister and yell about how her doofus-janitor of a husband had ruined a perfectly top-notch car.  Tanya would let him go on for a few minutes, then tear him a new one.  Perry had never won an argument with her.  Come to think of it, neither had I.  My wife was a force of nature.  Lucky, lucky me.

God, I missed her.  Home seemed so very far way.  Maybe some steak and eggs would help with that, though I doubted Muriel's cooking (assuming she did the cooking herself) would be half as good as Tanya's.

The parking lot was crowded with SUVs, minivans, assorted cars and pickups, along with semis and their tractor-trailers—

—and, near the far end of the lot, almost-but-not-quite hidden between a pair of semi cabs, sat the twin butter dishes.

I stopped for a moment, staring, wondering why, if they'd twice missed their exit, they hadn't just stopped here the first time to check their map or trip-tick or simply ask someone how to get from here to there.  I'd've done it that way, had I been in their situation; but, then, I'm a lot less stubborn than most male drivers, and lack the prerequisite pride to be injured.

I chuckled at the thought of the little blonde girl or her mother finally screaming at Daddy to for goodness' sakes pull off and ask for directions because they had to go to the bathroom and it was getting hot in here; I imagined Daddy, shoulders slumped in defeat, pulling into the parking with all the majesty of a dog with its tail between its legs.  Lassie at her most heart-wrenching probably never looked so sad.

I entered the restaurant and was immediately overwhelmed with the smells of coffee, bacon and hamburgers, coffee, eggs and home fries, coffee, fresh doughnuts and toast, coffee, cigarettes and engine-oil-stained clothes, coffee, cheap perfumes and after-shaves, coffee, coffee, and something that might or might not have been coffee.

A tired-looking, but friendly and pleasant young waitress seated me at a booth near the middle of the restaurant, handed me a menu, and asked if I'd like anything to drink.

Oddly enough, I ordered coffee.

While I waited for her to come back, I took in the surroundings while looking for the little blonde girl among the customers.  I wondered if she'd recognize me.

One of the things I've noticed during my road trips over the years is the tendency one has to keep running into the same people at rest stops and restaurants along the way.  There's always a portion of the trip where you start recognizing certain cars and their drivers because, at least for a while, you're all traveling in the same direction, so it only makes sense that you're going to see each other during stops.  It's an at-best tenuous connection to another human being because, even if you recognize each other, you rarely speak.  But sometimes that silent fellow-traveler acknowledgment is all the road can offer, and as long as you can find a familiar face or car along the way, you feel like you're on the right track.  It's not quite as lonely.

So I was looking for the little blonde girl and her family.

The waitress returned with my coffee (each customer got a pot all to themselves), took my order, then said, "Muriel said to tell you that she's gonna fix your meal herself because Cletus asked her to.  You must be special to rate Muriel getting behind that grille."

I looked over to the counter where a large and quite attractive woman in her early fifties gave me a big wave and an even bigger smile; she looked enough like Edna from the motel to be her younger sister—which, when I thought about it, made sense; a lot of truck stops/restaurant/motels like this were family businesses in Ohio, why should it be any different here?

I returned Muriel's wave and poured my first cup of coffee.

It was exquisite, with a hint of hickory that curled up inside me like a favorite pet by the hearth in winter.  Restaurants and trendoid coffee houses in Ohio would charge you four bucks a cup (no free refills) for stuff this good.  Once more I found myself being glad that car trouble had landed me here.  Sometimes it's easy to forget that there are still genuinely friendly places in this world.

I looked around a little more, soaking up some local flavor by reading the notices and fliers pinned to the bulletin boards that hung on the walls seemingly every six feet:  the one nearest me had ads for babysitters, 15%-off coupons for dinner at "Bubba's Catfish Shack," used car and motorcycles for sale, a sewing machine repair service, AA contact information, stop-smoking clinics… and a couple of missing children posters.  One of them was old and faded, torn at the corners, but the other looked more recent. 

I stared.

Something about the newer flier seemed strange to me but I couldn't figure out what.  I finally got up and walked over to the board, excusing myself as I accidentally bumped into a young man in a tan shirt, then folded aside the dry-cleaner's advertisement that half-obscured the face on the poster.

A few years ago, the news department of a television station in Columbus (in their ongoing quest to always give viewers something to worry over or feel bad about) came up with the bright idea of doing an experiment to see just how many people actually pay attention to posters of missing children.  They took a photograph of the Programming Director's seven-year-old daughter and made up over one hundred Have You Seen Me? posters, then taped, stapled, and thumbtacked them at high-traffic locations in various shopping malls throughout the city.  They left the posters there for three days and then, over the course of the weekend, had the PD's little girl sit on a bench somewhere inside the mall they were targeting that day (they hit five malls before the story aired on Monday's six p.m. broadcast).  There were two hidden cameras; one was directed on the little girl at all times, while the other—a small spy-cam disguised as a snap-clasp on the outside of a female reporter's purse—wandered the mall getting video of people looking at the poster as they entered (at least two posters were taped on the doors at each entrance); these happy shoppers would then proceed to walk right past the same little girl whose photograph they had just seen (she was even wearing the same clothes and hair style as in the picture).  Five malls in three days, over a hundred posters, thousands of people looking at her face and then passing her, and only one person recognized her.  Sometimes we're such a dandy species you don't know whether to boogie your socks off or climb a clock-tower with a rifle strapped across your back.

The poster I was now staring at had a clear and very recent photograph of the little blonde girl I had seen three times today.

My first thought was not, My God, I've found her!—not even close; it was this:  A silver Airstream trailer with tape covering its windows would be an ideal place to conceal video and sound recording equipment if you were a news crew repeating the Columbus stunt.  If I for one second had any doubt that this was some kind of staged news exploit, it was quickly put to rest by the information under her picture:  her name was Denise Harker, she was six years old, and came from Fort Wayne, Indiana; she'd been missing for five months, and had last been seen guess where?

The very truck stop restaurant in which I now stood.

Understand something:  I am not by nature a man who believes in meaningful coincidence; self-respect does not allow me the luxury of embracing the concept of a clockwork universe or a grand unification theory or even something as banal, insulting, and simple-minded as fate; for me, claiming something as "coincidence," be it meaningful or not, is the last desperate gasp of the rationalist before surrendering to the weight and knowledge of chaos; I can't even take shelter in the leaky cave of determinism because I suspect that disorder is already hiding there in the shadows.  In short, peddle coincidence somewhere else, I'm not buying.

I dropped the dry-cleaner's ad back in place, shook my head, and returned to my booth.  I finished my coffee, poured a fresh cup, and was just raising it to my mouth when a small but insistent gothic bell started sounding in my head.

What if it isn't a stunt?

But what if it is?

But what if it isn't?

What if—

Shit, shit, shit.

I wandered over to another bulletin board, trying to look as nonchalant as possible while riffling through the ads and fliers, looking for another poster with her face on it.

This is stupid, it's a stunt.  It has to be.

Uh-huh.

But what if it isn't?

Shut up, why don't you?

I'm just saying…

I found her poster soon enough.

See there, Holmes?  A stunt.

Be quiet, Watson, and do consider:  What if it isn't?

What if it is?  This grows quickly wearisome...

When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

Personally, Holmes, I always thought that particular platitude was a big, steamy load.

I rubbed my forehead, sighed, and did my best to examine the room without being too obvious about it.  The first time around, something didn't seem right; on the second scan, I realized what it was:  nowhere in this restaurant did I see a State Trooper, Highway Patrol officer, cop, or even security guard.  Still, I kept looking.

On the third pass I accidentally made eye contact with a mean-looking, tattooed biker-type, then decided to have one more cup of coffee and think things over before I either made a fool out of myself or had the biker ask me for a date.  I was halfway back to my booth when

(seriously, how can you be sure?)

I turned around and walked to the far end of the counter where another bulletin board hung.  This time the poster was tacked over the ads, in plain view.

I pretended to read a flier for a fish fry sponsored by a local church while debating what to do.  If it was a stunt, I'd be calling them on it (and what are the odds this is for real? I asked myself, then told me to put a cork in it); if it wasn't a stunt, then some anguished family was going to be very relieved and happy come dinnertime tonight.

The entrance, I thought.  Go to the entrance and see if another one's hanging there.

Then what?

One thing at a time.

At no point did it cross my mind that even if I did find another poster with her picture on it, it would prove nothing because I still hadn't seen her.

Still… which the gothic bell in my head wasn't.

I meandered out of the restaurant and toward the main entrance.  Like a lot of truck stops these days, this had more than just a restaurant; it also boasted a video-game room, private showers ($5.00 for fifteen minutes), a mini-mart for all your road-food needs, a small clothing store, an equally small traveling-supplies shop, a combination tobacco/newsstand, and a video/DVD store where you can!  Own!  The!  Latest!  Hit!  Releases!  By the time I reached the main entrance, I was easily forty feet from the restaurant.  I hoped my waitress didn't come back and think I'd skipped out on her; Muriel would never forgive Cletus for making her go through all that trouble for a lout.

I was almost rammed in the nose by one of the doors as a loud and frazzled-looking family of five pushed inside; I stood back just in time to save myself a trip to the emergency room and got a good, clear look at the poster taped to the glass.

Enough already.

I caught the door before it closed and pulled off the poster.  I doubted I was committing any societal disservice; there was another copy on the second door.

Stunt or no, I was going to say something.

But you still haven't seen her, have you?

Shit, shit, shit.

Okay, then; if I went up to an employee or could find a cop or security guard and told them that I thought I'd seen this girl around here today, that would be enough, wouldn't it?  But then if I couldn't prove I wasn't just yanking their chain I could be in trouble.

Shit, shit sh—

(hold on, rewind, get a grip)

—the butter dishes.

I all but bolted out the doors.  If the Microbus and trailer were still in the parking lot, then I had something solid to show… whomever I could find.  (This was a truck stop, for chrissakes!  I refused to believe there wasn't at least one overweight and underpaid balding security guard somewhere on the premises.)

Once outside I lost all bearings for a few moments—there were too many trucks coming and going, too much noise from the gas pumps, too much exhaust in the air—but then one of the semi-cabs I'd spotted earlier pulled away and I was blinking from the glare of the sun off silver finish.

They were still here.

I considered going up to the Airstream and banging on the door until one of the news-crew personnel opened up and I could call their bluff, then decided that was a job best left to a security guard… providing I could find one.

Back inside the truck stop, I asked the girl working the tobacco stand if there was a security guard she could call.  Something in my face and voice must have told her that this was serious, because she nodded her head and picked up the phone.  I gave her my name and told her I'd be in the restaurant.

I got back just as the waitress was walking away from delivering my food.  We almost collided with each other.

"I'm sorry," she said.  "Guess I'm a little tuckered.  I need to stop working double-shifts.  Your food's on the table, and I'm getting your little girl's order now."

"What?"

She walked away, giving me a straight-on view of my booth and my meal and the little blonde girl with big eyes who sat there staring at me.

After a moment, she raised her hand and gave me a little wave.

I gave her the same in return.

The poster still in my hand, I approached her, then sat down, glancing around for something that might be hiding a spy-cam.  I looked at her for a moment, saying nothing, then slid the poster toward her.  "Is Denise really your name?"

She gave a slow nod of her head.  Her hair was flattened and greasy in places, as if it hadn't been washed for several days.  There was a smudge of dirt on her left cheek, a small scrape on her right.  The shirt she wore looked to be about two sizes too big.

I leaned forward.  "Are you okay?"

She looked down at her feet and gave a small shrug.

"Denise?"

She looked up as if she'd just been caught stealing something.

I tapped the poster lying between us.  "Listen, I don't want this to sound mean or anything like that, okay, but… is this some kind of a joke?"

She shook her head as her eyes began tearing, then reached up and wiped her nose on the back of her hand, and it was this last thing, this simple, reflex, child-like action, even more than her tears, dirty hair, and smudged face, that told me in no uncertain terms she was scared half to death, because the way her too-thin arm shuddered as she lifted her bruised hand to her runny nose, the way she didn't even care about the streak of snot she left behind, the way her bony shoulders began hitching as sobs spluttered out before she could stop them, all of it made a fist that slammed into my gut and finally sent the message to my brain that this little girl with the big eyes and killer smile was terrified and hungry and hurt and sick and you-bet-your-ass for real.

Shit, shit, shit.

The waitress came back a few moments later and set a tall, frosty glass of orange juice in front of Denise, noticed she was crying, and said, "Aw, honey, what's wrong?"

I looked at Denise, then at the waitress who was looking right at her.  I took one second to note that, although the poster with Denise's face on it was laying face-up in plain view, the waitress took no notice.

"Miss?"

The waitress turned toward me.  "Is she feeling all right?  We got some children's aspirin back there that I could—"

"—would you ask Muriel to come over here, please?"

"Is there something wrong with your order, sir?"

"Not at all, it looks great, but I'd appreciate it if you'd ask her to come over here right now.  It's kind of urgent."

The waitress nodded her head and left.

I reached across the table and took hold of Denise's hand; she jumped at my touch, frightened—no, scratch that—terrified, but did not try to pull away.

"Denise, the person who's driving that bus I saw you in… are they the person who took you from here?"

She shook her head, dribbling snot and tears onto her shirt.

"The person who took you, are they here anywhere?"

She looked up at me, then squeezed my hand and said:  "…I'm real sorry, mister.  Honest I am."  Her voice broke hard on those last three words.

"Sorry?  For what, hon?"

Before she could answer, Muriel came up to the booth.  "Jenny said you wanted to see—"

The words died in her throat when she saw Denise.  "Oh, Lord…"

I held up the poster.  Muriel waved it away.  "I don't need to look at that, Mark.  I know who she is, all right.  I been seeing her face in my dreams for a long time now."  She looked at me with tears in her eyes.  "It was my restaurant that she disappeared from.  Why wouldn't I remember what she looked like?"  She knelt down and took hold of Denise's hand.  "Oh, hon, a lot of folks been looking everywhere for you, you know that?"

"Will you call my mommy and daddy?"

She brushed some hair from Denise's eyes.  "Oh, you bet I will, hon, I'll go start making calls right now."  She turned to me and took hold of my hand.  "You done a real wonderful thing, finding her like this."

"Actually, she found me."

"What's that?"

I shook my head.  "Nothing.  What do we do—"

"Everything okay here, Muriel?"  He was neither overweight nor balding; this security guard looked to be in his early thirties with maybe five-percent body fat:  he could've probably broken my spine with two fingers.

"Trevor," said Muriel, shoving the poster at him.  "Mr. Sieber here has found Denise Harker."

"Hold on a second," I said.  "I didn't—"

"Well, I'll be damned," said Trevor.  Then:  "'Scuse the language, ladies."—this said with a nod toward Denise.  "Is she what you needed to see me about, sir?"  This said while clamping a congratulatory hand (so big I could have sat in it) on my shoulder.

"Yes," I managed to get out, offering the poster to him.  They were caught up in the excitement, and my trying to explain what had brought us all to this point suddenly seemed ridiculous; I'd have plenty of opportunity to explain everything to the police. 

Trevor folded up the poster and tucked it into his pocket, then knelt down next to Denise.  "Denise, we've got to call an awful lot of people about you—"

"I wanna go home."

"Of course you, do," said Muriel, stroking Denise's hair.  "And that's just where you're gonna be by bedtime tonight."

Denise sucked in a sob and wiped her eyes.  "Promise?"

"I swear it, hon.  I swear it."

Denise gave a little shudder, then pulled her glass of orange juice closer and took a few sips.  The way she craned her neck to reach the straw broke my heart.

"Do you want to come with me?" asked Trevor.

Denise shrugged, glancing around with wide, panicked eyes.  A small crowd was gathering around the booth, people nearby having either overheard or figured out for themselves what was going on, and everyone wanted to see if it was true.

"Okay," said Trevor, turning around and raising his arms to hold people back.  "Go back to your seats, please, give 'em some room.  There's nothing to see here."  He looked over his should at me:  "Did I just actually say—?"

"Yes."

He shook his head.  "My wife's right, I watch too many cop shows."  He spent the next minute or so assuring people that everything was all right, that Denise was fine but they were making her nervous, cha-cha-cha.  When things calmed down, he bent over and whispered, "I think maybe we ought to move to someplace a bit more private."

"Denise can come in back," said Muriel.  "My apartments just behind the restaurant and she won't be bothered there.  I'll wait with her."  Then, to me:  "I'd offer to hide you there, too, but it's kinda small."

"That's okay.  I'll just go on back to my room."

"Well, hell," said Trevor, nodding toward the entrance.  "That didn't take long."

"Watch your language," snapped Muriel.

"Sorry."

Denise almost giggled at that.  Almost.

A reporter and camera operator were making their way into the restaurant.  I cursed under my breath; it hadn't even been ten minutes yet—God bless the age of cellular communication.  Denise was rattled enough without someone sticking a microphone and camera in her face.

"Take her back with you, Muriel," I said.  "I'll talk to them."

"The hel—heck you will," said Trevor.  "The State Police'll be here soon enough, and they won't be too chipper if you tell your story to the news people before talking to them."

I glanced at my food with regret.  Looked like it would have been really tasty.

"Go," said Muriel, tapping my wrist.  "I'll have one of the girls box it up and bring it over to you."

Trevor took hold of my arm and guided me to my feet.  "There's a delivery door in the back, you can go through there."  He dragged me toward it.  I barely had a chance to turn my head and see Muriel quickly usher Denise behind the counter and through the kitchen's swinging doors.  Denise looked at me and mouthed "I'm sorry," once again.

What was she apologizing for?

"Here, you go," said Trevor, pushing open the delivery door.  "Turn left for the motel.  I'll let Edna know that you aren't to be bothered until the cops talk to you."

"Except for my dinner."

"Right, except for your dinner.  Got it."

"Thanks for everything."

"I ought to be thanking you—and not just for finding that little girl.  This is the most excitement I've ever had on this shift.  I actually feel like I'm making a difference today, you know?  How often does a guy get to say that?"

I smiled and nodded my head as the reporter called out and Trevor closed the door between us.

I was just passing the motel office when Edna and her husband came out.

Edna, cigarette ash holding steady (I wondered if it was the same smoke from earlier), took my hand and said, "Is it true?  Did you find that little girl who got took from here?"

I didn't feel like launching into the whole explanation, so I nodded my head.

"Oh, that's wonderful!"  She threw down her cigarette, cupped my face in her hands, and gave me a grandmotherly kiss.

"Edna," said her husband.  "You're embarrassing the boy."

"Don't get your gruns knotted up the crack, Earl."  She still hadn't let go of my face.  "Oh, Mark, you don't know how sick we all felt after she disappeared.  Muriel, she cried for weeks over it."

"Edna," said Earl.  "The boy doesn't want to hear about your sister's problems."

So I was right, they were related.  Chalk one up for my side.

Edna let go of me, then Earl stepped up and squeezed both my shoulders.  "You done good, son.  You done good."

"Thanks," I said, trying not to wince from his car-crusher grip.  We stood there looking at each for a few more moments, until Earl saw another news van pull into the parking lot.  "You'd best get on to your room.  We'll make sure your dinner gets to you."

I was just walking away when Edna called:  "I almost forgot—your wife phoned a little bit ago.  She left a message; said she'd try back."

I double-timed it back to the room.  The red message indicator light on the phone was blinking.  The phone rang as I was reaching for the receiver.

"Are you naked, baby?" I said as I picked it up.

"No, but now I'm gonna think things," said Cletus.  "I hope to Christ you were expecting this to be someone else."

"Sorry.  Edna said my wife called and I thought you might be her calling back."

"That's a relief.  Listen, I gotta ask you a kind of personal question."

I figured he'd already heard about Denise and was expecting him to quiz me on that, but instead he said:  "Does your brother-in-law like you?"

"Not really.  Why?"

"Remember when I asked you about the 'Check Engine' light?  I been poking around in that heap and found out a couple of things you need to know.  Besides the master cylinder leaking, the coolant fan is shot—I don't know how many guys looked at this car before me, but there's no good goddamn excuse for them not to have caught this."

"You're losing me, Cletus; remember, I don't speak your language."

"Your brother-in-law knew you were pulling off his lot in a bad and probably dangerous car.  That engine was guaranteed to overheat on you, but that's not the thing I called to tell you about.  I called to tell you that the bulb—you paying attention here?  This's important—the goddamned bulb in the 'Check Engine' light was removed.  You got me, Mark?  Good old Perry had one of his mechanics get inside the panel and pull the bulb so that there'd be no way you could tell the engine was overheating."

I felt my grip tighten on the receiver.  "Are you certain it couldn't have been some kind of accident?  Maybe one of the other mechanics mistakenly removed it when they were looking at the—"

"Take my word on this one, Mark—you can't remove that bulb by mistake.  It's something you go in with the intention of doing.  Your brother-in-law meant for you to have a breakdown somewhere along the way.  He's lucky you didn't get hurt or worse.  I'll testify to that in court."

"Thanks, Cletus.  I appreciate this."

"Even though I ain't naked?  Good to know."  We said good-bye, I sat there taking several deep breaths to calm down, and then listened to Tanya's message:

"Hello, you sorry perv," said Tanya's voice.  "I just got off the phone with Perry.  He's a bit put-out with both you and some guy named Cletus.  You tell Cletus I said 'Good for you.'  Perry's probably still trying to put out the fire in his ear hair—nobody calls my man the names he called you.  And, no, we're not paying him for repairs or hauling costs or any of it.  He's also going to pay us back for your motel room and the tow and the car rental, which he's none-too-happy about—doesn't that just tug at your heart strings?  My guess is he's whining to Mom and Dad about it right now, but it won't do him any good—I was always the favorite.

"I'm really sorry that this happened to you, sweetie.  But at least you were lucky enough to find out before you had a serious accident.  Edna tells me that everybody there's really taken with you.  They sound like a great bunch of folks.  By the way, I promised her that you'd make sure to get her cookie recipe before you leave, so don't forget.  I've got to run some errands before heading over to Columbus to pick up Gayle and the kids—somebody wants me to buy him a cell phone, wonder why—so I probably won't be home when you get this… just make sure you call me back tonight, okay?  I don't care how late it is, you call me.

"By the way, I was so naked when you called.  And still wet from the shower.  Should've seen me.  Water trickling between my boobs and pooling near my belly button.  It was really hot.  And I was talking to my brother instead of you.  That's just wrong.  Oh, well…."

I called her back immediately and got the voicemail.

"You are not going to believe what just happened to me; suffice to say that it involves many witnesses, television news crews, and the State Police.  I'm not kidding, pinkie-swear.  I'm not in trouble, so don't worry.  Give everyone a hug and kiss from me—except Perry, who may be facing some criminal charges when I get home.  I'll call you later tonight with all the details.  I love you.  I miss you."  I tried to think of something lascivious to say but couldn't, so I just hung up, then sat on the edge of the bed and let everything finally register… and that's when it occurred to me that I hadn't asked Denise

(told you it wasn't a stunt!)

about who she'd been traveling with.  Aside from Denise herself, the driver of the butter dishes was whom the police would most need to speak with.

I washed my hands and face; the cold water felt great and the motel soap was vanilla-scented.  Tanya used vanilla soap.  It made me miss her all the more.

I was drying off when I heard a knock on the door—not the door to my room, the door in my room.

The groovy decorator who'd done this room must have had an even more far-out buddy who designed the building, because this was the first time in over a decade that I'd been in a motel room that actually had connecting doors between rooms.

"Yes?" I said to the door.

"I have your supper here, Mr. Sieber," said a rough, sandy voice.  "Muriel had us reheat it.  I have fresh pie and some of Edna's cookies for you, too."

I grabbed the latch, which was stuck.  While I fiddled with it, I asked the waitress,  "Why are you delivering it like this?"

She laughed.  "There are reporters all over the place.  Edna has got a passkey—"  A nasty series of coughs erupted from her chest.  "—sorry.  Edna has a passkey she used to let me in.  I came in through number ten and just used the connecting doors to get here.  You know—so no reporters would see."

The latch started to give, much to my stomach's joy.  "Pretty clever.  I wouldn't have thought of that."  And I wouldn't have.  "Listen, when you get back, do me a favor?"  The latch came free and I swung open the door.  "Tell Muriel that I forgot to mention—"

I never finished.  Whatever hit me felt like it had been dropped from somewhere near Jupiter and caught a ride on a bolt of lightning.  I remember feeling my entire body locking up as my insides burst into flame; I remember feeling my legs buckle; I remember something warm and thick running down the front of my face; I remember thinking the floor was very considerate, the way it rushed up to greet me like it had really missed my company….

5.  I Always Liked That Song

…^jesuschristi^didnotTHINKhis_nosewasever^goingTOSTOPbleeding_whydidyou^have_TOhithimwith^somuchjuiceHADtobesurehe_wouldnotMAKEany^noisedidinotBUTwe_agreedABOUTthe^facehehas_tolookALL^rightyouknow…

I came awake in slow degrees.  The first thing that registered was the vibrations; I thought I was on the motel bed, "Magic Fingers" massaging away, but then it got bumpy and hard and something solid that was most definitely not magic slammed against my back.

…_sorryweDIDNOTHAVE^timetoCLEAN_theroombutYOUARE^THEonewhowantedto_GEToutbefore^thePOLICEgot_thereDONOT^startfightingWITH^eachothernot_NOWWEaREalmost^done…

The second thing that registered was the pain in my face; it was dulled somewhat, but it still throbbed back into my skull; the continuous bumps and jostles didn't help any.

…_ohgodiamso^SCAREDwhatif_HEISreallyhurt^BADANDwecannot_getHIMtoWILL^youBE_QUIETyouare

getting^thomasUPSET_whataboutme….

The next thing to hit home was the taste of a metallic-snot furball lodged between my tongue and throat; I tried to lift myself awake and pull in a breath so I could hawk it up but my head weighed about fifty pounds, so I decided to blow my nose instead.

The radio was playing a Marshall Tucker Band song, "Take The Highway."  I always liked that song.

I reached for my handkerchief.  Something rattled and clinked and my arm just stopped.  A sharp pain encircled my wrist; someone with an ice-cold iron hand was wrenching it away from me.

I tried pulling free but whoever had hold wasn't going along with things; that didn't stop me from trying again.

No good. 

Time to rally.

And-a one, and-a two, and-a—

This time, as I jerked back with everything I had (which, under the circumstances, isn't saying much), the thought crossed my mind that it might maybe-kinda-sorta be a good idea if I opened my eyes so I could see just what the hell was going on—

Everything looked like it was being filtered through one of those gauzy camera lenses used in movies to make aging stars appear to not have crow's-feet and face-lifts. 

I blinked several times, then—against my better instincts—shook my head.  The pain snarled forward and I bit my lower lip, wincing… but when I opened my eyes again, things were a lot clearer.

I almost wished they hadn't been.

I automatically clicked into janitor mode, examining the entirety of the mess at first glance, then breaking it down into bite-sized pieces of disorder.

Disorder first:  I was on the floor of a van and the van was moving; so much for the "Magic Fingers" scenario.

Disorder second:  The pain was getting intense in a hurry.

Disorder third:  My ankles were manacled together with one of those strap-and-chain numbers used on violent murderers being marched into a courtroom. 

Disorder fourth:  There was dried blood all over the front of my shirt, which had been torn and was missing several buttons.

Disorder fifth:  I couldn't move my arms because each wrist was handcuffed to an iron ring soldered to the wheel wells on either side; I lay in an almost perfect crucifixion pose.

Disorder sixth (and for the moment, the most immediate):  I had to—in Cletus's words—make a pause for the cause.

I tilted back my head, and for my efforts got a forced-perspective view of the folding (and currently upright) seat I was chained behind.  I opened my mouth to say something and suddenly remembered that scene from Last House On The Left (one of Tanya's favorite horror movies for some reason) where the killers, just to degrade one of their female victims, force her to piss in her pants before murdering her.

I concentrated on keeping my bladder under control; I had to, otherwise I'd have no choice but to think about this really honestly seriously goddamn scary situation, and I wasn't sure I could handle it.

"Hello."

I looked up and saw a girl's face that was, from this angle, all hanging black hair, lower lip, and nostrils.  There was a strong smell of makeup about her.

"What… happened?"

"You hit your face against the phone table when you fell down.  The Taser was set a lot higher than I thought.  I am sorry.  Are you okay?"

"I have to… go to… the bathroom."

"Anything else?"

"My head… hurts."

"Okay, then."  She disappeared from view.  "He is awake and says he has to use the toilet.  I need to go, too."  I recognized her voice, even though there wasn't a motel-room door between us.  This close, it sounded as if she had something wrong with her throat; her sandy voice was even rougher that I remembered:  it sounded outright painful.

"Check the map, will you, Arnold?" said a hollow-sounding male voice.  "There should be another motel coming up."

Paper rustling.  "I think you are right."  This voice sounded very young, a boy of maybe eleven or twelve.  "Exit… Exit 24A."

"There is 23," said the first voice—I assumed the driver's.  "Check the computer, just to be safe."

"Do I have to?  I just checked it a little bit ago."

"Humor me."

"Please do not be mad."

A sigh.  "I am not, I promise.  Just make sure, will you?"

Someone began tapping  keys.

"May I see?" asked the driver.

"It is not in blue," said the younger voice.  "See?"

"Excellent," said the driver.  Then he called out:  "Can you hold it for five more minutes?"

It took a moment before I realized he was talking to me and not the girl.  "Uh… I think so."

Hair, Lip, and Nostrils came back over the seat.  "So… how much does it hurt?"

"Kind of a lot."

"Honest?"

"Honest."

"Okay, then."  She disappeared again.  Something with latches was opened, and when her hand came around the lower side of the seat to grab my arm I almost let go right then, it startled me so much.

"Do not wriggle around, please?  I do not want it to break off ."  Only her arms and hands were visible.  She felt along my arm, slapped it a few times to raise a vein, and started to administer a shot.  "This will make it better, I promise.  Demerol."

"Hang on a second," I said, but it was too late; she'd already sunk the plunger.

"You should be okay now."

It took about sixty seconds.  The last thing to consciously register was that "Take The Highway" had ended and "A New Life" was starting, which meant it wasn't the radio, they were listening to a tape of The Marshall Tucker Band's Greatest Hits, an album I'd been meaning to buy, and promised myself I would buy if I got out of this alive, then the Demerol sang a different, shinier song that was suddenly all I wanted to hear….

6.  Contractions

When I came awake this time, nothing was vibrating, not even my skull.  I still felt shiny from the Demerol.  And weightless.  But mostly shiny.  In a weightless kind of way.  I tried swallowing only to discover I had a mondo case of cotton-mouth.  A drink of water sounded good.  Sounded great, in fact.  Richard the Third at the battle of Bosworth Field didn't want a horse as much as I wanted some water.

Opening my eyes, I saw the stucco ceiling above. 

Funny, I didn't remember this groovy room's ceiling as being stucco, but what the hell, I'd enjoy the view, feeling all shiny and weightless and like I didn't

(…to Mark, Earth to Mark, your circuit's dead, something's wrong…)

have a care in the world, but something seemed out of place, seemed different… didn't it?  Yeah, it sure did.  Then I wondered

(…all shiny from the DEMEROL SHOT, bright guy; is THAT enough of a hint for you?)

why it felt like I was partially undressed, so I lifted my head and saw that I was, indeed, naked from the waist down.  Something cold and heavy was around my right ankle, but at least my hands were free, so I rubbed my eyes and pulled myself up and as I rose into a sitting position all the tumblers fell into place and I remembered the lightning bolt and the considerate floor and bumpy crucifixion ride and realized that wherever I was and whatever was happening, smart money said it wasn't good—

"Do not scream or call for help."

Seven words guaranteed to wake your ass up in a hurry.  I grabbed a handful of bed sheet and covered myself.

Then he spoke again:  "Please, I meant to say.  Please do not scream or call for help."

He was sitting in chair next to a lighted floor lamp whose low-wattage bulb cast most of his face in shadow.  He looked to be around twenty or so, dressed in a tan, short-sleeved cotton shirt, with tan khaki pants and tan shoes under which he wore tan socks.  Everything about his appearance was so bland as to make him indistinguishable among a crowd; even his light-brown hair was cut in a style so precise it was invisible; pass him at the mall, on the street, or in a busy truck stop restaurant, and you wouldn't give him a second glance.

"Please don't hurt me," I said, the words crawling out of my throat.

"I would rather not," he replied, leaning forward into the light.  "But I will not hesitate if I have to.  I thought it was only fair you know that, all right?"

I saw the gun in his hand before I looked at his face; the former was some kind semi-automatic pistol with a silencer attachment, ugly and big and serious as cancer; the latter, while at first glance pleasant enough in a forgettable way, was sharp and smooth and strangely without lines or wrinkles—not that a twenty-year-old face should look haggard and world-weary, but even in this light, with my foggy vision, there wasn't a laugh-line, crow's foot, or blemish to be found on his features:  he could have passed for a department-store mannequin.  Some people would kill for skin like that and sleep the sleep of the righteous after.

There were easily one hundred more significant questions I could have asked next—everything from "What do you want?" to "Who the hell are you?"—but the one that came out of my mouth when confronted by this face, this gun, and this situation, was:  "Why don't I have my pants and underwear?"

I heard others laughing to the side of the room but I wasn't about to look away from False-Face and his gun.

"You wet yourself after Rebecca gave you the shot," he said.  "If I had been thinking, I would have told her to wait so that would not happen.  I apologize.  We took them off and washed them in the bathtub.  They should be dry enough in an hour or so."

"Thank you."

"You are welcome."  So formal and polite.

"How long have I been out?"

"A couple of hours."

The drapes were closed; I couldn't tell if it was still daylight.  "What time is it?"

"About two in the afternoon."  He picked up a bottle of pills from the table, looked at them, then slipped them into one of his pockets.  "In case you are wondering, no one knows you are missing yet.  The girl from the restaurant who tried to deliver you supper figured you were sleeping, which gave us enough time to get you out before the State Police arrived."

"They'll go to my room and find I'm not there."

He flinched at something, then shook his head.  "No, they will not.  You left a note at the desk for Edna saying that you caught a ride into Jefferson City to rent a car, and that you will be back as soon as you can—you realize the police want to speak with you and, after all, you left four boxes in her storage room.  Considering all the excitement and confusion about Denise, and so many witnesses in the restaurant wanting to tell their stories, it will be hours before anyone starts looking for you, and morning before it occurs to them that something is wrong."

I started to ask something else, and then it hit to me:  "How… how did you know about any of that?  Edna's name or the food being delivered to my room or the car rental or—?"

False-Face set the gun in his lap and reached down beside the chair to lift up something that looked like a hybrid of a large metal plate and opened umbrella.  "This," he said, and proceeded to explain about the parabolic dish, what it could do, and at what distances.

I waited until he was finished, then pointed at the dish and asked:  "So how much do you know about me?"

"We know your name, where you live, and that you came to Kansas to sign some release papers for your sister's share of an inheritance.  We know that your brother-in-law's name is Perry, and that he loaned you a piece-of-junk car from his lot.  We know that you did not tell anyone about our bus and our trailer.  We know that you are traveling alone and like to pretend you are an obscene phone caller when you talk to your wife—and that as far as Tanya knows right now, you are stuck at a motel until you can rent a car in the morning.  Which means we have about eighteen hours before any serious questions about you will be asked."

There might very well have been holes in his reasoning, but I sure as hell couldn't find them at the moment.

I took a deep, slow breath, swallowed, then licked my lips and said, "Please listen to me.  I'm a goddamn janitor, you hear me?  I'm not anybody important.  I don't know what you want or what you think I have, but I'm asking you to please, please not hurt or kill me.  I have no idea where we are right now, understand?  No idea.  You could just leave me here with my leg chained to the bed like this and be two states away before anyone finds me."  I looked at the bedside table and saw that he'd disconnected the phone; the cord lay across the table top like a dead garden snake; the phone itself was nowhere to be seen.  "You've taken the phone, so I sure as hell can't call anyone—"

He put down the dish and again picked up the gun.  "That is true, but you could describe the bus and trailer to them."

"Unless we paint the trailer," said the younger boy's voice from the other side of the room. "I think we have enough to do that."

False-Face shook his head.  "You have watched too many bad crime movies, Arnold.  Besides, you are all too tired.  You need to sleep."  He looked directly at me.  "I was hoping that I could convince you to help us."

I almost laughed—not out of any false, macho bravado, no, but at the sudden, surreal absurdity of it.  "Let me get this straight—you kidnapped me because you need a fucking standby painter?"

"Not exactly.  No one will be painting anything.  And please do not use profanity.  It is very discourteous."

"And I suppose these restraints you have me in are an expression of your humanitarian compassion?"

"Please do not raise your voice like that."

"What the hell do you expect?  I'm scared, in case you're not getting the idea."

"I will ask you again to please not curse."

Something about the way he spoke struck me as odd, but I couldn't put my finger on it.

"Look, I only swear when I'm nervous or angry," I said as evenly as I could.  "I'd feel a whole helluva lot less anxious if you didn't have that gun pointed at me."

He tilted his head slightly to one side as if considering something.  "Why have you not looked at anyone else in this room?  You know that we are not alone."

"Because if I don't look"—again, he flinched at something—"then I can't give the police any descriptions, can I?"

"But you have seen me."

"I've been looking at you for five minutes, pal, and I honestly don't think"—again, he flinched—"that I could describe one detail of your face if an FBI sketch artist walked in here right his second.  Nothing personal, but you're"—another flinch—"not exactly blessed with the most distinctive features, and—what the hell do you keep jumping at?"

He shook his head and set the gun aside.  "I do not think that you would understand."

"You 'do not think'?  What gives with all the formality?  Did you learn how to speak from reading Daymon Runyon books or—?"

And I figured it out.

Just like that.

Contractions.

False-Face wasn't using contractions in his speech; he'd flinched every time I'd employed them, as if they were invisible hands slapping his face, or something that he found repulsive or frightening.

He looked at me and gave a little grin.  "I see that you have figured out what it is about the way I talk which bothers you."  Something was wrong with his upper lip; it moved when he spoke, but not in synch with his words; it was shifting independent of his speech.

He noticed where I was staring and reached up to cover his mouth.  "Oh, no…"

"I told you that we needed to take everything off, did I not?" said Rebecca, and at last I turned to see how many other people were in the room.  I was expecting to see two—Rebecca and Arnold, the younger boy who'd checked the map and computer—but there were three; the third, a boy, was the farthest away, sitting in a wheelchair by the corner near the bathroom door.  His legs were missing from the knees down; the pants he wore had been rolled up and tied into knots near the stumps, which were seeping; the knotted pants legs were badly stained.  He moved his torso slowly back and forth in time with some song he was humming, his breathing labored and asthmatic—though it might have sounded worse because of the plastic Hallowe'en mask he wore:  Elmer Fudd, trying to figure out if it was duck season or wabbit season.  I tried to place the song he was humming.

Rebecca was sitting nearest me, on the edge of the room's second bed.  This close, and at this more natural angel, two things about her were obvious:  one, her long, black hair was a wig and, two, her features were just as smooth and without lines or character as False-Face's.  I stared at her a moment longer, then sniffed the air; the odor of makeup was quite strong—and I don't mean your typical, over-the-counter compact, blush, cosmetic-counter makeup, no; what I was smelling was theatrical makeup:  base, greasepaint, pancake, powder, latex and spirit-gum; do any amount of theater in high school, college, or even with community players (as Tanya and I had done in the early days of our marriage) and those smells, once experienced, stay with you for the rest of your life.

I looked next at Arnold, and was slightly surprised; his face, just as phony as those of his traveling companions, was of a different hue; he was black.  This surprised me because there had been nothing about his speech—I had, after all, only heard him up to this point—to hint at his ethnicity.  A lot of the guys on my crew are black, and I guess that I had come to associate their slang and speech patterns as being representative of all blacks.  I promised myself I'd be careful about jumping to conclusions like that in the future… providing I even had a future beyond the next eighteen hours.

Arnold wore a small, floppy fisherman's cap, the type used to hold hooks and flies, and sported a bright white, long-sleeved cotton shirt.  It didn't take a genius to figure out why; if asked to describe him, a witness would say, "A black kid in a white shirt."  They'd remember only the colors, nothing more.

He was sitting on the opposite side of the bed from Rebecca.  In front of him was a cheap metal typing stand, the kind on rollers that you can buy at any office supply store for ten bucks.  An expensive laptop computer was set on the stand, while another, equally expensive laptop was on the bed, by his right side.  Both computers were running; the one on the stand displayed what looked like an enlarged map detail, full of colored lines and areas highlighted in either red, blue, or orange; the computer on the bed showed a complex grid, in the center of which was a blinking white dot.  Attached to the grid computer through a USB port was a smaller device that I at first thought was a cell phone because of its extended (though short) antenna, except that it had an LCD screen bigger than any I'd ever seen on a cell; this screen also displayed a white dot which blinked in perfect synchronization with the one on the grid.  It took me a moment to figure out what this device was—until now I'd only heard about universal locators, or read about them in tech-geek magazines left lying around the common areas I cleaned in the Science building.  I wondered where they'd gotten all this equipment.  I wondered how they'd learned to use it.  I wondered what it was they were tracking with the locator.

The boy in the wheelchair coughed, made a hawking noise, then swallowed loudly and resumed his song, this time singing it in a whisper.

"The crooner in the corner," said False-Face, "is Thomas.  Until Denise, he was the youngest of us."

Denise. 

Jesus. 

This was the first time since the restaurant I'd really thought about her and not myself.  I turned back toward False-Face.  "In the restaurant, Denise said that she wasn't traveling with the man who took her."

"That is true."

"Who took her?  Do you know?"

"Yes."

"Where is he?"

His eyes narrowed, then he gave his head a quick shake.  "It does not matter anymore."

"Has Denise… had she been with the four of you since she disappeared?"

He sighed.  "What do you think?"

"She didn't"—False-Face winced again—"talk like the rest of you."

"Of course she did not."

"She used contractions when she spoke."

I'm real sorry, mister.

I now understood why she'd said that:  she knew False-Face and the others had targeted me for… whatever it was they had in mind.  God, she must've felt terrible about it.  I wished I could see her to tell her that it was okay, that she didn't have to feel bad—poor little thing had more than enough to deal with without feeling guilty over me.

"She used contractions," said False-Face, "because Grendel did not have her long enough to… teach her otherwise."

"Grendel?"

"Our master," said Rebecca.

"Our watcher," said Arnold.

"Our keeper," said Thomas from under Elmer Fudd's face, then went back to humming.

"Our Eternal Lord of life, of death, of reward, of punishment," said False-Face.

"Grendel," said Rebecca.  Or it might have been Arnold.  Even Thomas.  For the next few minutes, as they spoke rapidly in turn, their tones and inflections became so similar in my ears they might as well have been one voice; I suppose, in a way, they were.

"…'So the company of men led a careless life…"

"…all was well with them…"

"…until One began to encompass evil, an enemy from Hell…"

"…Grendel they called this cruel spirit…"

"…the fell and fen his fastness was…"

"…the march his haunt…"

"…this unhappy being had long lived in the land of monsters…"

"…since the Creator cast them out as kindred of Cain…"

"…for that killing of Abel the eternal Lord took vengeance.  There was no joy of that feud…"

"…far from mankind God drove him out for his deed of shame…"

"…from Cain came down all kinds misbegotten—ogres and elves and evil shades—as also the Giants…"

"… who joined in long wars with God…"

"…He gave them their reward…"

"…and so with the coming of night came Grendel, also…'"

I couldn't even begin to grasp—let alone understand—this:  how in the hell would a bunch of children know Beowulf well enough to recite it from memory?

Then False-Face said:  "Our Eternal Lord Grendel did not allow the abbreviation of speech…"

And the litany started again, spoken by them in the rapid, well-practiced cadence of children reciting the Pledge of Allegiance or the alphabet or basic multiplication tables:

"…contractions are for the lazy…"

"…the simple-minded…"

"…the disrespectful…"

"…and the ignorant…"

"…and there is no place in the House of Heorot for the discourteous…"

"…and there is no room in the burg of the Scyldings for the ignorant…"

"…Grendel was proof of that…"

"…he told us over and over and over…"

"…and over and over…"

"…there is no forgiveness…"

"…not for forgetting that…"

"…for lessening the flow and music of God's language…"

"…no forgiveness…"

"…only a new lesson…"

"…a different approach…"

"…God does not reward the lazy…"

"…He does not love the simple-minded…"

"…He does not tolerate the discourteous…"

"…to Him, they are as monsters…"

"…and there is no heaven for monsters…"

"…so lonely…"

"…and how do monsters begin…"

"…they are born first with lazy tongues…"

"…careless grammar…"

"…which makes their voices ugly…"

"…and the songs they sing shrill and tuneless…"

"…and that ugliness spreads to their faces, and then to their souls…"

"…but some of them cannot see it even then…"

"…because the soul of a monster is a tricky thing…"

"…a mischievous thing…"

"…and Grendel would quote something whenever we did not understand what he meant…"

"…over and over and over…"

"…about what monsters would walk the streets…"

"…and over and…"

"…if our faces were as deformed as our souls…"

"…and Grendel would punish those whose speech fell offensive on his ear…"

"…offensive speech deforms not only the soul of the speaker…"

"…but of the listener, as well…"

"…and with each transgression, you would lose a part of your soul…"

"…the part that was hidden in your face…"

"…what monstrosities would walk the streets…"

"…if we lost enough of our souls, then we would understand…"

"…and if we lost enough of our souls…"

"…the part hidden in our faces…"

"…then he would turn to our bodies…"

"…because the monstrosity spreads, you see…"

"…it spreads so fast…"

"…and our souls continued being punished…"

"…terrible punishment…"

"…awful, painful…"

"…lonely…"

"…and if you dared to scream or call out…"

"…so lonely…"

"…if you cried…"

"…if you so much as whimpered…"

"…or even wept…"

"…so lonely…"

"…Grendel's outrage was openly to be seen…"

"Slow down," I said.

"…you did not want Grendel to be angry…"

"…oh, no…"

"…so lonely…"

"…because his anger would not be just yours to suffer…"

"…oh, no, never…"

"…always never…"

"…not ever…"

"…a family suffers together…"

"…if one hurts, you all hurt…"

"…he told us it was only fair…"

"…only just…"

"…only moral…"

"…only honorable…"

I lifted my hands.  "Stop it, please."

"…if one of us made a mistake in speech…"

"…or in actions…"

"…then it was all our faults…"

"…our mistake…"

"…and mistakes must be chastised…"

"…only fair, that is what Grendel said…"

"…and so he hurt us…"

"…he hurt us so much…"

"…I still bleed down there…"

"…I still leak…"

"…still feel the burning…"

"…the pieces of skin that are missing…"

"…the taste…"

"…his taste…"

"…all over…"

"…inside…"

"…sometimes his taste was all the food we were allowed…"

"…for days and days…"

"Jesus Christ!" I shouted.  "Stop it, please.  I can't—"

"…sometimes he would lock us away…"

"…one by one…"

"…lonely…"

"…and leave us in the dark to think about what we had done…"

"…and wonder what he was going to do to us when he brought us back out into the light…"

"…so bright and scary…"

"…I miss my mommy…"

"…I wonder if Dad will remember me…"

"…if they are even still there…"

"…do not want them to have forgotten me…"

"…hurts so much sometimes I just want to die…"

"…scared, I am so scared of the light all the time…"

"…please do not be afraid of us…"

"…do not scream or call out…"

"…it is important…"

"…you have to understand…"

"…we do not want to hurt you…"

"…honest, Mark, we do not…"

"…oh, no…"

"…but this is something we cannot do by ourselves…"

"…not like this…"

"…not the way we are now…"

"…so safe in the dark because Grendel was not there…"

"…because we were discourteous…"

"…we were lazy in speech and manner…"

"…and did not know any better…"

"…until Grendel…"

"…our Eternal Lord Grendel…"

"…taught us what we needed to know…"

"'…Grendel, they called this cruel spirit…'"

"…I hate him…"

"…he came with the coming of night…"

"…oh, God, how I hate him, too…"

"…cut them off…"

"…and I know it is wrong to hate someone like this…"

"…but I do not think he was human…"

"…always lonely…"

"…he just wore a really good mask that made him look that way…"

"…I thought he had a nice face when I met him…"

"…cut them off…"

"…he smiled and told me not to worry…"

"…do not cry…"

"…I will help you find your mommy…"

"…that is what he told me, too…"

"…you do not have to be scared…"

"…he cut them off!  HE CUT OFF MY LEGS!" screamed Thomas from his wheelchair, wrenching forward with such anguished force he almost fell face-first onto the floor, but Arnold was there in an instant, grabbing him underneath his arms, steadying Thomas as his body shook, wracked by sobs as he reached up and tore away the mask—

—and revealed his burned, terrible, ruined face.

I did not blink at the sight of him.

I did not look away. 

I did not gasp, cry out, groan, or whimper; to have done any of those things would lessen me in his eyes—his eye, his one, perfect, azure-blue eye—and I did not want him to think ill of me; I wanted his understanding, his strength, his respect and blessing:  I was looking at a face that had known more pain, horror, and suffering in its few brief years on this earth than any ten people who lived to the age of ninety would ever know or imagine or turn away from when confronted by.

So I did not make a sound; that act, and that act alone, may be the only moment of genuine grace I offered the world in my entire life.

But I did weep; the tears formed instantaneously in my eyes and just as quickly streamed down my face and I did nothing to stop them.

I wouldn't allow myself to.

Because even though all their confusing words were still swimming around in my drug-addled brain, even though I still didn't know for certain what was happening because no one had yet said it outright, even though I was still scared shitless and wishing now I'd never agreed to make the drive down to Kansas, some dimly-lighted corner of my mind was whispering the truth of what I was witnessing but did not want to accept.

"Can we please take it off now?" asked Rebecca.

False-Face looked at me, picked up his gun, then nodded his head.  "I do not know how you are going to take this"—he rose to his feet and stepped to the bed, pressing the business-end of the silencer against my jaw—"but if you try anything, I will harm you."

I was still looking at Thomas as he wept into Arnold's chest; Arnold stroked the back of the boy's scar-clumped head, whispering, "It is all right, Thomas, it is, I promise, there, there, it will be all right, you will see…."

Rebecca exhaled with relief as she pulled off her wig to expose a moist, jagged, discolored scalp, speckled with a few tufts of stringy hair, that covered only two-thirds of her head; the rest was a slightly dented metal plate.  She looked at me and shrugged her shoulders in a girlish, oh-well way, then reached up and slowly, carefully, with precise and clearly practiced movements, began removing the sculpted prosthesis that was her nose; underneath was a set of exposed sinus slits that bubbled with thick, colorless mucus every time she breathed.  Setting the nose into a clean handkerchief beside her, she reached into her mouth and took out the partial plate; almost every one of her upper teeth had been removed—and none too gently, judging from the blackened appearance of her mangled, deeply-rutted gums.  She then peeled away her left cheek from earlobe to jawline and, after that, the layer of latex that had been underneath the false cheek; there was nothing below that but gleaming bone.  She sighed, a three-year-old (Are we done yet?), looked at me, popped out her left, glass eye, then put the partial plate back into her mouth.

"I am sorry," she said.  "But I had to take that out for just a minute.  It is so uncomfortable sometimes.  I put it back because it is not easy to understand me when I do not have it in."

"Okay…?" I said, almost nodding but then—as False-Face pressed the gun closer—deciding against it.

"You seem very nice," Rebecca said, then unbuttoned the top three buttons of her off-white blouse.  The flesh across her chest was badly scarred, but as ugly and painful-looking as it was, it seemed like a scab on a knee compared to the coarse mass of  misshapen tissue that clung where her left breast had once been; she seemed to blush—it was impossible to be sure—as she reached down into the sports bra and removed the expertly-shaped foam-rubber replacement.  She laid it next to the prosthetic nose, then picked up a jar of cold cream from the floor.  "I have to go into the bathroom and scrub the rest of the base off.  Will you excuse me?"

"Of course."

She looked at False-Face.  "I think you should be nice to him."

"I think you need to let me worry about him."

"Okay, then."  She gave me a little wave—her wrists, like Denise's, were encircled with bruises and scrapes—then turned away; that's when I saw the thumbnail-sized and shaped scar at the base of her neck.  Had Grendel scorched her with a lighted cigar, laughing while she squirmed and whimpered and smelled her own flesh burning?

Rebecca went into the bathroom—I could see my pants and underwear draped over the shower rod—and closed the door.

In the corner, Thomas had stopped crying and was singing to himself again.  I recognized the tune, I knew I did.  But from where?

"Can I take mine off now?" asked Arnold.

"You may," replied False-Face.  Then, to me:  "A grammatical mistake like that would leave us bleeding from the rear for three days."  The prosthesis of his upper lip was coming farther loose.  He blinked, then used the index and middle finger of his free hand to press it back into place; it held for the moment, but it wasn't going to last:  he was perspiring too heavily underneath the makeup.  His wrists were bruised, as well; I didn't have to look at Arnold's or Thomas's to know theirs would be just the same; at some point all of them had been handcuffed too tightly for a very long while.

"What do you want from me?" I asked False-Face.

"Your help."

"I might be willing to discuss it if you'd get that gun out of my face."

"I have heard that before.  The last man who said that to me then tried to take this gun away.  I killed him.  I shot him three times in the face and twice in the throat.  And to my everlasting regret, Denise saw him die."

So he'd killed Grendel in order to rescue her.  I couldn't blame him for that.  I might even have admired him for it if I hadn't been so fucking scared.

"I forgot my towel," said Arnold, then called out:  "Rebecca?  Could you throw out a towel for my face?"

"Must I remember everything?"  The bathroom door opened and a folded white towel sailed out, landing on the bed.  Arnold mumbled something under his breath, then said:  "Could someone please fix it for me?"

False-Face sighed, then shoved the gun into the back of his pants and crossed over to the bed, where he unfolded the towel, lay it flat, whispered something to Arnold, then stepped away.

Arnold was holding his full-face mask by the corners with both hands.  A thin layer of latex coated his actual face.  After gently placing his mask onto the towel, he peeled away the latex—which had been applied over sheets of plastic-wrap used to further protect his skin.

I felt the breath catch in my throat.

Arnold's real face was both horrifying and beautiful; Grendel had scarred every inch of his features with tremendous care, even skill; I knew without having to ask what this was meant to convey, because Grendel—whoever he'd been—had studied the art of Ta Moko; I'd written a paper on it in college.

Ta Moko was a method of facial scarring practiced by Maori warriors; the free-flowing, blue-black geometrical patterns were intended to convey many meanings:  they identified chiefs and social groups, symbolized aggression and ferocity, and—not least of all—disguised the wearer's age.  However, the most important function of the moko was to mark a person's individuality; some chiefs used their moko as a signature on land treaties with Europeans. 

Flowing lines covered Arnold's forehead, each of them melting downward into the others until the configuration formed an arrow point above the bridge of his nose; his cheeks were covered in fractal-like whorl patterns of shapes-within-shapes-within-shapes, some of them circular, others elongated; these ran at downward slants, mirroring the angle of his cheekbones, until branching off onto his upper lip; there they intersected and passed to the opposite side of his face, turning downward via the jaw again, and meeting in the direct center of his chin where they became four perfect circles, overlapping so that a fifth was formed in the middle.

What made the scars even more unique was that Grendel had not used the traditional Maori method of coloring the scars with dark juices taken from indigenous berries; he'd employed some kind of bleach:  the scars were a startling shade of deep off-white, giving Arnold's face the look of someone who'd walked into a spider's web that was made from human cartilage.

"Do they hurt?" I heard myself asking.

He shrugged.  "Not as much as they used to.  The ones on my body still hurt a lot sometimes."  He looked at me and tried to smile but didn't quite make it.  "I have them everywhere."  He pointed to his back, his arms, his legs… and his crotch. "Everywhere."

"I'm so sorry."

"What for?  You did not do it."

"I only meant—"

"Your sympathy is a little late for any of us," said False-Face.  "So if you could just keep it to yourself, we would all feel better."

I glared at him.  "I wasn't being condescending."

"Yes, you were.  You just did not know it.  Which I find is the case with most pretty people."

"I'm not pretty."

"You are in comparison to us."  Then he laughed.  "Shar-Peis and Pit Bulls are pretty in comparison to us, now that I think about it."  He caught the expression on my face.  "Do not look at me like that.  This is not self-pity.  It is a simple statement of fact."

I waited a moment, then decided to let the subject drop.  "Do you have a name?"

"Yes, I do."

I waited, then waited some more, and finally said:  "This is usually the part of the conversation where the other person introduces themselves."

"Is that so?" he said, knocking on the bathroom door.  "Rebecca?"

"What?"

"Is everything all right?"

"I am trying to pee, if you do not mind.  What do you want?"

"Are his pants and underwear dry?"

"Since my arms are not five feet long, I cannot tell from here—and, no, I am not going to stand up and check."

"Told you she was in one of her moods," said Arnold to False-Face.  "But do you listen to me?  No, you do not.  I am just Arnold, who everyone thinks talks to himself."  He looked at me.  "I do talk to myself, sometimes, but mostly it is just that no one listens to me when I try to tell them something."

"Fine," said False-Face.  "From now on you can do all the talking."

"That is not what I meant."

"Mind your tone, Arnold."

"Why do you always sound like that when you speak to me?  You talk like you think I am retarded."

"Do not start with me, Arnold.  You will not win."

"Would you guys like some privacy for this?" I said.  "I'd be happy to step outside and—"

"Knock it off!" shouted Rebecca from the bathroom.  "Or else when I come out of here, I will start pinching you where it will hurt, I swear it."

"I am sorry," said Arnold.

False-Face exhaled, his shoulders slumping.  "Me, too."

Thomas started his song over.

"Okay, then," said Rebecca.  "Now would someone turn on a radio or the television or something?  I do not want you listening to me do my business."

Arnold rose from the bed and crossed the room to turn on the television.  He flipped through the channels until he found a music video station, then turned up the volume.  "Better?"

"Thank you," said Rebecca.

Arnold looked at me.  "We all lived in the same room.  There was only one toilet, so we always had to use the bathroom in front of everyone else.  Privacy is still a little new to us."

"Shut up," said False-Face.  "What did we agree on?"

"I have not said anything about anything, man, not really."

"And you will not.  I am still in charge here."

"I heard that."  Arnold sounded, for the first time, like a child; apologetic, embarrassed, worried that he'd just gotten into trouble.  "I did not mean to do anything wrong."

"Just… be careful what you say, all right?"  False-Face looked right at me.  "I am not sure we can trust him yet."

Arnold looked at me, then shrugged.  "He seems cool to me."

"You said that last time, and look what—"  False-Face stopped himself, then shook his head.  "Never mind.  It seems like we are all talking way too much for our own good."

I raised my hand like a kid in class.  "Can I ask something?"

False-Face tilted his head but made no reply.

"Would you please tell me what your name is so I'll know what to call you?"

"Why is that so important to you?"

"It's common courtesy.  Besides, you know a helluva lot more than that about me.  If you want my help, it seems the least you could do is tell me your name.  Call it a gesture of good faith."

He thought about it for a moment, then said:  "Christopher."

"As in the saint and 'Robin'?"

"…Robin?"

"Winnie-the-Pooh Christopher Robin."

He squinted, looked at Arnold, and then said:  "I have… no idea what that is."

My mouth may have actually dropped open.  "You're kidding?"

"Three guesses."

I laughed out of surprise.  "One of the most famous children's books of all time and you have no idea—?"

"What did I just say?  Did I mumble?  Do you have trouble hearing?  I do not know what that is!  I have never heard of it!  I have never read it!  So how could I understand the reference?"  He was getting progressively more agitated.  "Are you trying to make me feel stupid?  Is that it?  Or do you just want to confuse me so that you can pull something while I am busy trying to make sense out what you said?"  He stormed over to the bed and punched me in the nose, then shoved me up against the headboard, cracking the back of my skull against the wall.  "I do not need anyone else to ever make me feel stupid and worthless again!  Do you understand?"  He grabbed my throat with one incredibly strong hand, holding my head in place.  "None of us needs to feel like that, not ever again!  Ever!"  He squeezed harder, pressing me into the wall and headboard as blood from my nose streamed down his hand.  "AM I GETTING THROUGH TO YOU?"

"Stop it," said Arnold, grabbing onto Christopher's arm and throwing all his weight into breaking his grip on me.

"DO NOT MAKE FUN OF ME!"

Arnold pulled again.  "Knock it off, Christopher!  He cannot breathe!"

"DO NOT MAKE FUN OF ANY OF US, PRETTY-BOY!  EVER!"

The room was starting to spin out of focus; my chest felt like it was imploding; the pressure in my skull was almost unbearable.

Something flew across my field of vision and struck Christopher right in the face.  He let go of me and stumbled backward, knocking Arnold aside, his arms pinwheeling for balance as he fell over the footstool in front of the chair by the lamp; he hit the floor with a heavy thud as part of his face fell off—the prosthesis of the upper lip—and then Arnold was on top of him, kneeling on Christopher's chest and holding down his arms.

"You stop it," said Arnold.  "You get hold of yourself right now.  You hear me?"

"Get off my chest!"

"Not until you calm down."  He reached out and grabbed the boot that had struck Christopher's face.  "You settle, you do it right now, or I will conk you a good one with this, I swear to God!"

I bent forward, coughing and rubbing my neck, pulling in as many deep breaths as I could without hyperventilating or gagging on the backwash of blood from my nose.  I blinked and wiped my eyes before falling back against the pillows; as I lay there waiting for my heart to stop trying to squirt through my ribs, I turned my head to the side and saw Thomas in his wheelchair, holding the first boot's mate, which he looked ready to heave at a moment's notice.  I smiled at him, mouthing "Thanks."

He nodded his head, then said:  "It is not like I really need them anymore."

The bathroom door flew open and a very irritated Rebecca came out.  "All right!  That is enough!"  She pulled something from the back pocket of her jeans that made a quick, loud sizzling sound and spit out a concentrated flash of bright-blue electricity.

She lifted the Taser and bolted over to the guys on the floor.  "Stop it right now, Christopher"—she made the Taser snap and sizzle—"or I will use this on you."

Still, he struggled against Arnold.

"If you think I am kidding," said Rebecca, "then keep it up.  You have three seconds to start behaving.  One…two…"

The struggling stopped almost immediately.

Rebecca nodded her head, smiling.  "That is much better.  Thank you."

Arnold rose, the boot still in his hand, and sat on the edge of my bed.  "Are you all right, Mark?"

I wiped blood from my nose and face.  "I think so." 

Arnold dug into his back pocket and pulled out a wad of tissues, which he handed to me.  I thanked him and pressed the tissues up into my nostrils.

On the floor, Christopher glared at the ceiling; then, wordlessly, sat up and tore away his hair piece and the rest of his makeup like a petulant child throwing a temper tantrum.  It couldn't have taken thirty seconds for him to rip it all away.

The sight of his real face hit me the hardest of them all.

One of his jaws was completely metal.  His nose had been severed just like Rebecca's, only Grendel hadn't stopped there; Christopher's disfigurement extended to the removal of his upper lip and a half-inch of tissue on either side:  the center of his face was one large vertical gash, exposing clogged sinus cavities, swollen gums, crooked, discolored teeth, and the shredded remnants of what were once temporalis muscles around the corners of his mouth, leaving him with a permanent rictus grin.  His left ear had been torn off.  Half of his scalp had been peeled back like an orange, and what little hair remained up there looked like cobwebs covering a piece of spoiled meat.  Across the middle of his head, like some toothless maw, was an open wound beneath which a smooth yellowing skull gleamed.

He looked up at me with tears of rage in his eyes.  "On the bright side, at least I will save money on Hallowe'en costumes, right?"

"Pay no mind, he is just trying to shock you," said Rebecca.

"He… he succeeded," I whispered.

She looked at my face, then at Christopher's.  "Are you proud of yourself?  Hmmm?  I certainly hope so, because it is going to take us forever to get your makeup fixed.  What have I told you about these little snits of yours?"

"…do not lecture me right now…" he whispered.

"Who is lecturing?  I am merely pointing out that your behavior has given us yet another mess to deal with.  You promised me you were going to stop acting this way.  You promised, Christopher."

"…I apolo—"

"Oh, no," said Rebecca.  "Not this time.  Absolutely not.  You broke a promise, Christopher, and you know what that means."

He nodded his head, not looking at her. 

No one said anything for several moments, then Arnold turned toward me and whispered:  "This is actually pretty serious."

"I think I figured that much out already, thanks."  Then:  "What does it mean, when someone breaks their promise?"

"It means," said Rebecca, "that the person they made the promise to gets a request, and that request has to be granted, no matter what it is."

"No matter what," said Thomas, then giggled and went back to his song, singing softly to himself, which was starting to get on my nerves because I couldn't make out the words.

Christopher looked up at Rebecca.  "All right, then, all right."  He got to his feet.  "I broke my promise."

"You broke it big," said Arnold.

"Yes, you did," added Rebecca.

Christopher sighed, then folded his arms across his chest and waited.

"Does that mean something else?" I asked Arnold.  "Is it worse if you break a promise big?"

"You know it."

"If you break a promise big," said Rebecca, "then the other person gets two requests; one now, and one later."

"Do not push this too far," Christopher said.

I watched silently.  There had been a definite shift in the dynamics; Rebecca was, for the moment, in charge, and Christopher was respecting that; but I had the feeling that Rebecca's reign could only go on for so long before Christopher took back control—and when he did, Rebecca would respect his actions.

For the moment, I was reminded of the way Gayle and I used to go back and forth when we were kids.

Christopher massaged a part of his forehead, then exhaled loudly.  "I am not going to stand here all day.  You get one now, one later.  What is your first request?"

Rebecca smiled, then cocked her thumb in my direction.  "Unlock him."

"Now, wait just a minute—"

"No!  That is my first request and you have to do it.  So do it."

"I do not think it is a good idea.  He might try something."

"He is naked underneath that sheet.  He is not going anywhere.  Un.  Lock.  Him."

Christopher pulled a set of keys from his pocket, flipping through until he found the one he was looking for, then removed it from the ring and tossed it to Arnold.

"I wanted you to do it," said Rebecca.

"You did not say that.  You only said 'Unlock him.'  Who does it was never specified."

Her eyes narrowed.  "That is so very close to cheating."

"But not close enough that it counts against me."

"They do this a lot," said Arnold, unlocking the leg iron and removing it from my ankle.  "But it is not always this entertaining."  He bent down and removed the rest of the chain from the bed frame.

I leaned forward and began massaging my ankle.  "May I please have the rest of my clothes?  Including my shoes and socks?"

"Your pants and underwear are not dry," said Rebecca.

"I could give a shit—wait, sorry, excuse my language.  It doesn't matter if they're dry or not, I'll wear them."

"Are you sure?"

I grinned at her.  "No, but it beats being like this."

She and Arnold retrieved everything.  I slipped into my damp underwear (beneath the sheet), then stood and put on my pants, socks, and shoes.

"Better?" asked Arnold.

"Kind of squishes when I move, but at least I'm not dangling in front of everyone."

"Was that a yes?"

"That was a yes."

"Just making sure."

Rebecca sat on the edge of the bed and gestured toward Christopher.  "Well?"

Christopher looked at his watch.  "We have now wasted the better part of an hour.  All of you were supposed to be sleeping by now."

"I am not tired," said Arnold.

Rebecca shrugged.  "Me, neither."

In the corner, Thomas continued singing—and at last I recognized the song:  "All Through The Night."  Mom used to sing the same lullaby to both Gayle and me when we were kids.

"Fine," snapped Christopher, removing the gun from the back of his pants and sitting on the footstool.  "So who wants to start?  I am not in the mood right now."

"Start what?" I asked.

"Telling you about it," said Rebecca.

"If you are going to help us," added Arnold, "it is only fair that you know everything."

"Only fair," Thomas repeated.  "Only fair."

"Sometimes," said Christopher, "the three of you really get on my nerves."

Rebecca shook her head.  "Christopher is Mr. Grumpy-Pants today.  Please pardon him."

Then they told me; and, as I listened, feeling soul-sick and diminished with each passing minute, I finally understood what is meant by the phrase "bad wisdom."

7.  The "One" Days

They never learned his real name; for them—and several other children—he was and would always be Grendel.

"He was very careful about that," said Christopher.  "No mail ever came to the house—it was all sent to a Post Office box.  Anything he ordered online was always sent through the mail, never through FedEx or UPS or any delivery company like that.  He did not carry a wallet.  There were no personal papers anywhere in that house, not that we ever found.  And we looked.  When Arnold and I started going through the computer files looking for his internet accounts information, we found at least fourteen different names he was using.  All the names belonged to guys who have been dead for years."

"How do you know that?" I asked.

He glared at me.  "Because he kept files with all that information locked up in one of his desks.  Social Security numbers, dates of birth and death, names of relatives—all of them deceased, of course—all the information you would need to set up an internet account or apply for a credit card."

"He must have… had help," I said.  "I mean, information like that isn't exactly easy to get your hands on."

Christopher's hands balled into fists.  "I thought you were supposed to be listening."

I shut up.

Rebecca was fifteen now; she'd been thirteen when Grendel took her.  "My mom and me were driving up to see her brother.  Mom had to go to the bathroom, so we pulled off the highway when we found a rest stop.  Mom told me to stay by the car while she went inside to pee.  I saw this man and little retarded girl walking around between some buildings.  They were both crying.  They said they were looking for their puppy and asked me if I could help them look."

Arnold was now twelve; he had been a week removed from his tenth birthday when Grendel snatched him away.  "My stepsister took me to a carnival in the church's parking lot.  He was dressed up like a minister when I met him.  He asked me if I would help bring out the folding tables for the lemonade stand."

Thomas was eleven; he'd been nine the day he disappeared.  "I was waiting for Daddy to get out from seeing the doctor at the hospital.  He got sick all of a sudden and we had to take a cab because Mommy was still at work and she had the car.  I thought he was a doctor.  He said it was okay for me to come with him to see my Daddy.  He had the white coat and everything."

And Christopher… Christopher had just turned twelve when Grendel seized him; he was now twenty-one.  "I was useful to him.  It was necessary to remain useful.  If you were not useful, you were taken to Ravenswood—that is what he called the sub-basement.  The group of us, we shared a room in the basement, directly above Ravenswood, so everyone always had to… listen whenever Grendel had someone down there. 

"I never knew there were so many different ways to scream." 

He would offer no explanation about how he came to be taken.

This is what the four of them knew to be true:

Grendel told them he had been a medic in Vietnam; he spoke German, French, Spanish, and knew sign language; he had either once been a surgeon or a surgical intern, because his medical knowledge was encyclopedic; he knew quite a lot about electronics—computers, digital cameras, recording and listening devices, you name something, Grendel knew about it—and kept his house's security systems up to date, including a massive electrified fence surrounding the property.  "He soldered electronic collars around each of our necks," Christopher said.  "If any one of us moved farther than seventy-five feet from the outside of the house, all of us got a shock that knocked us out for hours.  If you wet or soiled your pants when you got the shock, you had to wear them for two days afterward as punishment for being 'undisciplined.'" 

Grendel believed human beings could discipline themselves to the extent that even when their systems suffered massive trauma, they could control their excretory functions.  The fence was put up to guard against the possibility one of them might somehow manage to remove their collar; it stood fifteen feet high and would fry you to a crisp.  "Even if the power was turned off and you somehow made it to the top," said Rebecca, "you would never get over the rolls of barbed wire.  'I must keep all of you safe and sound,' he'd say."

Grendel might have been married once, because he had a daughter—or, at least, a girl who called him "Daddy":  her name was Connie, she was eleven, had Down's Syndrome, and would do whatever he asked without question or fuss; he had money, because the house was large and the property wide and private; he did not tolerate the use of contractions, foul language, or nicknames, Connie being the only one exempt from the first and last—none of them were exempt from the foul language rule.

But Grendel's friends were.

And he did have friends.  Quite a few of them.  They came over for monthly meetings.  Rebecca was their preferred party favor, her body having three orifices, but eventually all of them received their turns at the meetings.  "He did not believe in playing favorites," Arnold said.  "He was concerned our feelings would be hurt.  He was real thoughtful like that."

"I wish someone would have hurt my feelings that way just once," said Rebecca.  "His friends were rough.  One of them used to hold a hot cigar against the back of my neck to make sure my head stayed down.  None of them were ever gentle.  And they tasted awful."

"Heard that," said Arnold.

Christopher nodded his head.  "Preaching to the choir."

"Bingo," sang Thomas.

Except for the monthly meetings, Grendel and his friends communicated solely through the internet.  The third floor of the house had been converted into one large room where Grendel kept several computers, as well as a server.  For all appearances, he was the network administrator for about two dozen small businesses, all antique dealers, each with their own web site, email address, private chat rooms, all of it. 

"No one ever said what they meant," said Rebecca, "not even in the chat rooms.  Everything was in code.  If you saw one of the emails, it just looked like a list of stuff people wanted to buy, or prices, or receipts."

Arnold grinned, shaking his head.  "It was slick, I had to give them that. What they did, see, was they had a bunch of phrases, certain phrases, numbers, icons, text… text… oh, what is the word?"

"Configurations," said Christopher.  "Text configurations."

"Right, configurations—you know, the way the letter was put together, the way the paragraphs were indented, stuff like that?  Even how many spaces or periods there were between the end of one sentence and the start of the next one meant something."

They knew this because, once a month, Grendel would gather them together and show them the "purchase orders" for the upcoming meeting, so that each would know what was expected of them.

"He insisted on teaching us the codes," said Christopher.  "That way, he never had to look us in the face and tell us what we were going to have to do."

"I do not ever want to see the words 'decorative bathtub fixtures' again," Rebecca said, then shrugged, embarrassed.  "Anytime they ordered 'decorative bathtub fixtures,' that meant me."

"I was any Louis XIII furniture," said Christopher.

Arnold scratched at one of his scars and tried to smile.  "Mostly I was walnut.  Or mahogany.  Or cherry.  Any of the darker woods."  He shook his head.  "Man, I hated seeing an order for a mahogany dining room table.  That meant they were going to… eat off of me before they did their business."  He wiped his eyes, then tried once again to smile.  "I remember when Mom used to take me out for ice cream.  I would always order a big banana split with extra whipped cream on top.  It was not a real banana split without that extra whipped cream, you know?"  His eyes narrowed, and for a moment he looked as if he might get sick.  "Him and his friends ruined that for me.  I almost hate him more for that than my face."

"Thomas was an antique radio, or phonograph, anything like that," said Rebecca.  "I will bet you can guess why."

Grendel's friends included lawyers, doctors, police officials, city fathers, and others whose positions guaranteed these meetings would always be discreet.

"They never called each other by name in front of us," Arnold said.  "But they would, you know, talk about their jobs.  The doctors gave Grendel any kind of medical stuff he asked for.  Bandages, scalpels, equipment, thread for stitches, needles, cough medicine… all kinds of stuff.  There were always a lot of drugs in the house."

"Pick a prescription medicine," said Rebecca, "and it was there.  A lot of it.  He never wanted for any of us to have to see a doctor if we were sick or hurt.  His doctor friends, they did not like the idea of having to treat us as patients, so they gave him everything he might need."

They were always blindfolded during the meetings so as to not see anyone's face.  "He would tape our eyes closed with duct tape," Christopher told me.  "Then he would put the blindfolds on.  'No peeking,' he would always say, and then laugh."

If they did well at the meetings, if they behaved themselves, if they did not cry or struggle or protest (unless crying, struggling, and protesting were part of the purchase order), and if they pretended to like it, then the following Thursday would be a "One" day.

"We lived for those," said Arnold; then, after a moment, added:  "You had to live for something, you know?"

Grendel and Connie would go into town with a list of items the others had given to them.  He would buy each of them one book from the bookstore, one movie from the video store, one new piece of clothing, one food of choice from the grocery store, one snack item ("And chewing gum counted," said Arnold, "which I never thought was fair."), one new toiletry item, and one piece of miscellanea—a tablet of writing paper, a jigsaw puzzle, a deck of playing cards, a music CD, etc.  "The clerks and checkout girls always thought he was a father spoiling his child," said Rebecca.  "They thought all the stuff he bought was just for one kid."

"We got pretty good at combining the stuff we needed on the list," Arnold said.  "Since we only got, like, one toilet item each, one of us would ask for toothpaste, the other one would ask for mouthwash, someone else would ask for toilet paper, stuff like that.  We did the same thing with the snacks and the food, so we would have enough for meals.  I would ask for bread, Christopher for sliced cheese, Rebecca would want lunchmeat… you know.  That way, we would always have everything we would need.  If we were careful, we could make all the 'One' day food last maybe eight or nine days."

"Providing we remembered to ask for a two-gallon jug of water," added Christopher.  "Sometimes we would need the food more than the water."  He shrugged.  "If you got thirsty enough, there was always the toilet tank."

"We all got hooked on Harry Potter and Lemony Snicket," said Rebecca.  "Connie picked them out for us.  She recognized the books because she got to see the first two Harry Potter movies."

Then Thomas spoke up:  "I like Lemony.  Lemony is very funny."

"He never cared about the movies we asked for or the books we read," said Christopher.  "If we did well, we got whatever we asked for."  He looked up.  "So, after a while, we always made sure we did well."

No one said anything for a few moments after that; they only sat staring at me.

"What?"  I said.  "Am I missing something?"

"You can learn things from books and movies," said Arnold.  "If you start picking the right ones."

"That is enough with 'Twenty Questions,'" said Christopher, rising to his feet.  "He is a janitor, not a journalist.  There are only two more things he needs to know."  He crossed to a corner of the room and picked up a large green-canvas duffel bag; from the way he struggled with it, whatever was inside must have weighed quite a bit.  It rattled.

"Christopher," said Rebecca, the warning evident.

"Time for all of you to shut up," he snapped at her, then heaved the duffel bag onto the foot of my bed.  "All right, Pretty Boy, have you gotten your sufficient jollies listening to all of this?  Do you have a nice, nasty story to shock your pretty friends with?"

"I never asked about—"

He backhanded me in the mouth; hard enough to hurt but not draw blood or raise welts.

"BE QUIET!"

Rebecca jumped up, activating the Taser again, but froze in place when Christopher pulled the gun from the back of his pants and pointed it right at my face.  "Sit down, Rebecca.  I killed the last guy and I will kill him if you push it, understand?"

Rebecca gave me a sorrowful look, then laid the Taser on the bed and sat down, hands folded in her lap, looking at the floor.

"Now," said Christopher, slipping the gun into the back of his pants, "it is time you understood a few things.  Do you know why there is only the four of us?  After all, we have told you about the others.  I assume even a janitor can do basic math."  He began unzipping the duffel bag.  "In the last four years, twenty-one children have passed through the House of Heorot.  Not all of them adapted or learned as well as we did."  He grabbed the unzipped bag at both ends, and began turning it upside down.  "I think it is time you met a few of them."

He gave the bag a violent jerk and the yellow bones tumbled onto the bed; pieces of hands, pieces of arms, legs, feet… and skulls.  There must have been a dozen skulls of various sizes in the pile forming in front of me but I didn't count, I was too busy crying out and pressing my body against the wall and headboard as the pile tumbled out and forward, clacking, rattling, one nearly-whole hand flopping outward and almost touching my leg as a skull skittered down the pile and rolled down the length of the arm, coming to rest almost perfectly in the center of the opened hand; until that moment I had managed to not scream but as soon as that skull came to rest and I read the name—RANDY—written in black marker across the top I couldn't hold it in any longer and let fly, just opened my mouth as wide as I could and screamed from the bottom of my balls upward, twisting my head from side to side and wishing to hell my eyes would just close but they wouldn't, no matter how much I begged them to, they just kept staring at that skull and that name and then my legs gave out and I collapsed but Christopher was there to catch me from behind, one arm across my torso, the other coming around my shoulder so he could press his hand over my mouth and hold my head still—

"Take it easy, Pretty Boy," he whispered into my ear.  "They are long past being able to hurt you.  They are long past being hurt.  Take a good look, Pretty Boy, look long and hard.  See that hand right there?  That belonged to a little girl named Jennifer.  She was four.  It took me three days to super-glue that hand back together, and even then I did not find all the bones, there were too many.  That is why there are so many pieces.  Unless you were right there watching when he cleansed them of their undisciplined flesh, you would have no idea which bones belonged to who.  But I was there for all their cleansings, hear me?  And I know all the bones by name, all of them!"  He spun me around to face him.  "I did not have to dig up any of them, either."  I started to say something—or maybe I started to scream again, I don't know—but he pressed his hand over my mouth again.  "You do not get to talk now, you get to pay attention.  Do you know why we were always so careful to make the 'One' day food last as long as possible?  Come on, Pretty Boy, take a guess!" On the last word, he twisted my head around so I could have another good look at the bones.

"Oh, Jesus…" I groaned.

"You see, we did not always get 'One' days.  Sometimes during the meetings one of us would squeal when we should not have, or maybe he would see a tear in one of our eyes, or sometimes one of us would have the gall to bleed too much!"  He snapped my head back around; he was right in my face now.  "Have you ever been starving, Pretty Boy?  Have you ever been so hungry that the emptiness in your stomach begins to swell?  Do you have any idea what it is like to go without food for so long that you start chasing spiders and cockroaches?  I once broke Arnold's nose over a couple of silverfish!"

"You got that right," said Arnold.

"I will let you in on a secret, Pretty Boy—when you have been left chained up in a basement room for two weeks with only water from a toilet tank to drink and the occasional bug for protein, you will eat anything that is put in front of you, even if it is something that you had to help slaughter, even if it was something that had a name and could call you by yours.  I suppose we should be grateful that Grendel had a thing about germs and at least cooked it first!"  He yanked me to my feet, spun me around, and pushed me down into the chair.

"Roll it over here, Arnold."

"Oh, hey, look, man, I do not think we need—"

"DID I ASK FOR AN OPINION?"

"Settle down, dude."

In three actions so quick and smooth they might as well have been the same movement, Christopher pulled the gun from the back of his pants, spun around, and fired a shot into the pillow on my bed; the gun made a short, sharp whistling noise like a single tweet from a bird, and the air was suddenly alive with dancing bits of stuffing.

"I swear to God," said Christopher through clenched teeth, "the next one goes through his right eye if you guys do not stop giving me grief.  Roll it over here right now, Arnold."

Arnold shook his head and sighed sadly as he rose to his feet.  "I hate it when you get this way, man.  This is not you."  He rolled the typing stand and computer around the bed and toward me.  He looked at Christopher as if he was going to say something else, then thought better of it.  He positioned the computer in front of me, then reached out and gave my forearm an apologetic squeeze before returning to the second bed.

Christopher stood beside me, pressing the silencer against my temple.  It was hotter than hell and scorched my hair and skin; I bit down on my lip and waited for the pain to ebb.  I wasn't about to try anything right now, even something as harmless as moving my head.

With his other hand, Christopher reached out and used the computer's trackpad to open a series of sub-folders labeled "Pictures", "Video", "Ravenswood", and "Cleansings".

"Please," I whispered.  "Don't…."

"Sorry, Pretty-Boy, but when we put on a show, you get the whole program."

He highlighted a file in the "Cleansings" folder:  Connie.

"Connie was special in more ways than one," he said.  "Grendel would schedule private meetings between her and his friends—one at a time, of course.  And these private meetings were expensive.  Connie never said anything about them—or, at least she did not say anything about them for a long time.

"After he took Denise, Connie started acting different.  She talked more.  She complained.  She started saying no.  She started telling us secrets, like where he kept extra keys and cash.  I think she realized he was training Denise to be her replacement for the trips into town.  I think she must have been jealous.  She would be rude to Denise, pinch her or slap her when she thought Grendel was not looking.  He put Connie in the basement with us, and gave Connie's room upstairs to Denise.  Connie did not like that.  She tried to hurt Denise the next chance she got.  She tried to cut her face with a knife.  And that was it."

He double-clicked the file and a video screen came up.  He enlarged the screen to three times its size; there was no loss of video quality.

He pressed harder against my temple with the still-hot silencer.  "You will watch every second of this, Pretty Boy, or I will put a bullet in your kneecap."

"Why are you doing this?"  I sounded on the verge of tears or hysterics, and hated myself for the loss of control.

When he spoke again, his voice sounded almost sympathetic.  "Because I do not want to be the only person who knows what he did down there, and I will not make any of them watch."

He started the video.  "Welcome to Ravenswood."

I was looking at a large room with gray cinderblock walls.  Everything in the room was illuminated by harsh fluorescent lights that hung from the ceiling.  Metal shelves lined the walls on the left and right.  Specimen jars of various sizes were on the shelves; I couldn't quite make out what was floating inside them, then decided I didn't really want to.  In the left corner of the room sat two large medical waste barrels with locking lids.  In the center of the room was a long metal table with straps hanging from each corner.  The table was bordered with a gutter on both sides and both ends, and in each of the corners was something that looked like pool table pocket.

I had cleaned the School of Medicine's building long enough to recognize an autopsy table when I saw one.  Except none of those had straps.

Two medium-sized operating room lights, for the moment turned off, hung over the table.  A tray with a white cover sat next to the far right corner.

A door opened and a young man came in.  It took me a moment to recognize him; Christopher still had his nose and upper lip.  I suppose the metal jaw should have been the giveaway.

Christopher wore tight rubber gloves.  Leaving the door opened behind him, he walked to the table and uncovered the tray, revealing the medical instruments underneath.  Then he switched on the two overhead lights, positioning them with well-practiced movements.  After that, he pulled a step stool from under the table and crossed toward the camera; setting down the stool, he disappeared from view for a moment before re-emerging three times as large.  His eyes were glazed and dead-looking.  He checked the camera settings, shifted its position slightly, then dropped out of sight once again.

As he was replacing the step stool, an older man and younger girl entered the room.  Both wore flimsy hospital gowns.  The man had rubber gloves; the girl did not.

Even though I'd never seen her before, it was obvious from the characteristics of her face that this was Connie.  She was carrying a stuffed doll that I recognized; Blossom, of The Powerpuff Girls fame.  The man whispered something in her ear, and Connie, smiling, took off the robe and climbed naked onto the table, dropping Blossom to the floor as she did so.  The man signaled Christopher to close the door, and then, for the first time, stood still long enough for me to get a good, clear look at his face.

I had seen Grendel before.  Several times.  You've seen him, too, remember?  He's the guy who bags your groceries at the store on Friday night; the man who checks your gas meter every other month; the fellow who manages the graveyard shift at that Steak 'n' Shake twenty minutes from your apartment; he's that one guy who pumps your gas at the station downtown, or the other guy behind the Customer Service counter at the department store, or that dude who empties the trash receptacles in the food court at the mall.  Remember him now?

That's whose face I was looking at in the video.  Right—that guy.

Grendel checked the positioning of the lights, all the while whispering things to Connie that I was glad I could not hear.  She giggled and nodded her head; this was some kind of a game Daddy was playing with her.  Grendel signaled Christopher to assist him with strapping down Connie's arms and legs.  Once that was done, Grendel took off his hospital gown and massaged his penis into a stiff erection, which he then covered with lubricant from a tube Christopher handed to him.  Once he was satisfactorily slick, Grendel turned and climbed up onto the table, positioning himself between Connie's legs.  I watched Blossom then.  She was smiling, looking toward the camera with those terribly cute, oversized eyes.  I could almost hear her telling Bubbles and Buttercup that the city of Townsville was under attack again and Mojo Jojo was holding Professor Plutonium hostage and the Mayor was on the phone saying "Oh, dear," over and over and to top it all off, her favorite hair brush was missing, would the terror never end?

I stared at Blossom as the leg of the table behind her shook and shuddered from the constantly-shifting weight above; it would jerk slightly forward, then right itself before jerking forward again, a steady rhythm for a while, then getting faster, and sweet, sweet Blossom, she just sat there smiling at me, shaking from the vibrations, never complaining, not even when the shaking became so fast and hard she lost her balance and fell over on her side; she never stopped looking or smiling at me, and I decided then that she was my new favorite Powerpuff Girl, and I sure hoped that Buttercup wouldn't cop an attitude over this; after all, she'd been my favorite until now, but Blossom was here when the chips were down, and she lay there singing and smiling and telling me stories about cute pink fuzzy bunnies, never looking away, not even when the shadows above her began to shift and move and jerk and spread; not even when the straps began to pull so tight she could have bounced a quarter off them; not even when one of Grendel's bare feet stepped on her for a moment; not even when the shadows above began flailing as something slopped over the side of the shaking table and spattered her lovely outfit; at no time did Blossom ever behave in a less than ladylike manner, and I decided that I was in love with her.

Then one of Christopher's shoes passed by and kicked Blossom away.  I was so startled that I blinked and looked up at the table where Grendel, covered in gore, was on his knees ejaculating into the opened stomach cavity of something that looked like it might have once been a human being but was now only a steaming heap of bones and liquids and tissue and blood and—

—I lurched forward, shoving everything out of my way as I tried to get to the bathroom but my foot caught on the typewriter stand and I fell forward onto the bone pile, then dropped to the floor, the bones raining down on my face and chest as my arms jerked and flailed, knocking them away in a chorus of clattering as I rolled to the side before my stomach exploded, reaching out for the other bed as I felt the first burp of bile splatter into my throat, then I was on my feet and staggering ahead, hands over my mouth and praying my legs didn't melt away beneath me and there it was, there was the bathroom, but now someone was yelling my name and someone else was yelling Christopher's and a part of the doorway splintered away with the chirping of a bird and I threw myself forward and onto my knees, sliding across the smooth blue tile to the toilet whose seat Rebecca had thought to leave up and then I was doubled over, clutching the sides of the bowl as my torso heaved and my stomach blew up and my throat was scorched by the flood of vomit that came sailing out for what seemed hours, giving me so little time to pull in a breath between bursts I thought I'd pass out again and I didn't want to do that because then the bones would get me….

When it was finally done, I fell backward, coughing, the foul taste of everything I'd eaten in the last twelve hours swimming in my mouth and forcing dry heaves; I had one arm pressed against the toilet, the other against the wall behind me, and my legs splayed out like a marionette hastily dropped in mid-performance.  I gasped and spit and coughed and groaned, my throat and chest feeling far to swollen for my body to contain, my vision obscured by the tears in my eyes and my eyes forever seared but what they'd seen after Blossom had been kicked away…

"Are you all right?" asked someone.  "He did not hit you, did he?"

I looked up and saw Thomas in the middle of the doorway; Arnold and Rebecca stood behind him.  I saw where Christopher's shot had struck the door frame and realized how close he'd come to hitting the back of my skull and almost vomited again, only there was nothing left.

"He only helped Grendel to protect us," said Arnold.  "If Christopher ever refused to help with a cleansing, then one of us would have been next."

"And he would have made Christopher pick," said Thomas.

Rebecca was crying.  "We were the four who had been with him the longest, you see?  The four of us were all the family we had.  He had to help him, don't you see?"  At realizing she'd just a contraction, she gasped, her hands flying up to cover her mouth as her eyes widened with terror.  Arnold and Thomas looked as if they were waiting for the next bomb to go off.

"Whatta you know," I choked out.  "The world didn't end."

Tears welled in her eyes—I hadn't until that moment realized that tear ducts could still function with a glass eye—and shook her head, not blinking.

"It's okay," I said.  "It's okay, really."

Thomas rolled his chair a little farther into the doorway.  "We want to go home.  Will you help us?"

"Do not beg him!" shouted Christopher from somewhere behind them.  "I will not have any of you ever beg for anything again!"

"What do you say, man?" asked Arnold.

Rebecca lowered her hands, then pushed past Thomas, knelt down in front of me, and laid her palm gently against my cheek.  When she spoke, her voice was a sad and ruined whisper from a darkness where bones were known by name and faces were things other people took for granted:  "…p-please…ohgod, Mark, please…."

Her hand so soft and sad against my cheek; Thomas so small in his chair; Arnold so tired with a face so scarred; these three little ones, with big brother stewing behind them; my captors, who were, in their way, as much at my mercy as I was at theirs.

I reached up and took hold of Rebecca's hand, then turned my face into her palm and kissed it.  It seemed like the right thing to do.

"How touching," said Christopher from the doorway.  "If we are all finished with the lovey-dovey, perhaps we could gather up our stuff and get the hell out of here."  He stopped, then laughed at his having just cursed.  "You're right," he said.  "Curses and contractions, and the world didn't end."  His eyes narrowed; he looked at Arnold.  "It feels strange."

"Seriously?"

"Yes.  It actually feels strange on my tongue to use a contraction again."

Arnold nodded his head.  "Do it again."

"No.  You try it."

"I don't think so—whoa.  That does feel weird, man."

"Let me!  Let me!"  Thomas was actually bouncing in his chair.  "I want to try it."

Christopher laughed.  "Go ahead.  Bet you can't."

"Bet I can."

"Then do it."

Arnold knelt by the arm of the wheelchair.  "C'mon, Thomas—dude, that feels good!  I'm gonna say it again—c'mon!  Oh, wow!"

"Okay, okay," said Thomas.  "Let me see…"

Christopher sighed in mock irritation, then winked at Arnold.

"Okay, okay, I got," Thomas all but squealed.  "I can use contractions anytime I want!  There!"

"Didn't quite make, dude," said Arnold.

Thomas looked crestfallen.  "I didn't?"

"You did that time."

"I—?"  Then his face brightened as he replayed it.  "Oh, yeah…I did, didn't I?"

"My man is on a serious roll," laughed Arnold, slapping Thomas's shoulder with great affection.

Thomas wasn't stopping.  "Can't!  Won't!  Ain't!"

"Turning into a regular party animal, my man."

"Isn't.  Wasn't!  Couldn't!  Wouldn't!  Shouldn't!"

"Don't get carried away, now," said Rebecca.  Then, to me:  "I gave him a pain shot just before you woke up.  It takes a little while before it kicks in with him.  Then he just becomes goofy."

"Didn't…uh…aren't!  Yeah!  Uh…."

"I think that's most of them," said Arnold.  Then:  "Hold on a second.  'That's' a contraction."

"It's!" shouted Thomas  "What's!  Oh, boy!  Uh…uh…"

"Don't," said Christopher.

"Yeah—don't, that's another one.  Then there's—there's there's, and then—"

"No," said Christopher.  "I wasn't prompting you—"

"Wasn't!" squealed Thomas.

"Already said that," whispered Arnold.

"Knock it off!"  Christopher wasn't trying to dampen their fun—it was obvious they hadn't enjoyed anything in a long, long time—but he was trying to get things under control.  "What I meant was don't keep doing that, okay?  Thomas?"

"…okay…"

"Please don't pout."

"I'm not."

"Then what are you doing?"

"I'm…I'm thinking."

"About what?"

A shrug.  "Stuff."

"Care to let the rest of us in on it?"

"Nope.  It's secret stuff."

"Thomas?  We don't keep secrets from each other, remember?"

"Okay."

"So what were you thinking about?"

"Parking spaces."

Christopher blinked.  "Huh?"

"I was thinking about those special parking places with the wheelchair signs.  Mommy will be able to park there now.  It's a lot closer to the stores.  I think she'll like that."  He looked at me, snickered once, then burst out laughing.

As did the rest of them.

I almost joined in, but a quick look from Christopher—one that said, You've got a reprieve, Pretty Boy, but fuck-up and I'll kill you—kind of drained the humor from the moment for me.  So I just smiled and hoped that would suffice.

"Let's go," said Christopher.  "We need to get our game faces on."  He nodded toward me.  "He can help this time.  After he puts the others back in the duffel bag."

8. I Wish I Still Had Braces

It took several hours to re-apply everyone's makeup, as well as each individual prosthesis.  Rebecca and Arnold weren't terribly difficult, just time-consuming, but—just as Rebecca had predicted—Christopher's face took, it seemed, forever; most of it had been torn off so violently that it was beyond repair.  At least his nose and hairpiece had survived.  If we'd had to reconstruct the nose, God only knows how long it might have taken; as it was, making a new ear, cheek, and upper lip took the better part of four hours.

Their makeup kit was an extensive and expensive one.  Grendel had purchased it for them, and shown them how to apply the basics, as well as how to make and apply prosthetics.  "We had to wear our 'party faces' for the meetings," Rebecca explained.  "I don't think his friends ever really knew what he'd done to our faces; they just figured the makeup was all part of the fun."

They could only wear their false faces for four to five hours; after that, the latex and spirit gum started to really soak down into their tender flesh; it became incredibly painful after that, and potentially dangerous.  "It isn't as if we have skin to spare," said Christopher, an almost-apologetic tone in his voice.  I made no reply.  I couldn't figure him out; one minute he's a howling lunatic threatening to do a Dirty Harry all over my face, and the next he's this mild-mannered, sit-down-and-chat-for-a-spell-type who spoke to me as if I was one of the gang.

"You did a nice job with this," he said to me after I'd applied his new upper lip.  "I usually make it too thick and use too much spirit gum and it burns like hell."

"Don't talk," said Rebecca, applying the base and gently blending it.

Thomas did not get makeup of any kind; his burned skin was still far too sensitive to tolerate even so much as light powder.

"He's on an awful lot of pain killers," Rebecca whispered to me.  "Between his face and his legs having been cut off, he's always in a lot of pain.  Plus I have to rub a couple of different types of salves and ointments on his face three times a day."

"So you're the unofficial nurse of the group?"

"Yes.  I don't mind, not really.  But sometimes I get so busy with them I forget to take my own medicine, and that's not good."

"Do you still need pain killers, as well?"

She shook her head.  "Not so much anymore.  But I have to have my insulin shots."

"Do you have any with you?"

"Yes.  I keep it in a cooler with ice.  I got it in the mini-fridge over there."

"Where's the rest of the medicine?"

She nodded toward a large black square beside the closet; the thing was bigger than most suitcases, and easily twice as deep.  "It has a bunch of compartments that fold out.  Christopher said there's probably fifty or sixty thousand dollars' worth of drugs in that case alone."

"Are there others?"

"Uh-huh.  Two more just like that in the bus."  She finished blending the first layer of base, then decided that the corners of Christopher's mouth needed a bit more work.

I decided to use this opportunity to ask questions; Christopher wasn't in a position to open his mouth and protest.  I hoped.

"What's in the trailer?"

Christopher's hand shot up and grabbed her wrist; Rebecca gasped, almost dropping the applicator brush.  Christopher, not opening his mouth, stared at her and shook his head.  Back, then forth.  Once.

"I'm sorry," I said to both of them.  "I didn't mean to pry.  I don't want anyone getting into trouble.  It's not her fault, okay?  I was just curious."

Christopher gave a short, slow nod.

Rebecca made some last-minute touchups to the makeup around the prosthesis, added a little powder, then said, "Okay.  Go over by the air conditioner and kneel in front of it for a few minutes.  Make sure the air's right on your face and do not talk for at least five minutes or else that's all going to come loose."

Christopher gave her a look that only she could read; Rebecca smiled, then playfully slapped his arm.  "Go on, you.  Go dry your mug."

He went over to the air conditioner in the window and knelt.  After a moment, he reached over and turned the setting to high.  Cold air blasted into the room.

"Won't he catch a cold or something?" I asked.

"Probably, but it's the quickest way to make sure it dries.  How do I look?"  She sat back and cupped her hands around her face.  "Am I still supermodel material?"

I smiled.  "You look fine.  In fact, it looks a lot better than before.  It looks a lot more natural, I mean.  Did you…"  I leaned closer.  "…did you pinch some of the latex to make it look like wrinkles?"

"A little bit.  Did it work?"

I nodded my head.  "They look really good.  Hopefully no one will wonder why a fifteen-year-old girl has wrinkles around her eyes."

"I wanted to look more mature this time."

I sat back and examined the whole of her face.  "You know, you do.  You look older.  It works for you."

She smiled.  "You probably can't tell, but I'm blushing."

"Did I say something wrong?"

"No… it's just… I'm not used to having a nice guy look at me, that's all."

I glanced toward Christopher, who was still face-first in the arctic blast, then leaned closer to Rebecca.  "Can I ask you something personal?"

"In a minute.  Right now we need to get you fixed up."  She reached into her bag and pulled out a needle, thread, and several buttons.  "Your shirt.  Can't have you walking around with it torn up like that."  She leaned forward, found the first spot that was missing a button, and began sewing it back on.

"So you do seamstress duties, as well?"

She laughed.  "I've seen these guys try to sew.  They're really bad at it.  I mean, it's good for a laugh, but then I always have to fix up their thumbs and fingers because they jab themselves so much.  So"—she finished one button and began the next—"I decided it was easier for me if I did all the sewing.  What was it you wanted to ask me?"

"What happened to your voice?"

Another throaty laugh.  "You mean why do I sound like Lauren Bacall with a frog in her throat?"  She shrugged.  "They liked it when I screamed during the meetings.  The louder, the better.  Grendel liked to make me scream, too.  I feel like I've been screaming for two years.  I guess it messed up my throat, y'know?"

"Does it hurt to talk?"

"No.  Unless it does and I just got used to it.  Does that make sense?"

"Yeah, it does… and I'm sorry."  I sat in silence as she double-checked the button.  I wondered what sort of dreams she had, or if she dreamed at all.  I remembered some line from a novel I'd read a few years ago, wherein the novelist, remarking on the number of homeless girls the narrator saw on the streets, said:  They are all our daughters, and we are not caring for them very well.  There was a strength about Rebecca that I envied, yet at the same time it sickened me to think of how she'd come by it.  I wondered what the rest of her life was going to be like.  I wondered a lot of things about her, all of it tinged with sadness.  Finally, I said:  "Look, I don't mean for this to sound stupid or rude, but… you seem awfully okay.  You come off as a lot older than fifteen.  I mean, after all you've been through, you're pretty together.  Most people would be a mess."

She hesitated with the third and last button, one frozen hand pulled back, connected to me by a single thread, and in that moment, I saw it in her eye; in one blink the sparkle was there, and the next… nothing.  Dull and dead.

"I have to be okay," she whispered, her voice thin and quavering as she resumed sewing.  "The rest of them wouldn't know what to do if I ever"—her voice broke, her lower lip trembled, and for a moment the gleam of tears began forming—"…if I ever let them know how much it hurts, how much it scares me and makes me want to die, I just don't think they could handle it."  She took a deep breath.  "I used to have braces.  I really hated those things.  I wish I still had braces.  Now I have bad dreams.  Maybe my folks can send me to a doctor or something."  She released her breath, and the sparkle returned.  "We just don't let each other think about it or talk about it unless we have to, like with you today.  We had to tell you about it.  By the way—how are you doing?"

The question surprised me.  "All right, I guess."

She finished the last button, then patted the shirt, smiling at her work.  "You sure?"

I shrugged.

She reached out and squeezed my hand.  "How bad was it?  What you saw?"

I swallowed, then closed my eyes; the image of Grendel kneeling waited behind the lids.  I opened my eyes and ran my hand through my hair.  "I wouldn't know where to begin.  It was… it was the most horrible thing I've ever seen, Rebecca.  Don't ever ask Christopher about it.  Don't ever make him tell you.  Don't even wonder about it, okay?  Just know that it was… it was something that… diminishes you by looking at it.  I'll never forget it, and I wish I could.  God, how I wish…."

She leaned over and gave me a hug.  "You're a really nice guy, you know that?"

"Thank you."

She pulled back and stared at me.  "You don't believe that, do you?  That you're a nice guy?"

"No.  Maybe.  Sometimes—hell, I don't know."

"Well, take it from me, Mark Sieber, you are a nice guy.  I've known guys who weren't nice.  I'm pretty sure I can tell the difference.  Okay?"

I tried smiling at her, settled for nodding my head.  "Yeah."

A nod.  "Okay, then."

Arnold came out of the bathroom and sat next to her.  "Man, I'd forgotten what it was like to have the john all to yourself.  I miss anything?"

Rebecca pointed.  "Christopher's drying his face."

Arnold leaned toward her.  "Did you put wrinkles on this time?"

"Yes."

"Well, shit…if I'd've known that, I would have had you give me some."  He looked at me.  "I could get used to this cussing thing."  Then, to Rebecca:  "You'd better be careful about making yourself look too different.  Mess around with the look too much and your folks maybe won't know who you are."

"They'll know," she said.

"I hope so."  Arnold leaned toward me.  "See, what happened was, we got this one Michelle Pfeiffer movie… I don't remember what it was called…"

"The Deep End of the Ocean," said Rebecca, then:  "I think Michelle Pfeiffer's real pretty."  She brushed some of her phony hair away from her face, then—reconsidering—brushed it back down.

"Stupid title for a movie," said Arnold.  "Wasn't even an ocean in it.  See, in the movie, Michelle Pfeiffer's little boy, he gets stolen from her when he's real young—like two or three, right?  They look for him for a long time but then they give up, and one day, like, five years later, Michelle Pfeiffer sees him again, and even though he looks all different, she recognizes him right away.  He doesn't look a thing like he did when he was stolen, but she still knows who he is."

"We talked about that a lot," said Rebecca, "and Christopher said that the reason she recognized him, is because she was his mother and that any woman who had given birth to a child would… would… what was the word he used?"

"Instinctually," shouted Christopher.

"You're supposed to be not talking," said Rebecca.  "And thank you."  She turned back to me.  "Christopher said that any mother would instinctually know their own child, no matter how much they might have changed."

"So that got us to thinking," said Arnold.  "We all could mostly remember what we looked like when Grendel took us, so we got real good at using the makeup to make our faces look like they used to look—I mean, like we remember them looking.  Or something like that."

Rebecca patted his hand.  "Grendel did not allow us to have any mirrors, except once a month, before the meetings.  We got to use mirrors then."

"But you can forget an awful lot about your face in a month," added Arnold.  "I never thought about it much before, but, man, a lot of people sure do spend a lot of time looking at themselves in mirrors."

"Or windows, or shiny surfaces," said Rebecca.

"Or puddles," said Thomas from the corner.  "Don't forget about puddles."

"Or puddles," said Arnold.  "So we been working on getting our faces back the way we remember them looking.  We don't have pictures of ourselves, though, so we're just guessing.  I just hope that Christopher's right and that our moms will know us, anyway."

"How do you know where your families are?" I asked. 

Arnold and Rebecca looked at one another, then over at the still-kneeling Christopher, who raised one of his hands, index finger and thumb curled into the "OK" symbol.

"Grendel kept track," said Arnold.  "He kept track of how long they looked for us, when they gave it up, if they moved, everything."  His eyes became suddenly sad.  "That's how I found out my grandma died."

"He always let us know when our families gave up looking for us," said Rebecca, gently rubbing Arnold's back.  "He really enjoyed that part.  'I told you they didn't care about you,' he always said.  'Only I love you.  Only I care what happens to you.'  Yeah… he really enjoyed that."

Arnold pulled over the other laptop and started typing with the keys.  "All of the information is in here—my family's still living in the same place, but Rebecca's family moved about a year ago.  Thomas's folks moved, too… about five blocks from his old house."  He showed me his own file, and all the information was there.  It was incredibly thorough; not just about him, but about all the members of his immediate family.  I wondered just how many city and police officials were parts of Grendel's inner circle.

"He's got files on here for the four of us, and all the other kids, too."  Arnold called up a section of map and showed it to me, explaining about the various color codes:  their "delivery" route was marked by a bright green line; an area highlighted in blue marked a place Grendel had already visited and acquired a child, places to which he did not want to go back because he didn't believe in tempting fate; an area highlighted in orange marked a potential grab point—rest stops, parks, busy restaurants, school playgrounds, etc., places where there were usually a lot of people and at least one child left unattended for a minute or less; and the red areas (this surprised me, because I wouldn't have thought Grendel so obvious) were hotspots—not for grabbing children (at least, not for him), no; these were hotspots for meeting other pederasts, known hangouts where he could, if the whim came on, meet out-of-towners with similar interests; most of these were rest stops and city parks, with a small gold star to mark the locations of the public rest-rooms.

"He once told me that you could find someone there any night of the week," said Arnold.  "These guys told each other where they went for… you know.  I guess there are kids who go there because they want to meet guys like this."  He shook his head.  "Man, I don't get that at all."

I couldn't help but notice one of the red-highlighted areas lay along their—our—route, and had been further delineated with a silver square. 

"What's with the square?" I said, and began to point when the laptop's lid was suddenly pushed closed.

"I leave for five minutes," said Christopher, "and you two spill everything."

Rebecca protested.  "But you said—"

"—it was okay to tell him about Grendel keeping track of our families," snapped Christopher, pulling the computer from Arnold's lap.  "I did not say show him the route.  Now he knows where we are."

"No, I don't."

Christopher glared at me; his face had dried very nicely.  "Don't try to pull one over on me, Pretty Boy."

"I don't know where we are!  All I saw was the green line and the colored spots along the way.  Look, Christopher, I swear to you I didn't see anything else—no town names, interstate or exit numbers, nothing.  I just wanted to know about the silver square."

"You'll find out soon enough."  Then:  "All right, let's grab everything and get the hell out of Dodge."

"I want a pizza," said Arnold.

"What?"

"Don't 'what' me, man!  I'm hungry and I want a pizza and some pop.  There's a Hut right down the road, let's call one in.  Sign says they got a two-for-one going on."

"No."

"They got a drive-thru, Christopher.  We're not gonna have to walk inside or nothing."

"I said no."

"And I said I'm hungry."  Arnold was on his feet now, standing right in front of Christopher.  "It ain't like we can't afford it, not with all the money we took from him.  It's right on the way and I say we get one."

"I could go for a slice or three," said Rebecca.

"With extra cheese," said Thomas.  "I like extra cheese."

"What is this?" said Christopher.  "A democracy all of a sudden?  You guys put me in charge and I said no."

"If you don't let us get something to eat," said Arnold, stepping closer so that his nose was level to Christopher's upper lip, "then I'm gonna start munching on Mark's spare parts and we can all talk about the good old days."

After that, dead silence.

They stood glaring at each other.  I almost added that I was hungry, as well, but no one had asked.

Finally Christopher said, in a tight voice:  "So… you're getting some of that old nerve back, huh, Arnold?"

"You know it."

After that, more silence; this even deader than the first.

Christopher stepped back—I was sure he was going to haul off and hit Arnold—and reached for something in his back pocket.  "Good for you.  It's about time, my man."  He produced a cell phone, tossing it to Arnold.  "Get the number and phone us up an extra-large pie."

"With extra cheese," said Thomas.

"And green peppers," said Rebecca.

"I want shrooms," Arnold added.  "It's a two-for-one on extra large, so there's gonna be shrooms.  And sausage."

"Can we get pepperoni, too?" I asked.  Everyone looked at me.  "In case you guys have forgotten, it's been a while since I had anything substantial to eat."

"And pepperoni for the guest of honor," said Arnold, finding the number in the phone book and then calling in the order.

"Get the thin and crispy crust," Christopher said, "not that deep dish number.  There will be no argument on this point.  I never liked their deep dish."  Then:  "Hey, Pretty Boy."

"I really wish you'd stop calling me that."

He leaned down so that his eyes—so cold right now, so much like they were in the video—were staring right into mine.  "Swear to me on your wife's grave that you didn't see anything besides colors on that map."

I did not blink.  "I swear.  Nothing."  There was no doubt in my mind that he would not hesitate to kill Tanya—and probably right in front of me—if I lied to him.

"Pinkie-swear?"

So he'd heard that part, too.  "Pinkie-swear."

He stared at me for a few more moments, then stood up.  "I'll take your word for it, Pretty Boy.  Do I have to remind you…?"

"About the gun?  No, I think I might manage to retain that."

"Good.  By the way"—he slapped a set of keys into my hand—"you're driving for a while.  I'm tired."

"Hey," called Arnold.  "Do we want free cinnamon sticks or what?"

I was amazed at how quickly they were able to gather all the bags, cases, equipment, and other items they'd brought inside from the bus.  As soon as everyone was packed up and ready to go, Arnold peeked out the window; for the first time I saw that we were in a ground unit of a two-story motel with at least three separate buildings.  We were at the farthest possible end of the farthest possible building.

Arnold reached into his shoulder-bag and pulled out a set of binoculars.  "It looks good," he said.  "The dude behind the desk is talking on the phone and his back's to us."  He put the binoculars away.  "Good time to get."

Christopher reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash half the size of my fist, peeled off six fifty-dollar bills, and put them on the nightstand along with a note that Rebecca had just finished writing.  "We pay our way," he said to me.  "It's up to the maids whether or not they give the management their share."

I wanted to ask how they'd gotten everyone in here without being spotted, but then Rebecca was wheeling Thomas through the door, Arnold was right behind them, and Christopher had me by the elbow, pushing me toward the bus and trailer.  It couldn't have taken ten seconds for us to clear that room.  I felt like we'd forgotten something, but I couldn't say what.

9. Buttercup and Buckeye Lake

If the girl at the drive-thru window noticed the dried blood on my shirt, she gave no indication of it.  I paid for the pies with money Christopher handed to me, then accepted the pizzas, cinnamon sticks, and already-chilled 12-pack of Pepsi, thanked her, and drove off without getting the change.

"You owe me six bucks," said Christopher.

"Sue me."  I doubted he'd hit me since I was the one driving.

He gave a short, sharp whistle.  "My, my, my—everyone's growing a set of brass ones around here all of a sudden.  Fine, Pretty Boy—take the on-ramp coming up on the right.  After that, we're going in a straight line for a while."

"How long?" I asked.

"Why do you need to know that?"

"If you're going nap-out, then I need to know how long I'll be driving before I have to take an exit, and if you don't tell me how long then I'm either gonna get us lost, run out of gas, or will have to look at a fucking map and if I have to look at a fucking map then I'm gonna know where we are and it's my understanding that my knowing our location would irk you somewhat."

"Listen to my man go!" said Arnold, laughing.  "I didn't know anyone could talk that fast."

"You yammer on like this every time you're scared or nervous?" asked Christopher.

"Not since the last time I was kidnapped and held at gunpoint."  For some reason, this struck me as funny, and I laughed.  Then Arnold joined in.  Then Thomas, then Rebecca, and pretty soon Christopher was laughing, as well.  We were all laughing so hard I almost missed the on-ramp.  Then we laughed about that.

"Pizza's getting cold," I said.

"Let 'er rip," Arnold said, and the boxes were opened, the Pepsi passed around, and everybody got a couple of the cinnamon sticks and at least three slices of pie.  It was the best meal I'd ever eaten.  For those ten or fifteen minutes as the food was being inhaled and the CD player kicked in with The Marshall Tucker Band again, I don't think I was nearly as scared as I'd been up until now; the sun was almost gone, but not quite—a bit of purple twilight still hung around near the horizon, not quite finished with the world and the road yet.  The highway itself looked clean and uncluttered, like an endless sheet on a clothesline, caught in the wind and stretching back toward the still-purple horizon.  Damn, it was almost nice.

"Ninety minutes," said Christopher, stretching back in the seat, propping his knees up against the dashboard, and covering his face with a captain's cap he pulled from his shoulder bag.  "If I'm not awake in ninety minutes, give me a jostle."

"One question."

"Make it fast."

"How do you know that once you're good and asleep I'm not going to just get off at the next exit I see and find the nearest police cruiser?"

He tilted back his head, peeking out from under the cap.  "I can give you four good reasons why you won't do that:  One, you know that the last guy we grabbed who tried to pull something is dead—and by the way, the only reason you're not keeping him company right now is because I missed back in the room; two, I know where you live, so even if you did manage to get away, we'd be seeing each other again real soon and I don't think Tanya would appreciate the surprise visit; three, whether you've admitted it to yourself or not, you want to help us; and, four, you want to know what we've got back in the trailer, and the only person who's going to let you see it is me.  So be a good Pretty Boy and drive for a while and let me catch forty winks.  I might even be more pleasant once I've gotten some rest."

"How long's it been since you guys slept?"

"Three days, at least.  Are we done now?"

"Yes."  I checked my watch; 9:15 p.m.  "I'll wake you up at a quarter till eleven."

He was asleep in five minutes.  After that, it took less than fifteen minutes more before I could hear the soft, warm sounds of sleep from behind me.  I chanced turning around in the seat once and saw that all of them were down for the count, then turned my attention back to the road.

Christopher nailed it on all counts, including my curiosity about whatever was in the trailer; but mostly he was right about my wanting to help them now.  Jesus—even a complete stranger could read me.  Had I become that tiredly predictable over the last ten years?

My dad would have called it "being dependable."  And he would've known; the man worked the factory line for over thirty years, never called in sick even when he was undergoing radiation treatments, almost never complained, paid his bills faithfully, squirreled some away for a rainy day, always checked to make sure Gayle and I were doing fine (even after we both married and moved out), did the dishes every night so Mom could rest, and retired just in time to discover the prostate cancer we'd all thought had been taken care of years ago had returned, only this time it brought along family who took up residence in his liver, right lung, stomach, and brain.  He died in hospice sixteen months after he clocked out at the plant for the last time; he never got to go fishing near Buckeye Lake (he'd splurged and bought himself a new rod and reel), never got to see an OSU football game in person, never got to take my mom out for a "night on the town" like they used to have when they'd first been married and didn't have any kids to drain their energy and bank accounts.  He went from the factory floor to the chemo ward and then into the ground.  I don't think he experienced a truly happy day in all the years I knew him.  Mom died in her sleep ten months to the day after we buried Dad.  Every time I thought about it, I still cried.  They'd both been gone for a little over two years, and I still missed them so much it hurt like hell.

I have no idea how long I'd been driving or how long I'd been crying when Christopher said, "What's wrong?"

I looked at him for a moment, waiting for either the smartass remark or the threat; when he said nothing more, I turned my attention back to the road.  "Go back to sleep.  I'm doing what you told me to."

He pushed back his cap and sat up.  "What time is it?"

I checked my watch.  "Five after eleven."

"Damn.  I feel like I've been asleep for hours."

"I'm surprised you don't feel hung-over."

He shook his head.  "No.  I feel pretty good, in fact."  He turned down the volume on the CD player; I'd already had it pretty low.  Now I couldn't hear it at all.  And "Can't You See" was just about to start, too.

"So what's wrong?"

"What the hell does it matter to you?"

"I like to keep my hostages happy.  Which is more than can be said for our former keeper."

I wiped my eyes.  "Not that it's going to mean shit—since my sympathy's a little late, as you pointed out—but I'm really sorry for what happened to all of you."

"Thanks.  Seriously."

"Did you really kill the last guy?"

"Yeah, I did.  We didn't exactly grab him like we did you.  He hired himself out to us."

"Who was he?"

A shrug.  "Some drifter we met at a rest stop.  He was trying to bum a ride from anyone who'd take him, but he wasn't exactly the cleanest or most cordial of people.  He needed a ride, we needed a normal face.  He said he'd help us for five hundred dollars.  I gave him half up front.  We stopped at a gas station outside Topeka so he could wash up and I followed him in.  As soon as we were through the door he jumped me and tried to get the gun.  I shot him and he stumbled outside and fell right in front of Denise—Rebecca was taking her to use the ladies' room.  I was madder than hell and just kept shooting until Denise shrieked and tried to run away.  Pissed away a good silencer for nothing.  Lucky that Grendel kept two spares of everything.  Did you know most silencers are only good for about six to eight shots if you're lucky?"

"I was unaware."

He laughed at that.  "Arnold and me dragged his body back into some bushes behind the gas station and then we took off.  I never once saw an attendant or another customer."

"Lucky for you—this outfit you're traveling in isn't exactly inconspicuous."

"That's the whole idea."

I looked at him.  "What do you mean?"

He sighed, stretched his arms, cracked his knuckles.  "Grendel, he liked his red wine.  Liked to drink it almost all the time.  Sometimes he'd drink a little too much and get chatty.  Whenever that happened, he'd start going on about his 'methods,' about his 'modus operandi.'  Sick fuck actually thought the way he did things was admirable….

"When you first spotted us, what's the first thing that registered?"

"Silver," I said.  "The first thing was how bright the finish is.  Then I noticed that it was a VW Microbus.  Then I noticed the trailer."

"Right.  Now answer me this; if we hadn't slowed down so you could get a good look at Denise—be honest—would you have even noticed anyone inside?"

I thought about it for a moment.  "No, I don't think I would have."

"Which is exactly what Grendel counted on.  You know the two best ways not to get noticed?  Either be so bland you're invisible or stick out like a sore thumb.  This bus sticks out.  If people see anything, it's the bus, not who's driving."

"But that doesn't make sense.  A vehicle like this draws all kind of attention to itself.  You'd have to be stupid to use this for—oh, hang on…"

"Is that a light bulb I see over your head, Pretty Boy?  You already know the punchline, don't you?  That's right—any cop or Highway Patrol officer sees this thing, they think something like you just did:  'Anybody who'd drive something like that must be a damned careful motorist, it's not like they could blend into the traffic.'  They decide that someone would have to be stupid to break the law while driving this contraption, so they automatically dismiss it."

"Grendel couldn't possibly depend on that being the case every time he went out."

Christopher laughed quietly.  "Then you want to tell me why he was never caught or so much as pulled over?  These are the only wheels he used.  Every time he ran one of his 'errands,' it was in this.  Fifteen years, Pretty Boy.  Thirty-seven kids.  Six different states that I know of.  Any cop runs these plates, this thing is cleaner than a nun's fantasies—I got that line from an old Robert Ryan movie.  Everything's registered in the name 'Beowulf Antiquities, Inc.'—which also explains the trailer to them, as well as why the windows are covered up on the inside; after all, if you're moving valuable antiques, you don't want the wood finish to be harmed by harsh sunlight, do you?  So this thing sticks out like nobody's business and draws all kinds of attention to itself and yet somehow never got noticed.  As crazy as it sounds, it works."

"God," I said, shaking my head.  "Is that also why all of you dress the way you do?"

"Bingo.  I blend into to any background, completely forgettable.  Rebecca's an average-sized teenage girl with lots of long, dark hair.  And Arnold is just a black kid in a white shirt."

"You learned all of this from Grendel?"

"No, we signed up for correspondence courses.  I got a 'B.'"

"Sorry.  Dumb question."

"Anything else on your mind?"

"I have to call my wife.  I promised I'd call her.  If I don't call, she'll call the motel and when I don't answer the phone—"

"Easy there, partner.  I know you have to call her, I was listening, remember?"  He pulled the cell phone from his pocket, flipped it open, and raised the antennae.  "Looks like we got a nice, strong signal."  He began handing it to me, then stopped.  "You tell her everything's okay, you're tired, and just wanted to say good night.  You'll see her when you get home tomorrow night."

"Will I?  See her tomorrow night?"

"Unless you give me a reason to make it otherwise."

I took the phone from him.  "Were you really trying to hit me when you took that shot back in the room?"

He stared at me, unblinking.  "I can't think of one good reason I should answer that."

I punched in our number, praying that I'd get the voicemail; I'm a lousy liar and Tanya can spot my bullshit without breaking a sweat.

"Hello?"

For the first time in our marriage, I was almost sorry to be talking to my wife.  "Hey, honey, it's me."

"Hello, stranger.  Everyone's fine.  Gayle and the kids are asleep.  I got someone a spiffy new cell phone, you're welcome."

"Terrific.  How was the drive?"

"The Columbus airport's a pain in the ass but what else is new?  Traffic wasn't too bad once we got onto the highway.  The kids kept going on about being so high up in the air—this was their first time on a plane.  You should've seen the way they carried on about it.  God, I'd forgotten how cute those two are.  How're you doing?"

"I'm okay.  I'm tired.  Tomorrow's going to be a long day.  I probably won't get in until late."

"Were you able to rent a car in Jefferson City?"

My balls jumped up somewhere in the vicinity of my throat.

It's amazing just how quickly you can disintegrate into total unreasonable panic:  Tanya had asked a simple question, one that let me know she'd spoken to either Edna or Earl at the motel, which meant they'd told her I wasn't there, which meant Tanya might think I still was in Jefferson City, or that someone else might have already checked my room and seen the mess and the blood, which meant the State Police might have already issued an APB, which-meant-which-meant-or-or-or-or-OR.

It must have registered all over my face, because suddenly Christopher was leaning over and mouthing What is it?

Your note I mouthed in return, then said:  "Uh, yeah.  Sort of.  The rental place I found won't have a car available until after noon tomorrow."

"That's fine.  Every little delay just gives me more fuel to burn Perry's ass with.  By the way—what did you mean about criminal charges?"

"I'll explain when I get home."  Christopher grabbed my wrist and turned the cell phone away from my ear so he could listen in.

"Are you back at the motel now?"

I drew a blank.  I looked at Christopher.  He seemed to be caught off-guard, as well.

I was on my own here.  Wonderful.

"Mark?  You still there, baby?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm still here… uh, what'd you say?  I didn't hear you."

"Where are you, anyway?  Back at the motel?"

I'd lied to her once already and her bullshit alarm hadn't gone off yet, so I had no choice but to press my luck.  "No, I'm still in Jefferson City but I'm going to be heading back to the motel here pretty soon.  I… I ran into a delivery guy who's taking stuff over to Muriel's restaurant."

"Muriel?  Oh, right, right—Cletus's girlfriend."

Damn, they were a talkative bunch.  I kept waiting for Tanya to ask me about Denise, but she never did; which meant no one had told her about it, which meant that the State Police had told everyone to keep it to themselves for the time being, which meant—

"Mark?  Hello, Earth to Mark."

"I'm sorry, babe.  I'm using a cell phone and it keeps going fuzzy on me.  Look, I gotta go, my ride's getting ready to leave.  I really need to get back and get some sleep.  I'll call you if anything else happens—but if you don't hear from me, it means everything's fine, okay?"

"Gotcha."

"I love you, Tanya."

"You'd better.  Love you, too, baby.  See you tomorrow night."

"Tell Gayle and the kids I… I can't wait to see them."

"Will do.  'Night."

"Good night."  I snapped closed the phone, then looked over at Christopher.  "So?  How'd I do?"

"You think fast, Pretty Boy.  You did good.  Real good."  He took the phone.  "I'd almost forgotten about that note."

"I don't like having to lie to my wife."

"Sorry.  On the bright side, by this time tomorrow night, more or less, you'll be home, safe and sound."  He pulled one of the laptops out from underneath his seat, fired it up, and checked something, all the while making sure to keep the screen angled away from me.  He checked the screen, then looked up as we approached a sign.

"I'm not looking at anything," I said.

"I know you're not."  He read the sign, then checked the screen once more.  "Let me ask you a hypothetical question:  Say you're me, and you know something the others don't.  But this thing you know, it would upset them.  But at the same time, it's something they would want to know, regardless.  Got it?"

"I think so."

"Would you tell them?"

"No."

He blinked, surprised.  "You didn't even have to think about it."

"What's to think about?  They've got more than enough to deal with for the rest of their lives.  Why upset them anymore?"

Christopher looked back.  Rebecca, Arnold, and Thomas were deep asleep.  "I really love them."  He looked at me.  "If you believe nothing else I say, believe that."

"I do."  And I did.

"Remember the silver square on the map?"

"Yeah…?"

"I was going to skip it—that's why I decided to nap-out for an hour-and-a-half.  But I woke up.  So you're going to help me with this.  The next rest stop's coming up in two miles.  Pull in.  You'll have to park on the 'Trucks and Campers' side."

I remembered Arnold's explanation of the color schemes.  "That's a red spot."

"Your point being…?"

My stomach felt suddenly queasy and tight.  "What are you going to do?"

"Wrong pronoun, Mark."  This was the first time he'd called me by name.  "You mean to say, what are we going to do."

I saw the rest stop entrance up ahead.  Everything about this felt wrong. 

And bad. 

Very, very bad.

I pulled off the highway and drove around to the proper side.  Christopher had me park at the farthest end, as close to the exit as possible, and in a straight line across four parking spaces; whatever we were here to do, he did not want to waste time afterward backing out. 

There were six semis and one behemoth Winnebago parked over here.  I started to turn off the ignition but Christopher shook his head.

"As long as the engine's running, they'll stay asleep."

I checked the gas gauge; three-quarters of a tank.  I'd forgotten what great mileage these things got.

We sat in silence for several minutes, the only sounds that of our engines and those of the park and darkened semis. 

Three slices of pizza, two cans of Pepsi, and a very tense drive.

"I have to go to the bathroom," I said.

"Good.  So do I.  You go first."

I made it to the toilet just in time. 

As I was washing my hands, I noticed something in my shirt pocket and pulled it out.

Cletus's business card, with his home phone number written on the back.

The bathrooms were inside the main building.  In the lobby—if that's what they called the common areas in rest stops—were a couple of large maps mounted on the walls, several shelves of brochures, a couple of water fountains… and a bank of payphones.

I checked my pockets and was shocked to find thirty-seven cents in one of them.  How the change hadn't fallen out when the pants were being washed and then hung over a shower curtain rod, I didn't know and didn't much care.  It was a good bet that I was well out of local-call range, but I could call collect.  Something told me Cletus was the type to accept the charges.

I walked out of the bathroom.  Slowly.

I wondered if Christopher could see the payphones from the bus.

I thought about Tanya.  About my sister.  My niece and nephew.

I looked at the card in my hand.

And then I thought about Dad; whenever I find myself in anything remotely resembling a moral quandary, I tend to ask myself what he would do were he in the same situation.  My dad was one of the best people I'd ever known.  It wasn't just that I'd loved him, I'd liked him so much.  He was a decent, dependable, hard-working man; he had his faults, no arguments there—he could be a royal pain when he was in a bad mood, and he was a mean drunk (though he didn't get drunk very often)—but he was the one his friends always turned to when there was a problem they couldn't handle on their own.  So tell me, Dad, what the hell would you do if you were in my shoes?

I'd keep my word, is what I'd do.  You said you'd help them.  So, help.

I looked once more at Cletus's number, released the breath I didn't know I'd been holding, slipped the card back into my pocket, and went back to the bus.

"Jesus," said Christopher as I climbed back in.  "Did you fall in or something?"

"Some activities cannot be hurried."

"Yeah, whatever."  He all but ran to the building after he got out.  Behind me, everyone was still sawing logs; Thomas snored softly, Arnold slept with his mouth open, and Rebecca drooled a little bit.  They looked almost peaceful.

I leaned back my head and closed my eyes.  A few minutes later, Christopher was back.

"You're still here."

"Why wouldn't I be?" I said, sitting up and rubbing my eyes.

"You just passed your first major test."

"I'm thrilled.  What are we doing here, anyway?"

He said nothing, only pointed to where another vehicle was driving around toward our area.

I thought I was imagining things at first, but as it passed under the sole streetlight on this side of the building, I realized it was no hallucination.

Another silver VW Microbus pulling another silver Airstream trailer parked across the lot from us.  If one of the truck drivers were to wake up right now, the poor guy would swear he needed glasses.

I pointed to our doppelganger.  "So what happens if a cop runs those plates?"

"Beowulf Antiquities, Inc., that's what.  These guys are a lot of things, Pretty Boy—stupid isn't one of them."  He reached into his shoulder bag and removed an unmarked, shrink-wrapped videotape.  "I'll go around to the driver's side, you stand by the passenger window."  He sat very still, as if rallying himself.

"What's with the tape?" I asked.

"Grendel has—had—a network of customers who pay top-dollar for entertainment of a very specific nature."  He gave the tape a little wave.  "You're looking at Connie's final performance, with stereo sound.  A thousand dollars a copy."  He nodded toward the other bus and trailer.  "That gentleman over there is one of Grendel's distributors.  He copies and sells this…'entertainment for specific tastes'.  Whenever enough orders are taken, a meeting is arranged.  Grendel had one scheduled for tonight.  We give that guy this tape, and he gives us the cash taken in from the last few orders—minus his twenty-five percent commission, of course."

"Of course."  I wanted to vomit.  "How many… distributors are there?"

"Five.  And they all deal with me.  None of them has ever seen Grendel's face."

"A silent partnership."

He nodded.  "Now it's time for your second test," he said, disabling the dome light and opening his door.  "Get out—and make sure you follow my lead."

"What are you going to do?"  The idea of participating in a transaction like this was more than I could stand.

Christopher slung the bag over his shoulder.  "You'll see.  Leave your door opened just a crack.  Come on."

Sixteen steps.  It took sixteen steps to get from my door to the passenger side of the other bus.  It was one of the longest walks of my life.

Both the driver's-side and passenger windows had been rolled down.  I stood where I was supposed to as Christopher, plastering on as much of a smile as his facial prostheses would allow, went around to speak with the driver, who reached up to disable his dome light and in the process accidentally flicked it on for a few moments, giving me a brief but clear look at his face.

I wish I could tell you that he was a sweaty, pale, beady-eyed little toad who stank of semen-stained underwear, colored his comb-over with shoe polish, had dirty fingernails, a nose covered in exploded capillaries, and a pronounced facial tick; I wish I could say that one look at him would scream 'pervert' to a one-eyed man a hundred yards away in a rainstorm; I wish there had been something, anything about him that set off the gothic bells and brought in the thunderclouds; but like Grendel, he looked utterly harmless:  clean, well-groomed, and conservatively dressed.

"Beowulf Antiquities, Inc., at your service," said Christopher.

"You have a new friend," said the driver, not looking at me.  "I wasn't told anything about you suddenly getting an assistant."

Christopher held up the tape.  "Connie."

"You're kidding?  He finally… wow.  I mean, wow, y'know?"  He reached through the opened window and took the tape, turning it over in his hands with tenderness, even reverence.  "He said this one was going to be special."

"I have a supporting role," said Christopher.

The driver looked back at him.  "Well… good for you.  About time."  He slipped the tape into a canvas satchel on the seat beside him, then removed two very thick brown envelopes and passed them to Christopher, who stuffed them into his shoulder bag.

"This is really going to be something," said the driver.

Christopher's smile spread up into his eyes.  "You have no idea," he said.

And then shot him right in the throat.

At first I wasn't sure what happened—or maybe I was and my brain just didn't want to register the truth of it—because I knew I heard the bird-chirp and I definitely saw the white flash but then for several seconds absolutely nothing else happened, the guy just sat there like he'd momentarily forgotten something or was waiting for a fart to finish, but then he jerked around, facing the windshield, and one of his hands moved up to his neck and his index finger probed the entrance wound like the Little Dutch Boy at the dike and when he pulled out his finger the blood started spurting, arcing up against the inside of the roof and running down the windshield and when he opened his mouth to scream the only thing that came out was more blood, slopping over everything, and then he just fell on his side, clawing at his neck, his legs shuddering, feet kicking out, eyes rolling up into his head and thick, wet noises spluttering from the hole where his Adam's apple used to be, then his bladder and bowels gave out at the same time, the piss coming so fast and strong it squirted right through his underwear and pants, spraying the dashboard, and the stench of his evacuated bowels hit me in the face and stomach and I grabbed the door to keep from passing out but the stink didn't faze Christopher one little bit,  he threw the door the rest of the way open and grabbed the guy's legs and when he did that the driver's torso started thrashing around, blood showering outward like it was hooked up to a water sprinkler, and by then I could feel my stomach getting ready to give up the ghost but Christopher was hissing, "Son-of-a-bitch open the door and grab him!" and I did but his arms were flailing all over the place and one of his hands cracked against my nose and for a couple of seconds I couldn't see anything but throbbing bright phantoms, then another punch landed on my shoulder and brought me back but I still couldn't get a grip so I did the only thing I could think of, the only thing that made any sense—if  anything makes sense when you're in the middle of helping someone murder another human being—I climbed inside and grabbed his satchel and slammed it down across his chest, throwing myself on top of it, pressing against it with everything I had until his arms stopped flailing and his legs finished kicking and the geysering blood became a slow stream and then a spurt and then a trickle and with one hard shudder and a quick last spasm from the bowels it all just stopped.

I should've been screaming but I wasn't.  I wasn't even there.  This wasn't my body on top of the bloody corpse, it was something I used to walk around in.  I was out in a rowboat with Dad near Buckeye Lake, watching him cast off his line and listening to him talk about how Mom was going to fry us up some damn tasty walleye for dinner tonight if he had anything to do with it, and sitting there in that boat I decided to turn around and look down into the water where I saw a familiar body lying on top of a pile of meat and I asked Dad, "What would you do, if you were in this situation?"  And without turning around, Dad replied, "I love you, Mark, you know that, but son, I'd never have gotten myself into that situation, so I can't help you, I'm sorry.  Now be quiet, else you'll scare away the fish."

"…me now."

I fell out of the boat and sank down into that familiar body.  My lungs filled with water.  Drowning was supposed to be peaceful, right?  God I hoped so.

"…at me!"

Something hard slapped my face, snapping my head to the side, and the water was gone and so was the boat and so was Dad and I felt my heart sink because, damn, walleye would've been tasty.

I blinked my eyes several times, then righted my head.

Christopher looked at me over the dead guy's legs.  "Don't flip out on me now, Pretty Boy.  Deep breaths, that's it, c'mon, in, out, in… good, there you go… now look at me, right here, right"—he snapped his fingers three times—"over here, that's it.  You with me now?"

"…yeah…"

"You sure?"

I swallowed, tasting blood.  I hoped it was mine.  "I'm… I'm sure."

"Listen to me.  Turn around and close the door.  Stay inside."

"I don't want to."

"I know you don't, and I'm sorry, but you need to do this for me.  And you need to do it now."

I dragged myself the rest of the way inside, yanking closed the door.  I slipped on a puddle and dropped onto my ass, pulling the satchel down on top of me and almost cornholing myself on the stick shift.  I curled up into a ball, hugging the satchel to my chest.  I was now sitting face-to-face with the thing the driver used to walk around in.

"I need to run over to our trailer," said Christopher, pushing the guy's legs back inside and closing the driver's-side door.  "I'll be right back.  Don't go anywhere, okay?"

"…okay…"

Then I was alone.  More or less.

I listened to the sound of something dripping off the seat and spattering against the rubber floor mats; the staccato rhythm seemed muffled, more like the sound made by someone cracking their knuckles through heavy gloves, not liquid at all, but no one in the world had that many knuckles, so I decided they were drumming their fingers against something hard but with a softer covering, a leather briefcase or vinyl seat-cover or even the dust jacket on a book:  tappity-tap-tap-tap; tappity-tap-tap; tappity-tap-tap-tap.  I wished they'd decide on a cadence and stick to it.

I looked at my crimson-slicked hands.  They were trembling—no, wait, scratch that—my hands weren't trembling, just my fingers.  How was that possible, only your fingers getting the shakes and not your entire hand?  I started to ask the guy lying in front of me and then remembered that he was well past answering anything ever again.

His face was shiny and mostly dark now, except for his eyes, which shone up out of the gore like pearls in fresh mud.  His mouth was open, lips pulled back in a silent rictus scream.  A small bubble rose to the surface of his mouth, jiggled, then burst with a soft pop!  I stared into the maw, waiting for another bubble to rise up, but one never did.

I started humming to myself.  "All Through the Night."  I thought I was maybe a little off-key; if Thomas were here he'd help me to get it right.  Maybe I could even ask him why he sang the "…hill and dale" line wrong each time.

I tried to convince myself that I was a decent man, a good man and loving, faithful husband, and that those things still counted for something right now, even if I was ass-deep in blood and piss and dead-man's shit; I tried telling myself that a man could go back to his life after something like this and still feel clean, principled, and blameless; and then I decided I was full of it and tried getting back to the boat, but Dad had rowed away to a better spot.  Walleye are sneaky little devils, but I doubted they'd outsmart him.

I squeezed the satchel tighter.  There was something soft inside.  I opened it up and took a peek.  There was the tape Christopher had given him, and a suede-covered organizer, a bunch of some folded papers and more brown envelopes… and then I found it.

"Hello, you," I said, pulling out the stuffed Buttercup doll.  I wondered if all of Grendel's distributors had a thing for the Powerpuff Girls.  Maybe that was a prerequisite for joining their club.

"I'm sorry about what happened with Blossom," I said.  "It was just one of those things.  It didn't mean anything."

Buttercup glared at me, but there was love in her eyes.

I pulled her close, stroking her hair.  "It'll never happen again, I promise, I do, I swear to you…."  Then I started crying, but Buttercup didn't make fun of me, she understood, she said it was all right, everything was going to be okay as long as that stupid old Mojo didn't come along and ruin everything.  The dirty little monkey-faced dork.

I held her close, wondering how I was going to break the news to Tanya, when Christopher appeared in the window.  "Get back here, Pretty Boy.  Look up.  That's right.  Now, you take a couple of deep breaths, get your legs working, and climb out here."

I stuffed Buttercup into the front of my pants, silently apologizing for the temporary rudeness.  She said it was okay but, jeez, hadn't I ever heard of deodorant?

Once outside I filled my lungs with the crisp night air.  No other vehicles had come to park on this side, and in the trucks and behemoth, not a creature was stirring, not even a light.

Christopher glanced quickly at Buttercup, then shook his head and looked at me.  "You want his feet or his arms?"

"I don't care."

"Grab his feet, then."  He lifted up the driver, hooking his arms around the torso, and began pulling him out.  I grabbed his legs when they came my way, and we carried him over to the trailer.  The door was unlocked and opened just a crack.

"Let go," said Christopher.  I did.  The legs dropped toward the ground with a damp, heavy slap.

"Now go on and get back inside the bus.  Sit on the passenger side.  Go ahead."

I yanked Buttercup from my pants and straightened her hair as I climbed into the seat.  She reminded me to close the door quietly.  It's a good idea to do whatever Buttercup asks.

I heard the squeak of the Airstream's door being opened, then felt a heavy shake as the body was tossed inside.  Another squeak, a couple of clicks, and Christopher walked across the lot with some kind of container dangling from his hand.  I leaned back my head and closed my eyes.  I heard something sloshing around.  Then footsteps.  The door opening, then closing.  Another click, then movement beside me.  I opened my eyes just in time to see Christopher light a cigarette.

"Those things'll kill you," I said.

"So will getting up every morning, eventually."  He shoved the lighter back into its slot, then put the bus into gear and began moving toward the exit.  "Lucky none of those trucks are hauling gas or kerosene."  He looked out toward the merge ramp, then, just as we were passing our twin, flipped out the cigarette; it arced smoothly through the night air and into the passenger window.  The inside of the bus belched flame, Christopher shifted gears, and were well onto the highway before the fire started getting really serious.

"Here," he said, popping the lid off a plastic pill container.  "Hold out your hand."

I did, and he tapped out a pair of small blue pills, then handed me an opened can of Pepsi.  "Go on, take those.  You'll be okay, just take them."

I knew I should ask what they were, but at that moment I didn't care.  He said I'd be okay if I took them.  Being okay sounded good.  So I took them.

Should've asked him what they were first, said Buttercup.  Mojo's henchmen are everywhere.

I told her to mind her own business and leaned back my head once more.

Behind us, I could hear Arnold stirring awake.  "Hey… what's… what's going on?"

"I needed to stop for a piss," said Christopher.

"Well thanks a lot for waking me up."

"Do you have to go?"

"…no, not really.  But it would've been nice if you'd asked."

Buttercup whispered, You're hanging with some real goof-a-doofuses, you know that, right?

I closed my eyes, searching for the lake. 

Dad was whistling some off-key tune. 

And laughing. 

He hadn't laughed in the longest time.  I wanted to find his boat.  I'd heard the fishing was pretty good around here….

10. All Who Ride In This Bus Shall Be Protected

The order of events during the next four hours remains jumbled in my memory; the sedatives Christopher gave me weren't quite strong enough to knock me all the way into la-la land, but they did surround everything with a pleasant, numbed, gauzy haze where for a while the world moved in slow motion, as if everyone and everything were underwater.  I know that we drove for quite a while.  I know that everyone started waking up just as the sedatives started kicking in.  I know that every time I closed my eyes I saw the dead guy's body lying in front of me, only sometimes he got up into a kneeling position and tore off his makeup to reveal Grendel's face underneath.  I know I tried to keep my eyes open as long as possible after that.

I remember Christopher and Rebecca talking about my waist size; had she noticed what it was when she was washing the pants?  38?  Good.  Does he look like he wears a large or extra-large shirt?  It was decided that extra-large would be the way to go, just to be safe.  The Marshall Tucker boys were singing about fire on the mountain and Arnold was complaining that they'd been listening to that same damn CD for the last six days, wasn't it about time something else was put in there and Christopher said music is always the driver's choice and Arnold said that wasn't fair and Christopher said okay jesus anything to shut you up what do you want to hear and Arnold asked if there was any Billy Joel and Rebecca vetoed that because Billy Joel's voice always sounded so sad and then there was a discussion over the virtues of The Beatles versus Pearl Jam or Led Zeppelin and then Thomas started singing about how dumb Bill and Dale looked when they were sleeping and Christopher said they had about ten seconds to decide and then he was going to crank up the Barbara Streisand and everyone groaned in horror and Arnold said that if there was any Frank Sinatra that'd be cool and Rebecca agreed and soon the Chairman of the Board was crooning away about those vagabond blues and they were all singing along and it sounded like fun so Buttercup joined in and I almost faded out for a bit but then remembered the feel of blood on my hands and the stench of shit in my nostrils and started crying again but not too loudly because I didn't want to spoil their sing-along and then there were very bright lights and the sounds of many cars and people and we came to a stop and someone got out and I opened my eyes and saw that we were at another major truck stop and then Christopher was gently slapping the same side of my face over and over tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-Tap-TAP-TAP.

"He awake?" asked Arnold.

"He is now," said Christopher.

"How'd he get all that blood on him?"

"I told you guys once already, he got a nosebleed while you guys were sleeping back there.  We need to get him cleaned up.  Any sign of Rebecca yet?"

"Yeah, I think I see her."

One of the side doors opened and she climbed in, carrying several large plastic bags from various shops. 

"Get everything?" asked Christopher.

"I'm going to pretend you didn't ask me that."

"Sorry."

"You'd better be.  Jeez, asking me if I remembered everything."  I wondered if it was cold out, she was trembling so.

I came fully awake when something wet and cold and reeking of alcohol began running in circles around my face.  I coughed, sputtered, and pushed it away.  When my eyes were able to fully focus again, I saw Rebecca kneeling between the two front bucket seats, a large container of pre-moistened sanitary wipes balanced between her knees.  "Sorry," she said.  "I didn't mean to startle you, but we have to get you cleaned up.  We're going to be dropping off Thomas in a little while and need you looking your best."  She continued cleaning me off.  "You must have really opened the floodgates.  This is twice now that your nose has bled real bad."  There was a tone in her voice that told me in no uncertain terms she did not for one second believe Christopher's story.  She paused with a fresh wipe in her hand and looked into my eyes.  "Are you all right?"  She wasn't asking about my supposed nosebleed; she wanted to know if I was dealing with whatever it was Christopher and I had done while they were asleep.

"I don't know," I whispered.  She cleaned off my cheek, then leaned up and kissed me there.

"You're a good guy, Mark.  If I was ten years older, you might be in trouble."

I smiled.  "You're really sweet, you know that?"

"Of course.  It's nice to know you have good taste.  Make sure you tell Tanya for me that she'd better keep you happy; I just might come calling in a few years if she doesn't."

"Oh, she'll love hearing that."

It took the whole container of wipes and at least half of another one to get all the blood and other liquids cleaned off.  Christopher was standing outside, leaning against the front of the bus, smoking a cigarette.  Rebecca handed me one of the large plastic bags.  "New pants and a new shirt.  You can change in the back seat.  I'll sit up here, but I won't promise not to look."

I tried remembering where I'd heard someone say something like that before, then decided it didn't matter.  I fumbled my way into the back seat where Arnold helped me get out of my soaked clothes and into the new ones.  My ruined jeans and shirt went into a trash bag that Arnold tied off and stuffed under the seat.

"I almost forgot," said Rebecca, tossing a small package over her shoulder.  "Your new socks."

I finished changing, then used a few more sanitary wipes to clean my shoes; thankfully I'd worn a pair of work boots on the trip and they were dark enough that whatever blood remained on them was hardly noticeable.

"Might wanna run a couple of them wipes through your hair," said Arnold.  I did, and they came away bloodied.  A comb was offered, and used, and according to the reflection from the rearview mirror, I looked presentable enough—aside from the gash across the bridge of my nose and the slightly bruised left eye.  Rebecca cleaned the gash on my nose, then covered it with a flesh-colored Band-Aid.

"My work here is done," she said.

"Thank you."

"Here," said Arnold, shoving something that looked like a wallet into my hand.  I flipped it open and saw my driver's license through the plastic window of the only pocket; on the other side of the wallet's interior was a bright pointed gold badge that identified itself as belonging to a U.S. Marshal.

"Is this thing real?"

"You bet," said Arnold.  "Grendel had a lot of connections."

"Just make sure that when you flash that thing," said Rebecca, "that you cover up as much of your license as you can.  The idea is for them to only see the picture of your face and the badge."

"Are you alright?" I asked.  "You're shaking like a leaf in the wind."

"I'm okay.  I guess… I guess it's just finally hitting me that… we're all going home, y'know?"

I squeezed her hand.  Her skin was slightly clammy.  It must have been both chilly and damp outside.

Christopher pulled open one of the side doors and examined the scene before him.  "He looks good.  You give him the wallet?"

I held up the badge, making sure that my thumb and fingers covered everything on the license except my face.

Christopher nodded.  "That's exactly the way you need to hold it.  Make sure you remember that."

"I could go to prison for the rest of my life if I get caught."

"Yes, but you're not going to get caught.  I have magic powers.  All who ride in this bus will be protected."

"Man's got a line of bullshit three miles wide and twice as deep," said Arnold.  "If I could lay it on like that, I'd be a star."

Christopher snorted a quick laugh.  "Does anyone need to go to the bathroom or dance a jig or get anything before we head out?"

Everyone shook their heads, then looked as one toward Thomas, who had fallen back asleep.  He even hummed in his sleep.

Not looking away, Christopher whispered, "You got everything he'll need packed up and ready to go?"

Rebecca did not look away from Thomas, either.  "Yes," she said, with a deep and profound sadness.

Arnold cleared his throat.  "Should we, uh… should we wake him up now or wait until we're—"

"Wait," said Rebecca.  "Please.  Please wait."

"I second that," said Christopher.  "All in favor."

Everyone raised their hands.

Christopher pulled in a breath, held it for a few moments, then let it out in a quick, hard burst.  "Well, hell's bells, people.  I never thought we'd ever be doing this."

"Me neither," said Rebecca.

"All in favor," Arnold said.

Everyone raised their hands.

"Who calls shotgun?" asked Christopher.

"Me," replied Arnold, and we all took our seats.  Once back out on the highway, Arnold moved to start the CD again but stopped when Rebecca said, "No music right now, okay?  I don't much feel like it."

Arnold shrugged.  "I guess I don't, either."  He sat with his hands folded in his lap, the quiet and ever-attentive student who everyone suspected was the teacher's pet.

After a while, Christopher broke the silence.  "Well, at least we won't have to worry about him messing up at line 757 again."

Arnold shook his head.  "He never could get that right."

"Line 757?" I asked.

"Beowulf," said Rebecca.  "It was Grendel's bedtime story.  Every night after he chained us back up—after we'd done our chores for the day, tending his gardens and all that—he'd pull up a chair in the middle of our room and have us recite it to him, beginning to end.  Thomas always messed up line 757:  '…the dealings he had there/were like nothing he had come across in his lifetime.'"

"'Then Hygelac's brave kinsman called to mind/that evening's utterance," I said, "upright he stood,/fastened his hold till fingers were bursting./The monster strained away; the man stepped closer.'  'Beowulf and Grendel Wrestle', right?"

Arnold turned around, staring.  Christopher looked at me in the rear-view mirror.  Rebecca leaned closer and said, "You know Beowulf?"

I nodded.  "I wrote a paper on it in college."

"You went to college?" asked Arnold.

"Yeah.  I have a Master's degree in English."

"Then why in hell did you tell me you were a janitor?" snapped Christopher. 

"Because I am."

He glared at me from the mirror.  "You have a Master's in English and you clean toilets for a living?"

"I also strip and wax floors, empty trash cans, polish desks, dust shelves, vacuum carpets, and do windows.  I'm told me and my crew are pretty good at it."

"Why?  Why would someone with your education choose to do that instead of teaching?"

I shrugged.  "What the hell difference does it make to you?"

"Come on," said Rebecca, softly smacking my arm.  "Don't be that way, please?  Tell us."

"Yeah, man," Arnold said.  "I'd kinda like to know myself."

"All in favor," said Christopher.

Everyone raised their hands.

"Motion carries, Pretty Boy.  Spill."

"You're going to keep calling me that no matter how many times or how nicely I ask you not to, aren't you?"

"Stop trying to change the subject."

I rubbed my eyes and sighed.  "Look, my wife's been asking me that same question off and on for years.  I've never been able to give her a good answer, okay?  And I doubt that any epiphanies are going to occur now,"

"'Epiphanies,'" said Arnold.  "Sounds like a college word to me."

"Very funny."

"Then takes a guess," said Rebecca.  "C'mon, Mark.  You have to have some idea."

"Maybe."

"Well, then?"

I looked down at my hands, saw the calluses on the palms, and remembered the way Dad's hands had always felt so rough whenever he hugged me or shook my hand or touched my cheek when I was a boy.  He'd always seemed so embarrassed that his hands weren't softer.

"When I graduated," I said, as much to myself as them, "Mom and Dad were so damned proud of me.  Neither one of them had even finished high school, and here was their son graduating college.  Tanya and I had just gotten engaged, so as far as they were concerned, my future was a lock.  Dad still had about seven or eight years left before retirement, and I think it made him feel good to know that his boy was never going to have to work the line or walk a picket during a labor strike or worry about how much bologna he could afford for lunch because the bills had cleaned out most of last week's paycheck.  Whenever we'd talk about my plans, Dad would get this look on his face about halfway through the conversation like he didn't understand what I was saying—of course by that time I'd get off on some tangent about Carson McCullers or James Agee or some other writer, and I'd be so busy talking about what books I wanted to teach to students that I forgot Dad wasn't much of a reader.  Oh, he read Readers Digest and DAV Magazine, the articles in TV Guide, but novels and short stories, essays, poetry… I was talking way over his head.  I didn't mean to.  He tried to keep up, he asked all kinds of questions that I always had answers for, but the more we talked, the more I could see that he was… he was embarrassed.  His son was smarter than him—I never once believed that, but what I believed wasn't the point; how he felt was.  And my dad was embarrassed because he thought he looked like a dummy.

"One night as I was filling out an application for an adjunct faculty position at OSU, I realized that once I started teaching, my conversations with Dad would become more and more strained, and we'd be reduced to asinine smalltalk—the weather, sports, inflation, politics—and I didn't want that.  I didn't want him to feel like he couldn't talk to me.  So I told my folks that until a permanent position opened up at OSU or Otterbein or Columbus State, I was going to take a temporary maintenance position because it paid well and I needed to get some money in the bank right away because, well, I had these student loans…

"They understood, and weren't disappointed in the least.  Dad even said that it was the sensible thing to do, because the adjunct faculty position didn't pay a whole helluva lot, and with my degree I deserved something more substantial.  Plus, it gave us all sorts of new things to talk about; the job was damned hard work, and Dad understood all about hard work, and respected me for my decision.  Plus, it got so I was able to give Mom countless cleaning tips after a while and, boy, did she love that.  I got really good at the job, was given a raise and put in charge of a small crew, and after a while was offered the supervisor's position at a sizeable pay increase with decent benefits, so I took it.  I told Tanya that it would only be for another year or so, just to help us build up that nest egg before we got married.  Then I told everyone I wanted to stay on until I could train a suitable replacement, but I somehow never got around to looking for one.  Then it was going to be just until after Dad retired.  And somewhere in there I started looking at the students who were coming in to OSU, how arrogant and sycophantic most of them were, walking around with this attitude that said they already knew everything and were just here for the diploma so they could get out in the world and make the big bucks.  For them, college had nothing to do with learning, education didn't mean shit—it was all just a means to a hefty paycheck of one kind or another.  And these were kids who looked at me and laughed because what was I?—just some stupid janitor with a mop in one hand and a bottle of Windex in the other.  And it finally dawned on me that they way they looked at me, the way they treated me, the outright pity or contempt they showed… it was the same way Dad thought I looked at him.

"So I decided, fuck this noise, and to hell with all of them.  I had a good job and money in the bank and a wife who loved me and a dad I could talk to and a mom who needed ongoing household cleaning tips, so why mess with a good thing?  I wasn't going to be a teacher who could inspire the likes of them, so why have an illusion shattered."  I laughed without much humor.  "Of course Mom and Dad are both dead now and our bank account isn't what it used to be.  It probably won't be long before Tanya starts asking again if I've I found a replacement yet.  I don't know how to tell her that I'm no longer that English grad she married.  I'm just a janitor, mop in one hand, bottle of Windex in the other, and I'm actually pretty okay with that."  I sighed once more, stretched my back, and look up at all of them.  "Was that enough of a guess for you? Because I'm fresh out if it wasn't."

"You must be a real blast at parties," said Arnold.

"Give me a lampshade and on my head it goes.  I'll clean it, first, but after that… it's wild-man time."

"So you and your family were real close?" asked Christopher.

"Yeah."

"Then what's the deal with your grandmother's inheritance money?  Why didn't you want any of it?"

"How'd you know about—oh, right, the magic listening dish, I forgot."

"Thing can hear a fly fart in a tornado," said Arnold.  "Well, it maybe ain't that good, but we listened in on you and Cletus in the truck pretty well."

I looked at him.  "When exactly did you guys decide I was your best candidate, anyway?"

"When Rebecca saw your car had Ohio plates," said Christopher.  "A guy from Ohio, traveling alone, not exactly dressed to the nines, and with a broken-down car in the middle of Missouri…?  You might as well have painted a bull's-eye on your back.  It was going to take a while for you to get or from wherever you were going, so if you took a bit longer, who'd worry about it?"

"That's why you made three passes, to make sure I fit your little profile?"

"That's about the size of it."

His matter-of-fact tone irritated me, and I suddenly didn't feel like talking anymore, so I asked, "What's your story, Christopher?  How'd Grendel manage to get his hands on you?"

"Another burning question," said Arnold, turning to face him.  "All this time, you never told us—hell you've never talked about your family.  I don't think you even told us what their first names are.  What gives?"

If there had been even a hint of friendliness in Christopher's eyes and manner during the last few hours, it vanished instantaneously the moment he looked at me in the mirror and said, "And pretty Boy just lost all his Brownie points."

"Don't start," said Rebecca.  "It's almost time to… to wake Thomas."

Arnold checked the map on the computer, then the road signs.  "She's right.  It's the exit after this one."

"Hell's bells, people," Christopher said.

Then Rebecca added, "All in favor."

Everyone raised their hands.

"You listen to me, Pretty Boy, and you listen good."

"Do I have a choice?"

As we approached the exit he explained to me exactly, specifically, in detail, precisely what I was to say and do.

"Fuck up and I'll kill you."

"I hate it when you get like this," said Rebecca.

"Amen to that," muttered Arnold.

And that's how I came to find myself standing behind a tree in a quiet middle-class neighborhood at three o'clock in the morning, counting sixty as Rebecca, still trembling, walked away, then punching in the phone number of a husband and wife whose world was about to change drastically for the second time in as many years.

11. Maybe the Bad Stuff Makes Him Sad

Before we all got out of the bus to assume our positions, I'd reminded Thomas to make sure that he sang the "Bill and Dale" line when he saw his mother; if nothing else, that would let her know that he was really her little boy.

"He won't need to do that," said Rebecca.  "His mother will know who he is."

I sat there for a moment trying to figure out how to say good-bye to this broken little boy I hardly knew, then Christopher signaled for me to get out with him.  "Let them say their good-byes in private."

As soon as we were outside, he drove his knee up into my balls, covering my mouth with his hand to muffle my shriek.  I dropped to my knees and he grabbed a handful of hair, yanking back my head and leaning in my face.

"That's for putting me on the spot earlier.  And"—he jerked my hand back farther—"to remind you that you and me are not friends, got it?  Just because you do all right under pressure doesn't mean I won't splatter you all over the pavement if you give me a reason.  You see this?  This isn't that the pop gun I used on the guy at the rest stop, this is a .45-caliber Heckler and Koch USP Tactical pistol.  Of all his guns, this one was Grendel's favorite.  It doesn't make much of a hole going in, but you could set a whole watermelon in the crater it makes on the way out—and from the distance I'll be shooting, that's what it'll do."  He jerked my head one more time; I could hardly breathe and could hear bones starting to crack.

"Are we clear on everything?"

"…yes…" I managed to get out.  He snapped my head forward, releasing his grip.  I fell to my hands, gasping for air and trying not to throw up.

"Remember how I told you to do it, Pretty Boy.  Now go on.  That's the tree, up there near the corner.  Do good, we'll be listening."

I wobbled away, almost falling twice, one hand clutching at my crotch like a drunk stumbling toward a urinal in the dark.  Christopher took a bottle of pills from his pants pocket, looked at it, then put it back.  I wondered what they were.

I somehow made it to the tree, where I immediately put my back against it and slid to the ground.  My nuts had dropped back down—they were now only in the middle of my chest instead of lodged in my nostrils—and I was determined to stay like this until the last possible minute…

…which came about four minutes later, when the red beam of the laser sight flashed against my right temple.  I dragged myself to my feet and leaned against the tree, watching as Rebecca came around the corner, pushing Thomas in his wheelchair.  She pushed him up the walk, set the brakes, placed the two grocery bags in his lap, then embraced him.  I felt a great swell of sadness, then realized my pity was badly misplaced; they both carried themselves with far too much dignity for that.  How could I do anything but admire them?

Rebecca walked away, still shaking like a leaf in the wind, not looking back, and as soon as she disappeared around the corner I counted to sixty and placed the call.

It was between the second and third rings that I realized Christopher had not told me what name to use.  I sure as hell couldn't use my own, and if I—

"…lo?" said a very tired and very groggy voice.

"Hello?" I said.

"Uh, yeah, I… the hell time is—?  Who is this?"

"Am I talking to Mr. James Henry Theilbar?"

"Who is this?"

"Mr. Theilbar, this is"—I paused for only one second, grabbing the first official-sounding name that came into my mind—"Chief Deputy Samuel Gerard of the U.S. Marshal's Office."  If James Theilbar was a Tommy Lee Jones fan, I was screwed.

After a moment he said, "If this is some kind of joke, I swear to Christ—"

"I assure you this isn't a joke, sir.  You are the same James Henry Theilbar who is employed as plant manager at Larsons Manufacturing, Inc., aren't you?"

"Yes…?"  I could hear the weariness in his voice; how many times had he received prank phone calls that started out this way, but had talked to the caller anyway in hopes that, maybe, this time, it would be the real thing?

"Mr. Theilbar I need for you to get yourself awake, sir.  I have some information about Thomas."

"I'll just bet you do.  All right, asshole, if you're who you say you are, prove it."

"When your son was abducted from the emergency room waiting area at County General, he was wearing a New York Yankees' baseball cap, a blue, button-down shirt, a pair of—"

"Public record, you son-of-a-bitch."

"Your wife had the car that day and you couldn't find your wallet so you paid for the cab ride with cash you took from her house money that she didn't think you knew about—"

"Also in my statement."

"You let Thomas call the cab and pay the driver."

"Fuck you.  I'm hanging up now."

And he did.

I stood there staring at the phone in my hand, then hit the redial button.

This time before he answered, he turned on the bedroom light.  Their bedroom was in the front part of the upstairs, just as we'd hoped.  "Listen, you bastard—"

"Was it also part of your statement that the cookie jar where your wife kept her house money was a gift from the guy she was dating at the time the two of you met?"

Silence, then:  "I… I don't remember having said that—but it doesn't mean I didn't say it."

"Was it part of your statement of record that your son was still having problems with bedwetting?  Was it part of your statement that his favorite trick to play on you was to cover your face with shaving cream while you were sleeping, and then wake you up by screaming, 'Daddy's having a conniption fit!'?—a phrase I believe he learned from your wife."

"…oh, my God…"

"Mr. Theilbar, do you now believe that I am who I say I am?"

"Where's Thomas?  Where's our son?"

"I need for you to stay calm, sir."  That was Christopher's biggest order:  Say whatever you have to, but keep them calm.  I don't want this turning into a circus that's going to wake all the neighbors.

"Calm, my ass!  Do you have information about Thomas or not?"

I could hear his wife's voice in the background—"Thomas?  Jim is that someone calling about Thomas?"

"Mr. Theilbar, please tell your wife that I need for the both of you to remain calm."

"Yes, yes, of course… I'm… I'm sorry, it's just… we've had so many crank calls about Thomas since he disappeared, or tabloid reporters trying to get a story, or people wanting reward money before they'll give us any information…"

"I understand.  Thomas is alive, Mr. Theilbar.  Tell your wife."

He did.  I expected her to start crying, but this was a woman made of strong stuff who didn't base her behavior on tired movie clichés; she said, in a firm, steady voice:  "Tell him we want to see our son."

"Mr. Theilbar, does your phone have a speaker?"

"Yes."

"Put me on it, please."

I heard the click and hiss.  "Can you both hear me now?"

"Yes," they replied.

"Mr. and Mrs. Theilbar, Thomas is alive.  Got that?"

"Good Lord, yes," said Mrs. Theilbar.  "What… what do we have to do now?  Please, tell us."

I stepped out from behind the tree and walked under the cone-shaped glow of the streetlight.  "Turn off your bedroom light and come to the window."

The light snapped off and I saw the shadow-movement of the curtain being pulled aside.  I held up the wallet, making sure that the light reflected off the badge.  "Can you see me?"

"Yes."

"Mr. and Mrs. Theilbar—Jim and Melinda, may I call you that?"

"Yes…?"

"Jim and Melinda, it's important you understand that we can't afford to draw any attention to this.  I need you to come down to your front porch, and promise me that you will remain calm and quiet, can you do that?"

"Of course."

"Come on down.  Don't turn on your porch light."

I closed the phone and slipped it into my pocket as I approached the house.  I stopped when I got beside Thomas, who took my hand and said, "Are they coming to get me now?"

"Yes.  They'll be here in a second.  I'm guessing they have to put on their robes and slippers."

"Mommy doesn't wear slippers."

"Oh."

He squeezed my hand.  I could feel his trembling.

The front door opened.  Jim and Melinda stepped out onto the porch.

"Remember, buddy," I said.  "Bill and Dale."

"Bill and Dale.  Gotcha."

They came down off the porch.  Melinda Theilbar—a small, blonde-haired woman with soft, attractive, round features that my mom would have called "pixie-ish"—was on the second step when she paused, leaned forward, and then gasped.  Her face lit up with a smile so bright it was almost enough to restore your faith in the human race.  She ran past her husband, arms outstretched, and slid down onto her knees in front of the wheelchair.  Now she was crying.  I couldn't blame her.

"Oh, God, Thomas!  Oh, my baby!  Oh, honey, I'm so glad to see you!  So glad, so glad, so glad…."

Ten feet away.  She'd been ten feet away, the light was at our backs, she couldn't be fully awake yet… ten feet away at three in the morning and she recognized him instantly.

She's his mother, she'll know who he is.

Jim Theilbar walked toward us very slowly, one hand over his mouth, his eyes glistening with tears.  He recognized his son, as well.  He looked at me, then knelt beside his wife and embraced Thomas, too.

I took a few steps back and looked down at my feet.  I had to wait.  This wasn't over yet.

After a couple of minutes, Mrs. Theilbar rose to her feet and crossed to me.  I held up the badge once again but she only gave it a quick glance.  "I don't know how to thank you."

"We need to talk, Melinda."  I took her by the elbow and led her up toward the front porch.  On the walk, Thomas and Jim were whispering and hugging.  Jim laughed.  So did Thomas.

"He seems like he's… well, like his mind's okay," said Melinda.

"It is.  He's been through nine different kinds of hell, but that's one tough boy you raised."

"What… what happened to him?"

"The man who abducted Thomas has been responsible for at least forty other abductions over the last fifteen years.  Most of them, he killed.  We were able to get Thomas and the other survivors out of there before he had the chance to—how much of this do you want to hear?"

Melinda wiped her eyes and pulled in a deep, unsteady breath.  "As much as you want to tell me."

I gave her the Cliff's Notes version.  The man who took Thomas was a psychopath who got off on domination and physical torture; yes, Thomas had been sexually molested, as had all of the other victims; no, I couldn't give her any specifics about the rescue at this time; yes, I was of the opinion that Thomas was going to need emotional counseling for probably the rest of his life; yes, the amputations were clean, so there was every chance that artificial legs would very much be in order.

"The two grocery bags Thomas has," I said, "are filled with medications that he will need; painkillers, antibiotics, etc.  There's a list of what medicines need to be given, and when, as well as several jars of salve for his burns."

By this time Jim had pushed Thomas up beside us, and stood listening.  "We need to take him to the hospital right now," he said.

"No," snapped Thomas.  "You gotta keep this a secret for a little while."

Melinda looked at him, then at me.  "Why do we have to do that?"

"The man who abducted Thomas and the other children doesn't know yet that we have them; he thinks they're still chained up in his basement."  At hearing that, Melinda's eyes widened in disgust and sorrow, but she got a handle on it right away; no showing weakness in front of her husband and son for this gal, no, sir.  Damn, I liked her.

"He has a pattern of leaving them alone for several days at a time," I continued.  "We have agents waiting at his house for him to return, but this is a smart man.  He has a lot of other people with… similar interests as part of his network.  These people monitor police bands, wire services, radio broadcasts…   If you were to take Thomas to the hospital right now, I can guarantee you that the man who abducted him will know about it before morning rush hour.  Information like that isn't the private matter it once was."

"And I feel okay," Thomas added.  "Really.  I got medicine for everything, and bandages, and all that stuff."

I nodded.  "Everything you need to take care of his medical needs for the time being is in those bags.  All I'm asking, Melinda and Jim, is that you wait seventy-two hours before doing anything—after that, you can show him off to the world and tell as many people as you want.  But I've got three other children to return to their families and my superiors want to keep this under the radar for as long as possible."  God, I hoped I wasn't laying it on too thick.  "By then he'll either be in our custody or dead—and between us, I don't care which one."

"Good for you," said Melinda, squeezing my hand.  "Good for you."

"I have one last thing here…"  I reached into my back pockets and removed a pair of thick brown envelopes held closed by strips of duct tape.  "Among the items we obtained from his house was a small office safe that contained almost a quarter of a million dollars in cash.  We talked it over, and my team decided that we'd rather divide that money equally among the families of the surviving victims than tag it as evidence and see it wind up funding a party to kick off someone's re-election campaign.  But you didn't hear me say that."

"Say what?" asked Melinda, taking the envelopes from my hand.  "Do I want to know how he came by this?"

"No."

"Then I didn't ask."

"Isn't my mom cool?" said Thomas.

"Both your folks are cool," I replied.  Then, to them:  "Aren't you?"

Jim Theilbar looked at me with such respect and admiration I almost felt guilty for all the bullshit I'd been spreading for the last fifteen minutes.  "Yeah," he said.  "We are."

"Don't deposit more than a thousand dollars of that at a time," I said.  "Banks are required to inform the FBI of any cash deposits exceeding ten thousand dollars.  As of right now, this money doesn't officially exist."

"Mr. Gerard," said Jim, "this may sound stupid to you, but I think after tonight I might start believing in God again.  Thank you—and thank your team.  We won't say or do anything for the next three days, you have our word."

I shook his hand.  Melinda insisted on hugging me.  She used the same vanilla-scented soap as Tanya, which is probably why I let the embrace go on a little longer than was wise.  They promised again to keep quiet, and then—after helping to move Thomas and his wheelchair up into the shadows of the front porch—I asked for a few moments alone with him.  Jim and Melinda stepped to the far side of the porch to give us some privacy.

"I guess you gotta go, huh?"

I knelt down in front of him.  "Afraid so, buddy."

"You gonna come see me again?  Or call?"

I looked at him, then smiled.  "You bet."  I think we both knew it was a lie.  He might miss everyone for a while, but eventually he'd come to a point when even thinking about any of us would send him into a tailspin.  Better to be a memory, and hopefully one that will soon be forgotten.

"I really socked Christopher with that boot, didn't I?"

"You've got great aim, Thomas.  Thanks, by the way."

"You're welcome."  We looked at each other for a few more moments, then he scratched at his face, sighed, and said, "Well, I guess you better go before Christopher gets all grumpy again."

"Is he always like that?"

"No.  Most of the time he's pretty nice.  I think maybe the bad stuff makes him sad."

"I think you're probably right."  I offered him my hand, but he just laughed and pulled me to him in a surprisingly strong hug.

"Thank you for bringing me back to my mommy and daddy," he said.

"My pleasure."  I stood, giving his hand one final squeeze.  "It will start to get better now, Thomas.  So… I hope you can be happy."

"I am.  I'm home."

I nodded, waved to Jim and Melinda, then got the hell out of there before I lost it altogether.

I rounded the corner but did not look back at the Theilbar's house.  "Be happy," I whispered, and maybe it was a prayer.  "Be happy."

The first thing out of Rebecca's mouth when I got in the bus was:  "I miss him already.  Is that silly, or what?"

"Not really."  I sat next to her and took her hand in mine.  "I think he's going to be okay.  Eventually."

"Are they nice?  Please tell me that they're nice."

I nodded.  "They're wonderful.  Seriously.  They're just great.  I was thinking of asking them to adopt me."

"Good," she whispered, then sniffed.  "That makes me feel a little better."

"Honest?"

She looked at me and smiled.  "Honest."

Her hands still felt cold.  "Are you sure okay?"

"Huh?  Oh, yeah, I think so.  Probably need a shot—I should check my blood sugar just to be—"

She was cut off by Christopher and Arnold climbing into the front seats.  Arnold was jumping with nervous energy.  "Oh, man, you were awesome! You should've been there, Rebecca, my man was on fire!"

"He did all right," said Christopher.

Arnold was deeply offended by this.  "All right?  All right?  The man was on!  You even said so yourself.  Rebecca, I'm telling you, Mark here was so good he had me believing he was the real thing."  He reached over the seat and gave my shoulder a congratulatory smack.  "Dude, you rocked the casbah!  You burned down the house!  Damn that was great!"  He turned back and smacked Christopher's shoulder.  "Go on, admit it.  Am I right?  Am I?  Wasn't our man all that and a bag of chips?  Wasn't he?  Wasn't he?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, all right, okay," said Christopher, recoiling from any further blows of enthusiasm.  "He was good."  He looked back at me.  "Okay, you got me, I admit it—you were better than good.  You were pretty damned impressive back there, Pretty Boy."  He was almost smiling.  "You get back some of your Brownie points."

"How thrilling for me."

His face went blank for a second.  "I suppose I had that coming."

"Heard that," added Arnold.

"All in favor," I said.

Everyone raised their hands.

Then Arnold cracked open the last four cans of Pepsi and handed one to each of us.  "To Thomas," he said, raising his can.

"To Thomas," said Rebecca.

Christopher nodded.  "Thomas."

"To Thomas," I said.  "May all the songs he sings be happy ones from now on."

"And on-key," added Arnold.

We toasted, then drove away.

12. Hence, My Cheery Nature

We'd been back on the road for maybe half an hour when Christopher looked once again into the rearview mirror and said, "So, you and your grandmother—what's the story, Morning Glory?"

"What is it with this stiffy you've got for my family history?"

"I'm trying to be nice here, Pretty—uh, Mark."

"I thought he looked like he was pulling a muscle," said Arnold.

I smiled at him, then looked back at Christopher.  "I didn't mean for my tone to sound quite so nasty, sorry."

"So what gives, anyway?"

Rebecca had fallen asleep again; her head was resting on my shoulder.  I didn't want to wake her—the longer she slept, the farther away from Thomas we got, and the farther away we got, the less it might hurt her (or so went my reasoning)—so I carefully moved her to the side, placing a small pillow between her head and the window.  She sniffed, muttered something, then pulled up her legs and curled into a semi-fetal position on the seat.  Once I was sure she wasn't going to wake up, I scooted the edge of the seat and leaned forward so that I was between Christopher and Arnold.  "You want the whole story or the Readers Digest condensed version?"

"Whole story," said Arnold.  "We got a couple more hours or so before it's gonna be time to drop off Rebecca."

I hadn't realized she would be next.  I missed her already.

"Who's after Rebecca?" I asked.

"That would be me," replied Arnold.

"You worried about how it's going to go?"

"I was until I saw you in action back there."  He smiled at me.  "You do that with my folks and I think it's gonna be fine.  I ain't worried about it so much now."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"That's how I meant it."

I looked at Christopher.  "Can I not have a gun pointing at me next time?"

"I'll have to check your Brownie point score, but so far it looks good."

"Christopher?'

"Yeah…?"

"I'm not trying to put you on the spot, okay?  But how did Grendel get his hands on you?"

"Yeah," said Arnold.  "It's about time you told us something about this rumored family of yours, anyway."

Christopher sighed, thought about it for a minute, then looked at Arnold and said:  "If you laugh, so help me God I will stop this thing and dump your ass in the middle of the highway."

"What'd I do?" said Arnold, then pointed at me.  "He's the one who asked."

"Yes, but if there's anyone here who'd going to make a smartass remark, it'll be you."

"That hurts my feelings."

"You'll live."

Arnold shrugged.  "Yeah, well, still…."

"No laughing?"

"I'll try.  But I ain't gonna promise not to grin."

"Fair enough."  Christopher glanced at me.  "That goes for you, too."  He turned his attention back to the road.  "My folks own a bar and grill outside Ashland, okay?  It's one of the last places like it you'll find before you get into the heart of coal country.  They hand out maps so that folks don't get lost.  There's a lot of abandoned roads up there, and just as many abandoned mines.  If you don't know where you're going, you could drive into the opening of a mine shaft thinking it's a tunnel to the actual road or something.

"Anyway, one day Dad and me head out to one of those big warehouse stores, the kind you have to be a member in order to shop there, right?  Dad wants to lay in a supply of peanuts and chips and popcorn and tons of other stuff—he always stocked the bar snacks from there because you could buy fifty pounds of nuts for twenty bucks, that kind of thing.  For him, that made it worth the ninety minutes it took to drive to the place.  Plus we always stocked up on non-perishable groceries for ourselves."

"This is really exciting so far," said Arnold.  "Suspenseful, even."  He caught Christopher's look.  "What?  I'm not laughing."

"May I continue?"

"Wish you would.  Can't hardly stand waiting to hear the next part."

Christopher sighed.  "I wasn't feeling too good that day, but it was my job to go along with Dad on these supply runs.  My younger brother, Paul, he stayed to help Mom with the receipts and cleaning and inventory—he was always a lot smarter than me when it came to numbers and organization, but I had him beat when it came to stamina for physical labor, so it worked out pretty well.

"Like I said, I wasn't feeling too good that day.  It was October and it was cold—Jesus, it was cold.  And raining.  It took us almost two solid hours to make it to the store, and of course this was the day when everybody and their brother was in there shopping, so the aisles were crowded and nobody was in a good mood.  I kept getting weaker and weaker the whole time we were there—we didn't know it then, but I was coming down with pneumonia.  We were about half finished with the shopping when I almost passed out, so Dad takes me to this little place they had in there to eat.  He buys me a hot dog and a lemonade and sits with me while I eat, then tells me to go out and lay down in the back seat, he'll finish up the shopping.  Dad was real good like that.  He didn't want any member of his family doing anything if they were sick.  I really loved him for that on that day.  I don't remember if I told him so or not.

"Anyway, I stumble out to the parking lot and find the car—we'd parked all the way at the far end, so it felt like I was hiking halfway to Washington.  But I make it there and I climb inside and curl up on the back seat and fall asleep.  I don't know how long I'd been laying there.  I kept waking up for a few minutes and trying to lift my head but I felt too sick, so I'd just stay like I was until I fell asleep again.  Somewhere in there I remember feeling the car getting loaded up, and then Dad climbed in the front and felt my forehead.  He covered me with a blanket and then started driving."  His voice had become tight and angry during the last few moments, and as he stared out at the road, I had the feeling that what was about to come was utterly humiliating for him.

"I was really sick.  You guys need to understand that, all right?  Whenever I opened my eyes, everything was hazy, like I was seeing the world through a fog.  I remember the long drive, and I remember the car stopping and Dad picking me up and carrying me inside and putting me in my bed.  I remember every once in a while someone waking me up to give me medicine or something.  That's about all I do remember.

"Then one day I woke up and the fog was gone.  I could see really well.  And I wasn't in my room.  I did not recognize this place—at first I thought maybe I was in the hospital, but I'd never seen a hospital room with a wood dresser and locks on the doors and chains hanging from the walls.  Then I look down at the foot of the bed and see this man who is not Dad sitting in chair and staring at me."

"Grendel?" I asked.

He nodded.  "The one and only."

"Wait a second," said Arnold.  "How did the Big Ugly get you out of your parents' house?"

"He didn't."

"Then… what?"

"My folks owned a 1968 VW microbus, is what.  It was gray, but that day in the parking lot, as sick as I was, and with all the rain, I couldn't tell the difference between gray and silver, is what."

Arnold shook his head.  "Holy shit."

"That's right:  I climbed right into the back seat of this very bus and fell asleep, and when Grendel found me, he took me home like some lost puppy."  He shifted in his seat, then stretched his neck.  "So you might understand now why I haven't wanted to talk about it.  He didn't have to do any work or planning or reconnaissance to get hold of me.  I just dropped myself right into his lap.  Stupid!  Goddamn stupid, is what it was.  And I can't help sometimes but think I got exactly what I deserved for being so stupid."  He shook his head.  "And I'll bet not a day has gone by since that Dad hasn't blamed himself for it.  Hence, my cheery nature."

"You were sick," I said.  "You can't hold yourself responsible for mistaking one vehicle for another."

"Bullshit.  Do you have any idea how many 'what-ifs' I've thought up since then?  What if I'd been smarter, better with figures, better at organizing things than Paul?  Paul wasn't sick that day—hell, Paul never got sick!  What if I'd been the one to stay with Mom and Paul had gone along instead?  What if I'd been stronger that day?  What if I'd've told Dad that I'd just wait at the table with my hot dog and lemonade?  I could've just sat there for a while, he'd've let me do that if I'd asked.  Hell, he probably would've let me ride in the fucking shopping cart if I wanted.  But, no, I had to be weak!  I had to go lie down like some wimp who couldn't take it.  Fuck!"  He banged the steering wheel with his fist.

"Take it easy," said Arnold.  "Don't wake up Rebecca."

Christopher glanced over the seat and saw that she was still asleep.  "I was just like that when he found me."  He looked back at me and Arnold.  "Sorry.  It just… pisses me off so much, you know?"  He voice cracked on the last few words.  "All those years just… gone.  Gone.  And I'll never get them back."

"You'll be home soon," I said.

He wiped his eyes.  "Yeah, I suppose so.  You'll put on a good show for my folks too, won't you?"

"Of course."

"Man," said Arnold, "I had no idea, y'know?  Dude, I'm sorry.  Really."

"Wasn't your fault."

"Wasn't yours, either.  How come you never told any of us?  We wouldn't have made fun of you or nothing."

Christopher shrugged.  "Hell, I don't know."  He looked at Arnold.  "Still buds?"

"I don't answer dumb questions."

They smiled at each other.

"That was pretty slick, by the way, Mark," Christopher said.  "That makes—what?— twice or three times now you've gotten us off the subject of dear old grandma."

"I almost forget," said Arnold.  "Yeah, you're right—that was slick."

I parted my hands in front of me, all innocence.  "What can I say?  It's a gift."

Arnold laughed.  "Listen to him—Mr. Humble."

"It's 'fess-up time," said Christopher.  "I'm bored with my stories and I've heard all of Arnold's, so now it's your turn.  No changing the subject, nothing can get you out of—"

And that's when we blew a back tire.

I burst out laughing; I couldn't help it.  "Someone doesn't want you to hear about this."

"Shut up!"  Christopher did an expert job of getting us over into the emergency lane, despite the wobbling and jerking caused by the flat.  He put the bus in park, killed the engine, turned on the blinkers, then reached under his seat to produce a set of road flares.  "Can you tell I was once a Boy Scout?  Come on, Mark—you don't get to sit this one out."

"Got that right," said Arnold.  "I about busted a finger helping him last time.  Need all my fingers."  He wiggled all ten of them.  "I'm gonna be a pianist."

I looked at him.  "Seriously?"

"Serious as a heart attack.  I'd been taking lessons for three years before Grendel came along.  I was getting pretty good, too."

"I'll bet."

Christopher opened his door and sighed loudly.  "Are you two finished with this little bonding moment?  In case you forget, Arnold, we've got a schedule to keep."

"How could I forget about 'the schedule'?  That's all you talk about half the time, gotta stick to 'the schedule,' 'the schedule's' gotta be stuck to, God forbid we should fall behind 'the schedule,' world might come to an end if we screw up 'the schedule'—damn, Sam, write a new verse, will you?"

Christopher blinked.  "Got it all out of your system?"

"Not yet—oh, my gosh, look at the time!  According to 'the schedule,' it's time for me to talk about 'the schedule', just in case you've forgotten about 'the schedule.'  There.  Now I'm done."

"You're sure?"

"Give me a couple of seconds and I might come up with another one."

Christopher looked at me.  "See what I have to put up with?"

"Poor widdle baby," said Arnold.

I laughed, then climbed out.  Christopher ignited one of the flares and set it near the back of the trailer; the second one went near the front of the bus.  They seemed incredibly bright.  It had to be close to four-thirty in the morning; the highway was practically deserted, save for the occasional semi that passed by, its driver giving us not so much as a glance.

"Here," said Christopher, tossing something toward me.  "You hold this, I'll do the deed."

I turned on the flashlight and followed him around; the flat was on the driver's-side rear tire, so we were going to be sticking our butts half into the road; the sooner we got this fixed, the better.  Christopher threw open the hatch in back of the bus and pulled out the jack and tire iron.  It was only as we headed to the back of the trailer—where the spare tires were attached—that I noticed for the first time that the all the windows of the trailer had been sealed around the edges with wax.

"What gives with the wax?" I asked.

Christopher glanced at where I was pointing the flashlight beam.  "Huh?  Oh—that's to try and keep the stink sealed in.  Bodies tend to swell up and burst a lot faster in this weather."

I nodded my head.  "Right.  Did you say 'bodies,' as in plural?"

"Told you—he's got five distributors.  You think that guy back there was the first one?"

"Actually, yes."

"Could we not talk about this right now?"

"Fine by me."

Good God; I was standing by the side of the road at four-thirty in the morning casually discussing the best way to seal in the stench of dead bodies piled up inside a trailer:  was my life working out, or what?

"A little help here?"

I looked up.  "Huh?—oh, yeah, sorry."

Christopher was having trouble getting the brace mechanism loosened; between the two of us and the tire iron, we got it opened, but then the tire decided it didn't want to come down just yet.  Christopher told me to stand on the bumper and press down-and-out on the top of the tire.  It took some graceful balancing on my part—at one point I almost did a spill to make Buster Keaton proud—but I managed.  It was as the two of us worked the tire that I happened to glance down at the back window of the trailer.

The cardboard that had been duct-taped over the inside of the window had come loose on one side; nothing you could see from a passing car, but at this angle I got a fairly good look at what set directly beneath the window.

An aluminum barrel strapped to a dolly; around the barrel were buckets of ice—both the wet and dry variety (though the wet ice had mostly long since melted); the outer rim of the barrel was covered in something that looked like foam; interspersed at even intervals around the foam were a series of plastic-looking plugs (or maybe fuses, it was hard to tell); out of each plug snaked what I first thought was thin copper tubing (they had a still?  Grendel did a little bootlegging on the side?) but on closer examination I saw was actually electrical wire; these wires merged above the center of the barrel where they connected into what appeared to be a modified computer motherboard; the motherboard, in turn, had two thicker wires dangling from its underside; one went directly into a hole that had been drilled, poked, or pounded into the barrel; the other wire just hung in the air, end exposed.

I continued working the tire as Christopher pulled on it, not once looking up at me.

A half-emptied bag of fertilizer lay crumpled near the ice buckets, along with dozens of empty fireworks boxes. 

"Ammonium-nitrate," I said aloud before realizing I'd done so.

Christopher stopped pulling at the tire and stood up straight.  "What was that?"

Lying to him would have been futile.  I nodded in the direction of the window.  "The fertilizer.  Ammonium-nitrate?"

"What if it is?"

"I'm assuming the barrel is filled with fuel oil?"

"I'll ask again, what if it is?"

"Gelatin and gasoline makes a handy napalm recipe."

He stared.  Even in this darkness, I could see the anger surfacing behind his gaze.  "I might've read that somewhere, maybe."

"The stuff around the lid—C4?"

"Chalk up another one for the college man."

"How did you get your hands on some C4?"

"I didn't.  Grendel did.  He was planning to blast out a section of hillside on his property and build a Frank Lloyd Wright-style guest house for some of the… 'visitors'—for their private sessions.  That's also how I got the dynamite and blasting caps.  He had plans for all three floors, where the cameras and sound equipment would be installed.  It was going to be really spiffy."

"Uh-huh.  What the fuck are you doing with a bomb?"

"Don't sweat it, Pretty Boy; I haven't made the last few connections or activated the timer."

"And that's supposed to make me feel better?"

"Ask Arnold—or wake up Rebecca and ask her.  They helped me build it.  Have you seen either of them getting skittish about things?  It's not going to blow by accident.  I was hoping you wouldn't find out about it, but since you have—yeah, we got a big old bomb that's going to make a big old boom and bring the walls a-tumbling down.  So.  What?"

"So what the hell are you, planning to do with it, anyway?"  Images of Oklahoma City and the first World Trade Center explosions kept presenting themselves to me with loud and bloody fanfare.  "Christopher, I will do everything I can to help you guys get back home, but I will not go one more mile if you're planning to kill innocent—"

"Oh, put the paranoia in park, pal.  No one's going to blow up a church or preschool or soulless financial institution.  We just want to make sure that when this is over, there's nothing left of this bus and trailer or the garbage inside of them.  I already know the spot where I'm going to blow it up; nobody's lived there for twenty years—hell, probably nobody but me has even been near it for that long.  Do we seem like terrorists to you?"

"That may not be a good question to ask me, all things considered."

"Fine.  If you don't believe me, go ask Arnold and Rebecca.  I promised them that when this was all over and done with, I'd take a shit in both these things and then blow 'em to hell ten different ways.  Can you give me one good reason why things like these should be allowed to continue to exist?  Knowing what's been done inside them, what they've been used for, the pain that's been inflicted on their floors and in their seats—knowing whose bodies are inside and what those sick bastards did while they were alive… can you give me one good goddamn reason why I shouldn't bomb the living fuck out of all of it?"

I stared at him, then blinked, swallowed, found my voice.  "No.  No, I can't."

"So?"

"So… nothing.  I'm sorry I doubted you.  C'mon, let's get this tire off."

"About time.  Welcome to the same road trip, Mark."

"Thank you."

It took us another minute or so, but we at last got the tire free and set about changing the flat.  Christopher was obviously tired, so after his third attempt to loosen the lugs, I handed him the flashlight.  "You hold the light, I'll be quicker."

"Fighting words if I ever heard them."

"Don't start."

"Just yanking your chain a little—I'm no hero, here, gimme the damned thing.  I'll time you."

"Three minutes," I said.

"You're kidding?"

"We'll see."

I did it in two minutes, forty-eight seconds, a new personal record. 

"I am impressed," Christopher said.  "He acts, he does windows, has a college degree, and can change a flat in under three minutes.  If you weren't already spoken for I might propose to you myself right here and now."

"I'm guessing a bigger man would find that flattering, but to tell you the truth, it's kinda creeping me out."

"Then I haven't lost my touch."

"Very funny."

I was just finishing up with the jack when a Highway Patrol car came up alongside us and slowed to a stop.  The rest happened so fast there wasn't time to panic:  the officer on the passenger side rolled down his window, leaned out, and said, "Getting her fixed up all right?"

"Ready to roll," I said.

He looked at Christopher, then back at me, and said, "Those're a couple of classics you've got there."

"Don't I know it.  But try finding parts for 'em nowadays."

"I can imagine.  You fellahs need any kind of assistance?"

Christopher and I looked at each other and simultaneously shook our heads.  "No," I said.  "I think we're good to go."

"All right.  Drive carefully—and don't forget to extinguish those flares, all right?"

"Will do."

And away they drove. 

Just like that.

"Half an hour," said Christopher.  "Half an hour from now they won't even remember seeing us."  He laughed, then shrugged.  "Never fails."

Until this moment, I hadn't believed him.  But he was right; all they saw was the bus and trailer; there was no asking for names, no requesting to see a license and registration, no inquiries about what was in the trailer, other passengers in the bus, nothing:  Hey, how are you, couple of classics, drive safely, bye-bye.

Despite my initial rush of relief, somehow it didn't make me feel much safer.

Christopher stomped out the flares, then just stood there staring up.  "I'd forgotten how pretty the night sky can be," he whispered.  "Look at all those stars."  He shook his head.  "I feel like I'm seeing all of this for the first time."

"In a way, you are."

He looked at me.  "I think maybe you're right."

I stood next to him, the both of us just enjoying the night air and the starry sky and the peace of it all.  We could've just been two lifelong buddies on a road trip, getting away from the wives and kids for a week, seeing America the way it was meant to be seen, if you believe the AAA literature.

Our reverie was broken by the sound of someone pounding on a window of the bus; we turned to see Arnold climbing over to the driver's seat and opening the door.  "You guys need to get in here," he said.  "I think something's really wrong with Rebecca."

"What?  She got stomach pains again?  What's she saying?"

"She ain't saying nothing, man—I can't get her to wake up.  And she feels cold."

We threw down everything and jumped inside. 

I got to her first. 

Her skin was clammy and her breathing was slow and shallow.  I tried some mouth-to-mouth but that didn't help. 

Christopher checked her pulse at the wrist and the neck.  "Jesus Christ, it's slow."

"How slow?" I asked.

"What the hell difference does it make?—it's slow!"

I pulled her up into a sitting position and began lightly slapping her face.  "Rebecca, Rebecca, c'mon, honey, wake up.  Wake up, c'mon, c'mon…"

"What's wrong with her?" said Arnold.  "I never seen her like this before."

"Maybe all the pizza and pop made her sick," Christopher said.  "Maybe—fuck, I don't know!  Mark?"  He sounded nearly hysterical.  "Come on, college man, what is it?  What's wrong with our Rebecca?"

"She's really out of it, guys.  God—her hands felt cold earlier, but now—"

"She's been shaky all night," said Arnold.

Christopher nodded.  "I thought she was just wrecked, y'know?  Coming down off all the adrenalin of the last few days or something."

"No, this is a helluva lot more than just exhaustion, it has to be"—then I remembered what she'd said back at the truck stop:  Probably need a shot—I should check my blood sugar just to be—

"Her insulin," I said.  "When's the last time she had a shot?"

Arnold and Christopher looked at each other, and I knew before either of them even shook their heads that they had no idea.

…sometimes I get so busy with them I forget to take my own medicine, and that's not good…

"Get her insulin kit," I shouted.  "Christ only knows how long she's needed it."

Arnold looked around frantically.  "Where's it at?"

"Find it!"

"If I knew where she kept it—"

I took a deep breath and swallowed my own panic before it had a chance to get out of the gate.  "In her cooler, the little one that she carries with"—and then a terrible thing occurred to me.  "Oh, no…"

Christopher and Arnold both froze.

For one second I was so stunned by the thought I almost couldn't form words.

"What?" shouted Christopher, definitely closer to hysteria now.  "What is it?"

I closed my eyes and thought about saying a prayer.  "The refrigerator."

"What?"

"The refrigerator back in the motel room.  Did anyone see Rebecca take her cooler out of the refrigerator back in the motel room?"

I didn't have to open my eyes to see their faces; I knew.  As Christopher had been pushing me out the door, I'd known we were forgetting something, I just couldn't say what.

I opened my eyes.  Rebecca's pulse and breathing were even slower.  I decided a quick prayer was in order, after all.  "Please God, tell me that you guys have an extra insulin kit stashed in one of the drug cases."

After a moment of silence where I swear I could hear all the cells in our bodies jumping up and down and pulling out their hair while yelling "shit, Shit, SHIT !" at the top of their lungs, Arnold shook his head.  "She never… she never trusted us with any of her medicine.  Said we'd forget our heads if they weren't screwed on."  His lower lip trembled.  "She carried all of it in that cooler of hers."

"All of it?  Everything?'

"Everything!" snapped Christopher, his voice breaking on the last syllable.  He reached out an unsteady hand to brush away some hair from her face.  "Oh, God…."  It was at this moment that I realized how deeply he loved all of them; a father standing over his child's deathbed could not have been more wracked with sorrow and grief and helplessness.  It was the first moment of genuine vulnerability I'd seen in him.  He had not planned on this—after all, Rebecca was the responsible one; nurse, seamstress, booster-of-morale, maker-of-peace.

I released my breath, pulled in another, slower one.  "Guys, we have to get her to a hospital."

"No!"  Christopher was screaming now.  "We're not taking her to any goddamn place where they're going to stick her with things and s-strap her down on a t-table and put her under… under b-b-bright l-lights and… and…"

I reached out and grabbed his arm, squeezing it as hard as I could.  "Calm down, buddy.  Listen to—look at me.  Look at me!  That's right, now take a deep breath, pal, that's it.  Now, listen to me, Christopher—listen:  if we don't get her some medical attention, and fast, she's going to go into a full-blown coma and will quite probably die, and she's come too far and been through too much for us to allow that to happen, got me?"

He nodded his head but said nothing; tears spattered from his eyes onto my sleeve.

"Give me the cell phone."

He reached into his pocket and pulled it out, flipped it open, and handed it to me.

I punched in 911.  The emergency operator answered before the first ring was completed.

"Emergen—"

That was all she got out before the phone fizzled.  I jerked it away from my face, glared at it like that would coerce it into cooperating, then shook it just because I was. So.  Fucking.  Angry.

"Oh, this ain't happening," said Arnold.  "Uh-huh, not now, not now, not when we're so close!"

I tried the phone again, but its charge was a fond memory.  "It's gone."

Arnold took it from my hand, shook it once, held it to his ear.  "Don't those emergency operators call right back if there's a hang-up?"

Christopher yanked the phone away.  "And how the fuck are we supposed to answer?"

I held up my hand.  "Knock it off, guys—look, we're screwed as far as the phone goes.  Christopher, you need to get us rolling and I mean right the hell now!  Go on!  Go!"

He climbed into the front seat and fired up the engine.

"You got an idea?" asked Arnold.  "Please tell me you got an idea, college man."

"Bring up the route map on the computer as quick as you can."

Christopher pulled back onto the highway so fast the tires squealed and even left a smoke trail; no small feat, considering what we were hauling; Arnold woke the computer and called up the map; I tried mouth-to-mouth on Rebecca once again because I couldn't just sit there and do nothing.

Arnold asked me, "What now?"

"Grendel's got every other thing marked on there, he's gotta have some hospitals—for chrissakes he grabbed Thomas in an emergency room, you can't tell me he doesn't have a few locations bookmarked."

Arnold stared at the screen.  "I, uh…"

"What?"

He made two fists and slammed them against his forehead.  "I don't remember where we are."

"Just outside of Fort Wayne, Indiana," shouted Christopher.

Arnold took a deep breath and steadied himself.  "All right.  Gimme the next exit number."

"112, one mile."

"I-69 North, right?'

"What?"

"We're on I-69 North, right?"

"I guess—"

"—the fuck do you mean, you guess?—"

"—mean… I mean yes, yeah—I-69 North."

"How far to exit 112?"

"It's right ahead!" shouted Christopher, triumphant.

"Floor this bad boy, big brother—we need exit 116."

"Shit!"

Christopher floored it.  The drive between exits 112 and 113 took about seven years, give or take a month.  Rebecca's body heat kept fading.  I propped up her legs and covered her with the blanket, my coat, Arnold's coat, then, finally, my own body.

"Exit 116, Christopher."

"I got it!  What's the map say, how far?"

Arnold did some quick scrolling, double-checked what he found.  "Five miles from 113."

"Hang on."  He shifted gears and kicked us into a higher and much harder speed.

Rebecca's breathing was so slow it was almost nonexistent; but I still kept up the mouth-to-mouth; these guys had it together, they were back in control of themselves, they were a unit, I'd just be in the way.

"C'mon, honey," I whispered to her still, chill form.  "Can't do this to us now, you haven't seen me do my Tommy Lee Jones routine yet."  I touched her forehead, her cheek, felt for a pulse.  Going… going… going…

"Three miles!" shouted Christopher.

Outside, the world was a messy blur.  We were flying.  I hoped Christopher could keep a solid grip on the wheel; one slip and this whole mess would jackknife like nobody's business and we'd be a messier blur than the world whizzing past.  Probably leave a nastier stain, too.

"What do I do after the exit?" called Christopher over his shoulder.

"Turn left—that's Dupont Road.  The hospital'll be about a half-mile down."

"How's she doing, Mark?"

"Not good.  Can you make this thing go any faster?"

Christopher laughed.  Once.  Very softly.  "Just watch."

I would never have believed something as old and cumbersome as a VW Microbus could come close to breaking the sound barrier, but that's how it seemed during the next two minutes; the road out there didn't exist; the other cars and trucks were an optical illusion; we were invisible to the police and Highway Patrol; the road bowed before us, bested, apologetic, humbled.  The exit sign appeared in the headlight beams.

"You need to slow down now," I said.

"Fuck you, Pretty Boy!"

Now it was my turn to scream.  "IF YOU DON'T SLOW DOWN WE'LL NEVER MAKE THE GODDAMN TURN IN ONE PIECE!  I DON'T FEEL LIKE DYING TODAY!  ALL IN FAVOR?"

Arnold and I raised our hands.  I raised Rebecca's, which was technically cheating but right now I didn't care.

Christopher shifted gears and eased us back to something resembling mortal speeds.  We made the exit and didn't jackknife on the turn, and you never heard three people sigh so loudly in unison as we did when the "Dupont Hospital" sign loomed as high and bright as the Star of Bethlehem.

"There," I said, pointing.  "There's the emergency room entrance."

"Where?"

"On the left."

"The left?"

"Right."

"Go right?"

"The left—right there!"

"Right?"

"LEFT!" 

This was not the time for an Abbott & Costello routine.

Christopher started to go right, corrected himself, and just made the left-side entrance toward the emergency room.  We pulled up a few yards outside the ambulance bay.  Arnold had the side doors thrown open before the bus came to a complete stop.  I started to pick up Rebecca and was surprised at how much she weighed; this girl had some muscle on her.

"What type of diabetes does she have?"

Christopher stared at me.  "There are different types?"

"Oh, fuck me…"

"Her bracelet," said Arnold.

"What?"

"It's on her bracelet, the one she wears around her ankle."

All three of us lunged for her legs at the same time; Christopher knocked me sideways into Arnold, who fell forward onto Christopher, pulling him the rest of the way over the seat, causing me to drop Rebecca, who flopped down onto the floor and Arnold was so busy trying to avoid stepping on her that he accidentally kneed me in the nuts and about two seconds later we'd switched from Abbott & Costello to the stateroom scene from A Night at the Opera because we were suddenly this mass of groaning, cursing, flailing bodies trying to untangle ourselves from one another, but untangle ourselves we did, pulling back both of Rebecca's pants legs—to discover no medical bracelet on either ankle.

"This isn't happening," I muttered.

"You bet your ass it ain't," said Arnold, snatching something off the floor near my foot.  "Here it is.  Must've fell off during the orgy."

I took it from him, picked up Rebecca again, jumped out onto the sidewalk, hit the pavement running, dodged an old man in wheelchair being pushed by a younger woman who gave me the dirtiest look, squeezed past another young woman who was coming out with her little boy in her arms (his arm was bandaged; I hoped it wasn't serious), elbowed my way ahead of a balding, overweight security guard who looked like he was about to flirt with the desk-nurse, and shouted:  "I NEED HELP!  THIS GIRL IS DYING!  HELP!"

Two nurses and an orderly fell on us like a curse from Heaven; it took them about two seconds to see that this was serious, then the orderly vanished into thin air, re-appearing almost instantaneously with a gurney which the nurses gently placed Rebecca on (when had they taken her from my arms?  I didn't remember their having done that) and the next thing I knew one of them was asking me what happened and I said something about her having missed her insulin shots and then another nurse or maybe it was the same one asked did I think it was only one or could she have missed more, as well, and I said I wasn't sure, it had been a long trip and she was usually pretty good at keeping track of her medicine, and the nurse said that was all right, calm down, can you give me any information about her type of diabetes, and I said sure, it's here on her bracelet, but that was silly because the nurse already had it in her hand (when had she taken it from me?  I didn't remember her having done that) and was shouting instructions to another nurse, and then someone was on the P.A. paging doctor something-or-other to the ER stat and then Rebecca was gone and so was the orderly and so was the security guard and so were the nurses…

…and I just stood there like the biggest, dumbest, crap-for-crap useless dick this side of a Homestar Runner cartoon and realized that I had absolutely no idea what to do next.

Except for an older couple sitting over near the wall-mounted television, I was alone in the waiting area.  I took a couple of steps and looked at the television.  Nick at Nite.  I Love Lucy.  Ricky was grabbing his hair and screaming that Lucy Esmeralda MacGillicuddy Ricardo had some serious splainin' to do.

"I know this episode," I said to the older couple.  "This is the one where Lucy does something silly and she and Ethel try to hide it from Ricky and Fred, right?"

They looked at me as if I'd just hawked up a live kitten.  So I went back to standing there, quiet, polite, without a clue; portrait of a doofus in action.

Then the overweight security guard came back from behind the automatic doors and asked, "Is she your daughter?"

"No," I answered without thinking.

"Can I have your name, sir?"

Ahem…

Have you ever had one of those moments where a simple piece of information like, oh, say, your phone number or shoe size or wedding anniversary or—just to pull another quick example out of my ass—your name suddenly eludes you?  If he would have asked me anything else—who was Vice President under Lyndon Johnson, or who shot J.R., or why for the love of God was Frampton Comes Alive still one of the biggest-selling albums of all time—those I could have answered; but, no, he had to be a wise-guy and stump the band with an obscure request.

At least there were options available here; I could:  1) Shriek like a little girl with the cooties and run like hell; 2) Ask the couple by the television if they knew what my name was; or, 3) Look at my I.D.  I opted for #3, and was just reading the word "Mark" when the security guard took a step back and said "Wow," with such genuine awe I thought Michael Jordan had just walked in; then the synapses started firing again and I saw the glint and realized that I still had my I.D. in the same wallet with the U.S. Marshal badge—but of course by then it was too late.

"Oh, sir, look, I didn't realize that you were—hey," he stepped closer to me, lowering his voice.  "Is that girl part of a case you're working on?"

His face said everything; that this was the most exciting thing to happen to him in a long time, that he really wanted to be of assistance, and who knew?—maybe his helping out a U.S. Marshal would impress the nurse he'd been trying to flirt with into finally going out with him.

"Yes," I said, then cleared my throat and spoke with more confidence.  "Yes, she is."  I closed the wallet and slipped it back into my pocket.  "She's"—I led him away from the older couple, who suddenly weren't so interested in seeing how Lucy was going to get out of this one—"a material witness in a kidnapping case we've been working on for a while, Officer"—I checked his name tag—"Ransom.  If you could—"

"That's kind of an odd coincidence, isn't it?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You working on this kidnapping case and my last name being 'Ransom'.  Kinda odd, wouldn't you say?"

Jesus, I hoped the nurse didn't say yes to this poor sap.  "Now that you mention it, yes, yes it is.  I'll have to make sure to mention that in my report."  I leaned closer.  "My boss enjoys little tidbits of information like that.  He says it gives our reports 'verisimilitude'—whatever that means."

Officer Ransom and I shared a professional chuckle over that one.

"Listen," I said, pulling him farther away from the two former Lucy fans, "I'd really appreciate it if you could keep a close watch on her until the rest of my team arrives.  We're very close to nabbing this bastard and she's the only one who can positively identify him.  That's why they've got to do their best for her, understand?  They've got to make her better.  She's a sweet girl and"—I felt myself starting to choke up and couldn't stop it—"and she's been through too much for it to end like… like this… I'm sorry…."

"Hey, no, I understand, sir, really, I do."  He put his hand on my shoulder.  "I imagine it gets to you, seeing a kid like that who's been taken from her family and subjected to God-only-knows what at the hands of her kidnapper."

I wiped my eyes and patted down my pockets for some tissue, but then the sap Officer Ransom handed me his unused handkerchief.  "It gets to me sometimes, too, you know?  Seeing some of the awful things done to kids that're brought in here."

Okay, he wasn't a sap.  Shame on me for thinking that.  I wiped my eyes again, blew my nose, and offered back the handkerchief; to my surprise, he took it without a flinch and shoved it into his pants pocket.  "You okay, there?  Want me to maybe get you a cup of coffee?  The crap from the vending machines tastes like old motor oil, but the stuff they make in nurse's lounge—hoo-boy!  That's some mighty fine joe."

"Yes," I said.  "I'd appreciate that.  And if you could check with the nurses and doctors back there about Rebecca's condition"—I bit my lip too late, her name was out—"I'd really appreciate that."  Then I added, for what reason I still couldn't tell you:  "And the office tends to remember those local law enforcement officers who cooperate as well as you are, Officer Ransom."

"Daniel," he said, shaking my hand.  "I'll check on the girl and the coffee.  Anything you need, sir, just give the word."

"Thank you.  Listen, if I'm not out here when you get back, don't worry—I'll just be out in the car, contacting other team members.  I'll be back in here soon enough."

He nodded.  "You're the boss."

I shook his hand again and smiled at him as he left; was it my imagination, or was his walk a little taller?

I really hoped that nurse said yes.

I turned around and almost knocked over Arnold, who was standing right behind me with his shoulder-bag dangling halfway down his arm.  "Watch it there, Grace.  I seen enough of your chest and belly for one night."

"How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough to see another great performance.  Man, you could cause some serious shit with that badge if you put your mind to it."

By now the couple had apologized to Lucy for ignoring her, and were back at attention just as Fred Mertz was flipping out, screaming that Ethel Mae Roberta Louise Potter Mertz was going to have a tasty knuckle sandwich for lunch if she didn't zip it.  Personally, I'd always felt that Ethel could ream Fred's ass seven ways from Sunday—she'd feel awful about it afterward, probably even make him a big juicy steak dinner, but if it ever came to knock-down drag-out between them?  No contest.

I pulled Arnold aside.  "What are you doing in here?"

He hesitated for only a moment:  "I'm staying with her."

"You can't do that!"

"Why not?  You think they're gonna treat us like criminals once I tell 'em who we are and what's happened to us?  You think they're not gonna believe me once her makeup starts slipping off in there?  After the number you just laid on that rent-a-cop, they'll believe me if I tell 'em Rebecca and me seen Elvis Presley, still alive and well.  They're gonna treat us like heroes, Mark.  We'll be fine."  He showed me an envelope in his jacket pocket.  "I've got all of Rebecca's information in here, and mine, too—not that I need it.  I've had the address and phone number memorized for a long time.  I'm just sorry I won't get to see you do your little routine for my family."  He looked toward the automatic doors.  "She's gonna be okay, right?"

"I sure hope so.  I think we caught her before she crashed really bad.  We sure got here fast enough, though, didn't we?"

"They'll be peelin' those tire tracks off the road for a week."  He looked back at me.  "Look, Mark, I got everything we need right in here"—he patted his shoulder bag—"and they're gonna be so busy making sure the two of us are okay, they won't bother asking us too many serious questions until our folks get here."  He shook his head.  "I can almost smell the Social Services' lady's perfume now."

"What's in the bag?"

"Hundred thousand dollars in cash.  We agreed that we'd split Grendel's money even between us.  Don't worry, it's all wrapped up inside my shirts and pants and socks.  You gotta get out of here before your buddy comes back or her makeup starts coming off."

I reached out and touched his cheek.  "What makes you think I'd leave you two at a time like this?"

"Because if you don't, then Christopher's gonna be all alone out there and I wouldn't like that.  Neither would Rebecca.  He's more scared than all of us about going home.  You know how long he's been missing?"

"Eleven, twelve years?"

"You bet.  People can change a lot over that long.  They can… they can forget about things if forgetting makes it easier for them to go on living."

I smiled at him.  "You know, you sure as hell don't sound like a twelve-year-old."

"I ain't never been twelve, which is okay—I hear it ain't such a hot age to be, anyway."  He looked away for a moment, considering something.  "You know, it never occurred to me before—Christopher's been missing as long as I've been alive.  Damn, that's sad."  He looked back at me.  "You gotta go with him.  He can't be by himself, he'll chicken out or do something stupid.  Please go, Mark.  Do it for Rebecca and me.  I'll make sure she knows you're the one who brought her in, and that you didn't want to leave us.  She'll understand.  She understands about most things.  She's pretty cool that way."

I couldn't help it; I started crying again.

"Aw, now—what'cha wanna go and start that crap again for?"

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry, my ass—you can't wimp out on me now.  This is almost over.  You gotta be the one to finish this for us, Mark.  Christopher ain't too good unless he's got someone around he thinks he's in charge of.  He ain't been taking his pills like he's supposed to—that's why he keeps changing the way he acts—and if you don't go with him, he'll keep not taking it and then he'll really go crazy and I don't want that to happen, that's not him, he's not really that way. We'll be—ah, well, shit!"  He started crying, too.  "Ain't this a bitch?  Standing here bawling like a couple of old ladies at a funeral."

"I'm so sorry for everything that's happened to you, Arnold.  I'm sorry for what he did.  I'm sorry for all the time you've lost, I'm just… I'm just sorry."

"What for?  You didn't do it."  Suddenly he sounded like a little boy, lost and tired and alone so very, very afraid.

"No, but you… you need to know that somebody gives a shit, all right?  Somebody needs to be angry for you."

He nodded his head, spattering tears and snot onto his jacket.  "Yeah, I know.  It's real… real nice of you to say that, to… to feel that way.  I sure wish you'd leave—nothing personal."

"I know."  But I couldn't; I couldn't just turn around and walk away from him, even though every sensible impulse told me that's exactly what I should be doing; Ransom would be back any second, the doctors had to have at least discovered Rebecca's false teeth by now, if not her glass eye and wig, and on top of that how long could Christopher stay parked out there before someone gave the bus and trailer more than a passing glance?  It was close to five-thirty in the morning, and while the silver butter dishes might be a forgettable oddity on the highway or at a truck stop, they were bound to draw attention parked outside an emergency room entrance.  Sure, every sensible impulse dictated that I hightail it out of here fifteen seconds ago… but I couldn't just leave them.

"If you don't leave right now," Arnold said, getting back some control, "then I'm gonna… I'll…"  He sighed, his shoulders slumping, and looked up at me.  "I got nothin'."

I did my best to suck it up, as well; pulled in a deep breath, straightened myself, held out my hand.  "It's been a real pleasure traveling with you, Arnold."

He took my hand.  "Yeah, same here."

"Take care of yourself."

"Count on it."

I started to pull my hand away.  Arnold let go and threw himself into me, wrapping his arms around my waist and burying his face in my chest.  "You kick ass, my man.  Don't ever think any different."  And with that he was gone, shoulder bag in hand, banging on the automatic doors and asking where his sister Rebecca was, was she all right, the U.S. Marshal-man said she was in here, couldn't anyone hear back there?

I went out the doors and climbed into the bus, slamming the door and burying my face in my hands as Christopher drove off. 

To his credit, he didn't say anything for a very long time.  He just let me sit there and cry in peace and pretend I still had some remnant of dignity left. 

13. Bury the Cow

"So… I understand you're a Marshall Tucker man, right?"

"Yeah," I said, wiping my nose on my sleeve.  "I always… always thought they were every bit as good as the Allman Brothers."

He popped in a CD with a shaking hand and there were the Marshall Tucker boys once more, singing about taking the highway, 'cause Lord knows they'd been gone so long. "Oh, now, I don't know about that," said Christopher.  "I mean, we are talking about Duane and Gregg and Dickie Betts, after all."

I stared out at the dawn-filtered road.  "Looks like it's just you and me now, sport."

"They'll be fine.  Arnold will have them jumping through hoops in no time flat.  They'll be just… just fine."

I turned toward him.  "How do you know?"

"Like I said before—I have magic powers; all who ride in this bus will stay protected."

"Did you make that up yourself or get it from a movie?"

"I don't remember."  On the highway, morning commuters were starting to cluster in the pre-rush-hour traffic, on their way to get the worm, as the early bird is said to do.

"We shouldn't have left them."

"It was Arnold's idea, not mine—I just happened to agree with it.  In case you haven't noticed, the wax around the windows isn't what it used to be.  Some of the stink is starting to get out.  If we'd stayed there much longer, someone would have said something to one of the security guards and then…."

He didn't need to finish it.

After several minutes of my continued silence during which Christopher kept getting more and more restless and agitated, he said:  "Hey, here's an idea—you ever play 'Bury the Cow'?"

"Life has denied me that thrill."

"Oh, well, then, we have to get a game going.  Isn't really a proper road trip without a few electrifying rounds of 'Bury the Cow'—it's a classic for a reason.  Okay, here's how you play it—you keep an eye on your side of the road, I keep an eye on my side—"

"—really not much in the mood for 'Kill the Crows'—"

"—'Bury the Cow', please keep up, and how do you know you're not in the mood until you hear all the rules?  You don't, so listen:  you watch your side, I watch mine, and we each count all the cows we spot on our side, then—"

"—not listening to me, I'm really not in the—"

"—then whoever has a cemetery pop up on their side of the road loses all the cows they've counted up until then, and we keep going until we stop and whoever has the most cows when we stop, wins.  Isn't that the greatest road game you ever heard, I ask you.  How, I ask again, how could anyone refuse to play?  No one should ever travel without playing 'Bury the Cow' at least once in their—"

(…ain't been taking his pills like he's supposed to—that's why he keeps changing the way he acts…)

"Christopher?"

(…and if you don't go with him…)

"Yeah?"

(…he'll keep not taking them and then he'll really go…)

"You're getting a bit manic."

(…crazy and I don't want that to happen…)

"So what?—I'll take a pill later.  C'mon, Mark, I'm trying to get the old juices going, help me out here, why don't—"

(…that's not him, he's not really that way….)

"How did all of you get away from Grendel?"

"I'll answer that—but only if you play—"

"'Snuff the Livestock', I know… all right, all right—deal.  Answer my question and we'll go a few rounds.  How did you get away from Grendel?"

He reached down and lifted the universal locater, setting it on the dashboard between us.  "What makes you think we were ever away from him?"

I stared at the blinking white dot in the center of the grid.  "You're telling me that he's been back there in the trailer this whole time?"

"He's been in that trailer for eight days, Mark.  And he's going to spend the rest of his life there… unless he goes along with the game I've got planned for him.  He was always making up new games for us to play, or changing the rules of old games and not telling us about it until we were in the middle of things.  Seems only fair that he should have to play someone else's game just once, don't you think?"

"Are you going to blow him up along with the bus and trailer?"

Christopher grinned.  "That'll be his decision, when the time comes."

"How did you get away from him, Christopher?"

His right leg was bouncing rapidly up and down.  "Do you like Tony Curtis?  I always thought he was a terribly underrated actor.  He was really creepy in The Boston Strangler.  He looked great as a woman in Some Like It Hot.  Ever see him in The Last Tycoon?  Damn good actor."

"What the hell has that got to do with—"

"Ever catch him in Houdini, Mark?  Or see the TV movie they made with that actor who played on Starsky & Hutch?  Did you know you can learn things from books and movies, Mark?"  He wiped some perspiration from his neck.  "Did you know, for instance, that in both movies about Houdini they describe how he was able to control his abdominal muscles and gag reflex to prevent himself from vomiting up things he swallowed, like keys?  Keys he used to unlock himself from the restraints and chains they'd put him in before locking him in a trunk and dumping it in the water?  Oh, yeah—the TV movie got really graphic about it, and almost all of his biographies went into a lot of detail about how he trained himself to do it.  He used to say that anyone could learn how to do what he did, if they had enough discipline."  His right leg was going so fast now you'd almost mistake it for not moving at all.

"Well, Grendel made sure all of us had that kind of discipline, didn't he?  Didn't he?"  His arm shot out and he hit the dashboard with his fist.  "No matter how much or how little we'd eaten, no matter how long it had been since we'd gone to the bathroom or how badly we needed to go, no matter what got shoved up inside of us, we learned how to keep control, how to maintain discipline.  I got really good at it.  As of today, providing that the object isn't longer, wider, or thicker than my index and middle fingers combined, I can hold it down my throat or up my ass indefinitely, doesn't matter how bad it tastes or how much it hurts, old Christopher here can take it!  Not only can I take it and hold it, I can puke it up or shit it back out at will!  Don't even have to think about it anymore, that's how good I've gotten, it's just"—he snapped his fingers—"and out pops the prize—oh, it took time, and it took practice, but I had lots of both to work with."

He was past being agitated and moving toward frantic.  "I think I'd like to start playing 'Bury the Cow' now, please."

He hit the steering wheel with the side of his fist.  "Oh, no you don't—it wouldn't be fair, and being fair is important, fairness is what a good person shows another to prove that their word means something, and I gave you my word, Mark, and because I haven't answered your question yet we can't start playing 'Bury the Cow' because that would mean I was going back on my word—and, besides, now I want to answer all of your questions, so, let's see now—where were we?  Oh, right—Houdini."

I thought he was going to rip the steering mechanism, wheel and all, right out of the floor and then take a bite out of it.  He was beyond manic; he was in the grip of a sudden, blistering, searing rage that bordered on outright hysteria; he seemed about a breath away from insanity.

There are no words for how stark staring terrified I was right then; none at all.

I opened my mouth to speak, but a quick flash from his eyes killed the words halfway to my immediately- and wholly-dry tongue; I was so startled by that flash—how in a blink he ceased being Christopher and instantaneously metamorphosed into this possessed, snarling, livid, agonized, howling, frenzied thing that I knew would tear out my throat as soon as look at me—I was so shocked by it I'm surprised I didn't wet myself.

Maybe Grendel's discipline was contagious.

"All right, then," he yelled, beating a rapid drum roll on the wheel.  "After Houdini—but before Mad Max, there was The Great Train Robbery—Sean Connery, Donald Sutherland, Lesley-Anne Down?  Now there's a movie for you—more ways to pull off the perfect crime than you can count!  And Lesley-Anne Down is hot!  God is she hot in this movie!  That bit at the end, when she slips Connery the keys to his handcuffs through her mouth when she kisses him—it's almost enough to make me want to touch and be touched by another human being again!  You bet your ass Rebecca and me filed that one away just-in-case.  But the beauty part of the whole thing was the way Donald Sutherland got an imprint of the key to the luggage car—I'd've never thought of doing it that way in a thousand years, but—bam!—right there it was in full color and Grendel handed it to us and he never had a clue!  God, it was so easy once all the pieces started falling together—I mean, yeah, sure, it took a couple of years to find the pieces before all the falling-into-place part could start happening, but once it did—pow!-zap!-whammo! and word to your mother—he couldn't fucking touch us!—okay, he could touch us, but he couldn't get a whiff of what we were up to, and half the time he watched the movies with us!"  He threw back his head, hit the steering wheel again, and barked a short, shrill, ear-shattering laugh and resumed talking in a rapid cadence, nervously, like there were dashes around everything.

"Ha!  Oh, fuck me we were on fire!—On fire, Mark!—He had actual antiques in the house, you know that?  Just-in-case.  You never knew—no, you didn't—you never knew who might be monitoring things, never knew if Dirty Harry and the boys might come busting in to check things out, so he had 'em, genuine antiques all over the place—a lot of them were chests and cabinets that didn't come with keys and you sure as hell didn't want to damage their resale value by messing up the locks—Grendel got himself a key-making machine and even showed Arnold and me how to work it and make keys—what the hell did he worry?—it wasn't like we could get to the important keys, the special keys, no—those were on his very important, very special, terribly personal über-extending keychain that was always hooked onto his belt—only the thing is, there's a scene in the movie where Lesley-Anne Down has to get the impression of a key off of some skeezy-ass fat slug-of-a-slob—not the most attractive man in the world, is what I'm trying to convey—only he's always wearing his keys attached to his coat, so what she does, see—this is terrific—is she gets him alone and make like she's gonna seduce him—just ball his brains out until him and God are touching noses—and she starts taking off some of her clothes, then some of his, then a little more of hers, and pretty soon the guy's so horny the crack of dawn isn't safe—Lesley-Anne Down could make impressions of all his keys twice before he'd take his eyes off her truly spectacular breasts all bouncy-bouncy in the corset getup she's wearing—so Rebecca and me and Arnold and Thomas, we made sure to be on our absolute very best behavior at the next meeting because we had a very special, very important "One Day" list, right—like with Play-Doh on Thomas's and wax paper on Rebecca's—to wrap things in to make 'em easier for me to swallow—easier to get 'em back up, too—and lubricating jelly on mine—put a little of that on the wax paper and whatever's wrapped in it will slide down your gullet easier than a bag of White Castles—that got a smile out of him—my asking for the lube—me and Rebecca had been letting on we were doing the dirty-bunny bop on our downtime—and Arnold, he asked for a small box of cookie cutters because he wanted to bake cookies for the next meeting and when Grendel heard that, well, he just beamed like a proud papa on his kid's first birthday and never once asked about anything—he even said that we deserved everything on our lists because we had been so 'exceptional' lately—that was the word he used, 'exceptional'—and when he came back from town that day—he took Denise with him because Connie retired—when he came back, he brought us everything on our lists and some little extras—first time he'd ever done that—you'd think I'd remember what they were, but I don't, go figure—and then it was like breathing while you were asleep—hell, we probably could've done the whole thing in our sleep, we had it down so tight—we waited until after he'd had enough of his red wine that he was feeling all warm and chatty—then Rebecca, she asked him to watch her do this dance she was working on for the meetings—she thought it might be sexier for the group if she put on a little show for them—and while she's dancing—one of those sloooooow and nasty stripper dances with lots of teasing and touching—while she's doing this, Arnold is playing waiter, bringing Grendel snacks from the kitchen and always making sure his glass of red wine is full—and Thomas, he's sitting there on the floor beside Grendel just swaying from side to side and humming like he always does—off-key, naturally—did I mention he still had his legs at this point?—oh, yeah, he hadn't 'disappointed' the Big Ugly One yet—anyway—Thomas is humming and Arnold is pouring and Rebecca is dancing and me—I'm standing off to the side keeping an eye on everything because when this starts to happen, it's got to be fast and it's got to be smooth—Plan B is for me to do a Houdini and make myself suddenly vomit and between you and me, I'd rather not do this—but at the exact moment as we'd planned it, Rebecca hikes up her skirt and because she's not wearing underpants—like we'd planned—she gives Grendel a shot of the moneymaker and Arnold pours a little more wine and Thomas, he sways way over and uses this piece of Play-Doh he's been palming to grab a quick impression of both sides of the first key and that's it, one down, four to go, and the next three go just as easy as you please—Thomas can palm the Play-Doh with the best of them—and Grendel's getting pretty toasty but he's not about to pass out—the man never passed out, I don't care how much wine he drank—and I think maybe by this time we'd started getting a little cocky and careless because when Rebecca gives him the NC-17 pink bits this time around, she's a little too close and Grendel makes a grab for her—he almost gets her, too—but he's just far enough away that he misses and loses his balance and almost falls out of the chair—Arnold, he's slopping some wine over the edge of the glass—and Rebecca, she's a little off-balance, too—Thomas, he's got the Play-Doh palmed around the last key, but when Grendel slips forward, Thomas doesn't have enough time to un-palm the key—it pulls out of the Play-Doh and it's got a little bit of the stuff stuck in one of its side grooves—the impression of this one will be for shit, we all know it—but I'm thinking maybe we can make it work, anyway, if Donald Sutherland can do it, we sure as hell can—and Grendel, he's applauding, and Rebecca, she's curtseying, and Arnold, he's daubing up the spilled wine—but Thomas, Thomas is sitting there scared shitless because he can see—right—he can see that little itty-bitty bit of Play-Doh that's on the last key, and I'm thinking, It's all right, kiddo, it's okay, we'll deal with this, we'll manage, just put that last one down the front of your shirt—but he doesn't, he just sits there—I'm getting a tad concerned now, you might well imagine—really truly very deeply concerned—anxious, bothered, troubled, and vexed, even—that song, 'Don't Worry, Be Happy'?—not my favorite tune in the world right now—but still Thomas just sits there like Jabba-the-Lean-To and my concern—my anxiety—is reaching critical proportions now—I'm closing in on downright ruffled—when Rebecca grabs Grendel's arm and pulls him to his feet and says, 'I wanna dance on your face!'—I could've kissed her right then, really I could've—so now she's leading Grendel upstairs to his bedroom to keep him happy—and to keep him from going to Denise's room—he never went to her room the whole time she was there—and as soon as they're up those stairs me and Arnold are on Thomas, getting him to his feet—he's scared, he thinks I'm mad at him—and we get him into the kitchen—I was right, that last impression is mostly for shit but at least we got the others—and we know we gotta work fast because Rebecca can only do so much for so long and eventually Grendel's going to realize it's time to chain us up for the night and listen to his bedtime story—so Arnold and me head down to the sub-basement—there's a blowtorch down there that Grendel thinks I don't know about, right—he used it to cauterize the messier wounds—like when he sliced off Rebecca's breast then made her sauté it and eat it in front of us—oh, the happy days, what memories they leave—anyway, we grab that baby and fire her up and start melting down the cookie cutters—they melted real fast, they were just the right kind—and while we're doing that, Thomas is up in the kitchen using the oven to harden up the impressions—yeah, not the greatest way to make a mold but it works in a pinch—I saw it done once on MacGyver—I miss that show, don't you?—see, we'd had the oven on the whole time—whenever Arnold left the room for more snacks or another bottle, he'd increase the temperature a hundred degrees, that way when things started getting a little warm Grendel would figure it was just from all the dancing and wine, right—so the oven's at, like, 575 degrees and it was going to take fifteen, twenty minutes for all the molds to harden—I know what you're thinking—why not just steal the keys off Grendel when he's sleeping, right?—well the thing there is that those goddamn keys are never off his person, except maybe when he's sleeping or taking a bath—but that's out of the question because he locks his bedroom door at night and isn't exactly unconscious during his bath—sorry, I get a little scattershot when I get excited—where was I?—right, the cutters—now Arnold and me have got all the cutters melted down—this is maybe twenty minutes into a plan that's supposed to take forty, forty-five, tops—and God bless him, here comes Thomas holding the tray filled with the molds—the Play-Doh cooked up well enough—the trick now was to make sure that both the molds and the liquid from the metal cutters cooled enough so that one wouldn't damage the other—I figured about ten minutes—so we use the oven mitts Thomas has grabbed to hold the containers and the tray and I poured everything into the molds—we have just enough—and then it's upstairs and through the kitchen to the back room where the freezer is—we'd already dug a hole in the ice in the bottom—Grendel never checked the freezer unless he had some body parts in there—didn't have any right now, lucky for us—and we bury the molds, then make sure the oven's turned off and the mitts and pans are back in place—Grendel knew the exact spot where every item in that house was supposed to be—and everything's looking good, looking real good—and we're on our way back into the living room to wait for Rebecca and the Big Ugly One to come down so we can all be tucked in—we're all shaky from the adrenaline rush of the last forty minutes, it's been great but it's been rough—it's the first time in years any of us had any hope for anything at all—you have no idea how that felt—raccoon…"

"Huh?"

He jerked the wheel to the left to avoid hitting the fattest and slowest raccoon known to existence (who'd just decided that the middle of our lane was the absolute best place to stop and lick his unmentionables) but we were going way too fast; every tire squealed; the bus and trailer both lurched sideways; we damn near sideswiped an SUV that was trying to pass—the driver and passenger both gave us the finger while yelling things we couldn't hear and probably wouldn't have appreciated, but right then I didn't give a damn about them or the raccoon or even the bodies back in the trailer—the only thing I cared about was getting Christopher calmed down and some of his medicine into him; it was either that or knock his ass out and take the wheel myself—he was jumping around in his seat like water on a hot griddle, eyes wide, hands shaking even though they gripped the wheel, knuckles white; there wasn't one part of him that wasn't trembling as he jerked the wheel to the right to get back into our lane—we smashed the raccoon anyway, little fellow was probably depressed and better off—and once we were steady and straight again he started to speak, but I reached over and grabbed his wrist and swear that I felt an electrical shock jump off his skin and shoot up into my shoulder.  "Christopher, you have to slow down, we're going too fast."

"Too fast?  You think this is fast?  This is a Sunday drive with the grandparents, Pretty Boy, this is wussy test-drive speed, this is nothing!  You want fast?  Sincerely?  I'll give you fast."  He shifted gears and floored the accelerator.  I watched as the speedometer climbed past 75, hit 80, got bored in a hurry, and crept toward 85.

"Goddammit, slow down!" I had to shout to be heard over the loud metallic groan-grind of the engine behind us.

"What for?" shouted back Christopher, twice as loudly.  "Thought you were in a hurry to get home to the wife, get away from all this.  I'm just trying to be accommodating, Mark, trying to be the good host, trying to do the right thing for everyone involved.  Rebecca, she fucked Grendel so we could get those keys made, that was accommodating; Thomas claimed that he was just goofing around with the Play-Doh and the key when Grendel came down and asked us what was it with the stuff on his key, that was amazingly accommodating, don't you think, especially since Grendel didn't believe him for one second, said the stuff on his key hadn't been there before and what were we up to, anyway?  And Thomas said it wasn't us, it was just him, and Grendel, he was so disappointed by that and we all just knew what that meant, that meant a visit to Ravenswood—only this time, this time, we all had to go down there, and he strapped Thomas onto the table and got out the blowtorch and the bone saw and gave Thomas a little shot so he wouldn't pass out from the pain—Grendel did not like it when someone passed out from the pain, really put a crimp in his evening—and once he was sure the shot had taken effect—he'd given Thomas just enough to temporarily numb him, not knock him out—then he fired-up the bone saw and the blowtorch and handed the torch to me and he cut off Thomas's right leg and god, God, God, GOD! how Thomas screamed and thrashed against the straps but that didn't mean shit to the Big Ugly One, no, screaming only made him work slower—and that's just what he did, slowed waaaaaaay down with the saw—and Arnold's holding Rebecca so she doesn't try to run over and put a stop to it—I think that's what was going on, I couldn't be sure, because suddenly the leg was off, just like that, all goo and gristle and Grendel grabbed it from the table and tossed it in the corner and I set to work with the blow torch and Thomas is still screaming, still thrashing, and there's all this blood and slivers of bone and chunks of muscle slopping around on the table, but I kept at the stump with the torch until the bleeding stopped—it smelled like a barbecue pit down there—then Grendel gave Thomas another shot, pulled out his favorite pistol—the baby I got right here—and he held the business end against Thomas's temple, looked right at me, and said, just as calm as you please:  "Cut off the other one or I'll kill him right now and make you fuck the exit hole"—he'd've done it, too, we all knew what he was capable of, so I took the saw and then Rebecca broke loose of Arnold—she grabbed the torch—like you say, she's the nurse, a nurse assists—and I cut off Thomas's other leg and Rebecca cauterized the wound and the whole time we were doing this, the whole entire time, Thomas was still conscious—can you believe that?—he's one tough kid—he didn't scream or thrash or nothing—he just lay there looking up at Grendel and saying "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'll be good, I will, I promise"—like he believed he was being punished for doing something bad, he was crying and his face was all red and sweaty and the snot—Christ, the snot was spilling out of his nose and down into his mouth and as soon as I had his leg off and looked at his face I understood then like I'd never understood it before—mostly because I'd stopped letting myself think about it:  I understood for the very first time that Grendel wasn't human, he was a different species, a sub-species, and if you were a good person, if you believed that you were a decent person and that it was wrong to hurt other people, that you sh-sh-should treat all people with respect and compassion, then how could you allow yourself to just…to just stand there and do nothing?—that's all I'd been doing, just standing by all those years and letting him do what he wanted—fuck, I even helped him, I helped him with I-don't-know how many of the other kids, I stood there and handed him whatever he asked for and cleaned up afterwards and acted like it was no big deal to me because that's what he wanted, he wanted me to feel nothing, to be like him, and after a while I didn't know if I was doing this because I was trying to protect the family or if there was some part of me, some sub-species part that was starting to become just like him, and if that was the case, then I'd allowed it to happen, I'd opened the door and let it out and I hated him for that, I hated him so goddamn much and now, now here was Thomas, this great little kid, with a gun at his head and he's apologizing to this sub-species piece of shit like he understood that he'd been bad and deserved to have his legs cut off then something near the base of my neck snapped like a toothpick and I COULDN'T FUCKING TAKE IT ANYMORE!" 

He made a fist with his right hand and began hitting the steering wheel, the dashboard, the roof above him.  "NO MORE NO MORE NO MORE NO MOOOOOOOOORE!  And you know what I did?  I took that beautiful bone saw—God it was the most perfect thing under heaven there in my hand—and I stepped forward and swung it up in this smooth arc and just buried it right in Grendel's kneecap, and he screamed and spun around and fired off a shot, but the shot, it went wild—that gave me enough time to cut one of Thomas's straps, and once his hand was free it came up and he grabbed Grendel's nuts and started squeezing like a vice, then Arnold snatched one of the Mason jars—it had a uterus in it—and he heaved that thing straight and hard right into the back of Grendel's head and it shattered but the thing is, Grendel still hadn't dropped the gun, so I went for his hand with the saw and he got off another shot that went right through the meat of Rebecca's right shoulder and she dropped the torch and poor Thomas's pants and shirt caught fire because what none of us had noticed was that the jar with the had been filled with alcohol, and when it shattered, most of it had splattered onto Thomas's face and clothes but we couldn't do anything right then because Grendel had the gun, so I took the saw and hit his collar and then I stripped a chunk out of his bicep and then rammed it right into the middle of his hand and he threw back his head and screamed and dropped the gun and there was blood all over him, all over me, it was on the floor and all over our shoes—we started slipping around like a couple of dancing partners and when we went down, we hit the concrete hard and it hurt—Christ! it hurt—but as soon as we hit he grabbed my throat with his good hand and dug in his nails and tried to crush my windpipe but Rebecca, she had his gun now and she didn't even bother aiming, she just pushed it right between his balls and his asshole and blew the whole works all over the floor—Grendel screamed like I'd never heard anyone scream, he was spitting blood and foam and I swear to Christ, I'll swear on a stack of Bibles, until the day I die I'll swear that his eyes turned into two bright red burning coals right before he shuddered and squittered shit and piss out of what was left down there and then passed out."

We were at 90 and the bus was beginning to shudder and swerve; people looked out in shock as we blasted past them.

"Thomas's face, all those burns on him—it was our fault, we just—Jesus, we just wanted to kill Grendel so much none of us even thought about what was in the jars—and Thomas, he can't pull himself off that table and run for the sink because his other arm and his chest are still strapped down"—

—93…94—

—"Christopher, please, you have to slow down, if you don't you're"—

—"so I pull down this piece of tarp that's covering a crate of medical supplies and throw it on top of him and then all three of us are on top of him and patting down the tarp and there's smoke and the smell of burning flesh"—

—"going to kill us, you're going to ram this thing into the side of a truck or"—

—95…96—

—"and Thomas is bucking and shaking and screaming again and… and"—

—"make this fucking bus shake apart or lose control of the wheel and flip us about a thousand times"—

—97—

—"and it's all so… so unnecessary!  Jesus, Mark, there was no need!"—

—98—

—"I'm begging you, Christopher, I'm—LOOK AT ME, WILL YOU?  I'm BEGGING you to please"—

—"No need for any of it, for things like Grendel to be walking around all safe and sound and sleeping so peacefully like some baby with a fresh soul"—

—99—

—the bus was shaking like some giant iron lizard having a seizure the wheel was rattling right off the column—

—"SLOW DOWN!"—

—"while there are kids like Thomas who have to apologize to monsters like it was them who'd done the wrong"—

—I reached over and yanked the pistol from him and fired a shot into the roof, then one into the floor between my legs, then turned it on him—"SLOW DOWN RIGHT NOW OR I'LL SHOOT YOU AND"—and the sudden absurdity of what I was about to say hit me; if I shot him, he'd let go of the wheel, the bus would spin, the trailer would jackknife, we'd probably do about a dozen somersaults across all three lanes on this side, and there wouldn't be enough left of either of us to identify once the gas tank and ammonium-nitrate went up.

This wasn't a threat I was making; it was the punchline to the dumbest fucking joke never told.

I looked at the speedometer—

—100—

—and then Christopher looked at me, at the hole in the roof, the one in the floor, and the gun in my hand, and said:  "What'd you do that for?"—

—except the way that he said it, all softly and childlike and innocent, made me hear it as Let go of my Eggo; You got your chocolate in my peanut butter; Let's have Mikey try it, he hates everything, and because I heard that way, I did the only thing I could think of, the only thing that seemed right and normal and appropriate—

—I started laughing.

And couldn't stop. 

No matter how much I tried, I could not stop with the yuks and the giggles and the hardee-dee-har-har-hars; couldn't get control of the chuckles and the hoots; I doubled-up with the snickers and snorts, then tripled-up with the cackles, and by the time the chortles and guffaws came into it, I think I was actually beginning to implode; I howled with laugher; I quaked with mirth; I became almost transcendent with the sillies; I went through so many different types of laughter I accidentally invented new ones as the giddy violence of it spread fiery pain down my throat and flooded my eyes with tears and pulled all the oxygen from my lungs:  I snuckled, I chorkled—I even guffortled—and now I was hearing lines from an unwritten Dr. Seuss book:  "Little Markie Sieber laughed himself to death/He snickered and he snortled until his very last breath/People claim he yiggled, perhaps even chorkled/He most definitely higgled before he at last guffortled…."  It was so great—we were about to die in a fiery crash of shattered glass and twisted metal and mangled bodies and I was laughing my ass off.  I slammed a hand against my ribs because my heart was trying to sneak out like the coward it was but I wasn't having that, no.  My stomach was ripping into bloody shreds under my skin and my lungs were shriveling up and I didn't care; Little Markie Sieber would laugh himself to death and that was fine by me.

I don't know how long it took before the storm fizzled out, but when it was done I found myself half on the floor, half in my seat, kneeling face-first like a drunk heaving into a toilet, and everything inside my body was throbbing with pain.

Then this voice started to penetrate the thick haze in my skull, it was saying something about finished and done and holes and—

—I looked up at Christopher; he was sitting half-turned in his seat, looking down at me, arms crossed over the steering wheel, fingers drumming away.  The bus wasn't shaking to pieces any longer.  There wasn't going to be any spectacular Götterdammerung-ing on this road this morning—at least, not by us.  When had we stopped moving, anyway?  I looked around—insomuch as my eyes could focus—and saw that we'd pulled over into the emergency lane.  Morning traffic was getting slightly heavier now.  No one looked at us.

I wiped my eyes and grinned up Christopher.

"Are you finished?" he asked.

"Why'd… why'd you… why'd you stop?"  I pulled myself back into my seat, leaning my head back and holding my chest, gasping for air.

He waited until I was settled before answering.  "Oh, all kinds of reasons—it felt like this goddamn thing was about to crack apart… I think I hit a rabbit… the CD ended and it was time to change the tunes… but I suppose the biggest reason was that… well, gosh, my curiosity just got the best of me and I had to find out which part of the story you found SO FUCKING FUNNY!"

His first punch broke my nose; his second one cracked a rib; he was getting ready to deliver a third when I pulled back my legs and kicked out squarely at the center of his chest, slamming him back against his door, then threw open my own door and stumbled out, losing my balance and falling back-first against the bus, and then Christopher came over my seat and grabbed at my shirt collar but I pulled away, hearing the material rip, and staggered toward the far end, and the next punch came so fast and hard that I was spun back against the bus before I had a chance to block his blow, and as I tried righting myself into a defensive position the second punch landed twice as hard as the last one, right in my stomach, and I doubled over, and the next punch crashed against the side of my mouth, bloodying it instantly and snapping me straight up; I tried to cover but the blows kept landing deep into my stomach and against the side of my head, then again to my head, again to my stomach and I was gasping because now the pain and the bleeding were getting very hard, blood streaming down from my mouth to my shirt and what saved me from being pummeled into unconsciousness right then and there was that I threw the most half-assed doofus-janitor hook and it landed but didn't seem to do any good and now here came a punch toward my eyes and I managed to lower my head in time for the blow to land on the top of my head and I thought I heard a couple of Christopher's knuckles pop ("You and that hard head of yours," Tanya always said) and that was good, that was great, but not great enough to stop his punches from triphammering into my stomach again.

I could feel myself starting to black out, so I shook myself and lunged forward, punching Christopher in the neck and grabbing the back of his head so I could yank it forward and punch his eyes but it was slippery going because his eyes were wet but whether it was from tears or blood I couldn't tell and didn't care, by that time Christopher had regained his balance and was slamming me back against the bus as he launched into another attack.

But not so fierce this time.

I covered myself as best I could, taking the blows on the top of my head or on the sides of my arms until there were almost no more because Christopher was nearly punched out but that was too little too late, my eyes were starting to roll back into my head, I had to do something unexpected, something vicious, so I fell against him, grabbing him in a bear hug while trying to get my brain working again, and now Christopher's punches were weakening, almost no problem at all—

—then my knees began to buckle.

Christopher, his chest heaving, pushed me back toward the trailer, threw a roundhouse that went wild, landing against my ear and spinning me along the length of the Airstream, off-balance more than hurt this time, and when I faced him again I saw he was going for another roundhouse but this one you could see coming from a mile away in slow-motion like something in a Peckinpah movie, and I knew I should have been able to duck it but my brain and body were not just then on speaking terms because the punch landed, landed hard, exploding against my jaw.  I fell back helpless as Christopher staggered toward me, slamming me in the ribs as best he could and there was no doubt in my mind that this wasn't him, he just hadn't been taking his medication—that's what I told myself, to make it seem like a noble thing I was doing here, getting my ass kicked and telling myself the reason I wasn't fighting back was because this wasn't really his fault—then I decided that was bullshit and swung out and caught him in his good jaw and he staggered back, took a breath, and struck me again.

Another punch to the mouth.

I countered with a sharp elbow-jab to the throat.

Another punch to the stomach.

I countered with a hard heel to the instep.

Another blow to the mouth.

Again my eyes started to roll back.

Christopher made his hand into a fist and his arm into a club and pulled back far and hard and I just had this sneaking suspicion that this next blow was going to ram my jawbone up into my brain—

—then I saw, of all things, Denise's face, the way she'd looked sitting in the truck stop and craning to get to the straw in the glass of orange juice, and I saw the fear and sadness and confusion there, and remembered how the rest of them had looked when the masks were off and decided there was no way in hell I was going to spend the next four hours repairing Christopher's makeup after this—

—and with everything I had remaining I drew back my right leg and snap-kicked out as hard as I could, catching Christopher, coming in, square between the legs.

Another punch to the mouth from him.

I slid down to the asphalt.

Christopher drew back for another punch but that's when his brain and body shouted Got something you need to know about and the pain between his legs registered and he groaned as his hand clutched his groin and the whole tight, skinny mass of him slammed down across from me, the two of us side by side not two feet apart, gasping, groaning, covered in sweat, covered in road grime, covered in blood.  We stared at each other, neither one able to move much, but that didn't stop Christopher, he struck out at my face again, catching only the edge of my jaw but it hurt enough, so I hit back, right in his eye, and we both wobbled, groaning, before he tried again, but there wasn't as much behind it this time, it was more of a slap, as was my response, and the whole thing quickly degenerated into two grown men sitting on the side of highway with all four hands flailing in the air and only occasionally connecting:  "Pat-a-cake, Pat-a-cake" on goofballs.  As if simultaneously realizing we were having what my mom would have called "a girlie fight", we suddenly stopped and looked at one another.

Then Christopher slapped me.  Once.  Very hard.

I slapped him right back.  Once.  Harder.

He turned around, facing the grassy incline off the emergency lane, crossing his arms over his chest.

I also turned around but did not cross my arms; it seemed the wrong aesthetic choice.

A minute passed.  Then another one.  The whole time we just sat there, softly groaning and touching our wounds and listening to the sounds of the morning traffic whizzing past.  I wasn't worried about anyone stopping.  We were invisible.

I leaned back my head against the trailer, gulped in some air, then turned to look at Christopher.

His eyes were closed and he was softly but steadily banging the back of his skull against the trailer.

"Well," I finally said.  "That was certainly… baroque."

"I don't like being laughed at."

"I wasn't laughing at you or your story, Christopher—but thanks for thinking that I would at this point."

"And I was supposed to know that how, exactly?  By the way—did I skip a groove or did you almost threaten to shoot me?"

"Almost, not quite."

"Ah."  He wiped some blood from his lower lips, looked at it, wiped it on his sleeve, then sniffed and said:  "May I have my gun back, please?"

"Well, since you said 'please'…"  I patted myself down, then realized what I was doing.  "I seem to have dropped it."

We both looked toward the front end of the bus where the gun lay next to one of the tires.

"Somebody really needs to go and get that thing before someone notices."

"Yeah," agreed Christopher.  "That would be… ouch!… that would be the thing a smart person would do."

So we sat there.  Vladimir and Estragon as they waited for Godot had nothing on us.

"What did you think you'd accomplish by shooting holes in the roof and floor?" asked Christopher.

"I was trying to get your attention."

"Ah."

I rubbed my jaw, wiped some of the muck from my face, then snorted back a big and very painful wad of blood and snot.  "You need to take your medicine, Christopher."

He pulled his legs back, groaning.  "I know."

"Is that what's in that pill bottle you keep taking out of your pocket and looking at?'

"Yes."

"I figured.  How long has it been since you last took a dose?"

"About four minutes—I took it while you were still having your little… Looney Tunes episode back there in the bus."

"How long had it been before that?"

He shrugged.  "Four, maybe five days."  He rubbed his eyes.  "The thing is, you have to keep a consistent level of the stuff in your system at all times, right?  If you stop, then what's in there only stays active for about seventy-two hours before it starts to fizzle out."  He sighed, then looked at me.  "I took a double dose—that's what I'm supposed to do if this happens and I get… get…"

"…bugfuck crazy?"

"…yeah.  I'm gonna be kind of tired for a few hours, so you'll have to drive."

"Oh, after that French Connection re-enactment, I'd be driving anyway."

He saw the look on my face.  "How bad was I?—wait, don't answer.  I already know.  Would it do any good to apologize?"

"How fast does that stuff work, anyway?  I can't go another round."

"If I need a double dose, I take the ones that dissolve in the mouth.  They're twice as strong as the regular pills.  They start to work within five to ten minutes, see?"  He held out his hands; they were trembling, but only very slightly.  After an explosion like his, most peoples' hands would be shaking like hell.  "In another hour or so, I'll be back to my old self, more or less… whatever that is."

"That might be nice."

"Famous last words."

"Could we not do this stumblebum routine again?"

He nodded, then said:  "All in favor."

We both held up our hands.  I couldn't speak for him, but even that much physical effort hurt too damn much for me.

"We really should get the gun," I said.  "Somebody's going to notice it."

"But we're… we're protected by the bus."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I hear you Pete Townshend—the magic bus protects us all."  I started pulling myself to my feet.

I failed.

Miserably.

"Your turn," I said. 

Christopher pulled himself to his feet, almost lost his balance and fell, but caught himself against the side of the trailer in time.  "Jesus, Mark—you take martial arts or something?  That was… ouch!… damn that was a nasty kick."

"Blind shithouse luck."  I lifted my arm.  "Help me up."

He did, and the two of us lurched slowly toward the front of the bus, hanging onto each other for balance.  When we reached the tire beside which lay the gun, we stopped and looked down.

"I'm not gonna try it," he said.

"We could just leave it here."

"Right.  A murder weapon with both of our fingerprints all over it.  That may be the most ingenious thing I've ever heard.  Thank God we picked you, if we hadn't been careful we might have grabbed someone stupid."

"Get in, I'll get it."

Christopher did not so much climb into the bus as he did flop like a fish onto the floor of a boat, then pulled himself over into the driver's seat.  He bumped his swollen nuts on the gearshift once and made a girlie noise.  It was very entertaining.

But not half so entertaining as when I bent over to pick up the gun and fell face-first onto the road.  I was lying flat, covered in road dirt and the remains of a milkshake that had been tossed out by someone else before we got here, but at least I had the gun.

From inside, Christopher called:  "I think Mecca's in the other direction."

"Not helping."

"It wasn't intended to.  My balls really hurt, Mark."

"Tell it to my nose."

"We need to get moving."

"Famous last words—hold your horses."  I grabbed the edge of the door and pulled myself around and then up, tossing the gun in onto my seat, then grabbed the inside door handle and used it to for balance.  All in all it only took about a minute to get back inside.  Not that bad, considering….

"That was very graceful," said Christopher.

"Your praise means all to me."  I slammed the door and sunk into my seat, wondering why my ass suddenly hurt, then realized I was sitting on the gun, which I somehow managed to pull from underneath me without ever once lifting myself up.  "I think this is yours."  I handed him the gun.  "By the way—not that I don't trust you or anything, but—would you mind checking to make sure you didn't lose your pills."

"I didn't."  He picked them up off the dashboard and shook them.

I nodded my head, then said:  "What now?"

"Kentucky," he said.  "We dump the load of shit in the back, then go to my folks' place so you can do your little act."  But he didn't start the engine, he just sat there, staring out at the road and breathing hard.

"What is it?" I asked.

"…nothing…" he said, but I could hear the tears in his voice.  A few seconds later he looked at me and I could see them in his eyes.  "I keep thinking about Thomas.  How… it shouldn't have happened, y'know?  None of it should've… shit!  I was supposed to be looking out for the rest of them, for all of them!  I was supposed to be the one who thought ten steps ahead, just in case!  They trusted me, and I… I…"  He looked away, lowered his head, and wept.

After I moment I reached out, hesitated, then put my hand on his shoulder.  "It wasn't your fault, Christopher.  What happened with Thomas and the fire wasn't any of your faults—except Grendel's.  You did everything you possibly could, given those goddamn lousy circumstances.  He's alive, and he's home, and he'll be happy.  Maybe not right away, maybe not for a while, but eventually he'll be happy again, and he's got you to thank for that."

"How do you figure?"

"You're the one who decided to take action and then did.  Do you think for one second that either Arnold or Rebecca would have been able to do that—just walk right up to that sick worthless evil pile of puke and jam that bone saw in his kneecap?  Because I sure as hell don't."

"They're damn brave kids."

"I know that!  I'm just saying that of the three of you who were in that room, no one else but you could've made that first strike.  The rest of them didn't have that weapon in their hand; the rest of them didn't have the presence of mind to figure out that you had him outnumbered in a very enclosed space; they didn't have it in them to commit that kind of violence against another person, not alone, not by themselves, but you did—and you know why?  Because the rest of them didn't have twelve years of god-awful nightmare memories to call on for strength—don't look at me like that.  Yeah, I said 'strength'.  That's what you showed then, Christopher.  Okay, maybe it was vicious and brutal and ugly as hell but it was necessary—and it was still strength. 

"You should be proud of yourself for what you did.  I don't know that I could have done it—I don't know that anyone could have done it, anyone but you.  You took four incredibly frightened kids by the hand and led them out of a dark place of torment so unspeakably horrible that most people can't even begin to imagine it; you took them away from any more suffering at Grendel's inhuman hands.  Their anguish is back there, you understand me?  Yes, they'll have painful memories, and they'll have nightmares, sure—how the hell could they not?—but because of you their anguish has been left back in a damp basement along with the chains on the walls and the shadows in the corners and the echoes of all that screaming from below.  And I hope it rots.  I hope it lays there and sputters and becomes so rancid even the rats won't want it.  Because that's where it belongs; not out here with you.  You're beyond all that now, you're above it.  You always have been.  You just didn't want to believe it was possible that you were still a decent human being.  Well guess what?  I watched you kill a man in cold blood and I'm sitting here, looking right at you, and saying that you very well may be the single most decent human being I've ever met.  It may be the only genuine distinction of my life to be able to say that I once knew you.  I look at you and think about what you've been through, what you've done, and I feel completely and utterly insufficient.  You're one of the best people I have ever met, Christopher.  I'm proud to be here at your side, buddy.  You bet I am."

He was looking at his hands in his lap.  They were quite still now.  He took a deep breath, looked at me, then slowly reached out his hand, grabbed my nose, and yanked it back in place:  the crack! that sounded in my skull filled the world and I screamed, doubled forward, and cupped my nose in my hands.

"What the hell did you do that for?"

"If you have to set a broken bone, it's best to do it when the other person isn't expecting you to.  Hang on and I'll get a splint and some other things."

I was in so much pain I couldn't move, so arguing with him about it didn't seem the constructive thing to do.

He came back with another can of sanitary wipes, some medical tape, and a metal nose-splint with foam padding on the inside.  "You're gonna have a couple of black eyes after this one.  On the bright side, maybe it'll give your face some character."

"Oh, that's sweet, thank you."

"Lean back."

It took him about ten minutes to clean off my face, check my nose again, and apply the splint.  "Use the rest of these to wipe off your hands and neck."  He tossed the sanitary wipes into my lap.  I checked my face in the mirror; the splint made my face look both threatening and silly.  The two shiners were already starting to show.  I had other cuts and scrapes on my face and neck that I didn't even realize were there until now.  I had looked prettier in my time.

"Still look better than I do," said Christopher, as if he'd read my mind.  "By the way—thank you.  For what you said.  Thank you."

"Uh-huh."

"Do I get to hear about your grandmother now?"

I shook my head.  "Nope.  I was promised a quote electrifying unquote game of 'Hide the Heifers.'"

"'Bury the Cow.'"

"Whatever.  If by the time we're finished with all of this you have more cows, you get to hear all about dear old Grandma; if not, then you're just going to have deal with it."

He started the engine.  "Fair enough."

I started to climb out.

"What are you doing?"

"Driving," I said.  "I might be in pain but my memory's just fine.  Move over.  Go on, do it—the blue grass of Kentucky awaits us."

14. That Other Guy

Christopher lost the first three rounds of 'Bury the Cow' and decided like a graceful loser that it was time for him to drive again; by then, the pain of my nose was almost blinding me and the glow of victory was rapidly losing its charm, so I took a couple of codeine pills, leaned back in the passenger seat, and felt all shiny again for a while.

I dreamed briefly of dead men in trailers rising to their feet and tearing away duct-taped cardboard, and when they opened their mouths to scream for help, inside of them were the faces of children, their mouths opened in a scream—they were the ones screaming for help, not the dead men—while the faces of other children screamed from inside theirs.

I forced open my eyes and blinked against the sunlight as it strobe through the canopy of leaves above us.

"I was about to wake you," said Christopher.  "This is some really pretty country we're passing through—if you can forgive the diesel smoke you see hanging over the treetops every so often.  Truckers tend to take it slow through here because these inclines are hell on gears, plus these roads can dip twenty feet or more with no warning.  Because of the elevation, the atmosphere doesn't rid itself of exhaust fumes as quickly as it does in the lower parts."

I rubbed my eyes, shaking myself further awake and away from the screaming dead men.  "You sound like a tour guide."

"I know."  He looked out the windshield.  Tears brimmed in his eyes but he was smiling.  "You have any idea how long I've dreamed about seeing this road again?  I knew it would be just the same.  Most roads like this in Kentucky never change.  Thank God."

I sat up.  Outside it was raining—nothing spectacular, just one of those constant gray drizzles that leaves the road slightly muddy and everything else looking as if it's shimmering from somewhere deep inside.

Have you ever driven through Kentucky?  Now, I know from books and television and movies that actual cities are rumored to exist there, but from the route Christopher was taking, you'd never be able to tell it.

I have never seen so many hills in my life.  The road we were on was this twisting, turning, narrow two-lane snake that wound through lush trees crowding closer to the side every time we made a turn.  Even though it was only two-thirty in the afternoon, a luminous mist skirled across the road like ghost-tides lapping at shores no longer existent except in their ghostly memory.  We were going uphill all the way so far, and I think we passed maybe four cars, at least three times as many deer, and two semis who moved with the deep-gutted roars and slow, desperate deliberation of dinosaurs crawling from the tar.  The one time I dared to peek out the side window and look over into one of the deep ditches—just to see how deep it was—I about passed out from vertigo; the side of the hill (or was it a mountain?) dropped straight down, at least three hundred feet, and into a river speckled with the knotted, bare branches of trees gliding along, having caught a free ride on the current.

Still, I stared at that sheer drop.  "You've never driven this road before, have you?"

"Nope," said Christopher.  "But I've driven some damned dangerous ones, so don't worry—I'm not about to send us sailing over the side."

"Could I have that in writing?"

"Enjoy the view, why don't you?"

"I'm trying."

"Try harder."

Eventually, and about as suddenly as a roller coaster, the road plummeted to a short steel bridge that rattled and shook like a bag of bones as we crossed it.  Then I remembered that we had an actual bag of bones in here with us and heard the dead men screaming and felt sick and sad all over again.

Through the windshield I saw the shear side of a mountain—a rock face—then the road hung a 90-degree to the left, pointing us through yet another set of hills lined on either side with yet more thick firs and pines.  A family of deer stood among the trees nibbling at the grass; they lifted their heads and looked at us as we lumbered past.  I felt like we were intruding.

The road narrowed down to a single rutted lane here, and I occasionally spotted old, rusted railroad rails scattered among the trees, as well skeletons of homemade chairs, what looked like blankets, and swear I once spotted the remains of a log cabin.

Here and there, up on the mountainsides in the distance, shelves of rock hovered over what looked like shallow caves.

I pointed up toward one.  "Are those caves or something else?"

Christopher looked in the direction I was pointing.  "That's a cave—if it was a mine, you'd see timber propping the entrance."

"You know about mining?"

"You bet.  My grandfather worked these mines.  He used to talk about it a lot after he got sick and came to stay with us.

"All these mountains you're looking at, they're limestone with seams of coal. Sometimes the seam goes straight into the mountain, but usually it sort of just angles in and the coal shaft follows the seams.  The shafts are propped with timbers, and generally slate lies above the coal.  You take out enough of the coal and that slate—wham!—it'll come crashing down right on top of your head."

"Even if there are timbers propping it up?"

"Hell, yes.  Timber gets soaked over the years, it weakens, doesn't take much to make it snap.  Limestone is really porous, so there's always ground water.  In those days, when my grandpa worked the mines, if a miner hit a narrow seam, he had to lie on his back in the water—can you imagine what that must be like?  There you are, God-only-knows how deep down, in the dark, on your back in water, between all these rocks, pushing shovels backward over your shoulder to draw out loose coal."

"I'll stick with cleaning toilets and doing windows, thank you."

"Yeah… I wish Grandpa would have done something else.  Goddamn mines killed him.  Turned his lungs into blackened Swiss cheese and twisted up his back so bad he couldn't stand up straight.  He had to use a walker to move around, and even then me and Paul had to help."

I look ahead into the road.  The canopy formed by the tree limbs grew lower and thicker the wetter it was made by rain, and soon Christopher had to turn on his headlights.

"How much longer until we get to our first stop?" I asked.

"About that," he said.  "There's been a change in plan."  He looked at me.  "If you don't mind, I want to stop by my family's place first.  I've been thinking about what you said, about how I'm above it now, better than him"—he gestured with his head back toward the trailer—"and I've decided that this has to end now.  You talk to my folks, do your Mr. U.S. Marshal number, then I'll show myself and we'll call the cops and they can take him and do whatever they want."

"What about the bodies in there with him?"

Christopher paused, blinked.  "Think the police will believe it was self-defense?"

"I honestly don't know—but after what you've been through, I doubt any judge is going to want to put you in prison."

He nodded.  "Well… I'll guess we'll see, won't we?"

"You realize that I have no idea what your last name is?"

He laughed.  "I guess it didn't come up, did it?  It's Matthews."

I held out my hand.  "Pleased to meet you, Christopher Matthews."

He shook it.  "A pleasure, sir."

I sat back, checked myself in the mirror—the black eyes were so dark I looked like a raccoon—then patted down my hair and said, "My grandmother treated my dad like garbage his entire life."

"Now we get to it."

"You told me about your Grandpa, I'm going to tell you about my grandmother—unless you interrupt me again."

He mimed zipping closed his mouth.

"Look, the list of things she did to him when he was a kid—let alone what she did to him as an adult—would go on forever and depress the shit of you, so I'm just going to skip to thing that made me write her off permanently, okay?

"The last Christmas before Dad retired, money was a little tight—hell, money had always been tight, but this year it was even tighter than usual, right?  Dad only had sixteen dollars to buy Grandma a present, so the day before Christmas, he puts on his best coat and best boots and walks downtown because he doesn't want to waste money on a cab—no, my folks didn't drive, either one of them.  I mean, they used to, but both their eyesight was going and, besides, they could always call Tanya or me.  Anyway, he walks downtown—we're talking three, four miles in the middle of winter, ten degrees and snowing, a sixty-three-year-old man who's still recovering from radiation treatments from the first bout of cancer—he walks down and goes through all the stores, looking for something nice he can buy her with his sixteen dollars, and eventually he finds this really, really nice scarf, gloves, and perfume boxed set, thirteen bucks.  He shoots the other three bucks to have them gift wrap it because Grandma is supposed to come over and pick up her gifts that night.  Then he walks all the way back home in snow that's getting wetter and heavier.

"Grandma never showed up that Christmas Eve, she didn't show up on Christmas Day, or the day after, or the day after, not for New Year's… that present sat in their house for six fucking months before she got it—and even then she sent one of her other grandkids to get it, then went out of her way to call and tell him that she already had plenty of gloves and scarves but maybe she could use the perfume.  It broke his heart.  By then he was getting sick again—that little Christmas Eve stroll left him with walking pneumonia, and it was while he was being treated for it that his doctor discovered the cancer was back.

"Flash forward.  Both Mom and Dad are dead and buried—she didn't come to the either funeral, by the way, she had a little touch of the flu both times.  She decides to move down to Kansas to be near her sisters and sets about looking up my sister, who's living down there with her husband, and trying to 'make amends.'  My sister, by the way, made the drive all the way to Ohio and back for both funerals, and she was sicker than hell both times.

"Okay, so Grandma tries to make all nicey-nice with Gayle, and Gayle's too polite to tell her to go to hell—we both knew she was just an old woman trying to get into Heaven any way she could.  Grandma would call me sometimes to see how I was doing and reminisce about Mom and Dad like she ever gave a shit for either one of them.  I tell her that I got nothing to say to her and hang up.  So she sets about making Gayle her new, last best friend. 

"When Grandma died, she left a lot of money—well, what I consider to be a lot.  It was divided up among her sisters and living children and grandchildren—but Gayle and me, she left us a real nice chunk of change, over ten thousand dollars.  I didn't want her goddamn money, not after the way she'd treated Dad, and I told her lawyer as much.  Well, Grandma must have suspected I was going to say that, because she left a codicil in her will that if I refused my inheritance, it was all to go to Gayle—provided that I signed all the necessary papers.  By this time my sister has divorced her redneck hubby and wants to get the hell out of Dodge—or, rather, Topeka—as soon as possible, so she calls and asks me if I'd drive down to Kansas and sign the papers because if I did the money would be released to her that day.  How the hell could I say no?  I took the time off work, drove down, signed the papers, loaded up what Gayle wanted me to bring back, put her and the kids on a plane, and then had car trouble just outside Jefferson City.  You were around for everything else, so now I think we're up to date."

Christopher mimed unzipping his mouth.  "You really loved your folks a lot, didn't you?'

"Yes, I did—screw that past tense—I do.  Just because they're not here any longer doesn't mean I don't still love and miss them."

"I hope my folks have missed me half that much."

"I'm sure they have."

"Yeah…?"

"Count on it."

He looked at me and smiled.  "I realize this is going to sound incredibly stupid, all things considered, but man am I glad we grabbed you and not that other guy."

It took a second for that to fully register.  "What other guy?"

"Huh?  Oh—there was a dude about four miles behind you at a rest stop with a couple of flat tires.  I don't know what he ran over but it chewed the hell of them.  We were doubling back to get him when Denise spotted you.  She thought you looked nicer."

"Oh."

"I didn't mention that before?"

"Must have slipped your mind."

"Oh."

I imagined this guy now all safe and sound at home, kissing his wife, hugging his kids, petting the dog, bitching about the bills, and said:  "I hope the son-of-a-bitch is still stuck there."

We looked at one another, then burst out laughing.

The road dipped slightly, we went over another steel bridge—this one more stable than the last—and emerged onto a smooth and seemingly freshly-paved stretch of asphalt.  The trees thinned out near the road but were just as thick in the distance, and the sheer rock face on either side of us had obviously been blasted and smoothed by human hands.

"It'll be coming up on the right in a couple of miles," said Christopher.  "You need to make yourself presentable—there's a light jacket in the black duffel bag back there.  You should put it on to cover the blood on your shirt."

I moved to the back, grabbed the duffel bag, pulled it open, and immediately shrieked as the skulls grinned up at me.

"I said the black duffel bag."

"Yeah… uh… sorry."  I knelt there for a few moments, shaking, eyes closed, my heart pounding against my ribs, then took a deep breath, opened my eyes, and closed up the bag of bones.  "Sorry, Randy," I whispered to the top skull.  They'd be home soon, as well, to weeping families and waiting graves.

I found the lightweight camouflage green jacket—it was a little tight across the chest and the sleeves were a bit short, but I'd deal with it.

"Looks good on you," said Christopher as I climbed back into the passenger seat.

"It covers up the blood."

"Yeah, I know, but it looks good is what I'm saying.  Looks like something a real U.S. Marshal might wear."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

I took a deep breath, released it.  "So how do you want to work this?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean am I going inside, are you going to stay out in the bus and listen with the magic dish, am I using the phone first, what?"

He signaled for a semi to pass us, which it did with all the grace and subtlety of an elephant on a tightwire, then rubbed his eyes and said:  "You go inside and do your voodoo like with Thomas's folks; I'll wait out here until you signal me."  He shook his head.  "I won't listen in on you this time."  He looked at me.  "No need."

"I'll take that as a vote of confidence.  What am I supposed to do to signal you?"

"What do you think?  Step outside and holler for me."

"That'll work."

We dragged along behind the semi for another three-quarters of a mile, until it pulled off into the large and surprisingly crowded parking lot of a truck stop complete with a small motel, three gas islands, a showering facility, car wash, and restaurant.

"You never told me that your folks' place was so big," I said as Christopher maneuvered toward a parking space in an area designated MOBILE HOMES AND TRAILERS ONLY.

"It wasn't," he said, the surprise evident in his voice.  He killed the engine and looked out on the scene, open-mouthed.  "Good God—Dad had talked about trying to expand the place, but I never thought… wow."

The restaurant was one of those Mom-and-Pop establishments you pass on the road every trip; front porch, screen doors, neon beer signs hanging in the windows, a sandwich board with "Today's Specials" written in erasable marker, and an old-fashioned soda pop cooler out front—the kind with a lifting lid where you have to guide the ice-cold bottle through a series of metal tracks like a maze until it slides through a mini-turnstile at the end.  All that was missing from the front porch to make it something right out of a Normal Rockwell painting was a wooden rocking chair and floppy-eared hound dog lying across the top of the steps.

"The restaurant's a lot bigger than it looks on the outside," said Christopher.  "At least, that's how I remember it."  He looked at me and shrugged.  "I have no idea how many changes they might have made.  It's been… a while since I was here, you know?"  He was trembling all over.  "Hey, look over there."  He was pointing to an area behind the restaurant, just visible between it and the motel; a green patch of field, where there sat, up on concrete blocks, the remains of a gray 1968 VW Microbus. "I can't believe they still have that thing."

"Except for the no-wheels part, it still looks in fairly good condition to me."

He laughed.  "Maybe they'll sell it to you."

"Right.  Nothing against your folks or Volkswagens in general, but I don't give a shit if I ever I see the interior of one of these again."

"All in favor."

We both raised our hands.  I reached over and squeezed his arm.  "It's gonna be fine, my friend, just fine.  You're home."

"Not yet, I'm not… but damn, I never thought I'd ever be this close again.  Do me proud, Mark."

"You know it.  Look, it might take a while—remember how Thomas's dad reacted initially?"

"I know.  I don't think you're in any danger of having me take off on you.  Oh, that reminds me"—he dug around in his shoulder bag and pulled out a couple of twenties—"you might want to order some food or something.  Nothing irritated my folks more than someone who took up bar space without ordering."

I pocketed the money, checked myself in the mirror one last time, then climbed out into the rain, which was starting to grow heavier.

I stood beside the bus with my door open, staring at the restaurant.

"What is it?" asked Christopher.

"I think I'm as nervous about this as you are."

"Not possible."

I looked at him.  "Maybe not, but I'm running a close second."

"Which is just doing oodles to ease my anxiety, thanks so much."

"What are you parents' first names?  It might be helpful."

"Joseph and Ellen."

"And Paul's your brother, right?"

"Right."

"Any other names I should know?  Sisters or anything?"

"Not that I know of—but, then, it's been a while.  Are you still here?"

"I am now going."  I closed the door and began walking toward the front porch.  I kept thinking about what Trevor—the security guard at Muriel's—had said to me:  I actually feel like I'm making a difference today, you know?  How often does a guy get to say that?

As I hit the top of the stairs and reached for the screen door I felt, for the first time in years, like a worthwhile human being once again.

If I had any doubts about myself at that point, Arnold's words—You gotta be the one to finish this for us, Mark—erased them. 

They were all depending on me to do the right thing.

Maybe, after all of this, Tanya could depend on me for that, as well.

Odd, to believe your life has a purpose, after all.  Good—but odd.

I opened the door and stepped inside.

15. A New Life

The bar, on the left, was mahogany with a marble top, long and shiny and narrow.  A series of small, round tables to the right and several booths against the walls were half-filled with truckers and other tired denizens of the road, all of them enjoying their drinks, their meals, their time outside their vehicles; a comfortably-scuffed, polished wood floor covered most of the front half of the place, giving way to carpeting in the back where three pool tables sat, each with its own cone-shaped light above:  shadows moved outside the perimeter of the lights, phantom cues dipping into the glow to make the balls clack and clatter as they spun across the tables and sank into pockets. Gleaming brass horse rails braced the wall opposite the bar, as well as the bottom of the bar itself, while old-fashioned electric lanterns anchored on thick shelves just barely wide enough to hold them kept a constant air of twilight regardless of the time of day outside.  The place smelled of cigarettes, pipe tobacco, beer, burgers, eggs, coffee, and popcorn, all of these scents mixing with the lemon oil used to polish the wood.  It smelled somehow safe and welcoming.

I took a seat at the end of the bar nearest the door—right next to a rotating rack of maps (DON'T GET YOURSELF LOST IN THESE HILLS, read the sign)—and examined all the framed photographs hanging on the wall back there; young men in uniforms from WWII, Korea, Vietnam, and even a few showing a young man in desert gear from the first Gulf War.  None of the faces looked familiar.  I was hoping there'd be at least one family photo back there and that I'd be able to spot Christopher—I'd looked at his false face enough to know what the general shape of his features must have been like—but there was no little boy in any of the—

—hang on.

One black & white photograph, hanging down at the far corner, showed a boy of perhaps ten or eleven standing on the front porch of this place with a burly man and a stout, attractive woman.  I was too far away to make out the faces.

"What can I get for you?"

She was about thirty-five, forty years old, with startling red hair and bright green eyes and the kind of smile more gifted and creative men write poems or love songs about.  I smiled back at her, then realized what I looked like, pointed to my face, and said:  "It's been a very long drive."

"I was wondering," she said, not blinking or looking away.

I ordered a Pepsi and some onion rings.  After she left, I grabbed a couple of maps from the rack, looked at them without seeing anything, then slipped them into my coat pocket. 

When she came back with my drink I had the badge out, fingers and thumb covering everything except for my face on the license.

She looked at the badge, at my photograph, then at my face.  "Wow.  I don't know that I've ever actually seen one of those—my uncle would sure get a kick out of this.  Is there some kind of trouble, sir?  We don't want no problems."

I pocketed the badge.  "No, God, no, not at all.  But I need to speak to either Joseph or Ellen Matthews, preferably both."

She looked at me and shrugged.

"The owners?"

"My husband and I are the owners of this place, sir.  Have been for almost four years."

"Then you bought this place from them—from Joe and Ellen Matthews, right?"

She shook her head.  "No, sir, we bought this place from my uncle, Herb Thomas—well, we didn't exactly buy it from him, not outright, we bought in.  It was getting to be a bit much for Uncle Herb, running this place all by himself, especially after he put up the motel, and Larry and me—Larry's my husband, I'm Beth—we bought a two-third's share of the whole business.  I—is something wrong?  You look… kinda sick."

I could feel something trying to shake loose inside, but I wasn't about to panic now.  "I need to know… your uncle—Herb?  How long had he owned the business before you and your husband bought in?"

"Oh, Lord, Uncle Herb must've run this place… jeez, let me think… two, three years."

"So it's been in the family for about seven years?"

"Yes, sir."

I picked up my drink with a trembling hand and emptied the glass in three deep swallows.  I slammed it back on the bar with more force than I'd intended, making Beth jump and at least one pool player lean over for a better look.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"That's okay, mister—uh, officer.  What is it you need, anyway?  I'll do everything I can to help."

"Is your uncle around?"

"Not right now, but I expect him and Larry back any minute.  You need to talk to him?"

"Unless you can tell me who he bought this place from."

She smiled and shrugged once again.  "Sorry—I mean, I know he did buy it from someone… name might have been Matthews.  I'm just not sure.  But you can bet he'll remember.  Uncle Herb remembers everything.  Personally, I always thought that was part of what made him sick in the first place, him always remembering everything and the type of job he had before he retired.  A person who remembers everything, they're always worried about something, you know?"

I nodded.  Beth went back to the kitchen to check on my onion rings.  Someone put some money into the jukebox and played Marshall Tucker, "A New Life."  Another song I always liked.

Okay, I told myself.

Okay.

The place probably held a lot of bad memories for them, how couldn't it?  You lose your child, have him stolen from you, and everything you look at reminds you of that loss.  How could a family undergo a trauma like that and not be damn near ruined by it?  Oh, sure, familial love can go a long way in helping you to deal with a loss, but how long did it take for this place to seem more like a headstone for what their family once was rather than the home it had been?  Christ, I couldn't blame them for selling the place, pulling up stakes, and moving somewhere new.  A fresh start.  But, God—to have done that means that they had let him go, they had given up hope.  And if Beth's math was right, if this place had been in her family for the last seven years, that meant that Christopher's parents had waited only two years, maybe less, before giving him up for dead.

And I suddenly hated them for that.  How could anyone simply give up on their child still being alive?  It's not like when you have the family pet put to sleep, or it just turns up missing one morning—"Oh, Fluffy's gone, dear me; guess we'll have to go to the shelter and pick out a new one"—no, this was a human being we were talking about.  If Tanya and I ever had children and one of them turned up missing, I'd tear through anything that got in my way in order to find them.  I'd never give up.  Let alone so soon…

I rubbed my eyes, took a deep breath, and checked my self-righteousness at the door.  Yeah, it was easy for me to sit there and judge Joe and Ellen Matthews, not having any idea what they'd gone through for those two years immediately following Christopher's disappearance.

—ever notice how the most vindictively moral advice on how to raise a child comes from people who don't have children?  "Well, no, we don't," they always say when called on it, "but we know enough that if we did have them, we'd…"

Blah, blah, blah. 

And so I sat there, having the nerve to judge the Matthews for their actions without having one iota of a notion as to their pain and grief.  Maybe two years' waiting, two years' uncertainty, two years' worth of disintegrating hopes and guilt and God-only-knows what else—maybe two years of that was more than even the strongest of us could bear, so how could I blame—let alone hate—them for what they did in order to protect the remnants of their family?

So they had given up, sold their business, and moved on to a new life.

Maybe that wasn't such an awful thing.

So the big question now was:  Would Uncle Herb who remembers everything know where they had moved to?  My bet was yes—the transfer of a property and business like this isn't exactly something that can be done in an afternoon, it takes time.  And if the Matthews were in a hurry to get away after finally making what had to be an incredibly painful decision, then papers would have to have been sent back and forth in the mail, the money transferred into the Matthews' new bank account wherever they'd gone—hell, Uncle Herb probably had to call them at least once during the process.

I released the breath I'd forgotten I was holding.

Okay.

Uncle Herb the-worrier-who-remembers-everything would know where they'd gone—and if it wasn't right on the tip of his tongue, odds are he was the type of guy who saved paperwork.  Worriers usually are.  I myself have still have some receipts for vinyl record albums I bought in the late 70s.  Don't ask me why.

Beth brought my onion rings and a Pepsi refill.  "You look like you're feeling a bit better."

"I am, I think.  Let me ask you something I'll bet you can answer:  does Uncle Herb tend to keep fairly accurate paperwork?"

She burst out laughing, covered her mouth, then took a deep breath.  "Sorry.  It's just… asking if Uncle Herb keeps accurate paperwork's a little like asking the Andretti family if they know where to find a car's gas tank."

"So that would be a yes?"

"That would be a yes.  Uncle Herb's got enough files stashed around this place to build the world's biggest bonfire.  Larry and me spent I-don't-know how long getting all that stuff entered into the computer, but Uncle Herb still insists on keeping the papers themselves."  She leaned closer.  "Between us—and please don't let on I told you this—I think computer's scare him a little.  I know he doesn't trust them.  Says they make everything a little too easy for a person.  He don't trust anything that goes too easy.  He prefers the forms and the legwork."

"Sounds like he's a cautious man."

"He's a worrier, like I said.  And a worrier's just a cautious man with way too many backup plans, if you ask me."

"I'll remember that—and I won't tell Uncle Herb that you let on about his cyberphobia."

"His what?"

"Fear of computers or anything related to them.  Cyberphobia."

"That's what it's called?"

"Yep."

"Huh.  I never knew that."  Then she smiled, slowly, with great mischief.  "Now I got something to call him that'll confuse him."

"Or make him worry that he needs to see a doctor fast."

We looked at each other and laughed, right up until a loud, metallic crash from somewhere back in the kitchen made Beth close her eyes for a moment, wincing, then open just her right eye and shudder.  "That would be my less-than-coordinated husband bringing in supplies—or what's left of them by now.  Be right back."  She disappeared through the swinging doors, still laughing.  I wondered if anything ever made her genuinely angry.

Judging from the way her laughter grew louder, then was joined by her husband's, even money said no.

I tore into the onion rings—which were delicious, and surprisingly light—and was just finishing off the Pepsi refill when a stocky, white-haired man of perhaps sixty-five with rugged features came through the doors wiping off his hands on a towel.  He reminded me of Burt Lancaster in Atlantic City, except that this man had no moustache.

"I swear on Lawrence Welk's bubbly grave that that nephew of mine would drop a consonant if you super-glued it to his hand.  Don't get me wrong, I love 'im, but physical prowess is not that boy's strong point."  He slammed open a cooler door and pulled out a bottle of beer.  "We got a set of delivery doors, right, that're wide enough you could drive a small car straight through them and not bump either of the side mirrors—they give a body a wide berth, is what I'm saying—yet Jim Thorpe back there manages to walk sideways into one of them and drop the handle of the supply cart right onto a box of brand new pots and pans, then trip over his own two feet and fall ass-first into the grease barrel."  He popped the cap of bottle.  "That requires some serious skill."  He took a couple of swallows from the beer, wiped his forearm across his mouth, then slapped the bottle onto the bar and said, "And you are?"

"Uncle Herb, I take it?"

"No, Uncle Herb would be me, and since today is one of my good days and I remember who I am, I guess that means we're talking about you, so once again I ask:  and you are?"

I pulled out the badge and said, "Chief Deputy Samuel Gerard of the U.S. Marshal's Office."

Uncle Herb looked at the badge, then at my face.  "Well, I'll be damned.  A genuine U.S. Marshal, right here in my own place of business.  Nice badge."

"Thanks," I said, putting the wallet back in my pocket.

"You know," said Uncle Herb, "it's a real shame they don't let you guys keep them badges after you retire."

"I always thought so."

He took another sip of his beer.  "What's a U.S. Marshal do when he retires, anyway?  I mean, how does a guy like that get away from it all once he's got time?"

"I'm quite a few years away from retirement, so I haven't given it much thought."

"That's a shame," he said, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet.  "Because I got a feeling your career's about to come to an abrupt end."  He flipped open the wallet to show me a gold badge exactly like the one I'd shown him.  "When I said that about not being able to keep your badge after retirement, I lied."

"I get that now."  I rubbed my eyes.  "Oh, shit…."

Uncle Herb replaced his wallet, then leaned on the bar toward me.  "You probably can't see them too well from here, Mr. Tommy Lee Jones—by the way, I thought you deserved your Oscar for that movie, but damn if you don't look a thing in real life like you did up on that screen—anyway, you can't see 'em from here, but a couple of those pool players back there are State Police.  Andy and Barney—yes, those are their real names and no, I wouldn't make Mayberry or Floyd the barber jokes around them if I was you.  They come in here every night right after their shift finishes and play a couple of games.  Says it helps them relax, and trust me, Andy and Barney are a couple of real tense guys.  Now, unless you can give me one goddamned good reason why I shouldn't call them over here and have your ass arrested right here and now, then your day's about to have a crimp put into it.  You got any idea what the penalty is for impersonating a Federal officer?—don't bother answering that, it wasn't a real question."  He finished off his beer, opened another one.  "I usually take about five minutes to finish off my second beer, son.  You got until then to convince me that you shouldn't spend the next forty years of your life in prison being ass-candy for a big cranky guy named Bubba."  He lifted the bottle to his lips.  "Clock's running."

I said the first thing that came into my mind.  "I found John and Ellen Matthews' son."

Uncle Herb paused with the bottle almost to his mouth.  "Christopher?"  He lowered the bottle.  "You telling me that you found Christopher Matthews?"

"Yes, sir."

He nodded, then sipped his beer.  "You want a refill on that Pepsi or maybe something stronger?  I'm buying."

"That's awfully nice of you, considering."

"Considering that you're still in spitting range of being Bubba's pillow-biter?  Not all that nice."  He handed me a beer.  "The cap twists off but I like to pop 'em.  Seems more macho, the way Hemingway'd do it, if you ask me.  Ever read Hemingway?  Man could make a semicolon seem like it had an overload of testosterone."  He found a stool behind the bar and pulled it up to sit directly across from me.  "What's your real name?"

"Mark."

"Got a last name or are you one of them one-name wonders like Madonna and Prince?"

"I've got a last name.  I'd rather not tell you what it is."

He stared at me for several seconds, then said:  "All right, I'll let you keep it to yourself for the moment, but understand:  I've got a Bulldog .44 within easy reach, you try to dart on me, Mark No-Last-Name-For-The-Moment and I will not hesitate to shoot you in the back of the leg."

"I believe you."

"Fine.  I'm guessing from that addition to your nose and all them other decorations on your face—not to mention the blood on your shirt that you think that jacket's covering up—that you haven't had the best couple of days."

"No, sir, I haven't."  And I proceeded to tell him about what had happened since yesterday.  I was about a third of the way through it when he said, "Indiana."

"What?"

He slapped the bar with his open hand.  "Son-of-a-bitch!  I must be getting old—any other time I'd've made the connection toot-sweet in a second flat.  You're the guy who brought them two kids into the Dupont emergency room, aren't you?  The diabetic girl and that little colored boy with his face all scarred up."

My stomach and throat tried changing places.  "You've heard something about Arnold and Rebecca?"

"Is that what their names are?  News reports didn't say."

I reached out and grabbed his forearm.  "Is the girl all right?  Did the reports say—?"

"Easy there, son."  He pulled my hand from his arm.  "The girl's fine.  She's still listed in guarded condition, but the news says she's gonna be just fine."

"What about their families?  Did the reports say whether or not—?"

"Last I heard, the families had been located and were on their way to get 'em—but keep in mind, this was the late news last night; for all I know, their families might've already gotten them and be on their ways back home.  The kids ain't saying who it was that brought them to the hospital, though a security guard there claims it was a U.S. Marshal.  Kids won't give him up.  But you can be they've been talking all about the guy who abducted them… Grendel?"

I nodded.  "Grendel."

"So far they ain't made so much as a peep about this 'mystery man' who rescued them."  He ran a hand through his hair.  "How bad is the girl's face?"

"Almost half of it's gone, and not all in one place, either."  I rubbed my eyes.  "Plus one of her breasts has been cut off."  I looked at him.  "Grendel made her cut it off, then cook it up and eat it.  If you want to call any of your friends who're still with the Marshal's office or on the force or whatever and check on that, I promise you I'll sit right here and wait."

His lower lip trembled.  "He made her… cut it off and… and…?"

"Yeah."

He shook his head.  "The news reports ain't saying the extent of the disfigurement on either of them, except some about the colored boy—Arnold?  Says his face was deliberately scarred in patterns."

"Ta Moko," I said.  "It's a traditional method of facial scarring among ancient Maori warriors.  To hide a boy's age and show his place amongst the hierarchy of the tribe."

Uncle Herb wrote that down in pencil on the back of a bar ticket, then looked at me, considered something, and set out two more beers.  "You want something more to eat than them rings?  Beth could fix us up a couple of mean burgers."

"You still buying?"

"Why not?  Can I see that driver's license of yours again?"

"Then you'll know my last name."

"I'm gonna trust you not to bolt when I step away from this bar, then you gotta trust me."  He held out his hand.  "Your license."

I handed over the wallet; he did not open it; instead, he slid back the lid of the beer cooler, tossed it inside, then closed the lid.  "I'll go put in our order, make a call or two."

"I'll wait right here."

"I believe you.  How many burgers you want?"

"Two.  One for here, one for the road."

"Sounds like you're assuming that Big Bad Bubba isn't still lurking in your future."

I did not blink.  "I like to assume the bright side whenever possible."

He said nothing to that, only smiled, shook his head, and disappeared through the swinging doors.

I sat there staring at the rings of condensation made by the beer bottles on the marble of the bar.  I have no idea what I thought about, or for how long I sat there doing so; all I remember is that I was scared half out of mind, the rings kept spreading out toward each other, and that I really truly seriously didn't want to know anyone named Bubba or Brutus or even Bruce.  Especially not Bubba.  Bubba was a name you saw on Wanted posters in post office lobbies.  And they were never smiling.  Bubba the Unsmiling One.  Meet Mark, your new cellmate.  No thank you.

"Who'd you get the badge from?"

His voice startled me.  I shuddered from my thoughts, cleared my throat, had to pause for a moment to remember what he'd just asked me, then said:  "From them.  They stole it from Grendel, who I guess got it from an actual U.S Marshal."

Uncle Herb's face turned into a slab of granite.  "That's the only way he could've gotten it.  I've seen the phonies—some of them damned good and expensive phonies—and what you flashed there was the real thing."

I took it out of the wallet and handed it to him.  "Is there any way that badge can be traced back to the man who originally had it?"

"You damned well better believe it.  And if it turns out the guy's dead, they have ways of finding out the who and how of stuff like this.  If the guy isn't dead, he'll soon enough wish he were."  He looked at the badge, then blinked.  "Silly me—I went and smudged it."  He took the towel he'd used on his hands and began wiping off the badge, then winked at me as he slipped it into his shirt pocket.  "But the two kids are gonna be fine.  Seems to me you might be something of a hero, Mark."

"So you got hold of someone…?"

"Yeah.  A friend of mine with the Indy State Police.  He's damned curious how it is I know about Rebecca's breast when that information hasn't been released.  He was also glad to know the term Ta Moko.  Seems several of the guys have been trying to remember what that type of scarring is called."

"But the kids are all right?"

"They're both in real good shape, Mark.  And their families are there with them."

I exhaled, dropped my chin onto my chest, and started crying.  "Oh, God… oh, you have… you have no idea how worried I was about them, that… that…"

He patted my shoulder.  "I understand.  If it's any consolation, you did the exact right thing, considering the circumstances."  He handed me some napkins so I could blow my nose (gingerly, and it still hurt like hell) and wipe my eyes, then tossed my still-unopened wallet back onto the bar.  "All right, then.  What happened after all of you left the motel room?"

I filled him in on most of it—excepting the murder and what we had stashed in the trailer.  While I spoke, Uncle Herb's eyes narrowed into slits, grew hard, then sad.  As I was finishing, he polished off the rest of his beer, did not call Andy and Barney over, then pulled a pack of smokes out from behind their hiding place near the cash register.  "Beth and Larry been lecturing me for years to quit these things.  I know they're bad for you, but dammit, they taste good sometimes, you know?  Especially right after hearing a story like yours."  He lit up, offered me one, and I took it.

We smoked in silence for a moment.

"Are you going to have me arrested?"

"I'd've done that by now if I was going to."

"What are you going to do with me?"

"I'm going to give you your burgers and let you leave here.  I don't know your last name, so all I can give the State Police boys from Indiana is your description—by the way, lose the nose-splint as soon as you can."

"Your friend's that curious how you came to know about Rebecca?"

"He's downright perplexed.  I hung up soon as I could, but it's not gonna take him too long to realize what's happened and get someone over here."  A bell sounded from back in the kitchen.  "Food's up.  Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Mark No-Last-Name-To-Speak-Of?"

"Yes—did you buy this place from John and Ellen Matthews?"

"I bought it from the Matthews family, yes."

"Then can you please, please tell me where I can find them?"

He exhaled a thin stream of smoke, brushed something off his sleeve, then looked at me and said, "I certainly can."

I walked toward the bus with a slip of paper in my hand.  Written on it was an address which, according to Uncle Herb, wasn't all that far from where we were now.  The rain was coming down a lot heavier, and rumbles of serious thunder were getting louder and closer.  I pulled up the hood on my jacket and ran the rest of the way to the bus.

Once inside, I pulled down the hood and handed Christopher a brown paper bag.  "I got us some hamburgers.  I figured maybe we ought to eat something."

"Thanks," he said, taking the bag from me.

I looked at him for a moment, then at the slip of paper in my hand.  "Christopher—"

"No fries?"

"What?"

He closed the bag and looked at me.  "How can you order hamburgers and not get any fries?"

"I'm… I'm sorry, it didn't occur to me."

He sniffed the air around me.  "Do I smell onion rings?  Is onion rings what I'm smelling?"

"I had some, yeah, but—fuck that, you need to—"

"You need to calm down, Mark."

"I'm… what're you talking about?  I'm fine.  Listen to me—"

"I said calm down!"

"Jesus Christ, will you shut up for a second and listen—?"

He reached across the seat and zapped me in the neck with the Taser and that was it for me for a while…

…until I opened my eyes to almost total darkness.  My body was still thrumming from the Taser and movement came in slow degrees.

I took in the entirety of the mess, then broke it down into bite-sized pieces of disorder.

Disorder first:  I was alone in the bus, which was still running.

Disorder second:  wherever we were, it was fairly enclosed, because I could smell the exhaust fumes growing stronger by the minute.

Disorder third:  if the scene illuminated by the headlights was for real and not some leftover images from a dream I didn't remember having, then we were parked deep inside a cave—

—or the entrance to a mine.

Shit, shit, shit.

I did not so much turn toward my door as I did flop in its general direction.  Getting a solid grip on the handle was one of the supreme accomplishments of my life, because my arms and hands were still half-numbed, but I got a grip; I then lost it, got it back, and had the door opened before it occurred to me that my legs might not be up for walking or standing.  By the time this did occur to me, I was already face-down on the soggy ground.  I pushed myself up, reached into the bus, thought I had a grip on the lower part of the seat, and tried to pull myself up only to slip and fall once again.

I'd grabbed the gun.  I looked at it, cursed, then slipped into the back of my pants and grabbed the running board, managing to balance myself enough to stand with the aid of the door, which I clung to like a life preserver.

I could see the entrance in the distance, framed by timbers as Christopher said it would be.  Outside it was deep gray, the rain pounding down and the thunder so loud I expected it to rip through the roof and bring all that limestone crashing down on my head.  I took several slow, deep breaths, feeling some strength return to me, hesitantly, like a child afraid it was about to be scolded or punished.

Christopher was just inside the entrance, fiddling with a barrel.  A barrel strapped to a dolly.  A barrel strapped to a dolly with all sort of wires running around it.

Shit, shit, shit.

He checked all the connections, checked a device I assumed was the timer, then set it aside and started walking back toward me.

He stopped by the door to the trailer, his face expressionless.  "You okay?"

"What… what the hell did you do that for?"

"You were pretty out of control there, dude.  If I'd realized that just stopping to use the toilet and get some food was going to cause you to flip out, I'd've made you take dump in one of the coolers."

I shook my head, which was a mistake because it sent a wave of dizziness and nausea rolling through my entire body.  "…didn't have to use the goddamn bathroom… I found out about your—"

He opened the trailer's door.  "In a minute, Mark.  Hold that thought."

Light from inside the trailer spilled out against the walls.  They were wet, and dark, and raggedly uneven; if it weren't for the supports around us, I would have sworn we were deep inside a grave.

Christopher emerged a few seconds later pushing—of all things—a fairly-expensive motorcycle, a wide one made for long travel, complete with windshield, side compartments for storing small pieces of luggage, and a small rack across the back of the seat.

"Where'd you get that?" I managed to say.

"Saving up cigarette coupons—where do you think I got it?  I stole it from one of the rest stops we made before we picked you up.  Arnold and me painted it and changed the plates—that's where he got the bright idea about painting the trailer.  You gonna be all right there for a minute?"

"But your family—"

"—is going to be real glad to see us.  I hope you're hungry, because you can bet that Mom's going to make you eat something.  No guest ever leaves our home unfed.  You stand warned."  He rolled the motorcycle up to the entrance and leaned it against the wall.  I noticed for the first time that he had some other things up there, as well; a duffel bag and several shoulder bags which held, I assumed, the computers.

As he came back to help me to my feet, I said:  "Don't you want to know?"

"I already saw the address, I don't need to know anything more.  It's about forty-five from the truck stop.  Be there in a jiffy, you'll see."

He led me toward the opened door of the trailer.  

The smell hit me hard; it was much more than human stink—although the odor of old piss and shit was more than enough on its own; the smell of the bodies inside was overpowering.  It was this thick, moist, heavy, spoiled, meaty, swollen reek that assumed invisible physical shape within and without; the kind of smell that immediately sinks down through every layer of skin and takes about a month to wash off and whose coating in my nostrils would probably never completely go away.

The strange thing is, I gagged but did not throw up.

Christopher helped me up into the doorway.  "I thought you might like to meet my former host.  You know—witness what may or may not be his final words and all that."

"Do I have to?"

"It would mean a lot to me, Mark, if I didn't have to face him alone this last time."

I looked into his eyes and saw a frightened little boy still hiding back there.  "Sure thing, buddy.  Sure thing."

We moved into the trailer.  I was amazed at how quickly the stink went away.  I realize now that the smell didn't go anywhere, it was just that my olfactory senses had had enough, tuned out, and stopped sending signals to my brain.  The stink was still there, my nose was simply pretending it wasn't.

The lights in here still worked—which is why Christopher had left the bus running, I now realized—so everything was easily visible.

The interior of the Airstream had been stripped bare of everything—seats, built-in appliances, tables, even the toilet and carpeting was gone.  The floor was bare metal, covered in dust and torn shreds of paper and stray sections of electrical wire, as well as tire tracks and blood.

The two bodies—one of them naked—were laid out next to each other at the far end of the trailer where the bomb had once been.  They were both face-down, for which I was grateful; despite what these two had been a part of, I knew that their eyes would be frozen in final accusation:  How could you be a part of this?

Okay, Dad; if you were in my position, what would you do?

Whatever it took, that's what I'd do.  Whatever it took to end this as soon as possible, that's what I'd do.  I love you, Mark.

Love you too, Dad.

A duffel bag sat near the door, beside which was large tool box; Christopher knelt down to open the lid.  I lost my balance a little, caught myself on the door frame, and did not collapse.  The maps fell out of my pocket and hit the floor at an angle, skittering a few feet to stop at the foot of a large cardboard box that, according to its markings, once held a new water heater.

Christopher pulled something from the tool box and set it to the side, then closed the lid, locked it with a padlock, and tossed the key outside into the darkness.

Something moved inside the box, made a muffled sound, then kicked out at the edge, causing the box to move a few more inches in our direction.

"I'm surprised he's got that much energy left," said Christopher, walking over to the box and moving it aside.  The back had been cut out so as to set flush against the wall.

Christopher threw the box down, then kicked it over by the bodies.

The man chained up against the far wall looked like a skeleton covered in fish-belly skin.  He was pale, emaciated, and covered from the waist down in the semi-dried remains of his own filth.  He too was naked, except for the heavy layers of bandage covering the stump of his right leg, which had been removed just above the knee.  Both his right and left arms were manacled, and none-too-gently, judging from the open sores encircling his wrists.  The chains on his arms were short—less than three feet—and were soldered into opposite walls.  The chain attached to the manacle around his left ankle was much longer—easily eight feet—and was soldered into place just below the other left-side chain.  His mouth was stuffed with a small rubber ball held in place with a thick rubber band that encircled his head, which had been scalped; sections of skull were visible here and there through the ragged, bloody, chewed-looking tissue that remained.  Darkened trails of dried blood ran straight down over his face, pooling around the top edge of the blinking electronic collar around his neck, then dribbling down onto his chest.  His body was covered in gashes, cuts, and burns, all of them in various stages of healing. Directly behind him hung an IV packet from which snaked a clear, thin plastic tube whose other end disappeared up his nose and was held in place there by medical tape.  I assumed the IV was some kind of liquid nutrient used to keep him alive.  He glowed with sweat, making his pale flesh seem all the more ghostly in the harsh light.  His face was drawn and hollow, covered in ten-day-old beard speckled with gray.

But his eyes were the worst.

Have you ever noticed, whenever you see pictures of serial killers, rapists, mass-murderers, that all of them seem to have the same dead eyes, forever frozen in a cool, detached, hundred-yard stare, as if they've given up trying to make you understand the logic behind their actions and so are content in themselves by staring at their goal you'll never be worthy enough to gaze upon?  Once, in college, a friend of mine was doing a photograph collage for an art project.  She took photos of Ted Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer, John Wayne Gacy, Charles Manson, and about a dozen others whose names I don't remember and don't want to, and she cut out their eyes, interchanging them with each other—Dahmer got Gacy's, Gacy got Manson's, Manson got Bundy's, and so on.  When she was done we both stood back and looked at the results.

You couldn't tell she'd done a thing to any of them.

They all had the exact same eyes—

—You are not worthy enough to understand—

—just like Grendel's, that stared out dispassionately and patiently from within dark circles and above puffy, discolored bags.  He did not blink as Christopher approached him, checked the IV, then removed the ball and rubber band and gently pulled the tube from his nose and stomach.

"Don't swallow, don't swallow," he said to Grendel in a soothing voice.  The tube came out and flopped on the floor, snaking around and spitting out clear liquid.  Christopher grabbed the free end of the tube and clamped it closed, then stood up and walked over to the chain and manacle holding Grendel's right arm in place.

Not once during all of this did Grendel look at Christopher.

Instead, he stared unblinking at my face.

Unlike the "distributor" at the rest stop, Grendel's gaze nailed my feet to the floor.  Until this moment, I had never really embraced the idea of evil being something pure, something compelling, seductive, charismatic, and attractive.

Now I did.  What stared back at me from behind those eyes was something so purely evil, so flawlessly degenerate, so perfectly perverse and mad that it seemed almost benevolent.

I managed to look away just before he spoke in a voice that sounded like rusty nails being wrenched from rotten wood.

"You have a new friend, Christopher."  So sing-songy in that voice from nightmare.

"Yes, I do."

"Does your new friend have a name?"

"Why don't you ask him yourself?"

Grendel's head snapped around in Christopher's direction.  "Never use contractions like that in my presence!  Do you understand?"

Christopher paused and smiled down at him.  "Oooooh, I'm shakin' in my shoes."  And then kicked Grendel squarely in the chest.  Grendel jerked backward, banging the back of his head against the metal wall, then groaned, shook it off, and glared up, his breathing heavy and fast.

"I suppose you feel that I had that coming to me," he said.  "Very well, my little boy.  I will give that to you."

"You're too kind.  There are no words to express my gratitude."

"Do not mock me, Christopher."

"Seems to me you're not in much of a position to do anything about it."

"Situations change."

They glared at one another.  Then Grendel gave a short, phlegmy laugh and look toward me.  "I do not believe I have had the pleasure, sir.  Who might you be?"

"One of the listening North Danes."

His eyes widened and his smile widened.  "Then you know of me already?"

"'Rage-inflamed, wreckage-bent, he ripped open the jaws of the hall.'  Yeah, I've heard some things."

"How marvelous—though the passage you quoted leads me to believe that you have been exposed to one of the more bumbling translations of the story."

"My education is what you might call incomplete."

"I see.  And do you not find me attractive?  Even in this unfortunate state?"

"Not particularly."

"Then you must allow me the chance to redeem myself in your eyes."

"Not possible."

His smile slithered wider.  "Everything is possible, good sir."

Christopher unlocked his right arm, letting it drop free, then stepped over beside me.  For a few moments Grendel neither said anything nor looked at us; he was too busy shaking some feeling back into his arm.

"You should pick up the rubber ball and squeeze it," said Christopher.  "It'll help get your hand back in working order."

"How ingenious," said Grendel, picking up the ball.

It was only after he'd grabbed the ball and was squeezing away that something else caught his attention; he leaned forward—insomuch as he could—and looked at the floor.

At the maps that had fallen from my pocket.

"My, my, may," he said, looking up at us and smiling.  "Do my eyes deceive, or are those maps of the lovely Kentucky hills?"

Christopher looked down at them, then at Grendel.  "Yeah, so what?"

"'Yeah, so what?'" Grendel repeated in a mocking, childish voice.  "My God, how ugly your voice has become, how sloppy and ungracious your speech.  I am ashamed."

"I'll learn to live with your disappointment."

Grendel made an amused noise, then twisted his head slightly to get a better view of the maps.  "Kentucky, indeed."  His eyes looked up but his head remained still.  "So we have come home, have we, Christopher?"

"That's right."

"Of course.  How wonderful for you.  How delightful.  I assume that the others are now back home, all safe and warm and snuggly."

"Yes."

"That moves me, Christopher.  Sincerely.  Can you not see how deeply, deeply moved I am?  To think of all the effort and planning that you must have done to bring all of this about… why, it almost makes me not ashamed of you."

"Fuck you."

"Unchain me, then.  Oh, I see—it was an insult, not a request.  A pity.  I do feel rather amorous, despite everything.  But then, you always did have that effect on me, Christopher-my-favorite-child.  How beautiful you are.  Has your new friend seen your actual face?"

"Yes."

Grendel looked at me.  "Did you appreciate the skill of my handiwork?"

"Not really."

"Not really?  Ah, well—the ability to truly appreciate a work of art is something acquired and refined over time, after all.  Worry not—my feelings are not in the least hurt, nor are my sensibilities in any way offended."

"I can't tell you how relieved I am to hear that," I said.

"Well, naturally, it would not do to have you worrying yourself over it, would it?  I find that, while guilt is such a useful thing, unearned and unnecessary guilt is far too messy and distasteful to bother with.  It has rarely served my purposes well."

"You are one smarmy motherfucker, you know that?"

"I choose to take that as a compliment.  Now, do please pardon me."  He looked down at the maps again, then at Christopher.  "Tell me, my lovely boy—how is the family?"

Christopher started.  "Uh… I haven't seen them yet, but we've got the address."

"Oh, it is we who have the address, is it?"  He looked at me.  "I do believe I detect the lingering aroma of onion rings."  His eyes sparkled.  "You know, don't you?"

"Shut up."

"What's he talking about?" asked Christopher.

I took hold of his arm.  "We need to step outside for a minute, buddy."

"What for?"  His voice rose on the second word.

"Because we do."

"Oh, please," said Grendel.  "Do tell him in front of me."

I wasn't about to give him the satisfaction.

"Tell me what?" shouted Christopher.

Grendel shook his head.  "My dear, lovely child, come here to me."

"…no…"

"I SAID COME HERE TO ME!  DO IT NOW!"

On auto-pilot, Christopher began moving away from me.  I grabbed him and pulled him back toward the door.

"My dear, dear lovely boy.  You have forgotten again, have you not?"

Christopher began shaking his head, his arms and legs trembling.

"Oh, dear me," said Grendel.  "I thought we discussed this, Christopher.  I thought we had settled this once and for all.  It does not do for one to keep fibbing to one's self."

"Shut up!" I screamed.

Grendel sighed.  "Dear, beautiful, perfect Christopher, whose kisses breathe life into my weary soul—do you not remember the conversation we had some time ago?"

Christopher shook his head harder, making muffled, whimpering noises.

Grendel looked at me.  "One of us must remind him.  I would be more than happy to do it."

"One more word out of your mouth and I'll tear out your tongue with a pair of pliers."

"This is getting wearisome.  Christopher?"

"…ungh… um… uh…"

"Look at me, Christopher."

Christopher held up his hand as if trying to ward off blows from invisible fists.

"Look at—I SAID LOOK AT ME!"

Christopher was pulling away toward the other side of the trailer, hands swatting the air.

I knelt down and grabbed the toolbox, realizing just before I did that it was locked and the key somewhere outside.

"Do not move away from me, lovely child.  Come closer."

I banged the lid of the tool box with my fist, then turned around and grabbed the duffel bag; it was heavy and there had to be something in here I could use to knock him out with.

"You are not coming closer, Christopher.  How can I hold you if you will not come closer?  How can I stroke your cheek and whisper to you of my love and caring?  Only I love you, Christopher.  Only I can love you…"

I tore open the top of the duffel bag and grabbed the first hard object I could feel.  In the corner, Christopher was pressed against the wall and slowly sliding down to the floor, still shaking his head, still swatting the air, still whimpering.

"My perfect child, do you not remember?  They're all gone."

"SHUT UP!" I screamed, heaving the skull at his face.  It struck him hard in the mouth with an ugly crack!, then fell to the floor and rolled toward me, stopping just a few feet away with its empty eye sockets staring up at my face:  How can you be a part of this?

Christopher was now covering his head with his hands, his whimpers giving way to groans.

Grendel slowly leaned his head forward, spitting blood and a couple of teeth from his mouth.  "They have all been dead for quite some time, Christopher—but of course you have known this all along, have you not?"

Christopher cried out, shuddered, and began rocking back and forth, back and forth.

I grabbed another skull and threw it at Grendel, this time hitting him in the stomach; he never blinked.

"Your father was so distraught over having lost you that he began drinking, remember?"

"…got the address…" whispered Christopher.  "Mom will… make us something to eat… no one leaves her table unfed…"

"He became a drunk, my boy.  We have talked about this but, still, you play these little games with yourself.  I never appreciated that.  After all, games are my job."

This time I grabbed a long bone and moved toward him, striking him against the side of the head, but still he kept talking.

"…could not forgive himself for losing you, Christopher—"

—another blow to the side of his head—

—"…and so he kept on drinking, drinking, drinking, until he finally drove Paul away, remember?  Paul"—

—this time I hit him in the throat, which caught him off-guard and made him spit up a little, but then he took a breath at was at it all over again—

—"…so little brother joined the Army just in time for the first Gulf War, and once over there, promptly got himself blown up when a terrorist drove a truck filled with explosives right into his barracks"—

—I kept striking at his face with the bone, screaming incomprehensibly to drown out his voice—

—"…he burned to death in the fire, remember how we talked about what it is like to burn to death, how the brain is the last thing to go so you feel every last sensation of your body being consumed?  You could not believe how horrible it"—

—back and forth Christopher rocked, weeping and shaking—

—again and again I struck Grendel with the bone, screaming until my throat was torn-raw and wet—

—and still Grendel kept talking louder and louder until his screams equaled my own—

—"…and losing both his sons was too much for John Robert Matthews to bear, so he began drinking twice, thrice as much, remember?  Remember, Christopher?  And all the while, your saintly mother tried to hold what was left of her family together but your father, he was so obsessed with his guilt he paid her no mind, at least, until the night he came home so drunk he could not see the road in front of him, let alone YOUR MOTHER STANDING OUTSIDE WAITING FOR HIM, AND WHEN HE REALIZED THAT HE HAD KILLED HER, WHEN HE REALIZED—"

—"…good cook," whimpered Christopher, "Mom's always been a real good cook…"—

—"…THAT HIS FAMILY WAS GONE—"

—"Shut your filthy fucking mouth you worthless pile-of-puke-piece-of-shit!" I screamed, hammering the bone against the top of his skull, spattering blood and tissue—

—"…HE TOOK HIS OLD SHOTGUN AND—"

—"…thought it was ours," said Christopher, "...it looked gray, I swear to God it looked gray…"—

—I threw down the bone and grabbed Grendel's throat with both my hands and began squeezing with everything I had, slamming his head back against the wall and driving my knee into his groin as he clawed at my face with his free hand, drawing a little blood, and I jerked forward, headbutting him, and he spit blood into my eyes but I kept squeezing until his hand fell to his side and his mouth began to bubble spit and blood and these little ragged wheezing noises began to escape and I liked it, I liked it, God forgive me I liked the feeling of his life slipping out under my hands, but then Christopher grabbed me from behind and pulled me off, both of us falling back onto the duffel bag which quickly spilled half its contents under our weight and we lay there on a bed of bones both of us shaking and crying.

After a few moments, I managed to get on my knees and Christopher to his.

I cupped his face in my hands and looked into his eyes.  "I'm… I'm sorry, Christopher…God I'm… I'm so sorry…"

"…me too… I… I sh-sh-should've… should've remembered…"

I turned his face up toward mine.  "You knew all along?"

His eyes filled with tears and he nodded.  Once.  Very quickly.  "There's… there's knowing… and then there's knowing…."

And in that moment I remembered what Arnold had said to me back in the hospital.

…People can change a lot over that long.  They can… they can forget about things if forgetting makes it easier for them to go on living….

Good God.  Had Arnold known?  I thought he'd been talking about Christopher's family.  Had he been trying to tell me?

"What am I supposed to do now?" said Christopher.  He wrapped his arms around my waist and buried his head against my chest.  "Where am I supposed to go?"

"Hang on, buddy," I said, stroking the back of his head.  "Shhh. C'mon, there-there, c'mon…"

"…I thought he was lying to me… I thought it was just his way of keeping me from… from hoping…"

"…all right, all right, that's it, c'mon…"

"…but I knew… I knew… but I couldn't know!  I couldn't.  The other kids, they needed me to be… to b-be in charge…"

"…I know…"

"…and they… they looked up to me… they depended on me… but I c-c-couldn't…

couldn't let them know…"

"…shhh, c'mon…"

"…so I couldn't let myself know… I couldn't… oh god, I just couldn't…"

"…I'm so sorry, Christopher…"

"…because what reason was there for… for going on… h-h-how w-was I supposed to find a reason for… for any of us to g-go on living if I… if I admitted that… that…"

"…so sorry, I'm so sorry… so sorry…"

His grip around my waist tightened and he spluttered against my jacket.  "…ohgod, Mark… what… what am I gonna do?  Where am I supposed to go now?"

"…we'll find a place for you.  Tanya and me, we'll find a place for you, I swear it, I promise…"

"…you're the only friend I've got, Mark… you're the only friend I've ever had…"

"…count on it…"

"…what am I gonna do?"

"…we'll think of something.  We will.  I promise."

And I held him.  His broken spirit.  His loneliness.  His helplessness.  Tightly against me I held all of this, wishing he could feel protected, needed, worthwhile.

Herb Thomas had told me the whole story.  How John Matthews' drinking had gotten so out of control that Ellen had threatened to have him committed to a detox clinic; how Paul had joined the Army and been killed in Iraq; how John Matthews had accidentally struck and killed his wife while driving drunk; and how he had later shot himself right after calling the police to report Ellen's death.  The business had gone to Ellen's brother, who wanted no part of it and so sold it to Herb Thomas, who later expanded everything to include a motel and car wash and eventually let his nephew Larry and Larry's wife Beth buy into the business.

The address he'd written on the slip of paper had been that of the cemetery where the Matthews' bodies were all buried.

Christopher shuddered.  So alone against me, so alone and frightened; a little boy suddenly in the dark after all the lights had unexpectedly gone off.

"It'll get better," I said to Christopher.  "I'll make sure it does."

"…supposed to do now?"

I leaned down and kissed the top of his head.  "Shhh, c'mon… there-there…"

"How touching," said Grendel.  "How magnificently poignant.  A four-handkerchief moment if ever I saw one.  So much intimacy.  You really ought to take this chance to have him suck your cock.  He's very good at it."

I started over to beat him with the bone again but Christopher stopped me.

"It's all right, Mark.  It's okay."  He patted my chest.  "I'm… I'm better.  Thanks."

"I didn't know how to tell you."

"I know."

"Can you forgive me?"

He shook his head.  "There's nothing to forgive.  I just… forgot that a delusion is only helpful so long as you remember it's a delusion."  He rose to his feet, walked over to Grendel, and spit in his face.  "I don't suppose you remember the night we watched Mad Max, do you?"

"I cannot say that I particularly remember much about the film, aside from those ridiculously overdone car chases."

"Good.  Then this next part is going to seem new and original to you."  He pulled a key out of his pocket and tossed it over beside the bodies.  "That key will unlock the restraints.  You've got one hand free.  Here."  He turned, picked up a hacksaw, and tossed it toward Grendel.  "Here's how this is going to work.  Arnold and I tested this out a few times on other chains, just in case you think I'm guessing."

"I would hope that you would not try guessing at anything," said Grendel.  "You never do well with your guesses, do you?"

Christopher knelt in front of him.  "In a minute, Mark and I are going to walk out of here.  It will take us about a minute to get to the entrance of the mine—did I mention that we're parked in an abandoned mine?"

"No.  How clever of you."

"Thanks.  Anyway, we're going to walk to the entrance where I've got a bomb waiting—"

"—all of the documentaries about Oklahoma City, right?  Oh, you are a clever boy… and me with all that fertilizer for my gardens."

Christopher backhanded him across the mouth.  The sound was loud and sharp and deeply satisfying.

"Please don't interrupt me again.  When he and I get there, I'm going to activate the timer.  It's set for fifteen minutes.  Are you paying attention to me now?  This next part is very important.

"Arnold and I also tested this out on some of the body parts you left lying around.  So here's the thing:  you can saw through the chain holding your arm in place in about twelve or thirteen minutes.  If you can do that, then you've got enough slack on your leg chain to get over there and pick up the key and set yourself free.  That will give you about a minute-and-a-half to get out of this mine before the bomb goes off."  He shook his head.  "Don't know how you're going to manage that with only one leg, and to tell you the truth, I don't really care.  That's if you get through the chain in thirteen minutes or less."  He ran a hand over his mouth, then laughed softly.  "The chain will take you thirteen minutes.  But you can saw through your wrist in about seven, providing you don't pass out from the shock and pain.  The choice is yours.  On the bright side, if you don't get out and the bomb seals you in here"—he pointed to the bodies—"at least you'll have plenty to eat.  For a while, anyway."  He rose to his feet.  "Come on, Mark.  We need to get out of here before that storm gets any worse and parts of the road wash out."

"You do not have it in you to do this," said Grendel.

"Just watch," replied Christopher, stepping outside without so much as a glance back.  I followed him, closing the door behind me.

"Are you serious?" I asked him.

"Goddamn right I'm serious—and don't look at me like that.  It's more of a chance than he ever gave any of us!"  He started walking toward the entrance.  I followed after him.

"Christopher, please don't do this."

"Give me one reason why not."

I grabbed his arm and spun him toward me.  "Because you're better than this!"

"No, I'm not.  Maybe once, but not now.  It was sure nice to believe that for a while, though.  Thank you for that."  He yanked his arm from my grip and kept walking.

"I can't let you do this!"

He whirled around.  "And how exactly do you plan on stopping me?  You want to do the stumblebum routine again?  Because I'm about wrung the fuck out, Mark!  Do you understand?  I don't have any fight left in me!  I got one thing left to do, one lousy goddamn thing and it's the only thing I've got left to look forward to, and then there's nothing!  NOTHING!  Everything else has been taken away from me, so now you're gonna take this one last thing away?"

"Don't you dare lay this at my feet!  Don't you fucking dare!  I will not stand here and let you force me into letting you commit murder again!"

"Murder?  Again?  Are you listening to what you're saying?  You think what I did at the truck stop was murder?  You think this is taking another human being's life?  They're not human!  They never were!"

"Yes, they are!  We may not like the idea of being part of the same species as them, but that doesn't change the fact that they're people!"

"By whose definition?  Yours?  The Bible's?  Tell me, Mark—under whose definition does Grendel qualify as a human being?"

"Please don't do this, Christopher.  Please."

"This is getting boring."

I was starting to panic.  "Maybe boring for you, but for me—pure scintillation.  On my deathbed when my grandchildren ask me what was the high point of my life, I'll tell them without a doubt it was standing in an abandoned mine wired to explode and arguing the finer points of the evolutionary scale with Christopher Matthews while he was being an unreasonable horse's ass."

He grabbed my collar and pulled me up into his face.  "Answer me one question, okay?  At what point do you say 'no more'?  Can you tell me that?  Can you tell me at which point Mark Sieber says, 'I will give you all the benefit of every doubt up to a point, but once you cross this line, you lose your right to call yourself a human being and walk safely on the Earth?"

"Stop this."

"Where's that line for you, Mark?  Or does it even exist?  Fuck!—I'll bet you're one of these people who think that Hitler might've been okay if he'd gotten a few more hugs from Mommy."

"Stop this."

"GIVE ME ONE REASON!  Just one!"

"Because I'm your friend and I'm telling you that if you do this, it will diminish you for the rest of your life and make everything you and the others have been through meaningless."

He froze, staring at me.

"If you do this," I continued, "you will never forgive yourself.  Because somewhere inside you know that if you carry out this unbelievably sadistic act, you'll be dragging yourself down to his level and there's no coming back from there.  He's hard-wired, but you're not.  Do you want to be just like him, Christopher?  Do you really think you could live with yourself after this was done?  Because if you do think that, then all of this has been for nothing.  Everything you've been through and lost, all the pain and humiliation Arnold and Rebecca and Thomas suffered at his hands, the deaths of the other children, all of it will made worthless."

"Then what's left?  Can you tell me what's left for me to believe in?"

I reached up and gripped his wrist.  "This," I said.  "You feel that, my hand on you?  This is my hand and my word.  I am your friend.  You have that.  You have my friendship.  But that ends the moment you activate that timer."

"Is that a threat?"

"No.  It's just the way it'll be.  I'm sorry."

"Me too."

We stared at each other for a few more moments.

He let go of my collar.  "Pretty smart for a janitor."

"I have moments."

He looked at me, at the bomb, then walked over and yanked out all the wires.  "Fine.  There.  Happy now?"

"Yes.  Thank you."

He stared at the mass of wires in his hand.  "You want to know something terrible?"

"What's one more?  Sure."

"The other collars, the ones he had us wearing?  They're mixed in with the foam and C4.  They're still active.  Even if he'd managed to get out and make this far, once he was seventy-five feet away, this thing would have gone off, anyway.  He never would have made it."

"You're right.  That's terrible."

"Yeah."  He threw down the wires, then peeled back the C4 and removed the collars, tossing them into the rain and mud.  "We need to load up the bike."

"You're not going to believe this."

"What?"

I patted down my pockets.  "I think I dropped my wallet back there."

He shook his head, almost smiling.  "Then you should go and get it."

"Be right back."

He started strapping everything onto the motorcycle and packing up the bags in the side compartments.  I looked back every chance I got to make sure he wasn't watching.  I got to the trailer, waited until Christopher's back was turned, then stepped inside, closing the door behind me.

"My hero," said Grendel.  "Did my sweet boy have a change of heart and send you to rescue me?"

"Yes and no."

I pulled the gun from the back of my pants and shot him in the center of his forehead, then kept firing until the clip was empty and the silencer was a smoking, charred glop of melted plastic. 

Tell me, Dad, what would you have done?

I'd've shot him a lot sooner.

How's the fishing?

Fine.  I enjoy it here.  Don't you worry about me anymore, you hear?

Am I still a good man, Dad?

I'm a little biased on that point, Mark.

I stepped closer to Grendel's body, tilted my head to admire how the blood had blossomed out against the back wall; it looked like a giant grisly rose.

"I am a good and decent man," I said to the rose.

It was a prayer.

Christopher was just finishing with loading the motorcycle when I came back.

"Find your wallet?"

I patted my pocket.  "Got it."

He handed me a helmet, then looked back at the trailer.  "Suppose we should call the police?"

"No."

He cocked his head to the side.  "You answered that awfully fast.  There's at least three ways I can think of that he can get away."

"Christopher?"

"Yes…?"

"He's not going to get away."

His eyes widened.  "What did you do?"

I shook my head.  "You didn't ask me that."

He stared at me for a moment longer, gave a quick nod of his head, then reached out and squeezed my shoulder.  "Thank you."

"Can we go home now, please?"

Christopher put on his helmet, swung onto the bike, and I climbed on behind him.  He gunned the engine—it had a lot of power—and we started our long and slow ride through the mud toward the highway. 

We rode for the better part of two-and-a-half hours before getting off the mountain.  Three times we had to stop and walk the motorcycle through deep patches of mud that would have swallowed us whole had we been riding the thing.  By the time the rain let up we were just over the bridge into Cincinnati.  Christopher took a couple of side streets right into the heart of downtown and more traffic than I'd seen anywhere in a week.  Eventually he pointed to a large 50s-style diner and I patted his shoulder.

We parked, removed our helmets, and went inside.  The place was crowded and a little too warm.  The waitress seated us toward the back, near the restrooms, and left to get our drink orders.

"So what do you feel like?" I said.  "I'm buying."

"And a big spender.  Is there no end to the surprises in store for me?"

I decided on what I wanted, then closed the menu and looked across the table at him.  "What's the first thing you want to do when we get home tonight?"

"Not my home," he said, not taking his gaze from the menu.

"Work with me here, Christopher.  Tanya's going to understand."

"So says you."  He peered over the top of the menu.  "Would you take it personally if I said I'd rather hear it from her?"

"No."  Though he'd never met Tanya, he'd pegged her correctly:  she did not appreciate unannounced guests.  My wife is a wonderful hostess, and prefers time to prepare for company.

The waitress came with our drinks, took our orders, and left.  Not once did she look directly at either of us.

We sipped at our sodas, not speaking, not looking at each other; both of us were almost completely drained.

"So," Christopher said after a couple of minutes.  "I gather that Tanya and you have some sort of psychic connection."

"Beg pardon?"

He tapped his right temple with his index finger.  "I take it that you can send her a psychic message about company.  I'm forced to think this because you are not using one of the pay phones over by the restrooms."

"Didn't you recharge the cell?"

"Uh, no.  Someone threw it in the back of the bus when it didn't work and broke it."

"Oh.  Sorry.  I don't remember doing that."

He shrugged.  "Things were a little confusing.  Besides, I didn't pay for the damn thing.  You gonna call your wife now, or what?"

"Can't we eat first?"

"I'd feel a whole lot better if you'd call her now.  All in favor."

We both raised our hands. 

He threw a bunch of change onto the table.  "I think that should cover it."

"I'll call collect."

"You sure she'll accept the charges?"

"Very funny."

"I have moments."

I went to the bank of payphones; two of them were in use, one was broken, but the last one was free and working.  I made the call, but got the voicemail; the operator told me I'd have to deposit two dollars before I could leave a one-minute message.  It took me a few moments to feed all the quarters into the phone, but once that was done the phone rang again and I left a message:  "Honey, it's me.  I'll be home in about four hours.  Listen, I'm bringing someone with me, okay?  His name is Christopher and he's… he's going to be staying with us for a while.  I'll explain everything when I get there.  Oh, one more thing—if you get any calls from anyone asking about me, just say I'm not back from my trip yet, okay?  I love you so much.  God, I've really missed you."

The beep sounded and the phone went dead.  I stood there a few seconds longer, feeling dizzy.  Jesus did I need to eat.

I got back to our table just as the waitress was delivering our food.

Christopher was gone.

"Your friend had to run an errand, I guess," said the waitress.  "He said to tell you he left a note for you."

"I'll be right back."  I ran outside to the parking lot and looked around for the motorcycle but it wasn't there.  I ran to the corner and looked at the traffic, hoping to spot him.

"Goddammit!" I shouted loudly, startling an older couple who were walking past.  "Sorry," I said to them.

"Need to learn some manners, young man," said the woman.  Then she and her husband continued on their way, secure in the knowledge that they'd put that toilet-mouthed bum in his place.

I went back into the diner and took my seat.  After a few moments I realized that I was sitting on something, and scooted over to reveal a couple of large, thick brown envelopes, held together by several rubber bands.  I picked them up and saw the note Christopher had written on the top envelope:  Don't go and do something noble.  You earned this.  I took my share, so don't worry about me.  I left one of the computers plus some other stuff.  Say hi to Tanya for me.  You're one of the good guys, Mark.  Thank you.

The envelopes contained money.  A lot of money.  A lot.

"You sneaky little shit," I whispered to myself.  "What am I supposed to do now?"

I lifted up my head and looked around the diner:  business people, blue-collar workers, teenagers, families with children who were scribbling with crayons on the placemats; signs advertising today's specials, signs about the circus coming to Riverfront Coliseum next week, fliers for garage sales, car sales, auctions for charity… and a couple of missing children posters.

I sighed, rubbed my eyes, and realized that I was crying again.

Missing children posters.

This is where you came in, son.

Don't I know it, Dad.  Don't I know it.

"Mister?  Is everything all right?"

I looked up to see our waitress standing by the table.  This time she was looking directly at me, and seemed genuinely concerned.

"I'm very tired," I said to her.  "I just need to eat and get home."

"You live here?"

I shook my head.  "No.  In Cedar Hill."  I blew my nose on a napkin—it still hurt like hell—then wiped my eyes.  "My friend won't be coming back."

"You want me to put his food in a doggy bag for you?"

"Sure.  Thanks."  I smiled at her.  "How far is the bus station from here?"

After eating, I took a cab to the bus station where I bought a ticket to Columbus.  I had about an hour to wait before the bus started boarding, so I walked around the terminal until I found an empty seat away from people.  I opened the shoulder bag Christopher had left behind.  The laptop was in there, as well as several CD-ROMs, more bottles of codeine pills than I could count—Christ, if security here decided I was suspicious-looking and searched my bag, I was in deep shit—and all of the credit cards and various garbage that had been inside my wallet.

He'd also left me the CD of The Marshall Tucker Band's Greatest Hits.  (I listen to it every day.  Tanya is now officially sick of it.)

I held the CD jewel case against me like it was a child, then realized how silly—if not outright crazy—I must look, put it back, closed and zipped the bag (I'd put the money in there before entering the terminal), and decided that I wanted something to drink.

I wandered over to one of the soda machines and bought my regular Pepsi.  I popped it open just as my bus was being called.  I nearly tripped over a little girl who was sitting on the floor beside a tired-looking young woman of about twenty-two was fast asleep.

"Mister," said the little girl.  "My mommy and me don't have enough money to get home.  Can you give me some money, please?"

I didn't even think about it.  I reached into the bag and pulled out a handful of fifties and gave them to the little girl.  "Don't let anyone see this, okay?"

"Okay.  Wow.  Is this a lot of money?"

"I'm guessing it's more than enough to get you home."

She rolled up the money and stuffed it into a pocket of her faded and too-small dress, then stood up and gave me a hug.  "Thank you, mister.  My mommy won't be so tired and worried now.  We ain't had anything to eat since last night.  We been here for three days."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault.  Thank you for the money."

"You're welcome."

Amazingly, the bus got into Columbus in time for me to catch the #48 Express that runs back and forth from Cedar Hill twice a day.  The ride took about sixty minutes (I drive the route twice a day in under thirty-five both ways), and the passengers were dumped at the park-and-ride locations at 6:45 and 6:57, respectively.  I got off at the second stop, which put me right in the middle of downtown, about a fifteen-minute walk from my house.

I don't remember the walk home.  I was on autopilot all the way, except for one moment when an expensive motorcycle with a windshield and side compartments and a rack across the back seat passed me; for a moment I thought it was Christopher, but unless he'd gotten rid of his helmet, changed his hair color to red, grown it to his waist, and become a woman in the last five hours, smart money said I was wrong.

I rounded the corner of my street and quickened my pace.  The world around me was a dark and threatening thing, and the sooner I was away from it, the better.

The front porch light was on and Tanya was standing outside, talking with Perry.  From the looks of things—especially Perry's wildly-animated gestures—my wife and her brother weren't exactly reminiscing about the good times when they were kids.

As I walked up the steps toward the porch they stopped their arguing and stared at me, open-mouthed.

"What the hell happened to you?" said Tanya.

"Unfortunate pay-toilet incident.  Let us never speak of it again."

Perry strode off the porch and right up into my face.  "Goddammit, Mark, do you have any idea how much you're costing me?  Do you know what that crook Cletus is charging me for—"

I drew back and hit him square in the mouth, knocking him to the ground.  "Not really in the mood for a chat right now, Perry."  He tried to get up but I placed my foot against his chest.  "And just so we can clear the air, I never much liked you, either.  Also—removing the engine warning light from a car is a criminal act, so before you start threatening to call the cops and have me arrested for assault, just keep in mind that if you do, we'll be sharing the same cell down at the city jail and I make a lousy roommate."

I pulled my foot away and walked up onto the porch, threw my arms around my wife, and wept.

Tanya did not ask any questions.  She told Perry to go away, took me inside, helped me undress, then put me in a hot bath where she washed the road and blood from my body.  She cleaned and dressed my wounds, reapplied the nose-splint and medical tape, then gave me some aspirin and put me to bed, sitting there until I fell asleep, her loved one's watch keeping all through the night.  I woke up the next morning and put on my jackass suit that I wore like it was tailor-made for the next ten days, right up until she had to drive over to Columbus and bail my sorry ass out of jail for assaulting some college prick who insisted on telling me a dirty joke to entertain his harem.  She chewed me a new one as we drove toward home, then I reached over and placed my hand on her leg, then gave it a little squeeze.  "I'm sorry, hon."

"Uh-huh...?"

"I love you."

"You'd better."  Her voice still sounded hurt but she managed a little grin.

We stopped for a red light.  Still too ashamed of myself to meet her gaze, I glanced out at a telephone pole that was covered in fliers advertising everything from dating services to Goth bands to tattoo parlors and pizza delivery specials; most of these were ragged and torn and discolored, but one flier, deliberately placed on top of all the others so it faced the street, was new, and had been stapled in about a dozen places to make sure that the wind wouldn't tear any of it away.  I thought about Denise Harker, and Arnold, and Thomas, and Rebecca, and my lost friend Christopher.

Why'd you do it, buddy?  Why'd you leave?  We would have made room.

Gayle and the kids had decided to move into Mom's and Dad's old house; they hadn't been there the night I got home, nor had I seen them yet.

I was hiding from everyone and everything.  But something I'd found out tonight in the computer lab was threatening to change all that and I didn't like it one little bit.  I liked hiding out in my jackass suit, mop in one hand, bottle of Windex in the other.

I squeezed Tanya's leg a little harder.

She turned toward me.  "What?"

"Look at that."

She leaned over and stared out the window.  "What?  What am I supposed to be looking at?"

I pointed toward the missing child flier.  "The biggest part of the mess."

She looked at the flier, then at me.  "Okay…?"

The light turned green and we drove on.

"I love you so much," I said to her.

"You're repeating yourself."

"If I tell you everything that happened, will you promise not to interrupt me until I'm finished?"

She nodded her head, her eyes tearing up.  "Just as long as you don't keep shutting me out, Mark.  I can't stand it when you shut me out.  Gayle and the kids are worried—they think you're mad at them."

"I'm not."

"Then why have you been acting like this?  I've been living with a stranger for the last ten days."

"I know."  I touched her cheek; she leaned into my touch.

"You see their pictures everywhere these days," I said.

And told my wife everything.

16. And Peace Attend Thee

When I had finished telling Tanya, down to the last detail, what had happened, she said nothing for several moments.  She just wiped her eyes and got us a couple of fresh cold beers from the refrigerator while the Marshall Tucker boys sang about why couldn't I see what that woman been doing to them.  I leaned back and closed my eyes for a moment.  It was after three in the morning and I was exhausted.

"This will be your last one for a while," said Tanya, handing the beer to me.

"Fair enough."  I decided to drink this one slowly.

Tanya sat across from me on the couch, ran a hand through her hair, then sighed, tried to smile, and said, "What's on the computer and CDs?"

I looked at her and shook my head.  "Didn't you listen to that last part?  Honey, I killed a man.  I stood right in front of him and shot him in the head and then kept shooting.  He was chained up, he had no weapon, he posed no threat.  I murdered a man in cold blood."

"No you didn't.  You killed a bug, that's all you did.  You stepped on a worm."  She squeezed my hand.  "You don't have it in you to harm another person, not like that.  You're no murderer, my love."

"Do you suppose that might explain why I don't feel worse about it?"  I scratched my chin.  "Hell, I don't even feel bad about it."

"Then why are we wasting our breath discussing it?  I believe my original question was something about what's on the computer."

"Video files of Grendel with all the children.  In groups, by themselves, at the parties.  Being… disposed of.  E-mails from his various customers, orders for antiques, for furniture."

"Christ."  She shook her head.  "Don't take this the wrong way, Mark, but I'd really like that stuff out of our house as soon as possible.  Why not take it to the police?"

"I don't know.  Maybe because once it's done, they're going to be all over Thomas and Arnold and Rebecca for all the details.  Goddamn media vultures will come out of the woodwork wanting all the juicy details."

"Mixed metaphor, honey."

I looked at her.  "Thank you for pointing out my every mistake and flaw, regardless of how small or inconsequential."

"That's why I married you."

"No, you married me because I lied about being pregnant."

"Oh."

I set down the beer and rubbed my eyes, then stared at my hands—which were still shaking—as I thought about what had happened since I'd come back home.

The officer from the Missouri State Police who'd called the house last week was very polite and understanding, and accepted my explanation about having to run out the first chance I got to rent a car.  He swore me in over the phone and recorded my statement, then thanked me for my time and asked me if I'd like to have Denise Harker's family contact me personally; they were very grateful and wanted to thank me.  I'd told him that wasn't necessary but to make sure he told Denise that I was fine and she shouldn't worry.  I wasn't mad.

"Why would you be mad at her?" he asked.

"She thinks I was mad because she skipped out on paying for the orange juice.  It's a joke, officer.  She'll get it."

He concluded by telling me that a transcript of my testimony would arrive in the mail, and that I should read it over, sign it, and send it back as soon as possible.

Cletus called, as well, to tell Tanya that he was shipping the boxes I'd left behind and we should have them soon.  He then gave her Edna's cookie recipe and informed her that I should give him a call when I was feeling better.

"I like him," Tanya had said.  "He's a feisty one."

"He cheats at Pinochle."

"So do I."

Tanya's hand on my arm startled me from these thoughts.

"Mark?"

"What?  Huh?—oh, I'm sorry."

"Please bear in mind that I'm only asking this for practicality's sake, okay?  But—"

"—how much money is in the bag?"

She blinked.  "How'd you know I was going to—?"

I tapped my temple with my index finger.  "Psychic powers.  Sixty-two thousand dollars."

"What?"

"Sixty-two thousand dollars, minus the four or five hundred I gave to the little girl in the bus depot."

"I can't believe you did that."

"Seemed like a good idea at the time."

"And you'd do it all over again, wouldn't you?"

"Probably."

She smiled.  "Still insist you're not one of the good guys?"

"Could we not get into that old chestnut again—I know, I know, another mixed metaphor."

"Actually it's a misplaced simile, but let's not pick nits."

"You're too good to me."

She began rubbing my back.  "What happened to set you off at the bar?  I know it wasn't just the joke."

"No, but goddammit that was part of it!  I get so sick of these smartass college kids who think that just because you have to wash your hands at the end of the day's work and maybe clean grease out from under your fingernails that your intellectual level isn't quite on par with a slug.  That little fucker figured that because I was a janitor, I'd appreciate a joke like that because it's the only kind of humor I could understand.  Asshole!  It was the way he was so obvious about it, you know?  Thinking I'd laugh at it and that'd show his little prickettes what an ignorant low-life I was and—"

"Settle down."

"Sorry."

"Deep breaths."

"I'm fine."

She kissed my cheek, then continued rubbing my back.  "So what set you off?  What started it?"

"This morning when I got into work, I started checking the inner-office e-mail—you know, to see what needed done where—ever since the university freed up some money for repairs, there's always a list of things longer than my arm—anyway, I finish checking the e-mail and then I checked my personal account, and there was an e-mail from Christopher.  All it said was, 'Guess where I am, Pretty-Boy.'  I think he called me that so I'd know it was from him."

"He didn't say where he was?"

I shook my head.  "No—but then I get this bright idea and forward it to this kid I know over at the university's tech support center.  This kid locked himself out of the lab one night before he had a big paper due and I let him in.  He said if I ever needed a favor from him, so…

"I go over there and tell him that I got an e-mail from my brother who's been missing for a couple of weeks, and I ask him if there's any way he could find out where it was sent from."

"He ran a traceroute on the computer the mail came from?"

"How did you know?"

"I went to college, remember.  I read books.  Me smart girl, know many things."

"So you keep telling me.  The kid explained to me how a traceroute to an IP address will show the last few routers of the ISP through which they got the connection.  Most ISPs name their routers to include the city they're in.  Someone more security conscious will either name them differently so the city doesn't show up, or block traceroutes entirely, but that doesn't much matter because other routers in other networks which you use to reach them will be obviously named.  Isn't that interesting?"

"Fascinating.  Where is he?"

I took out my wallet and removed the slip of paper I'd been carrying around all day, looked at it—

16  pop1-col-P6-0.atdn.net (66.185.140.55)  101.196 ms  50.611 ms  50.027 ms

17  rr-atlanta.atdn.net (66.185.146.242)  62.850 ms  63.504 ms  105.878 ms

18  srp5-0.rdcoh-rtr2.atlanta.rr.com (65.25.129.102)  64.905 ms 103.651 ms110.467 ms

19  gig2-1.rdcoh-swt7.woodstock.rr.com (65.24.3.254)  62.967 ms  63.869 ms 65.189 ms

—then handed it to Tanya.

"He's in Atlanta?"

"Woodstock.  It's a suburb.  He was there at seven a.m. this morning.  He could be anywhere now.  And the only way to get any more specific than that is to have access to the city's phone company or cable records."

"Couldn't a really clever computer hacker get that information?"

"Yes."  I looked at her.  It took a moment for her to read my expression.

"The guy in tech support?"

"It took some really sterling acting on my part to convince him that this was a genuine family emergency, and it took him a couple of hours, but he got access to the cable company's records in Woodstock."

Tanya took hold of my arm.  "Do you have an exact address?"

I nodded.

"Did he check for a phone number?"

"Yes.  There isn't one.  But guess who that cable account is registered to?"

"I have no—oh, shit, yes I do.  Beowulf Antiques, Inc.?"

I nodded once again.  "He went back to the only home he's got left."

Tanya stood up.  "All right, here's the plan; your court appearance is Friday morning.  It's now Wednesday morning—or really late Tuesday night, depending on how you want to look at it.  We get a flight out to Atlanta as soon as possible, rent a car, drive to Woodstock, and bring him back here."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that.  He's alone and probably sick with grief and sacred and… and I don't know what else.  He's got no one else to turn to but us."

"Then why in the hell didn't he just tell me where he was?"

"He's testing you again.  Maybe he wants to see how much you're willing to go through to find him."

"Sounds like something he'd do, all right."

"So?"  Tanya stood there, arms crossed over her chest—a really great and sexy chest that I hadn't groped or ogled in over a week—drumming her fingers on her forearm.

I sighed.  "Did I ever tell you how much I hate traveling?  I mean really, truly, sincerely loathe it?"

"You might have mentioned it once or twice over the years, yes."

I stood.  "Don't put us next to the wing, whatever you do.  I'll keep flashing back to the Twilight Zone with William Shatner and the gremlin."

"I like sitting next to the wing."

"That's because you're an evil woman and know how much it freaks me out."

She took my hand, squeezed it.  "I love you."

"You'd damn well better."

Fourteen-and-a-half hours later,  a little before six p.m., just as the Georgia sun was casting a twilight clay over the red clay soil of that great and beautiful Southern state, Tanya and I were driving a rented car down the longest side road I'd ever encountered.  Trees stood tall and thick-leaved on either side of the road, creating a canopy.  Getting this far, we'd passed three fields overrun with kudzu, which I had never seen before.  It looked like a massive, violent knot of human tendon to me.  Which is to say I wasn't thrilled, where Tanya kept wishing aloud that we had a camera so she could take lots of pictures.

The road rose up, turning, and finally leveled out about twenty yards from a massive chain link fence with rolls of barbed wire running across its top.  The gate entrance had been ripped from its hinges and the doors lay twisted and ruined on either side.

So they'd simply run through it with the bus.  I could almost hear Arnold and Thomas and Rebecca and Denise encouraging Christopher to floor it and break it down.  Christopher probably told them all to shut up, he'd do what he wanted, and then rammed through it anyway, much to their cheers.

It was almost enough to make me smile.

I killed the engine and sat there, staring at the house—a near-monstrous gabled number that looked like something out of a Daphne Du Maurier novel.  I could almost see Mrs. Danvers snarling down from one of the windows as Maxim de Winter was arriving with his new wife, whom Danvers would forever refer to as "…the second Mrs. De Winter."

"Okay," said Tanya, "here's the big question:  do you want me to come with you?"

"No.  Absolutely not.  The idea of you being even this close to that… place makes me sick."

"It's just a house, Mark."

"Right, and Auschwitz is just a bunch of old bunkhouses with a primitive form of central heating, got'cha."  I leaned forward and peered out.  "I don't see the motorcycle."

"He might have parked it in the back of the house.  If he's hiding out here, that'd be the thing to do."

"Been on the run a lot, have you?  Keeping one step ahead of The Man?  You been hiding copies of Abby Hoffman's Steal This Book from me?  Not good for The Movement, baby, not cool, un-groovy."

"Are you finished?"

"I'm scared to death, Tanya.  I don't want to go in there, I don't want to see what it looks like.  Every smell's gonna make me think I'm sniffing… leftovers."  I swallowed.  Once.  Very hard.  "And I know what he did to them in there."

"So do I."

I kissed her cheek.  "I'm sorry, I'm stalling."

"Yes, you are.  And if there's as much security in there and he said, then I'm guessing that Christopher already knows we're here."  She pointed toward a security camera in one of the trees to our left.  "Looks like the red light's on to me."

I looked up at the camera, mouthed "All in favor," then raised my hand.

"Go and get him, Mark."

"Here," I handed her the keys.  "You might want to start it up and run the air conditioner if it gets too hot."

"If?" said Tanya, taking the keys.  "The temperature's risen twenty degrees in the last five minutes just from all the hot air you've been blowing."

"You make me feel so manly."

"I will give you fifteen minutes, my love, to convince him to come out here and go home with us.  If you're not out in fifteen minutes, tell him that I will be coming in for the both of you, and that nobody wants that.  Go.  Shoo.  Fetch."

"Woof, woof."  I climbed from the car and began walking toward the front porch.  As I neared the house, I could see a section of Grendel's massive garden off to the right; it covered about half the ground to the side of the house and extended all the way around to the back.  I imagined the kids out here most of the day, tending to his tomatoes, his peas, his onions, all the while knowing what waited for them later that evening, any evening, every evening.

The front porch was wide and spacious, decorated with potted plants and white wicker lawn furniture; it looked like the type of setting Eudora Welty often employed; two ancient Southern ladies, sitting on their porch at twilight, sipping extra-sweet iced tea as they watched the sun go down and told each other all about their day and their plans for the coming week, when the grandchildren were supposed to visit.  It looked cool and safe, the front porch of home from a Frank Capra film.

I opened the screen door and knocked on the heavy oak door behind it.  There was a wide stained glass window in the center of the door, depicting a scene of a bird with a flower in its beak flying over a church steeple with a ringing bell; beneath this scene was the word Welcome.

I knocked louder, called Christopher's name several times, then pounded the door with the side of my fist.

"Fuck this," I said, and picked up one of the potted plants, readying to smash the window; then I asked:  What would you do, Dad?

I'd check to make sure the door was locked before I went all ape-shit.

Good idea.  I set down the plant and checked the door.

It was unlocked, and swung open noiselessly.  Grendel must have had them oil the hinges every day.

I took a deep breath, held it, and stepped over the threshold.  I did not close the door behind me.

The place was an antique dealer's Nirvana; from the wing-backed chairs to the little end tables to the china cabinets and the china inside them, there wasn't one piece of furniture within sight that probably didn't cost less than two-weeks' salary for most people.  Even the area rug on which I was standing probably carried a four-figure asking price; homemade quilts of exquisite craftsmanship hung on the walls; an old Victrola in mint condition was placed just inside the entrance to the living room.  The only thing modern in the entire downstairs was the massive 62-inch digital television in the corner of the living room.

And then there were the jars.

Dozens, hundreds of specimen jars lined the bottoms of the walls all around me, and continued on up the steps to the upstairs; they lined the floor of the kitchen, the pantry, the bathroom—even the back porch.  The lids had been removed and the stench of alcohol and formaldehyde hung in the air, watering my eyes.

I glanced too long at a few of the jars and saw what floated within them—a child's hand, a pair of testicles, a few eyes, something that might have once been a small girl's vagina—then doubled over and dry-heaved.  When I could stand again and pull in my breath without gagging, I called Christopher's name twice as loudly as before, and was answered only by the muffled echo of my own voice.

I had no choice but to search the entire house.  I started upstairs and worked my way down.

In my blackest nightmares I have never imagined any devices like those I saw in the various bedrooms; devices for torture, for restraint, for the mouth and genitals, strap-ons, leather hoods, spiked heels, whips, studded gloves, studded collars, an Iron Maiden, cages with children's toys inside them, chains, handcuffs, enema bags, rubber tubes, rubber gloves, leather underpants, a machine with needles and clamps stained with blood… if I stood still and held my breath, I could still hear the children’s cries.

I never knew there were so many different ways to scream, Christopher had said.

Back downstairs, shaking like crazy but still on my feet, I passed what I at first thought was a charcoal drawing of Jesus Christ in a gold frame, but I was wrong; the frame was gold-plated and it was an enlarged photograph of Charles Manson.

I found the door to the basement and went down to the kids' room; all I found there were their beds, single-sized, arranged around the walls like bunks at sixth grade camp; if it weren't for the chains hanging from the walls, you could almost mistake it for a children’s bunkhouse.  There was a small refrigerator, a hot plate, a small combination TV/VCR unit, a large stack of videotapes five-deep, a bookshelf that displayed such titles as Yertle the Turtle, Bridge To Terabethia, The Chocolate War, Summer of My German Soldier, Where the Sidewalk Ends, and many others… but no Winnie-the-Pooh books.  Not a one.

The floor down here was lined with opened specimen jars, as well.

The door to the sub-basement, to Ravenswood, was at the far end of the room; it, too, was unlocked but creaked and screeched as I pulled it open.  An opened specimen jar sat on either side of each step all the way down; twelve wooden steps, twenty-four jars.  A single bare bulb hung from a wire in the ceiling, casting a sick white glow over everything and making the shadows to the side seem deeper and endless and hungry.

"Christopher?" I called, my voice made deafening by the narrow space.

No answer.

I started down the steps, looking only at the large iron door at the bottom, never at what was inside the jars.  What was inside the jars had once been the light of some parents' lives, a giggling ball of cuteness in a high chair plopping its face down into its very first birthday cake, a hyper thing that had to chase after constantly because they ran everywhere like they knew something really exciting might be happening over there and they didn't want to miss a thing…

I hit the bottom of the steps and had to steady myself against the door.

All this death, all these remnants of lives ended too soon and too brutally.  I could feel all of them behind me, around me, above me; I could hear the ghostly echo of their voices crying out for someone, anyone, Mommy, Daddy, please somebody come help me.

From their jars the remains of these forever-lost children whispered:  How can you be a part of this?

I think there are places in this world, ruined places, dark places, places where human apathy toward human perversity runs rampant, and these places become a cancer unique to any known disease; spreading, chewing apart anyone who comes into contact with them, forever infecting anyone who even knows they exist; places that, for whatever reasons, have gone unchecked and unnoticed and have become, through the horrors committed there, living, twisted, evil beings unto themselves.

Places can be as evil as any human being.

And I knew such a place lay on the other side of the door I now faced.

I am a good and decent man, I thought.

The image of Grendel's grisly rose flashed across my mind's eye.

I am a good and decent man.

The door was the same kind you see most restaurants use for their meat lockers; there was even a temperature-control panel in the wall beside it.  Right now it was an even thirty-two degrees inside.  The door was thick and heavy; if Christopher was in there, he wouldn't have been able to hear me.

I grabbed the handle and yanked it back, opening the door.

Cold mist rolled out, covering my hands, my legs, my torso, snaking up to my face.

"Christopher?" I said, my breath foggy before my eyes.  I blinked against the battling temperatures of the stairway and sub-basement, then stepped inside, waving the mist away.

He was lying on the autopsy table, naked, a rubber tube around his arm and an emptied syringe hanging from his arm.

I think I might have screamed as I ran toward him but I can't be sure.  I do remember that I grabbed him and pulled him upright, slapping his face and shaking him but he'd been dead for at least a day; his back was discolored from the blood that had settled there.  He'd gone to great lengths to make sure his makeup looked smooth and natural—he'd even added a few wrinkles near his eyes like Rebecca had done.

I held his body against me and cried, rocking him back and forth like a father singing a lullaby to his newborn child.  His head flopped backward and I could see that his facial prosthesis on the left side was starting to come loose from exposure to the cold.  I pressed it back into place but it wasn't going to stay.  I'd need to find some spirit gum.  I reached down and removed the syringe from his arm.  A glass vial lay on the floor near my feet; I could easily read the word methylmorphinan on its label.

He'd given himself a massive overdose of morphine.

At least he hadn't been in pain, that was something.

Wasn't it?

I kept rocking him back and forth, and was soon aware of the sound of someone signing, softly, slowly, with great tenderness.  It was a voice I didn't recognize.  It was my own.

"Sleep my child and peace attend thee,

All through the night.

Guardian angels God will send thee,

All through the night.

Soft the drowsy hours are creeping,

Hill and dale in slumber sleeping,

I my loved ones' watch am keeping,

All through the night..."

Except when I got to the "…hill and dale" line, I sang:  "…Bill and dale look dumb-er sleeping…" but no one laughed.

I stopped myself, then lay him back down carefully, pushing the prosthesis back into place once again.

And that's when I saw the folded piece of paper held in his palm by a rubber band that he'd wrapped around his hand.

I slipped it from his hand and unfolded it:

Dear Pretty-Boy:

If you're reading this, then I'm guessing you're not exactly thrilled with me at the moment.  I'm sorry.  This wasn't something that I did in the heat of the moment or in the depths of despair or anything all melodramatic and tragic like that.  I gave it a lot of thought, and realized that it was really the best thing all the way around.  I'm saying I was happy with the decision, okay?

I had a great last night.  I made pizza and popcorn, and I watched a bunch of great movies, and I listened to records, and I finally read Winnie-the-Pooh. Man, that was a good book, thanks for mentioning it to me.

Here's the thing; I left the other computer in the upstairs hall closet for you.  You need to take it.  I figured out Grendel's password.  You'll never believe what it was.  Ready?

Mommy.  Ain't that a kick in the balls?  Imagine what a psychiatrist could do with that one.

Anyway, all his private files have been opened and saved in a folder called "Get This."  It's got everything, Pretty-Boy; the code-key for the e-mails, phone numbers and addresses of all his party guests and distributors, receipts, everything.  Take it, and use it, and fuck them up real good for me.

There's also another envelope full of money in there, about another thirty thousand dollars.  Take it and buy that wife of yours something nice.  She deserves it for putting up with the likes of you.  And don't get noble like I said, don't turn the money over to the police or anything like that or I'll be really put out.  My guess is that once all of this is made public, the names of the families will come out soon enough.  Send it to them, or give it to charity, or hand it out to homeless people, I don't care.  Just don't tell anyone you have it.  Consider it our way of spitting in Grendel's face one last time.

Take whatever you want from the house.  There's some really nice stuff.

But don't leave this house standing.  You'll find about a dozen cans of gasoline over by the shelves down here.  Douse this place and burn it to the ground.  What the gas doesn't take care of, the alcohol and formaldehyde will.

I don't want people turning this house and what's inside it into a freak show.  The idea of newspapers and television and tabloids foaming at the mouth over what happened here makes me sick, and it would only hurt Arnold and Rebecca and Thomas and Denise.  None of them will name you, Pretty-Boy, and neither will I.  (You'll notice that I haven't once used your name in this letter?  That's just in case you're not as smart as I think you are and someone else finds it first.)  But if you go public with this and they ask one of them if they know you, they'll tell the truth.  But that question will never be asked if you keep quiet.

I'm sorry to dump all of this in your lap, but like I said, you're one of the good guys and I trust you to do the good and decent thing.

I never was one for long good-byes, so I'll just say please leave me here and thank you for being my friend an go now. 

Burn this fucking place to the ground.

I bent down and kissed his cold forehead, adjusted his hair piece, then put the letter in my pocket and turned toward the gas cans.

I was just starting with the last can of gas when Tanya came up onto the front porch and saw me.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Honoring a last request," I said, handing over Christopher's letter. 

Tanya read it and began crying softly.  "Oh, God, Mark…"  She began moving toward the threshold.

"Stay on the porch, Tanya, you don't want to see what's in here."

"Piss on that," she said.  "I've never been a helpless female and I'm not about to start now."  She stepped inside and saw the jars and what was inside them.  She brought a hand up to her mouth and held it there.  "Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed by Thy name…"

"Outside," I said, pouring a trail toward the porch.

"…Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done…"

I backed down the stairs, still pouring the gas.  "Please go start the car and get it turned around.  When this goes, it's gonna go fast and it's gonna go big."

She put her hand on my arm.  "I'm so sorry, Mark."

I said the first thing that came into my mind:  "Why?  It's not your fault."

"For all of… all of them," she said, pointing into the house.  "For Christopher.  My God, how alone he must have been."

I touched her cheek.  "Please go start the car."

She said nothing, only nodded her head and sprinted away.

I finished pouring the last of the gasoline.  I was about twenty feet from the bottom step of the front porch.  We'd have maybe, maybe forty seconds before it all went up.  I pulled a pack of matches from my pocket and was readying to stroke one when I remembered the computer in the hall closet.

I ran back inside, choking on the gas fumes, and opened the door, pulling out the shoulder bag—

—and revealing a framed color photograph that had been placed underneath it.

The frame was solid silver and weighed about five pounds.  The photograph had been taken outside this house; it showed Denise, Thomas (before the fire), Rebecca, Arnold, and Christopher sitting together very close on the porch.  They were smiling and waving at the camera.

A Post-It note on the frame read:  "One of the few good days we ever had here.  I thought you'd like to have this."

I slipped it into the bag, then ran outside.  Tanya had the car running and turned around; she'd also opened the passenger-side door for me.

I knelt at the end of the gas trail and, after three attempts, finally got a match lighted, then set fire to the whole book and tossed it down.  The gas ignited instantly and began running toward the porch while I ran toward the car, threw the shoulder bag in the back, jumped in just as Tanya floored it, and slammed the door just as the fire entered the house.

The first set of downstairs windows blew out before the house was out of sight, and by the time we reached the end of the side road and turned onto the main drag, there was an explosion the likes of which I'd never experienced and the ground shook and the car shook and the sky behind us was black with smoke and flying debris.

"I hope he's rotting in Hell," said Tanya through clenched teeth as she banged the steering wheel with her fist.  "I hope that sick fuck is getting ass-reamed by Satan himself."

"I'd like to think that even Hell has its standards."

She looked at me, her tears almost spent.  "Goddammit, Mark, I love you so much."

"I love you, too."

We spent the night at a Holiday Inn, holding each other, making love once, and listening to the sirens in the distance.  I turned on the local news around eleven and saw a live report from the scene of the fire.  Arson was suspected, and there were unconfirmed reports of body parts having been found in what debris had landed after the initial explosion.  Fire crews from three counties were still battling the blaze, which had spread out into the trees.

I turned off the television and looked at Tanya.

"Is it over now?" she asked.

I shook my head.  "No.  I don't know that it ever really will be."

I crawled into bed beside her and wept for my dead friend and all the others who didn't make this far.

It has been a month since I set that fire.  Thomas, Rebecca, Denise, and Arnold all made the national news for a while; "The Four Brave Escapees", they were called.  All of them have so far refused to give the name of the man who "rescued" them.

So far no one has discovered the bus and trailer, so the bodies are still in that mine, rotting away.  The thought makes me smile.

Tanya thinks she might be pregnant.  She's seeing her doctor in a couple of days to confirm what we both already know.  I have applied for an adjunct faculty position with the English department, and it's looking good; my second interview, this time with the department chair, is on the same day as Tanya's doctor's appointment.  I hope at day's end that we will both have good news for each other.

Speculation as to the nature of what happened in the "Woodstock House" (as the news media has named it) remains just that; although the remains of dozens of bodies were removed from the debris, the damage to the house itself—which had been all but razed—has thus far prevented forensics experts to form any solid conclusions; all they know for certain is that several children may have died or been murdered in the house.  The tabloids are going nuts with it, but not many have tried to get on-scene.  There's nothing left.

I distract too easily these days; if we pass a car on the road and I see a crying child with their face peering out at me from the window, my first thought is always:  They're scared to death and need help; if I see a kid in a store struggling to pull away from the adult who's got hold of them, I immediately wonder if they've only moments ago been snatched away from their mom or dad or other family member; if I hear a child yell or scream in the evening when our street is filled with children at play, it never occurs to me that the sound might just be one of glee or excitement or good-natured Let's-Scare-So-and-So because they're such a wuss—no, in my ears it is the sound of a terrified, helpless child being yanked into a stranger's car and shrieking for someone they love to come save them, please, please, Mommy, Daddy, somebody, anybody please help me.

I will watch over my child when it is born, and I will stay by my wife's side no matter what; I my loved one's watch will keep all through the night.

I have made copies of everything from both computers, and have assembled over two dozen packages that I will mail out in the morning; The Columbus Dispatch, The New York Times, newspapers in Los Angeles, Denver, Washington D.C., and many others.  All of them contain the same information, all have the same unsigned cover letter.  I will wait two weeks after mailing them, and if none report what's in their possession, then I will take the computers and the discs and I will walk into the studio of a Columbus television station and give them quite a show.

Tanya and I still have the money, and have agreed that we will wait until the families of the missing dead children from Grendel's house have come forward, as they eventually will once some sort of identification has been made on those body parts that can still be identified.  When that happens, we will start sending out the money to each family.  It isn't much, but it's the best I can do for them and still remain anonymous.

But we're not completely altruistic; we've decided to keep some of the money for the raising of our child.  I can think of no better way to piss on Grendel's memory.

I wake some nights to the echoes of cries from my dreams.  I lay there for a while, watching Tanya sleep and reminding myself again how very, very lucky I am that she permits me to be her husband.

And I feel lucky to have known Christopher.

When I wake from these dreams that I never remember, I slip out of bed and go downstairs to the living room, where a silver-framed photograph sits on the mantel above the fireplace.  I take this photo in my hands and stand near one of the windows, looking at it in the moonlight.  I see their faces and their smiles and the way the bright sun alights on their features, and I imagine that it is me who has taken this picture, who is taking this picture.  They have come to visit Tanya and me at our new house, and, of course, to see the new baby that everyone coos and goobers over.  We've had a wonderful picnic lunch and laughed about our past exploits.  Arnold has played some Billy Joel songs on our piano because he's good at it and, besides, it gets on Rebecca's nerves and he thinks it's cute, the way that one little vein in her forehead pops out when she yells at him to play something else.  Rebecca has a new boyfriend at school who she doesn't want to talk about, but she smiles whenever we kid her about him; prom is coming up, after all.  Thomas has just learned how to skate and likes to show us his fancy moves before he slips and falls on his ass and we all laugh, including him.  Denise has just started second grade and thinks her teacher's a mean old prune.  And Christopher… Christopher has started writing his very first children's book, all about the adventures of a stuffed toy aardvark named Wilbur whose sole quest in life is to find other damaged and abandoned toys and make them new again so that they can find homes with children who love them.  But Wilbur has gas problems; even though he's a toy, he farts a lot, so no one can be near him for too long, which often puts a crimp in his plans.

I stand in the yard and tell them to all gather together on the porch; Tanya has made cookies for dessert, Edna's famous truck-stop-recipe cookies, which are yummy anytime, but are best when they're still warm, so we have to get the picture taken now before I lose the light and the cookies cool.  Scoot in closer, gang, that's it.  Look over here, at me, that's right.  If you smile for Pretty-Boy and say cheese so I can take this damned thing, then it's cookies for everyone.  Sound good?

All in favor….