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.