A siren began to wail in the distance, drifting up from the northern edge of the city, beyond the lake where they had found his daughter. At first Truax thought nothing of it, though after a few seconds he realized that it was moving into Fogwood. He reached down to make sure his weapon was where he’d left it. The fever spiked, bringing another dew of sweat to his skin just as more sirens began to sound, coming from various directions now, all of them heading toward the city. Some choked off abruptly just as others materialized. The night seemed to be built of their howls.
And then he understood. Joel. He’d escaped. Wooten had paid off someone at the jail; a door had been left open. And now the boy was back in Newton. Chones and others were making a show of looking for him, though of course he would never be found. Not unless Truax did it himself. His eyes instinctively sought out that near-invisible patch of graffiti in the treehouse’s corner. Joels. dick.
Suddenly, as if summoned by the sirens, firelight began to flicker through the trees to the northeast of Wooten’s house. No sound accompanied its appearance, no explosion or combustive sigh. Truax leaned forward to get a better look. The fire was only a couple hundred yards away. There was no way to be sure what was burning. A car. Debris. Shadowy human forms began to arrive at the scene; there were urgent shouts. Although the flames seemed to possess great energy, the fire itself wasn’t growing any bigger. Truax was tempted to go check it out but that would mean leaving the house. And he couldn’t do that. The house was all he had.
After a few minutes he looked away from the fire to find that the slope of that snowy hill at Fort Bragg had appeared on Wooten’s back wall. Truax felt something slacken in him. The good dreams had finally returned. Susan was a little girl and she was alive and they were racing down that hill. The cold and the speed quickly soothed his fever. As long as he could stay like this then everything would be all right.
But it didn’t last—after just a few seconds he sensed that the dream was going wrong. The hour was too late, dusk giving way to darkness.
And there were no other racers on the slope, just the mangled frames of Flexible Flyers that had been crushed against evil-looking boulders. Silent figures watched from the side of the hill, heads bloodied, arms and legs splinted. There were no cheers and laughter, just weak shouted warnings telling Truax that he should get his daughter out of harm’s way. Worst of all, the forgiving plain at the hill’s bottom was veiled by a blackness so absolute that it was impossible to know what it hid. Another voice began to cut through the howling winter air—a terrified Susan, telling him she didn’t want to do this. Begging him to stop. But he was powerless. They were going too fast. Racing down a slope that was about to enter the darkness.
And then, just seconds before they reached the bottom, the dream vanished, leaving only the sirens and the cicada and Truax’s own rapid breathing. That flame still pulsed steadily beyond the trees. It took him a moment to realize why he was awake and when he did he felt a clarity of mind more intense than anything he’d known since My Song.
Someone had come around the side of Wooten’s house.
It was a single figure, moving in silence and stealth. A boy. A man. The backyard was too dark to make out who he was. Truax’s first temptation was to leap from the treehouse and challenge him. But it was too soon. It might be another of those reporters. He had to be certain before he acted. Whoever it was climbed onto the deck and tugged at the sliding-glass door. Truax snatched the .45 from the smooth plywood, his eyes never leaving the figure as it walked back down the porch steps and disappeared around the side of the house. A few seconds later the front door opened. A silhouette was briefly framed in the doorway before being swallowed in darkness. Two seconds later a light flashed on and off in the front hall, so quick that it was impossible to make out anything except the familiar leather visor shielding the interloper’s face. Truax was tempted to rush the house straight away, but his discipline kept him sitting perfectly still, in case there were others. Nothing happened for ten seconds. Joel was alone. And then another light flashed. This one in the boy’s bedroom window.
He had come home to get money or a car. Wooten must have bought off the whole county to keep the cops away this long. Truax dropped through the hatch onto the peaty ground and headed toward the deck, moving in a half crouch, the weapon held in front of him. His feet made no sound on the thick sod. The sirens continued to wail. When he reached the bottom of the redwood steps he paused to hear if anyone else was approaching. But there was no one. The house was empty. There was only Joel.
He took the steps three at a time. He paused for a cautious moment at the sliding-glass door, then slammed the stock of his weapon against one of the flower decals. There was a soft, hollow sound as the safety glass puckered. Truax had to strike it three more times to punch all the way through. The reports of his blows were no louder than a child’s cough. Bits of honeycombed glass fell silently on a dimpled rubber mat bearing the word WELCOME! Truax used his bad hand to widen the hole, chopping away at the shattered edges. He knew he must be cutting himself but there was no longer any feeling. When the hole was big enough he stuck his weapon in his belt and reached in with his left hand. The lock opened with a gentle click.
The ice machine gave raucous birth to a few crescents just as he stepped into the kitchen. He walked quickly across the tiled floor, his shoulder setting a row of hanging pots gently ringing, a sound that reminded him of the matin bells of a Delta monastery that always told him the night’s danger had passed. He moved down the hallway, wondering if he should call Swope. But there was no time. He had to secure the boy first. Then they would take him somewhere where he could be punished. Baltimore or, better, Washington. Somewhere the law still held.
At the bottom of the steps he listened. There was only silence. He started to climb, working a round into the breech and then clicking off the safety. They might have given the boy a gun. Truax did not want to hurt him but there was always the chance he’d have to. It took him a moment at the top of the steps to figure out which door was Joel’s. Last on the left. Just like Susan’s. He headed toward it, raising his weapon to a ready position. Command and control. He placed his ear to the door’s cool wood. There was a wheezing breath inside. Truax placed his bad hand on the knob. Getting a grip was impossible—his flesh was too slick with blood and rot. So he put the .45 into his belt and gave the handle a slight twist with his good hand. It was unlocked. He took a deep breath and entered the room.
Earl Wooten was driving fast. He was going thirty as he left the Newton Plaza parking lot, sixty by the time he reached Mystic Hills. Twice he passed speeding state police prowlers. Neither bothered him. They had bigger things to worry about. As did Wooten. He had to get home and let Ardelia know about Swope’s lies. Tell her what she’d known from the minute the police knocked on the door. Joel was innocent. Their son was not guilty. And then he would call McNutt and tell him to stop everything. There would be no deal with the State. The plea would remain as it was. After that, Wooten would go down to Cannon City and demand to see his son so he could let him know that the doubting was over. They would fight this. Van Riper and Chones and Swope would never win. It might take everything they had but Joel would not be punished for what had happened to Susan.
Wooten cursed his stupidity as he drove, the swamp-blind, hanky-headed stubbornness that had enabled Swope to play him like a stride piano. That was the most galling thing. Not the man’s trickery or his sheer evil. But the fact that his schemes had stood upon a single foundation—Earl Wooten’s brittle spine. Swope had known that Wooten would be so grateful to a high-powered white man for befriending him that he would never think to doubt him, that he would believe the worst about his own son before suspecting some scrawny and strange white boy. He had been weak and because of that Joel was being hurt.
No more. From now on, Wooten would challenge Swope every step of the way. He knew it wouldn’t be easy. Swope’s smug expression at his office told him all he needed to know ab
out that. The man had worked the angles. Every plank and nail in his house of lies was in place. But Wooten also knew that once he removed the foundation Swope had laid—his own blind Tommery—the whole rotten edifice would begin to tumble. Maybe not right away and maybe not in one great surge. But it would come down. Swope might be able to take away his job and wreck his marriage. Bankrupt him and even take away his house. But he would not get his son. Too many boys had already been taken. Joel would not be one more.
He raced up Merlin’s Way, the thought of Joel locked in some cramped cell making him push the gas pedal right down to the floor. He could tell that his own house was empty as he bumped over the driveway’s undulant curb. Which meant Ardelia was still down with Joel. Not that it mattered. McNutt could break the news to her. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but his boy’s freedom. He pulled himself out of the rocking car and strode through the front door, that broken lock rattling in his fist like cracking knuckles.
The worst thing he’d ever smelled froze him in the middle of the hallway. It was as if someone had pumped in a distillation of all the unholy stinks Wooten had ever unearthed: dead animals and ruptured sewer lines and festering clots of Mississippi peat. It was not a smell that belonged in his house.
And then, before Wooten could even ask himself what the hell was going on, a familiar voice sounded upstairs.
Teddy was trying to stop his head from spinning. It was worse now than it had been back on Merlin’s Way. He’d gone through all the usual sobering drills to bring himself down, taking deep breaths and trying to focus on specific objects, though all he’d been able to accomplish was to let that bad noise sneak back into his head. Only this time it was trapped inside his brain and there was no way to turn it off, no headphones to remove or button to punch. It was as if the shrieks and wails had been permanently embedded in his cerebrum. He tried to conjure other tunes to crowd them out. “Revolution.” “Helter Skelter.” “Instant Karma!” “Power to the People!” None of them stuck. After just a few bars they would fade into that howling, churning stew of sound.
So he tried to drown it out with good thoughts. And there was only one of those worth thinking—that this was going to work out. Now that he was in Joel’s room, he was certain of it. All those years and all those times together had to mean more than some stupid accident at a fake lake. Friends made sacrifices for each other all the time. Took bullets and fell on grenades. Kept their counsel in the face of torture and prison. Sacrifice was the anvil on which friendship was forged. Teddy couldn’t remember if he’d read that or made it up. Either way, it was true. Joel would have to understand. Now that a certain party was out of the way, there was nothing stopping him.
As if in answer to these positive vibes, the noise stopped abruptly, cut off like a lifted needle. And then he saw why. The bedroom door was opening. The racket in his brain must have stopped him from hearing them return. He stood too quickly, causing his vision to tunnel into a narrow corridor populated by dozens of brilliant floaters. The door came all the way open and there was a silhouette. Joel. It had to be.
“Hey, man, it’s me,” Teddy said.
In response Joel raised a hand. Just like he used to in those empty houses, right before they would jump. Teddy relaxed. Everything was cool. Nothing would have to be explained. Nothing else mattered. He took a step forward, reaching out to grasp his friend’s hand.
And then the room was filled with light and the air was gone from his frail lungs and he was falling; falling before he’d had a chance to grab hold.
The boy rose from the bed and came at him, saying words he could not understand. Truax pulled the weapon quickly from his belt. His grip was clumsy, his finger too low on the trigger. The boy took another step and raised his hand just as Truax moved his finger to a better position. His actions sent a tiny spasm of adrenalized energy along Truax’s arm, causing his finger to twitch before it was settled. The weapon discharged. The round caught the boy a few inches right of center, spinning him into the darkness. He flipped back over the bed and hit the window frame, bringing down curtains. After that there was no sound in the room, no light. Just this thing he had done.
He stood perfectly still for a long moment. This was not right. He had only wanted to secure the boy and then take him to Swope. He reached blindly for a light switch with his bad hand but couldn’t feel anything. His eyes remained on the body heaving beneath the curtain. This was not right. He had to call Swope. He’d know what to do. How to make people understand about the gun going off. He’d told Truax from the beginning that if anything happened he would handle it. All he had to do was call.
The boy began to breathe fast and shallow. Truax knew what that meant. He’d seen it so many times. It would not be long. But it was all right. Swope would make everyone understand. Truax had only meant to stop him. The boy had come forward and raised his hand. No one would blame him for this.
Light erupted behind him. Truax wheeled. The shadow of a man’s head was growing larger on the floor. No, Truax thought. It’s too early. He hadn’t called Swope yet.
He tightened his grip on his weapon. This time he would be ready.
The explosion happened at the same instant Wooten realized that it was Teddy who had spoken. He knew it was a gun immediately. He’d heard plenty of them in his day, fired in anger and celebration and even jest. Though none of them had the same thunderous authority as the one that rolled down the broad staircase. He hesitated for a moment, an infinite number of grisly scenarios playing through his mind. Each worse than the last. Each involving Joel and Teddy. But none of them could be right. Joel was in jail. And Teddy was huddling under his father’s protection back on Prospero’s Parade.
Wooten shook away his indecision and raced up the stairs. That beastly smell grew stronger with every step he took. He paused at the top, looking down the hall. It was dark down there, the explosion’s echo making the air seem blacker still. He hit the hall light. Ten long steps took him to the door, that dead meat smell mixing with the unmistakable tang of gunpowder as he drew closer.
At first he could see nothing but the darkened shapes of his son’s furniture. He reached in and turned on the light. Wooten understood nothing about the sight that greeted him. John Truax stood in the middle of the room, a large pistol in his hand. Teddy Swope lay to his right, crumpled at the foot of the bed, his tangled body shrouded with fallen curtains, Joel’s visor at a jaunty angle on his head. More blood than that skinny body should have ever contained leaked into the fabric covering him, staining it a lucent black. His eyes were closed, their lids fluttering. His mouth labored for air, each breath accompanied by an evil-sounding suck from his chest. Twin bubbles, pink with oxygenated blood, expanded and contracted in his nostrils, like the exposed lungs of some frail mammal.
Wooten looked back at Truax just as he raised the gun. It shook like an insect’s wing.
“John, no.”
“He was going to get away.”
“Teddy? From what?”
Truax didn’t seem to hear what he was saying. And then Wooten understood. He thought he’d done this thing to Joel.
“John, what have you done?”
Truax pulled back the gun’s hammer. His hand shook even harder.
“Look. Just … look.”
Wooten pointed at Teddy. The boy’s breathing grew even more tremulous.
“Look what you’ve done,” he said, almost shouting now.
Truax blinked and then he understood. Without lowering the gun he looked down at the boy he’d shot. He stared at Teddy for a long time without expression.
“He’s the one who killed your girl,” Wooten said. “Teddy did it. And his father is covering it up.”
Truax looked up at Wooten.
“Why do you think he’s here?” he continued, pointing to Teddy. “He’s guilty, John. He’s the one.”
Something shifted in Truax’s eyes. He nodded once. Wooten let himself breathe. The poor man understood. This could end now. Bad as
it was, it was about to be over.
“All right,” Truax said wearily. “All right.”
And then he put the shivering gun in his mouth. As it passed his lips his hand stopped shaking. His eyes fell shut and a stillness settled over his whole body. Wooten began to shout but before he could utter a word the room was filled with a terrible sound. Truax dropped heavily onto the bed, his arms flopping lazily to his sides. His left foot gave a few weak kicks, then settled. Mist and smoke hung where he’d stood. There was a pattern on the wall behind him. Whatever noise was left from the explosion was swallowed by the ringing that now filled Wooten’s ears. He took a step forward but stopped when he realized there was nothing he could do.
The boy, he thought. Help him. He crossed the room and kneeled by Teddy. Do not look at the other thing, he told himself. Just let it be. That is for others. Look to the boy now. There’s a chance for him. He peeled back the bloody drapery. Teddy’s T-shirt looked like it had been used to mop up motor oil. The wound was just below his right clavicle, a second concavity in his woebegone chest. Lessening waves of blood pumped from it. Wooten gathered the end of Joel’s comforter into a ball and pressed it against the hole. Knowing even as he did that it was too late.
Teddy’s eyes fell open. They were badly dilated, though he seemed to recognize Wooten. There was an interruption in his breathing. His dry lips smacked. He was trying to say something. Wooten leaned forward, putting his cheek next to the boy’s mouth. It was hard to hear through the ringing.
“Tell Joel it’s cool,” Teddy gasped. “I got it all figured.”
Wooten pulled back. The boy’s eyes closed and a small, angelic smile twisted his lips. The flutter of his chest stopped and then a last gargle of blood seeped from the wound. Wooten knew there were things he should do to the boy’s chest and his mouth to help him, though he knew even more deeply that there was no use.
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