NOS4A2(129)

He did not want to remember pulling its legs off. Picking them off one at a time while it kicked frantically. He scooped Sunny’s remains up in one hand. There were little ashtrays, set into the doors, with walnut lids. Wayne opened one, stuffed the butterfly into it, let it fall shut. There. That was better.

The key turned itself in the ignition, the car jolting to life. The radio snapped on. Elvis Presley promised he would be home for Christmas. Manx eased in behind the steering wheel.

“You have snored the day away,” he said. “And after all of yesterday’s excitement, I am not surprised! I am afraid you slept through lunch. I would’ve woken you, but I reckoned you needed your sleep more.”

“I’m not hungry,” Wayne said. The sight of Sunny, all torn to pieces, had upset his stomach, and the thought of food—for some reason he had a visual image of sausages sweating grease—nauseated him.

“Well. We will be in Indiana this evening. I hope you have recovered your appetite by then! I used to know a diner on I-80 where you could get a basket of sweet-potato fries caked in cinnamon and sugar. There is a one-of-a-kind taste sensation for you! You cannot quit eating until they are all gone and you are licking the paper.” He sighed. “I do like my sweets. Why, it is a miracle my teeth have not rotted out of my head!” He turned and grinned at Wayne over his shoulder, displaying a mouthful of brown mottled fangs, pointing this way and that. Wayne had seen elderly dogs with cleaner, healthier-looking teeth.

Manx clutched a sheaf of papers in one hand, held together by a big yellow paper clip, and he sat in the driver’s seat, thumbing through them in a cursory sort of way. The pages looked like they had already been handled some, and Manx considered them for only half a minute before leaning over and shutting them in the glove compartment.

“Bing has been busy on his computer,” Manx said. “I remember an era when you could get your nose sliced off for sticking it too far into another man’s business. Now you can find out anything about anyone with the click of a button. There is no privacy and no consideration, and everyone is prying into things that aren’t their affair. You can probably check on the intertube and find out what color underwear I have on today. Still, the technology of this shameless new era does offer some conveniences! You would not believe all the information Bing has dug up on this Margaret Leigh. I am sorry to say your mother’s good friend is a drug addict and a woman of low character. I cannot say I am stunned. With your mother’s tattoos and unfeminine mode of speech, that is exactly the crowd I would expect her to run with. You are welcome to read all about Ms. Leigh yourself if you like. I would not want you to be bored while we are on the road.”

The drawer under the driver’s seat slid open. The papers about Maggie Leigh were in them. Wayne had seen this trick a few times now and should’ve been used to it but wasn’t.

He leaned forward and pulled out the sheaf of papers—and then the drawer banged shut, slamming closed so quickly and so loudly that Wayne cried out and dropped the whole mess on the floor. Charlie Manx laughed, the big, hoarse hee-haw of a country shithead who has just heard a joke involving a kike, a nigger, and a feminist.

“You did not lose a finger, did you? Nowadays cars come with all sorts of options nobody needs. They have radio beamed in from satellites, seat warmers, and GPS for people who are too busy to pay attention to where they are going—which is usually nowhere fast! But this Rolls has an accessory you will not find in many modern vehicles: a sense of humor! You’d better stay on your toes while you’re in the Wraith, Wayne! The old lady almost caught you napping!”

And what a hoot that would’ve been. Wayne thought if he’d been a little slower, there was a good chance the drawer could’ve broken his fingers. He left the papers on the floor.

Manx put his arm on the divider and turned his head to look through the rear window as he backed out of the garage. The scar across his forehead was livid and pink and looked two months old. He had removed the bandage from his ear. The ear was still gone, but the chewed ruin had healed over, leaving a ragged nub that was slightly more palatable to the eyes.

NOS4A2 rolled halfway down the driveway, and then Manx pulled to a stop. Bing Partridge, the Gasmask Man, was walking across the yard, holding a plaid-patterned suitcase in one hand. He had put on a stained, dirty FDNY baseball cap to go with a stained, dirty FDNY T-shirt and grotesquely girlish pink sunglasses.

“Ah,” Manx murmured. “It would’ve been just as well if you had slept through this part of the day also. I am afraid the next few minutes may be disagreeable, young Master Wayne. It is never pleasant for a child when the grown-ups fight.”

Bing walked in a swift-legged way to the trunk of the car, bent, and tried to open it. Except the trunk remained shut. Bing frowned, struggling with it. Manx was twisted around in his seat to watch him through the rear window. For all his talk about how things were soon to become disagreeable, there was the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

“Mr. Manx!” Bing called. “I can’t get the trunk open!”

Manx didn’t answer.

Bing limped to the passenger-side door, trying to keep his weight off the ankle that Hooper had gnawed on. His suitcase banged against his leg as he walked.

As he put his hand on the latch for the passenger door, the lock banged down of its own accord.

Bing frowned, tugged on the handle. “Mr. Manx?” he said.