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Tabitha saw Wayne staring, turned her head, spotted the girl.

“Oh, my God,” she said softly. “Lou. Lou!”

Lou Carmody stared across the yard at the girl, Marta Gregorski, missing since 1991. She had been twelve when she disappeared from a hotel in Boston and was twelve now, twenty years later. Lou regarded her with no particular surprise at all. He looked gray and tired, sweat slicking the loose flesh of his cheeks.

“I have to get the rest, Tabby,” Lou said. “Can you help her?”

Tabitha turned her head and gave him a frightened, bewildered look. She holstered her gun, turned, and began to walk swiftly through the dead leaves.

A boy came out of the brush behind Marta, a black-haired boy of ten, wearing the dirty blue-and-red uniform of a Beefeater. Brad McCauley’s eyes were stricken, wondering, and terrified all at once; he cast a sidelong glance at Marta, and his chest began to hitch with sobs.

Wayne swayed on his heels, staring at the two of them. Brad had been wearing his Beefeater outfit in his dream last night. Wayne felt light-headed, like sitting down, but the next time he rocked back on his heels—he was close to falling over—his father caught him from behind, set one massive hand on Wayne’s shoulder. Those hands didn’t quite go with his New Lou body, made his large, gawky frame look that much more badly put together.

“Hey, Wayne,” Lou said. “Hey. You c’n wipe your face on my shirt if you want.”

“What?” Wayne asked.

“You’re crying, kiddo,” Lou said. He held out his other hand. In it were ceramic shards: pieces of a smashed moon. “You’ve been crying for a while now. I guess this one was yours, huh?”

Wayne felt his shoulders jerk in a convulsive shrug. He tried to answer but couldn’t force any sound from his tight throat. The tears on his cheeks burned in the cold wind, and his self-control gave way, and he buried his face in his father’s stomach, missing for a moment the old Lou, with his comforting, bearish mass.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice choked, strange. He moved his tongue around his mouth but could not feel his secret teeth anymore—a thought that set off such an explosion of relief he had to hang on to his father to keep from falling down. “I’m sorry. Dad. Oh, Dad. I’m sorry.” His breath coming in short, jolting sobs.

“For what?”

“I don’t know. Crying. I got snot on you.”

Lou said, “No one has to apologize for tears, dude.”

“I feel sick.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know. ’S okay. I think you’re suffering from the human condition.”

“Can you die from that?” Wayne said.

“Yes,” Lou said. “It’s pretty much fatal in every case.”

Wayne nodded. “Okay. Well. I guess that’s good.”

Behind them, far away, Wayne could hear Tabitha Hutter’s clear, steady, calming voice, asking names, telling children they would be all right, that she was going to take care of them. He had an idea, if he turned around, that he would see maybe a dozen of them now, and the rest were on their way, out of the trees, leaving the static behind. He could hear some of them sobbing. The human condition: It was contagious, apparently.

“Dad,” Wayne said. “If it’s all right with you, can we skip Christmas this year?”

Lou said, “If Santa tries to come down our chimney, I’ll send him back up with my boot in his ass. It’s a promise.”

Wayne laughed. It sounded much like a sob. That was all right.

Out on the highway, there was the ferocious roar of an approaching motorcycle. Wayne had an idea—a desperate, awful idea—that it was his mother. The children had all come back from something like death, and perhaps it was her turn. But it was just some dude out on the road, taking his Harley for a spin. It blasted past with a deafening roar, sun glinting off chrome. It was early October, but in the strong, direct light of the morning sun, it was still warm. Fall was here, winter coming right behind it, but for now there was still a little good riding weather left.


Begun the Fourth of July 2009

Completed over the holidays, 2011

Joe Hill, Exeter, New Hampshire





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


- The Nice List -

If you have enjoyed this book, then much of the thanks goes to my editor, Jennifer Brehl, at William Morrow, who pointed me to the story within the story. If it disappointed you, the fault is mine alone.

Gabriel Rodríguez is one of my brothers. My love and thanks to him for his illustrations and friendship and vision. When I am lost, I can always trust Gabe to draw me a map.

The work on this story began in the summer of 2009, in my friend Ken Schleicher’s garage. Ken was fixing up his 1978 Triumph Bonneville and drafted me as an extra pair of hands. Those were some good evenings and made me want to write about bikes. My thanks to the whole Schleicher clan for opening their home and their garage to me.

The work on this story ended after my mother read it and told me she liked it and also that my final chapter wouldn’t do. She was right. She usually is. I threw out the last fifteen pages and wrote something better. Tabitha King is a creative thinker of the first order and taught me to love words, to search for their secret meanings, and to stay attuned to their private histories. More important, though, her example as a parent taught me how to be a father: to listen more than I talk, to make chores into play (or meditation), to see that the kids keep their fingernails clipped.