NOS4A2(90)

A tall man stood in the mist, next to the right front tire. He was bent over, his hands on his knees, considering the dog in a speculative sort of way, as if he half expected Hooper to get back up.

The little man looked down at his palm for a moment, then back up, and said, “It was a terrible accident.” He smiled hopefully. “Can I use your phone?”

“What?” Wayne said again, although he had heard the man perfectly well, even through the ringing in his ears. And besides, he had said the same thing, three times now, with almost no variation at all. “Hooper? Hooper!”

He pushed past the little man. He did not run but went at a fast walk, his gait jerky and stiff.

Hooper looked as if he had dropped onto his side and gone to sleep in the road in front of the car. His legs stuck out straight from his body. His left eye was open, staring up at the sky, filmy and dull, but as Wayne approached, it moved to track him. Still alive.

“Oh, God, boy,” Wayne said. He sank to his knees. “Hooper.”

In the glare of the headlights, the mist was revealed as a thousand fine grains of water trembling in the air. Too light to fall, they blew around instead, a rain that wouldn’t rain.

Hooper pushed creamy drool out of his mouth with his thick tongue. His belly moved in rapid, panting breaths. Wayne couldn’t see any blood.

“My Lord,” said the man who stood looking down at the dog. “That is what you call bad luck! I am so sorry. The poor thing. You can bet he does not know what happened to him, though. You can take some consolation from that!”

Wayne looked past the dog at the man standing by the front of the car. The man wore black boots that came almost to his knees and a tailcoat with rows of brass buttons on either side of the placket. As Wayne lifted his gaze, he took in the car as well. It was an antique—an oldie but a goodie, his father would say.

The tall man held a silver hammer in his right hand, a hammer the size of a croquet mallet. The shirt beneath his coat was watered white silk, as smooth and shiny as fresh-poured milk.

Wayne lifted his gaze the rest of the way. Charlie Manx stared down at him with large, fascinated eyes.

“God bless dogs and children,” he said. “This world is too hard a place for them. The world is a thief, and it steals your childhood from you and all the best dogs, too. But believe this. He is on his way to a better place now!”

Charlie Manx still looked like his mug shot, although he was older—old going on ancient. A few silver hairs were combed across his spotted, bare skull. His scant lips were parted to show a horribly colorless tongue, as white as dead skin. He was as tall as Lincoln and just as dead. Wayne could smell the death on him, the stink of decay.

“Don’t touch me,” Wayne said.

He got up on unsteady legs and took a single step backward before he thumped into the ugly little man standing behind him. The little man gripped him by the shoulders, forcing him to remain facing Manx.

Wayne twisted his head to look back. If he had the air, he would’ve screamed. The man behind him had a new face. He wore a rubber gasmask with a grotesque valve where his mouth belonged and glossy plastic windows for eyes. If eyes were windows to the soul, then the Gasmask Man’s offered a view of profound emptiness.

“Help!” Wayne screamed. “Help me!”

“That is my aim exactly,” said Charlie Manx.

“Help!” Wayne screamed again.

“I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream,” the Gasmask Man said. “Keep shouting. See if that’s what you get. Big hint, bucko—no ice cream for screamers!”

“HELP!” Wayne shouted.

Charlie Manx put his gaunt fingers over his ears and made a pained face. “That is a lot of filthy noise.”

“Boys who make filthy noise don’t get any toys,” the Gasmask Man said. “Boys who yelp get no help.”

Wayne wanted to vomit. He opened his mouth to scream again, and Manx reached out and pressed a finger to his lips. Shhh. Wayne almost flinched at the smell of it, an odor of formaldehyde and blood.

“I am not going to hurt you. I would not hurt a child. There is no need for a lot of caterwauling. My business is with your mother. I am sure you are a fine boy. All children are—for a while. But your mother is a lying scallywag who has given false witness against me. That is not the end of it either. I have children of my own, and she kept me from them for years and years. For a decade I could not see their sweetly smiling faces, although I heard their voices often enough in dreams. I heard them calling for me, and I know they went hungry. You cannot think what it is like, to know your children are in need and that you cannot help them. It will drive a normal man to madness. Of course, some would say I did not have far to drive!”

At this both men laughed.

“Please,” Wayne said. “Let me go.”

“Do you want me to gas him out, Mr. Manx? Is it time for some gingerbread smoke?”

Manx folded his hands at his waist and frowned. “A short nap might be the best thing. It is hard to reason with a child who is so overwrought.”

The Gasmask Man began to force-march Wayne around the front of the car. Wayne saw now that it was a Rolls-Royce, and he flashed to one of Maggie Leigh’s newspaper articles, something about a man disappearing in Kentucky along with a 1938 Rolls.

“Hooper!” Wayne screamed.