All the Inside Howling (Hollow Folk #2)(37)

He shook his head and held out his hand. “Francis Gerard Zuchowicz. Once of Manitowoc, Wisconsin. More recently of Eisenhower’s great interstate project. At your service, for whatever good it will do you, until I can pull my leg free of this bear-trap.”

“Not trying to be rude, but—” I looked at his hand and shook my head. “It’s a problem for me. My name’s Vie.”

“Not a problem, not a problem. It’s a quirk. An idiosyncracy. An eccentricity, yes, maybe that’s the best word. You, my young friend, are eccentric. You have spiraled out of the center. Right? Am I right?”

“Yeah, I guess. Most people would say that’s putting it lightly.”

“You’re sure you’re not running? Don’t take this wrong, but you’ve got the face of a boy who maybe ought to be running, as hard and as fast and down the first road he gets to.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long have you been in Vehpese, Mr. Zuchowicz?”

“Such manners! Such manners in a boy your age! But no mister. Just Frankie will be fine. How long? Two days? Three? That,” he pointed to the bus, “is my noble conveyance away from your fair town. Or, I should say, one very much like it will be my noble conveyance tomorrow. Tonight, due to a swell in the number of passengers, I am unable to ride the back of the grey beast. But when the sun rises tomorrow, sure as sure, I’ll put Vehpese to my back. As the sheriff not unkindly informed me, I am not meant for Vehpese, and Vehpese is not meant for me.”

“They’re running you out?”

Frankie snorted and wiped his nose on one billowy sleeve. “It was a misunderstanding, my boy. Just a misunderstanding. I see a Dumpster and I think: this is trash, belonging to no one. Perhaps it is a rich man’s trash. Perhaps it is a poor man’s trash. I, Francis Gerard Zuchowicz, hope that it is a rich man’s trash because a rich man’s trash might be my treasure. To my dismay, my young friend, the owner of that nightclub establishment was not pleased with the attention I paid to his Dumpster and he called the local sheriff.”

A nervous tickle ran down my spine. “You’re talking about Jigger Boss.”

Frankie’s eyes widened, and they seemed to sink deeper into the pouches around them. “My boy! I am talking about that very Dumpster. How did you know?”

“This isn’t a joke?” I glanced around. Who would think of a joke like this? Kaden? Maybe, but how could he know I was coming to the bus station? The sheriff, maybe? Was it some kind of setup, and the sheriff was waiting for Vie to make a mistake? But that didn’t make any sense. Vie hadn’t done anything wrong. Well, not that the sheriff knew about.

“It is not a joke, not a joke at all. You look flustered, you look distraught. Have I said something?”

I shrugged, taking one last glance around the station. “It’s just—one of the deputies picked me up this morning for the same thing.”

“Ah, that explains it. The sheriff was quite put out. Quite, quite put out. He told me he hadn’t had a call about a Dumpster in twenty years.” Frankie sucked his lips into his mouth and rocked on the bench. The next words were dragged out of him. “And then, the gentleman in the cell next to mine proved particularly poor company. You met DeHaven Knight, I assume?”

I nodded.

Frankie dragged one hand through his shining, moonlight hair, and his hand shook so badly that the hair shimmered and rippled like clouds driven before a storm.

“Mr. Zuchowicz?”

“Just Frankie,” he said in a whisper. Then, more forcefully, “Just Frankie. It’s nothing, really nothing, but that man—a foul, foul, blasted and foul specimen of those who travel Great Eisenhower’s roads. He did this to me, after the sheriff released us.” Frankie lifted a sheaf of the silvery hair. A patch of torn and scabbed scalp showed where a hunk of hair had been ripped from the old man’s head. “Mr Knight caught me behind the station as soon as the sheriff had gone. I thought I’d been careful, but he moved much faster than I expected. When I insisted that he stop following, he grabbed my hair. Right here, I suppose you can see for yourself. He swung me around so hard that I hit the side of that big garbage can, and while Frankie Zuchowicz has a hard head, the metal rang my bell pretty good. Mr. Knight kept shouting, he kept shouting, and he wouldn’t let go of my hair. The second time he dragged me to my feet, I felt the hair rip loose. It hurt like the blazes, like Old Cloven-hoofs had snagged me by the scalp. Mr. Knight came at me again, swinging and shouting and swearing. He seemed to think I had stolen something from him. He seemed to think—” Frankie shook out his trembling hand, as though the tremor were something he could brush loose, and he gave a laugh as flat as an old tire. “A car horn blared, and that startled him long enough for me to reach the station office, where I’ve waited now for a good hour. I think, though, that if I had encountered Mr. Knight at night, instead of in the afternoon, I would not be here to tell you about my time in Vehpese.”

The memory I had stolen from DeHaven, the memory of his first kill in the moldering apartment building, plastered itself behind my eyes. I breathed slowly, fighting the wash of panic, until the memory cleared. “I’m really sorry,” I managed to say. “So he’s free? DeHaven? He’s loose?”

“Oh yes. Loose and wild as a jackass loaded with schnaps. I’d steer clear of him, my young friend. He is a dangerous man.”