All the Inside Howling (Hollow Folk #2)(39)

“Thanks, I guess.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

“What happened to River?”

“What always happens when two men fight over a pretty girl? It started with words, then fists, and River held his own for a minute or two before he started getting clobbered. When I thought the boy was down, he whipped out a knife. The big, hulking fellow didn’t like that too much, and he really didn’t like it after River had cut him once or twice, and the pretty young thing was screaming murder.”

“And?”

“And I left. A fellow like me doesn’t stick around, Mr. Eliot, not when there’s any kind of trouble, not even the little stuff, because fellows like me, well, it’s easy to hang just about anything around our necks.”

“You’re telling me River was hitting on a girl, got in a fight with her boyfriend, and cut him up with a knife?”

“I’m telling you that River Lang is a Manitowoc-sized bushel of trouble. Every town he goes into, he’s looking for the prettiest girl he can find, and that leads to a fight, and River is always handy with that knife. Always.”

I shook my head. “He said he was going to Berkeley next year. He said he was trying to find himself.”

“That may be true. Like I said, I don’t want to know River Lang any better than I do. Most of the other boys on the road say he’s all right. Most of them like him because he’s young and he’s got a face crisp like a hundred-dollar bill and he’s quick with a joke and a laugh. Sure, he gets into trouble, they’ll say. He likes him a hot piece in every town. But I saw him that night, I saw him in Denver under the green iron awning, with the carnival-bulbs flashing down on him, and I’ll tell you one thing: he likes a hot piece, sure, but what he really likes is stirring up hell with the biggest paddle he can find.”

I sifted through what he’d told me. Some of it seemed to fit; he’d approached Becca and made his move very quickly, but he was young, and Becca was very good-looking, plus she was funny, and she was smart, except when it came to guys. A part of me wanted to believe the rest of Frankie’s story, about River’s dark side, but I wanted to believe it because I hadn’t liked River the one time I met him and because, if I were honest, I was starting to like Frankie. He seemed like a good judge of character. Maybe I only thought that because he kept saying nice things about me.

But even if everything Frankie had said were true, what did it mean? River had gotten into town three days ago, not last night. Had he told Becca that he had arrived last night? Or had she and I simply assumed it? Why would he lie? If he had been here for three days, what had he been doing? The most obvious answer was, trolling for women, drinking, sleeping it off, and repeating. If that were the case, then maybe River’s disappearance had something to do with his pattern. Maybe he’d finally tangled with the wrong girl, and instead of a fistfight he’d gotten a knife in the back, or a bullet. But why would Mr. Big Empty get involved? Why would Becca have that nightmare, and why would we have seen River’s body in the Dumpster behind Jigger Boss?

Then something Remy had said made sense. She had told me that there had been a fight with some underage boys in the club. If River had tried picking up a girl in Jigger Boss, and if she were dating someone already, that would explain the fight. And if that fight had spilled over into the alley behind Jigger Boss, and if River had made the right person angry, then River might have been killed, or at least seriously injured, that night.

None of which explained the vision I’d had in Lawayne’s torture room, or the phone call Becca had received with the screaming, or Mr. Big Empty’s place in all of this. But for the first time since Becca had shown up at my house, I felt like I had an idea of what was going on.

“That’s some deep thinking,” Frankie said, startling me. “That’s so deep I bet you can’t even touch bottom.”

“Sorry,” I said. “Just tired. It’s been a long day.”

“I imagine, my young friend, you’ve had a long sixteen years. May I give you a word of advice?”

“Everybody else does.”

His smile flickered in and out. “There’s people that’ll take everything they can from you, and they’ll take it however they can.” He nodded at the bloodstain on my shirt. “That, and whoever’s doing it to you—that leads to a dark place. Some folk will tell you not to run. They’ll say something very serious and very wise, something like, ‘Once you start running, you can never stop.’ And maybe that’s true, my young friend, maybe that’s true, and if it isn’t, I’m not the man to tell you because I started running one day and I’ve never stopped. Never.” He seemed struck by the force of what he’d said, and his shoulders slumped and he stared off into the distance as though all the miles had caught up to him in that single instant. Then, his voice pitched exactly the same although his face remained rigid and locked on the distance, he continued, “But my boy, sometimes there’s not a thing in the world as goddamn sweet, if you’ll pardon my language, as running. You can run somewhere safe. That’s a thing nobody can take from you, however they try. You can run. There’s a safe place in this big old world, even for an old goat like me, and certainly for a young man like you.”

“Thanks for the advice.” I grabbed the box, and the bottles rolled and clinked again. “And thanks for telling me about River.” I fished out one of the bottles and held it out.