Day One (31 page)

“Keep it moving, mister.” He pushes me up to the rear passenger door.

The woman looks up and down the street. Her nerves seem to vibrate in the air around her. From three paces away, I can smell her, a bitter ammonia reek mixed with tobacco and the whiff of rot. She’s wearing a stained quilted coat, but I see tattoos lacing out from under the sleeves and from under her collar. They’re muddy and dark against her blotchy skin, a tangle of thorns on her hands, unintelligible slashes and cross-hatching on her throat. The artless rendering and smeared color, the blue of a ballpoint pen, tells me she’s been incarcerated.

“What’s the fucking hold up? Jesus.” Her voice is almost as dead and mechanical as the target of her ire.

The big man doesn’t bother to respond as he pulls open the door, pushes Danny into the back seat. I don’t want him in there alone with the woman, even for a moment, so I slide in quickly after him. Then I turn to the big man before he can close the door behind me.

“Fella, listen—”

The woman spins around in the front seat. “Shut the bloody fuck up!” All I can see are sharp, yellow teeth and fiery red eyes as big as eggs. She swings a bony fist at my jaw. The blow lands like a grenade. Danny starts screaming, but I can’t see him. My vision swirls and I taste blood. As I try to blink the tears from my eyes the big man’s hand snakes in through the open door. He grabs
the woman’s wrist just below her filthy coat sleeve. She jerks her hand back, her twitching eyes wide and staring. He points at her across the back of the seat, the gesture buzzing with threat. The moment seems to hang there, a tightening spring, but then she presses herself back against the dashboard and, with an exhalation of foul breath, topples over onto the front seat out of sight. In an instant, Danny quiets, but she starts to sob in his place, a dry noise like wind through a tube.

I turn to the big man, put my hand on his forearm. “There’s still time to stop this. No one has to know it ever happened. I’ll take the boy back to his mother and you go wherever you want to go.”

I’m just pissing him off. He shakes his arm free of my touch and lifts the artificial larynx to his neck.

“His mother is dead.”

For a moment, his words don’t seem to have meaning, as if he’d declared I have a hat growing out of my ear. But then a sharp, sinking despair falls through me. I reach out blindly, find Danny’s hand, clutch it in my own. His skin is cool and dry. I hope he doesn’t understand—if he even heard. I look up through the open car door into the big man’s squinting eyes. “What did you do?” My voice sounds hollow inside my head.

“You think it was me.” The toneless voice offers no clue as to his rectitude. After a moment he shakes his head. For the first time I sense an emotion in him other than cold-blooded resolve. “Some dumb ass boy. I do not even know who he was.” From up front, the tweaker continues to wheeze, but more quietly now, as if she senses the weight of the moment. “Right up there on top of the hill.” Tilt of his head, in case I don’t know which hill he means. “Who can say what really happened?”

That’s all he has, this modest disclosure—modest for him, if not for me. He starts to close the car door, ready to move on to whatever he has planned next, when I surprise us both and allow
the name to spill from my mouth. “Eager.” The name of the boy I’ve thought about, worried about, for the last three years suddenly feels alien on my tongue.

He stares down at me. His face is flat, his eyes dead as doll’s eyes. I drop my gaze, turn and look at Danny. Little Danny, quiet and oblivious to everything around him. I have no idea what will happen to him now, but I know that I won’t live to see it. This man beside me—Eager’s father, Big Ed Gillespie, has to be—is not going to let me live after such a revelation.

November 18

S
hadow.

Shadow something. He could see the word shining. The road was dark, no cars, no people. Just the shine. Shadow. Other words, other letters, over the door. Through the window past glowing signs he saw people. A man, a woman. They were speaking, the man on one side of the bar, woman on the other. He didn’t see anyone else under the yellow glow of old wall sconces. The woman sipped from a tall glass, and suddenly Shadow felt the need to slip inside. He’d grown tired of the scrunch of one footstep after another on the gravel shoulder of the road.

The door stuck for a second, then popped open. The man and woman both turned at the sharp sound. Warm air rushed through the doorway, smelling faintly of a wood fire. Inside, the low ceiling was held up by sawn posts, polished and dark like the paneled walls. A line of booths ran along one long wall, each adorned with its own mounted animal head, glassy-eyed elk and antelope. The wall behind the bar was covered with liquor bottles and fishing trophies.

“Where’d you come from, pal? I didn’t hear your car.” The man leaned across the bar, his forearms resting on wood, his hands
clasped together. His head stood tall on wide shoulders and he looked at Shadow through grey eyes. He was smiling. The woman looked at him and she smiled too. “Long way from nowhere.”

Shadow opened his mouth, tried to form the word. It wouldn’t quite come. Half a letter, tip of his tongue. The man’s smile dropped, became flatter, less friendly. One eyebrow lifted the width of an eyelash. Shadow knew he needed to say it, but he couldn’t. He curled his lips, made the shape of the letter. “... W ...” Nothing more. No sound.

“You okay, mister?” The woman’s voice had a ring to, a rising lilt, as though she’d learned to speak by listening to the radio.

He looked at her, clenched his teeth. Tried to smile. “S ... s ...”

“Hey, it’s cool.” The man behind the bar again. “No need to stress out.”

Stress out.
He could say that, and with the realization the word he sought presented itself like a treasure. “Strolling.” Then he found his smile as well. The woman laughed, the sound like bells, and the man shook his head. “Okay, you say so. Long way to stroll though. You walk out from West Linn?”

He nodded, unaware of what West Linn was. “Strolling.”

“What can I get you?”

He knew what he wanted.
Something
. Something to eat. He smelled it in the air. He couldn’t remember last when he last ate, not clearly. How to say it though, that he remembered. “Supper.”

“Grill’s closed, but I can make you a sandwich.”

He nodded. “Sandwich.”

“Sure. No problem. Roast beef, turkey, ham, or smoked salmon.”

Pick the easy one. Not the other stuff, no. “Smoke salmon.” Easy. Saying the words made him want to laugh, but he held his grin. The man pulled a stained white apron over his head and went through a swinging door at the end of the bar. The woman patted
the stool next to her, tilted her head, fixed him with a gaze. “Take a load off. Wherever you come from, it had to be a long frakking walk. Not that you need me to tell you that.”

He sat down. She was looking him over, but he didn’t want to look back. Her stare made him uncomfortable. Stare.
Staring
.

Stop.

“You’ll love the smoked salmon. Todd gets it from some Indians, right from the source, you know.”

Salmon from Indians. The words sounded a tone in his head, a familiar note. He didn’t say anything. He wouldn’t know how.

“They fish down below the falls, smoke it themselves. The old way, you know.”

He shrugged. It was a word he knew.

“You’re not from around here.”

He stole a look her way. She had a long face, red-cheeked and warm, framed by curly brown hair. Her expression was direct, but soft. Not angry. Maybe curious. Did he know that word? After a moment, he shook his head. A way to talk without speaking.

She laughed. “Shy one, aren’t you?”

“Shy.”

That seemed to satisfy her. She turned back to her drink, something brown with bubbles. He waited, silent. Music was playing, soft, a voice going on about a lost dog. He laughed a bit, a quiet snicker, and the woman looked at him. “Song.”

“Yeah, that old crap on the jukebox. Todd hasn’t changed anything in fifteen years. Have you, Todd?”

The bartender came back through the door from the kitchen. “Not a damned thing.” He set a plate down in front of Shadow, the sandwich and some chips, a pickle wedge. “Hope sourdough is okay. I’m getting ready to close, and that’s all I have left.”

Shadow nodded, salivating.

“Anything to drink?”

He didn’t like the questions, but he liked the the taste of the sandwich. He wolfed down half of it before the bartender asked again.

“Nothing?”

“Shadow ...” He didn’t mean to say it. Didn’t want to say it. Didn’t want them to know. But all the talking, all the questions, they made him skittish. And the word over the door.
Shadow
. It came out before he could stop himself.

“Sure. No problem.” The man went down the counter, grabbed a glass from below. Stopped at a tall wooden rod, smooth, with a brass cap embossed with the word. Shadow.

The word in lights, the word on the rod. A handle. He recognized it. A handle, a tap. The man filled the glass with brown foamy liquid from the tap.

“Here you go. Shadow Ale. Best amber around.”

“Sure, not that Todd’s an impartial observer.” The woman leaned toward Shadow and winked.

“Hey, it took gold last year at Brewfest.”

He took the glass, lifted it and tasted. Shadow Ale. It tasted like night, like smoke. Like who he was. It was a strange flavor, but strangely familiar, like a long forgotten memory. He drank the glass down, set it on the bar. Surprised himself and the others with his belch. Todd laughed and the woman clapped him on the shoulder. “Good stuff, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “Shadow.”

“You want another with your sandwich? Hell, I’ll charge you the happy hour price if you do.”

He didn’t know what happy hour price was. But he did know the Shadow tasted sweet, satisfying. He nodded his head, an unconscious act.

The woman reached out across the bar and put her hand on the man’s forearm. Their eyes locked and Shadow felt disquiet settle
over him. She turned her gaze to him, her eyes focused.

“Todd, I’m thinking maybe you should be sure he can pay happy hour prices before you set him up again.”

“Dawn ...” But he didn’t finish. He leaned against the bar top, and his lips screwed up tight. Shadow felt their suspicion like pressure against the back of his eyes. The word formed in his throat, collected against the back of his tongue. He slid off the stool, felt his hands fall to his sides.

“Suspicion.”

Todd pulled himself to his full height. Tall, wiry, taut muscles hinted at under his shirt. “Now, fella, no need for anything untoward. But Dawn’s got a good point. We just need to know you can pay for your meal.” He paused, flexed his hands on the edge of the bar. “You do have some money, don’t you?”

Money. The word meant something to him. He couldn’t form it in his mouth, but he knew what the man was asking for. Sheets of folded paper, green and grey. He’d found some the night before, driven by an urge he couldn’t understand. Money. Green money.

“S-s—” He couldn’t say it. He wanted to say it. He wanted them to like him again, like they had when he came in. He wanted to taste the Shadow again, to finish his sandwich and feel warm. It had been so long.

“S-s-s ... m—”

It wasn’t there.

“Mister, maybe you should be on your way.” The woman slid off her own stool, backed away a step. Shadow pulled a memory out of a box in the back of his head, an old man, throat popping like an apple under a boot heel.

“Shadow.”

“I hear you, but we don’t want no trouble.”

He slapped his pants and Todd backed away, feeling behind him. He was reaching for something. Something ... Shadow thrust his
hands into his pockets and found the sheets of green and grey. He pulled them out, dropped them on the bar. Looked from Todd to Dawn to Todd again.

“Simoleons.”

The moment hung between them, then suddenly Dawn laughed. The sound was round and throaty and in an instant all tension melted away. Todd’s shoulders dropped and his hands came forward, empty. He took Shadow’s glass and filled it from the tap. Dawn moved back onto her stool, her eyes still fixed on him, but now softer.

“Mister ... are you okay?”

She stole a look at Todd, who offered a half shrug. He sorted through the simoleons on the bar, set most aside, took some and turned to the cash register on the counter back of the bar. Buttons and bells, the drawer popped open and simoleons went inside. He took some coins from the drawer, closed it, and turned back to the bar. Set the coins with the remaining simoleons. Silver and sheets of green and grey.

“Your change.”

Shadow tried another smile, another word he knew he could say. “Sure.” Then he took the glass and sipped. The Shadow wasn’t quite as good, had a bitter edge he hadn’t noticed before. Or maybe it was him. He felt tired, awash in disquiet. But the room was warm and he liked the feeling of a full stomach. He sipped the Shadow again, and the taste was a little better.

Todd folded his arms on the bar top. “Mister, what are you up to anyway?” He motioned with his head toward the door. “Out this far, at night, on foot.”