stairs.
It all came back, in thick blocks of memory, exploding silently, like mortar rounds hitting near you when your ears are already so clogged with fear-blood that you’re deaf. And when I replayed the tapes in my head, I understood why it had to be him. Because I’d gone back to see him years later. Not to kill him, to try and play him into doing something. And he’d gone for the bait.
“You!” he said, a whisper-hiss of surprise.
“Can I talk with you?”
“We’ve already talked.”
“I need your help.”
“Surely you know better than that.”
“If you’ll hear me out … it’s something you’ll want to do. And I have something to trade.”
“You’re alone?”
“Yes.”
He touched one finger to the tip of his nose, deciding. Then a twisting gesture with his other hand. I heard a heavy deadbolt slide back, tugged gently on the wrought iron, and the gate came toward me. I stepped inside.
“After you,” he said, gesturing toward the staircase.
The room hadn’t changed. Old-money heavy, thick, and dark. Only the computer marred the antique atmosphere—a different one from last time, with a much bigger screen that blinked into darkness as I glanced at it, defying my stare.
“Notice anything new?” he asked, pointing to the chair I’d used last time.
I sat down and eye-swept the room, playing the game. In one corner, a rectangular fish tank, much longer than it was high. I got up to look closer, feeling him behind me. The fish were all some shade of red or orange, with wide white stripes outlined in black.
“This is different,” I said. “What are they?”
“Clowns. The family name is Pomacentridae. They come in many varieties. The dark orange ones are perculas,” pointing at a fat little fish near the top. “And we have tomatoes, maroons, even some flame clowns —my favorites.”
The flames had red heads with a white band just behind the eyes—the bodies were jet black. They stayed toward the bottom of the tank.
“Saltwater fish?” I asked him.
“Oh yes. Quite delicate, actually.”
“They’re beautiful. Are they rare?”
“More unusual than they are rare. Clowns get along wonderfully with other fish. That is, they never interact—they stay with their own kind, even in a tank.”
“They don’t fight for territory?”
“No, they don’t fight at all. Occasionally, a small spat among themselves, but never with another species.”
I watched the aquarium. Each tribe of clowns stayed in its own section, not swimming so much as hovering. I saw his reflection in the glass fade as he went over to a leather armchair and sat down. I took the chair he’d first indicated, faced him.
He regarded me with mild interest, well within himself, safe where he was.
“You said you had something …?”
“Yeah. The last time we talked, when you told me your … philosophy. About kids.”
“I remember,” he said stiffly. “Nothing has changed.”
“I know. I listened. You told me you loved little boys then. I came because I need to see how deep that love goes.”
“Which means …?”
“What you do, what others like you do, it’s all about love, right?”
He nodded, wary.
“You don’t force kids. Don’t hurt them … anything like that.”
“As I told you. What is wrong with our behavior—all that is wrong with our behavior—is that it is against some antiquated laws. We are hounded, persecuted. Some of us have been imprisoned, ruined by the witch-hunters. Yet we have always been here and we always will be. But you didn’t come here to engage in philosophical discourse.”
“No. Just to get things straight.”
He got to his feet, turned his back on me. Tapped some keys rapidly on the computer, too fast for me to follow. He hit a final key with a concert pianist’s flourish. The machine beeped.
He got up, went back to his easy chair.
