bad things happened, or had already happened, or were coming down the road. When Joey turned red, Huey had to do things he didn’t like to do. But by doing them, he helped the red fade away, like blood on a shirt in a wash bucket.
Sometimes he couldn’t see color at all. There was a shade between brown and black (“no-color,” he called it) that hovered at the edges of everything, like a fog waiting to blot out the world. He saw it when he stood in line to order a hamburger and heard people whispering behind him because he couldn’t make up his mind about what he wanted. The order-taker seemed to float in a tiny, faraway circle at the center of his vision, and all he could keep in his head was what the people behind him were saying, not whether he wanted pickles or onions. He knew they said mean things because they couldn’t see inside him, past how big he was, but whenever he tried to explain that, he scared people. And the more afraid they got, the more the no-color seeped in from the edges.
School was the worst. He had tried with all his might to forget the things children had said to him at the school in Missouri. But he couldn’t. They lived inside his head, like termites in the support beams of a house. Even when he got so big that teenage boys wouldn’t stand toe-to-toe with him, they teased him. Teased him and ran before he could make them pay for it. Girls teased him, too. Retard, retard, retard. In his dreams they still ran from him, and he never caught them. In real life, though, he caught one once. A teenage boy. That was one reason he’d had to come to Mississippi to live. His mother never told his aunt about it. She was afraid her sister wouldn’t take him. But Huey had told Joey. And Joey had understood.
Huey lowered his head and breathed deep. He could smell people sometimes, the way he smelled animals. Some smelled bad, others nothing special. Abby smelled like a towel fresh out of the clothes dryer. Cleaner than anything he’d ever smelled. And she sparkled. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t find her in the dark, because she was silver and gold, and should be reflecting the moonlight.
Maybe the no-color was hiding her. It had been seeping into his eyes since the moment he realized she’d run away. He had tried hard not to be scary, but he’d seen the fear in her eyes. Maybe she couldn’t help it. She was so tiny. Joey said she was six years old, but her head was smaller than Huey’s hand.
“Abby?” he called halfheartedly.
Nothing.
He walked back toward the cabin, sniffing and listening, but nothing registered. Cutting around the cabin, he looked into the tractor shed. The clean towel smell hovered around the tractor. He leaned down and sniffed the seat.
Abby had sat there.
He crept out of the shed and looked into the dark mosaic of foliage, straining his eyes. Some greens looked gray at night. The tree trunks looked silver-black. Moonlight dripped down the black leaves and hanging branches. He relaxed his eyes, which was a trick he had learned while hunting with Joey. Sometimes, if you let your eyes relax, they picked up things they never would if you were trying to see. As he looked into the shadows, something yellowy and far dimmer than a lightning bug winked in the darkness.
His heartbeat quickened. He focused on the spot, but the yellowy light was gone. He relaxed his eyes again.
The light winked and disappeared.
He was close. The light was important, but something else had stirred the blood in his slow veins. The green smell had changed.
Twenty yards from the tractor shed, Abby crouched in the sweltering darkness, clenching the cell phone as hard as she could. The thick branches of the oak above blocked the moonlight. She couldn’t see anything beyond the bushes that shielded her. She wished she was still up on the tractor seat. It was dry and safe there, not itchy like the briars clawing at her now. She had no idea where Mr. Huey was. There were too many noises around her to tell anything. Only the reassuring glow of the phone’s readout panel kept her from bolting toward the lights of the cabin. It was like looking at the kitchen window of her house when she was playing outside after supper.
A soft squawk from the phone startled her, and she put it to her ear.
“Abby?” said her mother.
“What?” she whispered back.
“Are you okay?”
“I guess so.”
“Where’s Mr. Huey?”
“I don’t know.”
“You haven’t heard him?”
“He stopped yelling a while ago. Maybe he’s gone.”
“Maybe. But we don’t know that for sure. You have to stay down.”
“I’m sitting on my knees.”
“That’s good. Daddy’s calling a man right now who’s going to help us find you. Do you know how he’s going to do that?”
“No.”
“The phone in your hand is like a radio. As long as it stays on, the police can find you. It’s the same as if you were standing there yelling, ‘Mama, Mama.’”
“Do you want me to stand up and yell? I can yell loud.”
“No! No, honey. The phone is yelling for you, okay? People can’t hear it, but computers can.”
“Like a dog hearing a whistle?”
“Exactly like that. Now-Hang on, Daddy’s talking to me.”
“Okay.”
Abby held the phone against her ear so hard it hurt. She wanted to hear her father’s voice again.
Hickey was still sitting against the bedroom wall. Despite his wounded leg, he watched Karen like a hyena waiting for its chance to strike.
“You going to sew me up or what?” he asked, holding up his bloody palms.
“I haven’t decided.”
“I’m getting exactly nowhere,” Will said in her ear, his voice tight with frustration. “Goddamn answering machine. I can’t believe the president of a cellular phone company doesn’t have a service.”
“Maybe we should call the police. Or the FBI.”
“I don’t think we can risk that. If Huey-”
“Mama?” Abby said in her other ear.
“What is it, baby?”
“I think I heard something.”
Karen’s heart fluttered. “Whisper, honey. What did you hear?”
“I don’t know.” Abby’s voice was a thin filament stretched over a vast chasm of fear. “How long till you get here?”
“Not long. Has the noise stopped?”
“I don’t hear it right now. I’m scared it’s a possum.”
Karen felt a hysterical relief. “It’s okay if it’s a possum. They won’t hurt you.”
“They won’t bite me?”
“No. They’re more scared of you than you are of them.”
“One bit Kate’s cat last week.”
“That’s different.”
“What if it’s a snake?”
“It’s not a snake,” Karen assured her, even as she panicked at the thought. “Snakes are sleeping right now.”
“Uh-uh. Snakes hunt at night. I saw it on Animal Planet.”
Jesus. “That’s just in other countries, like India. And Sri Lanka. Cobras and things. We don’t have cobras here.”
“Oh.”
“Our snakes sleep at night.”
“Mom, I heard it again.” Her whisper was barely audible now. “Like somebody sneaking up.”
Karen fought a surge of panic. “You have to be quiet. I want you to stop talking.”
