Pillsbury Doughboy. He had a baby face and a playful heart and saw only the good in people. I always wished I’d known him when he was alive, before the government quite literally fried his brain. Had he been a grim reaper like me? I did know that he could see the departed before he died.
He set me down, then drew his brows together in a comical frown. “You never come to see me. Never.”
“Never?” I asked, teasing him.
“Never.”
“I’m here now, aren’t I?”
He shrugged begrudgingly.
“And there is a small matter of Rottweilers I have to contend with each and every visit.”
“I guess. I have so many names to give you. So many.”
“I don’t really have time—”
“They shouldn’t be here. No, no, no. They need to leave.” Rocket was also a consummate tattletale, always giving me names of those who had passed but had yet to cross.
“You’re right, Rocket, but this time I have a name for you.”
He paused and eyed me in confusion. “A name?”
I decided to toss out a name of someone I knew had already passed. “James Enrique Barilla,” I said, quoting the name of the kid found murdered in Mark Weir’s backyard.
“Oh,” he said, jumping to attention.
It was a cheap trick, throwing out a name like that, but I had to keep Rocket focused. I didn’t have much time. I had a date with one Mr. Illegal Activity. That breaking-and-entering gig wouldn’t break and enter itself.
Rocket recognized the name immediately and began walking with a purpose, which unfortunately included taking shortcuts through walls. I struggled to keep up, jogging around corners and through doorways, hoping the dilapidated floor held beneath my weight.
“Rocket, wait. Don’t lose me.”
Then I heard him, down the stairwell and through the kitchen, repeating the name to himself over and over. I tripped on a broken chair and dropped my flashlight, sending it tumbling down the steps.
Then Rocket was in front of me. “Miss Charlotte, you never keep up.”
“Never?” I asked, struggling to my feet.
“Never.” He grabbed my arm and jerked me down the stairs. I just managed to scoop up the flashlight as we ran past.
He meant well.
Then he stopped. With an abruptness I hadn’t expected, he skidded to a halt. I slammed into his backside, ever thankful of its plumpness, and bounced off him to land, once again, on my ass. Normally, Rocket would have laughed when I stood and dusted myself off, but he was on a mission. Based on past experience, nothing swayed Rocket from one of his missions.
“Here. Here it is,” he said, pointing repeatedly to one of the thousands of names he’d scraped into the plaster. “James Enrique Barilla.”
Finding James’s name among those of the departed really wasn’t surprising, since there was a man going to prison for his murder. But I had to check, just in case.
“Can you tell me how he died?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“Not how,” he said, suddenly annoyed. I fought back a grin. “Not why. Not when. Only is.”
“How about where?” Now I was just being obstinate.
He glared at me. “Miss Charlotte, you know the rules. No breaking rules,” he said with a warning shake of his pudgy finger. That’d teach me.
I sometimes wondered if he really did know more and was just following some cosmic set of rules I was unaware of. But his vocabulary, I had a feeling, stemmed from years of institutionalization. Nobody liked rules more than institutionalizationers.
I pulled out my notepad and thumbed through it. “Okay, Rocket Man, what about a Theodore Bradley Thomas?” If nothing else, I’d leave here today knowing if Mark Weir’s missing nephew was dead or alive.
Rocket bent his head in thought for a moment. “No, no, no,” he said at last. “Not his time yet.”
Relief flooded every cell in my body. Now I just had to find him. I wondered how much danger the kid was in. “Do you know when his time will be?” I asked, already knowing the answer. Again.
“Not when. Only is,” he repeated as he turned and started carving another name into the plaster.
I’d lost him. Keeping Rocket’s attention was like serving spaghetti with a spoon. But I had another name to give him. An important one. I inched closer, almost afraid to say it aloud, then whispered, “Reyes Farrow.”
Rocket stopped. He recognized the name; I could tell. That meant Reyes was dead after all. My heart dropped into my stomach. I’d hoped so hard he wouldn’t be.
“Where is his name?” I asked, ignoring the sting in my eyes. I scanned the walls as if I could actually find his name among the mass of scribbled chaos that looked like an M. C. Escher on acid. But I wanted to see it. To touch it. I wanted to run my fingers along the rough grooves and lines that made up the letters of Reyes’s name.
Then I realized Rocket was gazing at me, a wary expression on his boyish face.
I lifted a hand to his shoulder. “Rocket, what’s wrong?”
“No,” he said, stepping out of my reach. “He shouldn’t be here. No, ma’am.”
My eyes slammed shut, trying hard not to see the truth. “Where is his name, Rocket?”
“No, ma’am. He should never have been born.”
They flew open again. I’d never heard such a thing from Rocket. “I can’t believe you just said that.”
“He should never have been a boy named Reyes. He should have stayed where he belonged. Martians can’t become human just because they want to drink our water.” His eyes locked on to mine, but he stared past me a long moment before refocusing on my face. “You stay away from him, Miss Charlotte,” he said, taking a warning step toward me. “You just stay away.”
I held my ground. “Rocket, you’re not being very nice.”
He leaned down to me then, his voice a raspy whisper as he said, “But, Miss Charlotte, he’s not very nice either.”
Something beyond my senses caught his attention. He turned, listened, then rushed toward me and clenched his meaty hands around my arms. I winced, but I wasn’t scared. Rocket would never hurt me. Then his grip tightened, and I almost cried out, realizing I might have spoken too soon.
“Rocket,” I said in a soothing voice, “sweetheart, you’re hurting me.”
He jerked back his hands and retreated in disbelief, as if astonished at what he’d done.
“It’s okay,” I said, refusing to rub my throbbing arms. It would only make him feel worse. “It’s okay, Rocket. You didn’t mean to.”
A horrified expression flashed across his face as he disappeared. I heard three words as he left. “He won’t care.”
CHAPTER 8
Guys have feelings, too. But like … who cares?
The sun nested on Nine Mile Hill for several heartbeats before losing interest and slipping down the other side. I sat in Misery — the Jeep, not the emotion — and waited for the skyline to swallow it completely so I could get on with my breaking-and-entering gig. But the more I waited, the more I thought about Reyes. And the more I thought about Reyes, the more confused I became.
Rocket knew Reyes’s name, but did that necessarily mean he’d passed? Could it mean anything else? I’d never seen Rocket scared before, and that scared me. He seemed to be hiding something as well, but trying to differentiate between Rocket’s lucid and less-than-lucid moments was nearly impossible.
On the plus side, I did learn that Martians should never try to become human just to drink our water. Since
