Mr. X

—a Grand Superiority—They do not Suspect—And will Show One—whilst I conquer Time—

    In the midst of Rage—I Laugh—to regard such Play—

    I set down the Pen—& close the Book—theTriumph hastens— My Heartless Fathers—

 •116

 •A half second before we were to be delivered to Boulder, Colorado, I was united with my shadow again.

    As in childhood, I recoiled from trespass and invasion; this time, I felt Robert's revulsion as well as my own. We were thirty-five, not nine, and the shock was far greater. But I had become more like Robert than I knew: the powers I had discovered and those he had known all his life shared a common root. There came again a breathtaking expansion into unguessed-at wholeness and resolution that in no way erased our separate individuality. We knew what the other knew, felt what the other felt, but within this symbiosis remained a Robert and a Ned. Surprisingly to both, it seemed that Ned was in charge of the decisions.

    In the year 1967, we stood, adorned in a pink sports jacket flecked with golf bags and putting greens, on the Anscombes' front lawn. The moon hung like a monstrous button over a ridge of mountains, and the air smelled of fir trees. Blue fire shone from a window in a new addition at the far left of the house. The Mr. X of 1967 was prowling in search of his son. A shaft of blue light, sent as a flag of ironic welcome byour Mr. X, Cordwainer Hatch, flared through a crack in the living room curtains. On the steps to the attic, our nine- year-old selves were meeting for the first time. Neither we nor the demon in the living room were to be seen, because we had not been seenthen.

    A well-known pressure moved us through the front door. In a shapeless garment that fell to the tops of her feet,Goodnight Moon in one hand, her hair a matted tangle, Mrs. Anscombe stared down at her husband's corpse. Our Mr. X loomed behind her, displaying an enraged, grotesque smile beneath the brim of his hat. Mrs. Anscombe padded into her husband's blood. Frank Sinatra sang of the encounter on a lovely night between a force not to be resisted and an object not to be moved.

    Mrs. Anscombe said, 'Shit on a shingle.' She turned her face to us. 'Who the hell are you, Bob Hope?'

    Unable to see the thirty-five-year-old man who had materialized near the front door, nine-year-old Robert was watching her from the kitchen. As if following the direction of my thoughts, Mrs. Anscombe looked toward him and walked deeper into the red pool. A dim recognition moved across her face, and the book slapped into the blood. Her eyes swung back. 'Why are you doing this?' she shouted. 'Don't you understand I'm already in hell?'

    'Don't worry, Mrs. Anscombe,' said Cordwainer Hatch. 'You will be taken care of soon enough.'

    She took another dazed step toward the kitchen. 'Shit, I really am in hell,' she shouted, 'only the son of a bitch isn't RED, it's BLUE!'

    The Black Death of the Hatchtown lanes drifted toward us. A sickening wave of almost limitless rage poisoned by an insanity deeper than Alice Anscombe's streamed from him as his mind reached out to engulf mine and Robert's. For the first time, I knew I could resist his strength. Robert yelled, Dosomething! and I told him,Wait. Cordwainer's mind battered on mine like a wind flattening against an oaken door.

    That means nothing. Move!

    The air gathered into a solid substance, pushed us back through yielding walls, and deposited us in a small room stacked with cardboard boxes. Cordwainer was only inches away. He stank of river-bottom. Blue light filtered in from the living room, where the Mr. X of 1967 berated Mrs. Anscombe. Our Mr. X blasted a roar of outrage into our minds:You destructive, destructive, destructive little vandal! You monster! He drew a knife from his coat.

    A furious bellow and a series of muffled noises reported the demise of Mrs. Anscombe. Mr. X's younger self uttered a screech of frustration, thundered into the kitchen, and transported himself outside in pursuit of a small boy he knew had escaped him yet again.

    “I guess you're angry about the books,' I said.

    Cordwainer grabbed our shoulder, spun us around, and clamped us to his chest. He dug his knife into our neck.

    Is this what you had in mind?Robert asked me. Sorry,but I'm not hanging around to get killed. I told him to calm down.

    'You could say that, yes. I am angry about the books.' He nudged the blade another eighth of an inch into our neck. 'Satisfy my curiosity. Where did you learn the name Edward Rinehart? Was it your mother? That old fool Toby Kraft?'

    'Lots of people told me about Edward Rinehart,' I said. 'Where are we?'

    He sniggered. 'Don't you remember the Anscombes? Does Boulder, Colorado, ring a bell? We have journeyed back through time, the Substance Molten, a matter undoubtedly beyond your comprehension, that I might inquire how you managed to get away from methat time. Speak, please. I am deeply interested, I assure you.'

    Why aren't you DOING anything?Robert yelled.Are we just going to TALK to a guy who's sticking a knife in our neck?

    Shut up and let me handle this,I said to Robert.We have to talk to him.

    To Cordwainer, I said, “I can tell you who you really are. You'll find that tremendously interesting, I promise. It surprised me, too.'

    'Enough of this charade. Let's see if any other book burner wants to join the fun.'

    A great wind whipped into the room, flattening the pink jacket against our chest. Furniture slid across the living room floor. It sounded as though every dish and glass in the kitchen blew off the shelves and smashed against the walls. The window behind me exploded. I told Robert part of what I had in mind and heard him chuckle.

    Did you think you actually had me fooled?

    Everything in the house flew before the heightening wind. The living room window bulged and detonated. A kind of ecstasy flowed from Robert.

    'Are you looking for someone?' I asked.

    You destroyed my books! That is an OUTRAGE! Where is he?

    “I want to show you something, Mr. Sawyer,' I said. 'People are going to be able to see us. If you have any sense, you'll take the knife out of my neck.'

    His arm tightened over our chest. “I'll humor you,' he said. The knife came out of our neck and jabbed into our lower back.

    Robert asked,What the hell are you doing now? I told him to hope for the best, and all three of us dropped through the floor into suddenly malleable time.

 •117

 •I was aiming for something I wasn't sure I could find. Even if I could find it, I had no certainty of what we would see.

    The world ceased to swim. We were standing on a beaten footpath beside a two-lane macadam road. Horse-drawn wagons and old-fashioned automobiles rolled past in both directions. Robert was shouting that he did not understand what was happening, and Cordwainer was jabbing a knife into our back. Immediately, proof that we had arrived at the right place appeared before us.

    To our left, Howard Dunstan's mad, bearded face scowled through the windscreen of a high-topped car chugging toward us down Wagon Road. His wife languished beside him. As they pulled nearer, two pretty young women who must have been Queenie and Nettie became visible behind them. Just entering their teens, May and Joy peeped out from the rumble seat.

    This means nothing,Cordwainer said.Nothing. An illusion, a sideshow. Where is the other, you wicked boy?

    On the far side of Wagon Road and in the wake of a horse-drawn cart heaped with burlap sacks, a vehicle sleeker and more expensive than Howard Dunstan's floated into view. Carpenter Hatch, already frozen into eternally