was seeking his eyes in the mirror and Dyce looked at him and smiled broadly. He hoped the old man could tell how much he loved him, how much he wanted to please him. How very grateful he was for the love the old man showed to him. Dyce would do anything for his grandfather.
“I like to brush your hair, grandfather.”
“Do you, boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
Grandfather’s voice was oddly strained. “Why is that?”
Dyce lay his cheek against grandfather’s hair and closed his eyes. “I love you,” he whispered.
Grandfather didn’t answer and when Dyce looked in the mirror he saw the old man’s face twisted into the strangest mask. He looked as though he might cry. but there was something else there, something that Dyce had seen a few times before, but could not identify.
“We must prepare,” grandfather said again, in a voice that was cracked. He moved to the window and looked out. “The sun is down,” he said. “It’s time.”
When the candles were lighted and all was ready, grandfather fetched Dyce from the bedroom, leading him into the darkened parlor by the hand. The candles provided the only light in the room and shadows danced on the walls and ceiling and floor. His father lay in the coffin grandfather had made that day, his head resting on a pillow. A black tarpaulin covered the legs of the sawhorse on which the casket rested, making it appear to float in the air.
“We will watch him for three days,” grandfather said. “We will pray and ask the Lord to return him to us. If the Lord chooses not to do so, then we will bury him.”
His father’s features loomed in the semidarkness of the room, as sharp as if chiseled from New England rock.
“Come.” said grandfather, pulling at Dyce’s hand as he moved closer to the coffin. Dyce pulled back, drawing away.
“I don’t want to.”
“He cannot hurt you now.”
“I don’t want to.”
Grandfather stopped tugging at his hand. He walked to the casket alone and stood above the corpse, looking down.
“Lars Dysen, you took my only child, my beloved daughter, away from me and killed her with your abuse and neglect. You drank and whored and blasphemed and wasted the life the Lord gave you. You mistreated my beloved grandson and beat him and deprived him of the joy of his youth. You have been a canker in my life since the day I first saw you and I have hated you, and the Lord has turned His face from you and brought you to this end… I forgive you now for all you have done to me and mine and I pray that the Lord will forgive you also. I pray for your return to us, and if the Lord sees fit to take you unto himself, I pray for your redemption. “
Nate Cohen leaned into the coffin and kissed his son-in-law, then stood aside and regarded his grandson.
Dyce shook his head violently.
“You must,” said grandfather. His voice was calm and understanding.
In the flickering of candlelight, Dyce thought he saw his father move. He began to cry.
Grandfather was nodding his head slowly now. “You must,” he repeated. “The Lord wants you to.”
Dyce whimpered. Please don’t make me, he thought. Please, grandfather, I’ll do anything for you, but please not this, don’t make me do this.
Grandfather stood waiting. With his eyes on grandfather, not looking at his father, Dyce approached the coffin, little bursts of fear shaking his chest with sound.
Grandfather lifted the boy and held him over his father’s face. Dysen’s face moved, seemed to rise, to come forward toward Dyce’s face. The boy could see his eyes through the pale lids, the pupils wide with anger, red streaks shooting off’ into the whites like furious fire. Dyce squeezed his own eyes closed, but he could still see his father’s face, drunken, dangerous. Deadly. I do not want him back, Dyce thought. I want him dead, dead, dead.
“Kiss him,” said grandfather.
The old man’s hands trembled with the effort of holding the boy up. He put his knee against Dyce’s buttocks to help support him. Dyce felt the pressure in his bottom and groin.
He opened his eyes and Dysen was even closer, pale, so ghastly pale, but all the blemishes were gone. The broken blood vessels, the veins burst in the nose, the red flushes on the cheeks that seemed to burn when he drank-all had vanished into a smooth, snowy white.
“Kiss him, “grandfather said. “You must.” His knee pressed harder into Dyce’s bottom as he urged him forward a bit more so that the boy’s face was nearly touching his father’s.
Again the corpse seemed to move. Dyce squeezed his eyes closed and pursed his lips, then touched them to his father’s skin. It was so cold. Grandfather had shaven the corpse in the morning, but the beard had continued to grow and a slight stubble pricked against the boy’s lips.
Grandfather sat in his chair and Dyce stood beside him, holding the old man’s hand.
“Now we will watch,” said grandfather. “When I am gone, you must do this for me.”
Dyce stared dutifully at the corpse for a while, watching it seem to sway and lift in the candlelight, choking down his terror. After several minutes he became aware of grandfather’s hand clutching his own. The hand seemed so warm and the warmth just kept increasing. Dyce glanced at grandfather to see if he felt it, too. Grandfather did not return his look, but pulled slightly on Dyce’s hand, drawing him around to the front of the chair.
“See how peaceful he looks,” said grandfather. “How serene. Nothing troubles him now.”
Dyce climbed onto grandfather’s lap and lay his head back against the softness of the old man’s silver beard. Grandfather put one arm around the boy’s waist and with the other continued to hold his hand in his gentle fiery grip. When he spoke, his breath tickled Dyce’s ear, making it tingle.
The two of them continued to watch the corpse in silence. Dyce felt grandfather growing hard against his bottom. He shifted his weight and grandfather imperceptibly tightened his grip on Dyce’s waist, pulling him more firmly into his lap. Dyce loved the warmth of grandfather, the safety and comfort of him. He would do anything for him. After a time the feel of the firmness pressing against his bottom no longer confused him.
“How serene,” grandfather said. They watched until the candles guttered out and the room was in darkness.
“We’ve got Special Agent Hoban coming down from Boston; he’s actually the closest. He should be in Waverly already. We can fly in to an airstrip in Minnot and from there it’s a half-hour drive to Waverly. The plane’s ready for us now at McNeil airport. Allowing for traffic, we’ll be at the insurance agent’s office within an hour. It’s a Cessna eight seater, a little bumpy, but we can’t get a jet into the Minnot field. You can handle a little airsickness, can’t you, Becker?”
Becker studied the traffic in front of them as they raced toward the airport. The driver was good; he made high speed seem almost safe.
“I’m not going,” said Becker.
“What do you mean? We’ve got the guy.”
“So far you’ve got a computer terminal, but I’m not going with you anyway. I told you, I’m not going down any more holes for you. You go down this one.”
“Hole, what hole? He’s trapped in plain sight.”
“A lot of people are using the word trapped, but I haven’t seen anyone actually caught yet.”
“We know where he is, we know who he is, he doesn’t know we’re coming. What do you want? You expect him to come out with his hands up before we even get there? We even know his family.”
“When?”
“Records and Statistics came up with it last night.”
“Everybody’s taking his time about telling me things.”
“I am in charge, you know,” said Hatcher. “You want to know how we found the family?”
Becker shook his head. People asked the stupidest questions. The driver was passing on the inside lane, weaving like a fish through the rapids. He hated driving in cars with broken seat belts and the belts in the
