door of the Mercedes, popped the trunk, dumped the woman inside, banged it shut. The keys to the golf cart were in the ignition. Gil drove it out of the garage, up the lawn to the front door. Boucicaut stepped out.
“Get her?” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Do what I said?”
Gil nodded.
Boucicaut handed him the backpack, about one-quarter full. “Emptied out that one drawer,” he said. “They valuable?”
“Should be.”
“Sure as fuck hope so,” Boucicaut said, and climbed onto the cart.
Gil drove across the lawn, onto the road, down the hill, past the other houses, past the golf course, stopped when he saw the blue light from the guardhouse.
“You up to walking?” he said.
“Why not?”
They walked, into the woods, beyond the guardhouse, back onto the road, all the way to the restaurant parking lot. Boucicaut had a little trouble climbing up to the passenger seat. Gil gave him a push, then took the wheel. “Got the keys?” he said.
“In my pocket.”
“Give them to me.”
Boucicaut tried, but for some reason couldn’t get his hand in his pocket. Gil reached in, couldn’t help feel the quivering in the huge thigh.
“Sure as fuck hope so,” Boucicaut said again.
They drove in silence, until Gil saw a blue road sign with a white H and flashed the directional signal. Boucicaut reached for the wheel, held it straight until they’d passed the turn. “For a successful guy, Gilly, you can be pretty dumb.”
Clouds had rolled in, hiding the stars. No traffic. Gil drove past the rest stop, over the bridge. They were silent again. Now and then, Gil glanced at Boucicaut. At first Boucicaut’s eyes were open. Then they were closed.
“You asleep?” Gil said.
“Nope.”
Then silence again, until Gil couldn’t stand it any longer, and spoke once more. “Remember that season?” he said.
“What season?”
“What season. When we won the state. The championship season.”
“So?”
“You ever think about it?”
“Think what?”
“I don’t know. That things could have been different.”
Gil waited for an answer. None came. He glanced over. Boucicaut’s eyes were closed again.
“You sleeping?”
No answer.
Gil pulled to the side of the road. Boucicaut fell against him. Gil twisted free, opened Boucicaut’s jacket, unbuttoned his shirt, examined the shoulder. Only a little blood, now sticky.
“No blood, Co,” he said. “You’re going to be all right.”
Boucicaut opened his eyes. “That’s good,” he said. Then came a gurgling sound, and blood, shiny green in the dashboard light, poured from his mouth.
“Oh, God,” Gil said, fighting to get free, fighting to get his hands on the wheel, to get to that hospital. But Boucicaut’s heavy arms were around him and he couldn’t move. He’d been in that embrace before, more than once but long ago, halfway between the plate and the mound, pitcher and catcher in victory. He put his arms around Boucicaut now, their masked heads touching, side by side.
“The catcher is the father,” Gil said aloud.
Boucicaut’s blood ran onto Gil’s jacket and down his back.
“Hang on, Co. I’ll get you there.”
But there was no answer, just the warm wet flow.
Gil began to cry. “Oh, Co, you were the greatest. You could have played in the bigs.”
Then Boucicaut spoke his last words. His voice was soft and thick, but right in Gil’s ear. “You’re an asshole, Gilly, you know that? It was Little League. We were twelve years old.”
18
Bobby Rayburn, sitting at the space console in Sean’s room, was still a prisoner of the Arcturian Web. He’d done everything: offered to trade the uranium planet Bluton for his freedom, revealed the secret hidden at the core of the Cloud Nebula in Orion, read the software manual from cover to cover. “When dealing with the Arcturian Web,” it said under Troubleshooting, “remember that the first error is never fatal. If caught, use creative thinking. (Press F4 for complete creative-thinking menu.)”
Bobby tapped at the keys. Outside it was morning; inside, with Sean’s heavy curtains drawn, dark as night. After ten or fifteen minutes of frustration, his hands grew still, his mind began to wander. The first error is never fatal. What was the first error? That was easy: losing his number. Wald’s fault. And the second error? He could identify it as well: the second error was getting mixed up with Chemo Sean. That was the community-relations guy’s fault. Fatal? Or correctable, through creative thinking? Bobby pressed F4 and scrolled through the headings of the creative-thinking menu: Analogies, Making Connections, Brainstorming Trees, Beginning at the End, Redefining the Problem. He clicked on Redefining the Problem, clicked again on the subcategory Naming and Renaming, read what came up on the screen. Then he closed the files, saved the game, and went down the hall to the entertainment center.
Sean, in pajamas, was watching cartoons on the big screen, an enormous teddy bear beside him. Bobby put it on the floor and sat down.
“Hi, Sean.”
“Hi.”
“How’s it goin’?”
“Good.”
“What’re you watching?”
“Bullwinkle.”
“I’ve been thinking about something.”
“He’s a moose.”
“What?”
“Bullwinkle. Rocky’s the squirrel.”
“Did you ever notice how many-”
“With the goggles. ’Cause he’s a flying squirrel.”
“Would you shut up for a minute?”
Sean turned to him for the first time; his lower lip quivered, but he stuck out his jaw at the same time.
“Sorry. I just meant pay attention. Okay?”
Sean nodded.
“I was wondering something, that’s all.”
Sean didn’t respond. He watched Bullwinkle step onto a diving board.
“Do you want to know what it is?”
“What?”
“I’ve been wondering if you ever noticed how many Seans there are.”
