The Guardians

Randy turns up the volume. A moment of microphoned vacancy washes out from the speakers.

'Something farts down there and we'l hear it,' he says.

'With this thing? Probably smel it too.'

For the first time, I notice it's dark in the room. The only ilumination coming from the monitor's screen and what orange street light finds its way through the window.

But as I reach to switch on Ben's Ken Dryden lamp, Randy grabs my wrist.

'We're not here. Remember?' he says.

'So we're just going to sit in the dark?'

'I'l hold your hand if you want.'

'You are holding my hand.' 'Oh.'

I slide down to the floor and crawl over to the beanbag chair in the corner. From here, I can see the Thurman house's chimney, but little else. The fog has thinned somewhat over the last hour, and has turned to an indecisive drizzle, its droplets swaying and looping in their descent and, at times, even returning skyward.

'I saw Todd Flanagan today,' Randy says.

'Yeah?'

'At the Wal-Mart.'

'And you pushing a shopping cart with a baby monitor in it?'

'As a matter of fact, yes.'

'How was he?'

'Not good. He was two minutes into our conversation in the vacuum cleaner aisle before he figured out who the hel I was.'

'Poor bastard.'

'He asked after you.'

'What'd he say?'

'Can't remember exactly.'

'Bulshit.'

'Okay. He said it was realy sad to see you al shaky and Parkinson's and whatnot, especialy when you could have been the best winger the Guardians ever had.'

'It's not half as sad as what he's going through.'

Does fog make a sound? If it does, it whispers against Ben's window.

'Randy?'

'Yo.'

'You think she could stil be alive?'

'I dunno, boss.'

'But what do you think?'

'Wel, let me ask you this: Do the missing ever come back?'

'Sometimes. If they just ran away. Or if they wanted to be lost.'

'Then those ones weren't realy missing to begin with.'

Over the next couple of hours the night grows stil, both outside the McAuliffe house and within it. Betty must be asleep, as we haven't heard any creaks from the floorboards below since shortly after I came up. She has the right idea. It is only sporadic conversation between Randy and me—as wel as changing shifts watching the monitor screen—that keeps the two of us awake.

'Coffee?' Randy asks at one point.

'Is that what you carried up here an hour ago?'

'I got a Thermos at Wal-Mart today too. State of the art.'

'Am I going splits on that with you too?'

'If you wouldn't mind.'

Randy pours us each coffee in the little plastic camping cups that came with the Thermos. The steam rising and reshaping itself like a phantom against his face.

'I have this theory,' he says, sipping his coffee and grimacing at his instantly burnt tongue. 'I may have told you about it already. I cal it the Asshole Quotient.

Remember?'

'Vaguely,' I lie.

'It's kind of a natural law of human behaviour. A way of explaining why people just do shit things to other people for no reason. Unpredictable things.'