moment after that he was in midair, flung from the car.
Wyatt landed hard on the pavement, rolled over, started to get up. Doc came forward, big fist poised for a roundhouse punch, H-A-T-E on the knuckles.
“Doc!” Charlene said. “Not here.”
“Fuck that,” Doc said, the muscle twitching in his face. Doc swung that big fist at Wyatt, landing a heavy blow on the shoulder that knocked him flat. Doc kept coming. He wore heavy work boots with thick lug soles. Wyatt rolled away from those boots. A thought came to him, kind of strange and maybe beside the point: he didn’t want his nose broken again. Something about that thought ignited a jet of anger in him, an anger that at least for the moment overwhelmed his fear. He sprang to his feet-not at his fastest, but not in slow motion, either-and got his hands up.
“Boy’s lookin’ to get his head beat in,” Doc said.
Maybe a boy, but the boys from East Canton knew something about fighting. Doc was big and strong, no doubt about that; it didn’t mean he was fast. Wyatt watched that big right hand. The twitchy muscle was on the right side, too.
Charlene called out, “Doc! Not here!”
“Shut your fuckin’ mouth,” Doc said, and he threw that right hand. Not with a whole lot of speed; Wyatt ducked under it with ease and threw a left of his own, not at Doc’s head-he had no illusions about the damage one of his punches would do to a big thick-boned head like Doc’s-but at his throat. And yes: square on the voice box; it felt like punching a steak. Doc made a retching, gasping sound and sank to his knees, one hand clutching his throat.
Charlene’s mouth opened wide. Wyatt jumped in the Mustang. He sped off and didn’t look back.
24
Wyatt drove out of Millerville, soon came to a junction. A right turn led back to Silver City, a slight left to East Canton. He slowed down, and as he did, his phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Wyatt? It’s me, Lou Rentner. Can you stop by?”
“I’m sort of on my way back,” Wyatt said. Had Doc, in a fury, gone barging into the Beacon office? Or had Greer shown up? Wyatt steered onto the shoulder and stopped the car. “What’s it about?”
“Have you ever seen a picture of Sonny Racine?” Mr. Rentner said.
Wyatt sensed what was coming. “No.”
“I’m talking about the young Sonny Racine, around the time of the trial. This may sound strange, but there’s an eerie similarity. Has anyone ever mentioned it?”
“No.”
There was a long pause at the other end. Then Mr. Rentner said, “I’m wondering why you didn’t ask what was similar to what.”
Wyatt gazed at the road sign. SILVER CITY -412 MILES; EAST CANTON -207 MILES.
“Is there something you’re not telling me, Wyatt?”
Wyatt didn’t answer.
“Maybe I can help.” Another long pause. “Fact is, I checked with Foothills Community College. They report no one registered under the name Wyatt Lathem. I’m concerned you’re getting into something a little over your-”
Wyatt clicked off. He headed for home.
It was almost fully dark by the time Wyatt drove up through the familiar streets of Lowertown and parked in front of the house he’d lived in all his life. Linda’s car was in the driveway, lights glowed in the kitchen window, a bulb was out on one of the two porch lanterns. In short, everything looked the same, except that Wyatt got this strange feeling that the whole house had no secure hold on the ground, just sat there unfastened, and could blow away if the wind rose high enough. He went to the door, took out his keys, and then paused, wondering whether entering in the normal way, just letting himself in, might frighten them. A crazy thought. He let himself in.
Wyatt heard Cammy’s voice. “Mom? I think I hear the door.”
Linda came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She looked down the hall, saw Wyatt, and smiled. “And just when I was losing hope,” she said.
“Sorry, Mom.”
“Wyatt?” Cammy called from her bedroom.
Linda came down the hall, threw her arms around Wyatt. “I’m so glad to see you,” she said, her voice suddenly thick with emotion.
Cammy came running, crayons in both hands. She dropped them, clutched Wyatt by the leg. “Me, too,” she said. “I’m glad, too. How come you’ve been gone so long?”
Wyatt patted Cammy’s head. Her hair felt like some strange luxury from a faraway place.
Linda had been making tuna casserole. Wyatt didn’t like tuna casserole, but tonight it tasted delicious. He found he was very hungry, had seconds and then thirds.
“Are you going to have fourths?” Cammy said.
Wyatt laughed, at the same time realizing he hadn’t laughed much recently. Cammy climbed up on his lap and showed him some drawings.
“That’s a dog I want, here’s another dog, and another one, and another one.”
“Don’t you draw anything besides dogs?”
“Here’s a puppy.”
Cammy wanted him to put her to bed.
“First a story,” she said.
He lay down beside her. “What story do you want?”
“Go, Dog, Go.”
“Isn’t that a bit young for you now?”
“So what?”
He read Go, Dog, Go three times.
“Let’s do fourths,” Cammy said.
“Cammy?” Linda called. “That’s it. Night night.”
“Give me a kiss, Wyatt.”
He gave her a kiss. She gave him one back.
“Walk me to the bus tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
“Night.”
“Night.”
“Tell me sweet dreams.”
“Sweet dreams,” Wyatt said.
“Leave the door open a crack.”
He left the door open a crack.
“Two cracks.”
He opened it a little more.
“Night, Wyatt.”
“Night.”
Wyatt went into the kitchen. “Tea?” his mom said. “Soda?”
“I’m good.”
Linda poured herself a cup of tea. They sat at the table, now cleared, the dishes all done. He saw how tired his mom looked, her face kind of sagging, dark patches under her eyes.
