“Thanks.”
“No problem. Nice talking to you-enjoy your walk.”
“Okay.”
“Take care. Oh-almost forgot-had a quick word with Bert today. He’s got some concerns about his daughter.”
“What concerns?”
“Not the kind I’d like to discuss on the phone.”
“But is she all right?”
Wyatt heard voices in the background. “Sorry, Wyatt. My time’s up.”
Click.
He called Greer, once more got sent straight to voice mail. “Greer? It’s me. Are you all right? Where are you? Call.”
Wyatt went back inside the house, his mind racing. He was halfway finished making his bed before he realized what he was doing. Making his bed? He straightened, gazing at nothing. He never made his bed. His eyes focused on his baseball trophies glowing dully on a shelf. Maybe because of a trick of the light, the trophies looked old, like antique trophies from some long-ago era of baseball.
Wyatt finished making his bed, closed the door to his room, and went into the kitchen. He found pen and paper and wrote a note.
Dear Mom,
It was great to see you. And Cammy. Don’t worry. There’s nothing to worry about. I want to come back here and live at home all the way through high school, but there’s one or two things to take care of. First I have to-
He paused, scratched that out.
I’ll be back soon. Want to go to the water park, Cammy? I’ll take you when I get home. Love, Wyatt
He left the house, making sure the door was locked behind him, got in the car, and drove down out of Lowertown. The gas gauge needle was quivering halfway between one quarter and empty. He checked his wallet- found he had $37 left-stopped where he always did for gas, Low Low Gas. It was boarded up. He hit the Exxon station two blocks down and filled up. Mr. Mannion drove by in his Caddy. He didn’t look Wyatt’s way, but in those few moments, Wyatt took his eye off the pump. By the time he checked, it read $41.10. He let go of the handle, too late.
Wyatt went inside to pay. A quick plan sketched itself in his mind, something unimaginative about returning later with the $4.10 but the attendant looked unfriendly, even a bit aggressive, possibly one of those old guys who hated kids. Opening his wallet, Wyatt saw Sonny’s $200 stuck in one of the slots for credit cards, still waiting to be returned. He took a twenty from that slot and added it to his own money. The attendant licked his fingertip before making change.
Wyatt drove to Silver City, losing the sunshine at about the halfway point, heading into rain not long after. By the time he got to Greer’s apartment building, the wipers could hardly keep up. Wyatt pulled his jacket up over his head and ran to the door.
He pressed the buzzer for her apartment, waited for a response, dry under the overhang. Water poured off the strange stone creature over the door, seemed to be coming from its open mouth. A taxi rolled up the street, stopped behind the Mustang.
A man with a suitcase and an overnight bag got out, fumbled with an umbrella, and came hurrying up the path to the door. Wyatt stepped aside. The man groped in his pocket, produced a set of keys, stuck one in the lock, and paused. He turned to Wyatt. “Help you with something?” he said.
A man of about Wyatt’s height, maybe ten or twelve years older-Wyatt had trouble guessing the ages of older people who weren’t yet old-wearing small oval eyeglasses with expensive-looking frames.
“No,” Wyatt said.
“Visiting one of the tenants?” the man said.
Wyatt shrugged. It was none of this guy’s business. The guy shifted the garment bag on his shoulder impatiently. A soft leather garment bag, also expensive-looking, and on the side a sticker:
CHECK ROOM, HOTEL DYNASTY, HONG KONG.
“The reason I ask,” the man said, “is that I happen to own this building and I’ve spent a lot of time and money making it safe for my tenants.”
“Your name’s Van?” Maybe not the smartest move-maybe no move at all would have been smarter-but the question just came out on its own.
The man put down his suitcase. “That’s what some people call me. Who are you?”
Wyatt felt his chin tilting up. “A friend of Greer Torrance’s,” he said.
Van’s face flushed slightly. “What kind of friend?”
“That’s for her to say.”
“Is it?” Van said. He looked down his nose at Wyatt and said, “Fine.” Then he ran his finger down the row of buzzers and jabbed it at Greer’s. No answer. Van turned to him. “Your friend Greer, whatever kind of friend she happens to be, doesn’t seem to be in at the moment, so I can’t see you’ve got any reason to be hanging around my door.” He turned the key and let himself in, shoving the suitcase along with his foot, then banging the door closed with his elbow. Wyatt jabbed his own finger at Greer’s buzzer and kept it there. He thought he heard it sounding up above.
Wyatt backed away from the door, right under the water pouring from the mouth of the stone creature, soaking his head. He ran to the Mustang, water dripping down the back of his neck, and jumped inside. Looking up, he saw Van watching him from Greer’s front window. He overcame any stupid impulses, like giving him the finger, but he didn’t drive off until Van backed away from the window. Owned the goddamn building: a few gaps in his understanding of Greer began filling themselves in.
Wyatt headed for the bowling alley. Any chance she’d be there? Probably not, but where else could he look? He was almost there when his phone rang.
UNKNOWN CALLER. Wyatt answered on the first ring.
“Wyatt? Sonny here. Hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“No.”
“Good,” Sonny said. “I’d hate to be intrusive. The thing is I’m available at visiting time today.” Wyatt was trying to think how to respond when Sonny continued, “And I understand you’re back in town.”
The back of Wyatt’s neck, already wet, now felt cold as well. “How do you know that?”
“I just do.”
“But I’m asking you how.” Was he being followed somehow? Wyatt looked around, saw normal-looking traffic moving in normal-looking ways.
“It’s nothing nefarious,” Sonny said. “Why don’t I explain in person?”
26
Wyatt walked through the metal detector. “Arms up for the corrections officer, please.” Wyatt raised his arms, got wanded. A CO led him down the corridor. The cement floor was still wet, or wet again. “Never gets old, for some reason,” the CO said, “plugging the toilets.” They stepped around the slowly spreading pools; the smell couldn’t be avoided.
The visiting room was empty. Wyatt took a plastic seat in the same row he’d occupied before. He read the visiting room notice about what not to wear and what not to do, and counted the video cameras-nine. He heard a clang, distant and muffled, and felt a faint vibration in the floor.
The inmate door opened and Sonny came through, followed by the big female CO with the dreadlocks. Sonny was dressed as before in spotless unwrinkled khakis. The CO glanced at Wyatt, then sat at the end of the row against the opposite wall, as far from them as she could be. Sonny smiled and sat next to Wyatt. He looked rested and relaxed, and somehow stronger than before; maybe the first time Wyatt hadn’t really noticed how Sonny’s muscles stretched his shirt. There wasn’t a hint of gray in his dark hair, and the few lines on his face were shallow and very fine, hardly visible at all.
