NOS4A2 A Novel

The Pennsylvania Countryside


CHARLIE MANX ROLLED THE WRAITH TO THE SIDE OF THE ROAD and put it into park. Cracked, sandy, country road. Yellowing weeds growing right up to the side of the car. Insect hum. Glare of a low sun. It could not be much later than seven in the morning, but already Bing could feel the fierce heat of the day coming through the windshield.

“Wowser!” Bing said. “What happened?”

“The sun came up,” Manx said mildly.

“I’ve been asleep?” Bing asked.

“I think, really, Bing, you’ve been awake. Maybe for the first time in your life.”

Manx smiled, and Bing blushed and offered up an uncertain smile in return. He didn’t always understand Charles Manx, but that only made the man easier to adore, to worship.

Dragonflies floated in the high weeds. Bing didn’t recognize where they were. It wasn’t Sugarcreek. Some back lane somewhere. When he looked out his passenger window, in the hazy golden light, he saw a Colonial with black shutters on a hill. A girl in a crimson, shiftlike flower-print dress stood in the dirt driveway, under a locust tree, staring down at them. In one hand she held a jump rope, but she wasn’t leaping, wasn’t using it, was just studying them in a quizzical sort of way. Bing supposed she hadn’t ever seen a Rolls-Royce before.

He narrowed his eyes, staring back at her, lifting one hand in a little wave. She didn’t wave back, only tipped her head to the side, studying them. Her pigtails dropped toward her right shoulder, and that was when he recognized her. He jumped in surprise and banged a knee on the underside of the dash.

“Her!” he cried. “It’s her!”

“Who, Bing?” Charlie Manx asked, in a knowing sort of voice.

Bing stared at her, and she stared right back. He could not have been more shocked if he had seen the dead rise. In a way he had just seen the dead rise.

“Lily Carter,” Bing recited. Bing had always had a good mind for scraps of verse. “‘Turned to a life of sin by her mother, her childhood ended before it began. If only there had been another to take her off to . . .’” His voice trailed away as a screen door creaked open on the porch and a dainty, fine-boned woman in a flour-dashed apron stuck her head out.

“Lily!” cried the woman. “I said breakfast ten minutes ago. Get in here!”

Lily Carter did not reply but only began to back slowly up the driveway, her eyes large and fascinated. Not afraid. Just . . . interested.

“That would be Lily’s mother,” Manx said. “I have made a study of little Lily Carter and her mother. Her mother works nights tending bar in a roadhouse near here. You know about women who work in bars.”

“What about them?” Bing asked.

“Whores,” Manx said. “Almost all of them. At least until their looks go, and in the case of Lily Carter’s mother they’re going fast. Then, I’m afraid, she will quit being a whore and turn to being a pimp. Her daughter’s pimp. Someone has to earn the bacon, and Evangeline Carter doesn’t have a husband. Never married. Probably doesn’t even know who knocked her up. Oh, little Lily is only eight now, but girls . . . girls grow up so much faster than boys. Why, look at what a perfect little lady she is. I am sure her mother will be able to command a high price for her child’s innocence!”

“How do you know?” Bing whispered. “How do you know all that will really happen? Are you . . . are you sure?”

Charlie Manx raised an eyebrow. “There’s only one way to find out. To stand aside and leave Lily in the care of her mother. Perhaps we should check back on her in a few years, see how much her mother will charge us for a turn with her. Maybe she will offer us a two-for-one special!”

Lily had backed all the way to the porch.

From inside, her mother shouted again, her voice hoarse, angry. It sounded to Bing Partridge very like the voice of a drunk with a hangover. A grating, ignorant voice.

“Lily! Get in here right now or I’m givin’ your eggs to the damn dog!”

“Bitch,” Bing Partridge whispered.

“I am inclined to agree, Bing,” Manx said. “When the daughter comes with me to Christmasland, the mother will have to be dealt with as well. It would be better, really, if the mother and the daughter disappeared together. I’d rather not take Ms. Carter with me to Christmasland, but perhaps you could find some use for her. Although I can think of only one use to which she is really suited. In any event, it is no matter to me. Her mother simply cannot be seen again. And, when you consider what she will do to her daughter someday, if left to her own devices . . . well, I won’t shed any tears for her!”

Bing’s heart beat rapidly and lightly behind his breastbone. His mouth was dry. He fumbled for the latch.

Charlie Manx seized his arm, just as he had done when he was helping Bing across the ice in the Graveyard of What Might Be.

“Where are you going, Bing?” Charlie asked.

Bing turned a wild look upon the man beside him. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go in there. Let’s go in right now and save the girl!”

“No,” Charlie said. “Not now. There are preparations to make. Our moment will come, soon enough.”

Bing stared at Charlie Manx with wonder . . . and a certain degree of reverence.

“Oh,” Charlie Manx said. “And, Bing. Mothers can put up an awful racket when they think their daughters are being taken from them, even very wicked mothers like Ms. Carter.”

Bing nodded.

“Do you think you could get us some sevoflurane from your place of employment?” Manx said. “You might want to bring your gun and your gasmask, too. I am sure they will come in handy.”