“You know what?” the wolf says. “I don’t believe that.”
Pete unscrews the cap on the can of lighter fluid and upends it over the notebooks, dousing the jackstraw heap of stories, poems, and angry, half-drunk rants that often end in mid-thought. Also the two novels that complete the story of a fucked-up American named Jimmy Gold, stumbling through the sixties and looking for some kind of redemption. Looking for—in his own words—some kind of shit that means shit. Pete fumbles for the lighter, and at first it slips through his fingers. God, he can see the man’s shadow up there now. Also the shadow of the gun.
Tina is saucer-eyed with terror, hogtied with her nose and lips slathered in blood. The bastard beat her, Pete thinks. Why did he do that? She’s only a little kid.
But he knows. The sister was a semi-acceptable substitute for the one Red Lips really wants to beat.
“You better believe it,” Pete says. “It’s a forty-five, lots bigger than yours. It was in my father’s desk. You better just go away. That would be the smart thing.”
Please, God, please.
But Pete’s voice wavers on the last words, rising to the uncertain treble of the thirteen-year-old boy who found these notebooks in the first place. Red Lips hears it, laughs, and starts down the stairs. Pete grabs the lighter again—tight, this time—and thumbs up the top as Red Lips comes fully into view. Pete flicks the spark wheel, realizing that he never checked to see if the lighter had fuel, an oversight that could end his life and that of his sister in the next ten seconds. But the spark produces a robust yellow flame.
Peter holds the lighter a foot above the pile of notebooks. “You’re right,” he says. “No gun. But I did find this in his desk.”
53
Hodges and Jerome run across the baseball field. Jerome is pulling ahead, but Hodges isn’t too far behind. Jerome stops at the edge of the sorry little basketball court and points to a green Subaru parked near the loading dock. Hodges reads the vanity license plate—BOOKS4U—and nods.
They have just started moving again when they hear a furious yell from inside: “Where are you, you fucking son of a whore?”
That’s got to be Bellamy. The fucking son of a whore is undoubtedly Peter Saubers. The boy let himself in with his father’s key, which means the front door is open. Hodges points to himself, then to the Rec. Jerome nods, but says in a low voice, “You have no gun.”
“True enough, but my thoughts are pure and my strength is that of ten.”
“Huh?”
“Stay here, Jerome. I mean it.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. You don’t happen to have a knife, do you? Even a pocketknife?”
“No. Sorry.”
“All right, then look around. Find a bottle. There must be some, kids probably come back here to drink beer after dark. Break it and then slash you some tires. If this goes sideways, he’s not using Halliday’s car to get away.”
Jerome’s face says he doesn’t much care for the possible implications of this order. He grips Hodges’s arm. “No kamikaze runs, Bill, you hear me? Because you have nothing to make up for.”
“I know.”
The truth is he knows nothing of the kind. Four years ago, a woman he loved died in an explosion that was meant for him. There’s not a day that goes by when he doesn’t think of Janey, not a night when he doesn’t lie in bed thinking, If only I had been a little quicker. A little smarter.
He hasn’t been quick enough or smart enough this time, either, and telling himself that the situation developed too quickly isn’t going to get those kids out of the potentially lethal jam they’re in. All he knows for sure is that neither Tina nor her brother can die on his watch today. He’ll do whatever he needs to in order to prevent that from happening.
He pats the side of Jerome’s face. “Trust me, kiddo. I’ll do my part. You just take care of those tires. You might yank some plug wires while you’re at it.”
Hodges starts away, looking back just once when he reaches the corner of the building. Jerome is watching him unhappily, but this time he’s staying put. Which is good. The only thing worse than Bellamy killing Peter and Tina would be if he killed Jerome.
He goes around the corner and runs to the front of the building.
This door, like the one at 23 Sycamore Street, is standing open.
54
Red Lips is staring at the heap of Moleskine notebooks as if hypnotized. At last he raises his eyes to Pete. He also raises the gun.
“Go ahead,” Pete says. “Do it and see what happens to the notebooks when I drop the lighter. I only got a chance to really douse the ones on top, but by now it’ll be trickling down. And they’re old. They’ll go up fast. Then maybe the rest of the shit down here.”
“So it’s a Mexican standoff,” Red Lips says. “The only problem with that, Peter—I’m speaking from your perspective now—is that my gun will last longer than your lighter. What are you going to do when it burns out?” He’s trying to sound calm and in charge, but his eyes keep ping-ponging between the Zippo and the notebooks. The covers of the ones on top gleam wetly, like sealskin.
“I’ll know when that’s going to happen,” Pete says. “The second the flame starts to go lower, and turns blue instead of yellow, I’ll drop it. Then, poof.”
“You won’t.” The wolf’s upper lip rises, exposing those yellow teeth. Those fangs.
“Why not? They’re just words. Compared to my sister, they don’t mean shit.”
“Really?” Red Lips turns the gun on Tina. “Then douse the lighter or I’ll kill her right in front of you.”
Painful hands squeeze Pete’s heart at the sight of the gun pointing at his sister’s midsection, but he doesn’t close the Zippo’s cap. He bends over, very slowly lowering it toward the pile of notebooks. “There are two more Jimmy Gold novels in here. Did you know that?”
“You’re lying.” Red Lips is still pointing the gun at Tina, but his eyes have been drawn—helplessly, it seems—back toward the Moleskines again. “There’s one. It’s about him going west.”
“Two,” Pete says again. “The Runner Goes West is good, but The Runner Raises the Flag is the best thing he ever wrote. It’s long, too. An epic. What a shame if you never get to read it.”
A flush is climbing up the man’s pale cheeks. “How dare you? How dare you bait me? I gave my life for those books! I killed for those books!”
“I know,” Pete says. “And since you’re such a fan, here’s a little treat for you. In the last book, Jimmy meets Andrea Stone again. How about that?”