As he paced up and down the edge of the stream, wind whistled in his ears, turned his face in different directions. Look here. No there. Try up here. Look there. Like a frightened bird, his head flicked left and right, scanning and assessing, trying to ride out the drums beating in his blood, as they hailed forthcoming understanding. Marching towards him. Marching towards him. It's coming. Then, at the very tip of the stream, where the river wound its way around a gentle turn, Melvin saw something. Drifting down the center, lazily, riding the tiny ripples, dipping beneath the black surface, rising up again. He crouched down, fingers in the mud to balance himself, and he was silent as his eyes grew the vision of an eagle. He focused in on the remains. Boom. A body, splayed like a newborn's, pale underside, arms and legs outstretched and bowed at the joints. He saw a white rounded jaw, belly spread out on either side. A drowned toad. A dead toad. Toad. Toad. Gliding closer to him like nothing at all. Boom, boom.
And it all made sense. Wooden puzzle pieces snapping together inside that open space. The sounds on the phone. The croaking. The trickling water. The letters in the trees. Kill. Kill. Kill. Boom. No time for questions, no time for weakness. Melvin understood what he had to do. This was his final warning. The time was now. He closed his eyes, saw the colored picture plastered on his eyelids. Of a man. A man who would die.
He turned on his heel, raced back towards home. Was unable to see that the item floating down the river was nothing more than a scrap of birch bark.
GARRETT CAME UPON the young boy while he was strolling on the beach. The child, maybe seven or eight, was seated on damp stones, chewing a hole through the cuff of his wool sweater. First glance in the dimming light, and Garrett thought he looked familiar. Something in the bulge of his cheeks, eyes too close together, smooshed nose. Maybe the old gray coat on his back, matted fur encircling the hood. Though he couldn't quite place him, parts of Garrett's body sensed he had known the child before.
Within a few feet of the boy, Garrett tripped slightly, palm coming down on a dead sea urchin, brittle spineless dome crushing under his weight. “Shit.”
Mouth open, damp sweater falling from his mouth, the boy stared, wide-eyed.
Even though it never hurt a bit, Garrett crouched, inspected his hand, flinched and shook it. He squeezed his thumb, licked, as though it were bleeding. “That sure do smart.” He directed his voice out over the sea, careful not to speak to the boy. It was best, Garrett had learned, to let them speak first.
Only a second or two, and the boy piped up. “Sure, I sliced my foot up on some rusty tin can when I was six. Doctor gave me a needle this big.”
Garrett glanced over casually, saw the boy's hands two feet apart. “That make you cry, kid?”
“Not one bit. I don't cry over nothing.”
Light laughter. “Well, now. I hates needles. I'd squeal like an animal if 'twas me.” Garrett leaned his head back, let out a high-pitched piggy yelp, ended with a few snuffles.
The boy giggled, and Garrett saw the rotted front teeth, adult teeth, and knew that the boy liked sugar. And when the smile lingered, Garrett could tell that the boy would also like a friend.
“You chewed a good hole through your sweater, there, guy.”
“Yeah.”
“When I was little, I did that too. When I was nervous. You nervous?”
“Nah. Just hungry,” he said, and laughed again. “My nan got dyed beets or something, and she don't eat no cookies or nothing. Won't have it in the house. And all she cooks is fish and brewis for supper. I told her I'd rather eat glue than that junk.”
“Whoa.”
“She said sometimes hot dogs rolls up on the beach. So, I'm waiting.”
Garrett nodded. Thoughtful voice, “You might be waiting a long old time.”
The boy sighed, and his mouth hung open just a crack, full bottom lip. Garrett cocked his head, couldn't resist staring at the boy, at his mouth. That familiar feeling washed through him again, and then he remembered. So many years ago. The boy in the fishing shack. That boy. Garrett had brought him scraps of food. Sometimes salvaged from the dog's dish. What was his name? Garrett had no idea. But he could blink, and see the photographs. The shape of the boy's calf. The flabby lobe of his perfect ear. The small of his back, right where his body split in two. Blood rushed through Garrett's veins, and the beach tilted slightly beneath his feet. Sweaty palms, and he licked his thumb again, tasted salt.
Garrett had this overwhelming desire to grab the boy, cup a hand firmly over his mouth, steal back to Eli's house. No one was home, and no one would catch him. But the boy might fight, might kick or bite. Garrett touched the fabric of his pocket, traced the outline of the carpet cutter. Somebody just might get hurt. Better to talk him there. Try that first.
“Do you know what a map is, kid?”
“Yeah, sure. Who don't?”
“You ever meet anyone who makes maps?”
He shook his head.
“I made one once. When I was younger. Had to hire someone about your age.”
“What?”
Garrett smiled. “That's right. The last feller I hired needed a few dollars. I reckons you could use that, too. Buy yourself some chips and gravy. Half dozen hot dogs.”
“Really?”
“Yes, sir. You're half growed, half a man, my son. You should be able to make some decisions on your own, right?”
Garrett was resolved, he would do whatever it took. He wanted to keep this one.
IN THE EVENING light, Toby stood in a pile of fine damp sawdust, one hand gripping the wet spruce, the other pushing the blade down through the wood. Almost through, and he cracked the junk away from the log, watched it fall into the small mound to the left of the wood horse. He wiped his running nose on his glove, took a clear deep breath. The sweet scent of wood and the newly arriving cold air, tinged with chimney smoke, filled his lungs, and for a moment made him happy.
Toby hauled the shortened log over the horse, began to saw again, when he noticed a shadow form cutting a straight line across the front grass. Without question, Toby could identify the shape of his brother's thin shoulders, oversized coat, legs like whittled sticks. He watched Melvin stomping over crushed stone, every muscle flexed. “Hey, Melvin!” Toby shouted, but Melvin did not turn or look, just leaned forward, propelled into the house, taking the stairs two at a time.
Waiting there in the yellowish light of the porch, Toby's blood began to move in the way it often did when something was about to happen. He let the saw hang by his side, and could feel the weight of it tugging at his wrist. Moments passed before his fingers opened, and the saw dropped. Teeth biting into the tender bark of a log. Toby walked slowly towards the back steps. Took them one at a time. The clanging sounds coming from inside the house stopped suddenly, and Toby paused. Breathed rapidly. Waited for a burst of nerve to arrive inside his stomach. Ah, there it was, and he jumped the last two steps, clamored into the house.
Inside the kitchen, cupboards and drawers hung open, rifled though. Knives and forks spilled onto the linoleum. Phone wires sticking out of the wall, three perfect circular holes, receiver still stuck in one. But no sign of Melvin. He was gone. The house was empty.
GARRETT HAULED AN old box out from underneath his bed, let the boy pick through it. Sepia-toned hockey cards, a bag of cat's eye marbles, a handful of dinkies with chipped paint.
“You can have something if you wants.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Gee, thanks.”
The boy scratched his chin, choosing carefully among six or more comic books.
“Do you want a bar?”
“Sure. I likes bars.”
Garrett reached up behind him, grabbed a Turkish Delight, handed it over. “You can trust me, you know.”
“Yeah?” he said, peeling the wrapper off, jamming two curves into his mouth. Mouth full, mumbling, “My nanny tole me neba trust no one who say dat. Means you canned. Daz why dey's sayin' it.”
Garrett laughed, ran his fingers through his piece of white shag.
“I think she was mad at my pop. Doing stuff that idn't no good.”
“Sometimes pops is like that. Doing no good.”
“Yeah.”
“I just want to be your chum is all.”
“Don't you got no chums your own age?”
“Well, it's hard.”
“Why?”
“Just is, is all. I don't know why.”
“'Cause you looks funny?”
Garrett laughed again, touched his hair, the tiny scar on his upper lip. He felt more charming than he had in ages. “Do I, now?”
The boy shifted, crossed his legs, and Garrett could see a hole in the bottom of the child's dirty sock. A flash of pink skin beneath.
“Hey, what's that?” the boy said, nodding towards the arm of a threadbare chair.
Garrett plucked it up. “A carpet knife. I got lots of them. I used to be a carpet man.”
“I thought you made maps.”
“One map.” Garrett coughed. “That stuff is hard work, you know. Can't be doing it all the time.”
“Oh.”
“Never mind. Want to see?”
“Yeah.”
Click, click, click, Garrett gripped the orange plastic, pushed his thumb up the side, blade extending. “Want to try?”
“Yeah.” The boy played with it for a moment, ribbon of metal clicking in and out. Turning it in the light so that it glistened.
Click, click.
“Careful. 'Tis like a razor. Could take part of you right off.”
Licking his lips.
The boy retracted the blade, lay it back on the armrest. “You got more bars, Mister? One don't never fill me up.”
“Yeah, I got lots more.”
“I wants one.”
Garrett crossed his legs, too, leaned his chin on his hand. “Well, chum, you got to take that shirt off.”
“My shirt?”
“Yeah.”
“Why for?”
“I needs to see your muscles. Make sure you're in good shape. Can't be stuffing your face with bars if you're already covered in fat, right?”
The boy jumped up, tossed aside his dirty coat, hauled his jersey top over his head. He punched his naked stomach lightly with one fist, then the other. “I got muscles,” he said, faux growl in his throat. “I got good muscles. Do you want me to lift you up? I can, you know. You don't think, but I can. Lift you right off the ground, Mister. Roaaarr.”
Garrett covered his mouth with his hand, shook his head. “No, no,” he breathed. “You'd hurt yourself.” Sweat trickled down between his shoulder blades, and he knew, beneath his overalls, his skin was flushed. He got up off the floor, went to his night table. The drawer scraped open, dry wood against dry wood, and that sound obscured a second noise on the floor below. A pair of rusty hinges, the back door grinding open.
GARRETT GLASS. Melvin knew the way to his house. He'd been there many times before. Not so long ago, he'd spent many mornings hanging from the tree out back, watching Garrett's sleaze of a sister flash her pasty skin.
Damp hand on a cold metal handle, Melvin opened the door slowly, and walked inside. He stuck his nose in the air and sniffed. Like a feral dog, he sought some thread on the air, and was not surprised when he found it. An odor, droning low. When he glanced about in the dim light, he saw the source, a pot on its side, blackened bottom. Another sniff, and other smells threaded their way through the dim light. His nose, useful once again, detected the stale fat from a deep fryer, a cluster of bananas turning black on the windowsill. This was the right place. Garrett Glass was the thief. Melvin had no doubts, now.
He slipped out of his shoes, and in his yellowish socks crept across the kitchen floor, into a hallway, up the narrow staircase. He kept low, back bent, hands touching each step, two up from his feet. His blood pooled in his chest, pulsing, pulsing, and Melvin knew that if he didn't listen, didn't act right now, nothing would ever be the same again. In some world, some other space, his feet had made this walk a million times, and they knew where to tread. Not a single creak from the wide floorboards. In his hand he gripped the wooden handle of a serving fork. Two sharp shiny prongs. When Melvin had pulled open the drawers in his own kitchen, this was the only utensil that glinted.
In the upstairs hallway, Melvin found the room. An amber glow eked out from the cracks where door met frame, the inch of space that had been shaved from the bottom. Melvin stood there, holding the fork behind his back, staring at the rectangle of blackness, the circumference of light. No place to think. No choice to make. He was the only one. To open the door and bring out the brightness. Kill that man, hiding in the closet. That man, hiding under the bed. A thief. A threat.
Behind him, the phone screamed. Once, twice. And Melvin turned to stare at the black contraption, receiver jumping off the hook. Three rings. The shrillness moved through Melvin's body, and he knew who was calling. To check. To see. Go on. Hurry. Yes, he would. He paused for only a moment, wiped his stomach with his left hand. He knew there was a glass tunnel of churning water living in there. Filled with tadpoles and debris, a bunch of loose snapshots no eye should ever see. It often made him feel like vomiting. But if he finished his task, did what was required of him, the water, his insides, would be clean, pure. Not so much as a ripple moving through.
Someone held Melvin. He felt parts moving over parts, cradling his arms, taking his hands, so gently, a puppet on a taut string. This is the right thing. The only thing. He nodded, was thankful for the guidance, did not resist. Watched his hand open the door, and on a tongue of wind he was carried inside. Face to face with Garrett Glass. The devil in navy overalls.
Garrett sprung up from the ground, hovered, his bare feet just inches above a flat white cloud. He opened his mouth, and Melvin could hear a sudden stutter, Garrett spitting foreign words. “What the hell? You better get yourself gone, 'fore I gets the shotgun!” Melvin sniffed the air, could smell the lie of sugar, and the truth of grown-up sweat. He brought the fork around, and Garrett's skinny white wings fluttered up, palms outwards, “Hey, hey, hey, now, now, now. Just wait. I got money. Whatever you wants, b'y. Just wait. You can have my carpet. Just wait, now. Now, now, now, now.” One wing, dipping down, and Melvin saw the man clutch something, heard a click, click, click.