3

She made a slew of excuses—a family obligation for Caroline, a need for some alone time and a promise of later for Horace—and rode her bike out on the back paths, away from school, home, Hamm proper, and through the woods that bordered town to the north. The trails became rocky and narrow, but she kept her bike steady.

Unlike that night, when you almost crashed a million times, she thought.

The autumn breeze whipped the hood off her head, like it was trying to push her away from the winery sign. She was on autopilot, navigating from memory. Nothing mattered but the neon-green snake from the album cover that seemed to coil and slither in her stomach, hissing the same terrifying message over and over like a scratched record:

He’s back.

The sparse trees gave way to the stretch of highway Fiona had dreamt about most of her life. She slowed to a halt, asphalt crunching under her wheels, and took it in. The grass along the roadside was overgrown, and the sign for the Hamm Winery looked more washed-out and decrepit than ever, its promise of a beautiful day in a beautiful place coming off like a mean-spirited joke. The winery itself was a carefully preserved fossil, bankrupted in the crash of ’08 and not yet spoiled by the town’s drunk teens, but the sign was disgusting— its orange had faded into a horrible pus color, and its face was splattered with what looked like dirt and the occasional neon blast from a paintball gun. An empty cardboard case of Miller Lite sat next to it, along with a grease-stained pizza box. Fiona thought of the sign as Dorian Gray’s painting in the attic—while Hamm had cleaned up and stayed respectable, the sign had taken on all its ugliness.

There, at its base, was a brown handprint.

His blood. His mark.

The night replayed in her head as clearly as if it had happened yesterday—the truck, her father, the kneeling boy with his scratchy voice and bloody hair.

Sometimes she told herself it had never happened, that it had just been a realistic nightmare. But she’d avoided coming this way for years, knowing that the sight of the winery sign would make it real again.

And here she was.

It all stemmed from this, she knew. It sickened her, it was so obvious. When she rolled her eyes at her hometown, when she refused to believe a promise made by her dad, she told herself she was rebelling against authority, the system, her simple upbringing…but it was because of that night. That night had made her realize that the small town of Hamm was just a lie that a bunch of adults told themselves to feel safe and secure. This morning, she’d seen her hometown as the place that created Horace, but underneath all that, she knew it was still the suburban fortress that had damned the other boy.

The Pit Viper, who’d saved Hamm from itself. Had it really been nine years?

…

Nine years, but it felt longer. What was it her cousin Jake had said that one time over spring break? “High school years are like dog years. You got so much doing to do in them, they take forever.”

It felt like forever. Before the Pit Viper, it had been a different place altogether, a town from an alternate dimension.

By the time she’d turned nine and had really begun to understand what was happening, the Goring Steel Mill hadn’t been just a place to party, it had been a nightlife destination. Every Saturday evening, after gymnastics—her burden until she was twelve, dear God—her mother would walk her down Main Street, tightly clutching her hand as the partiers swarmed around them, teenagers and twenty-somethings rocking silver jackets and skintight jeans and glow-in-the-dark beads in their dreadlocks. They had blasted tooth-shattering break beats out of their cars as they crowded every stoop and parking lot. Rude, loud, in everyone’s way, never from here, quick to laugh at the dumb small-town folks. And when the sun went down, they would flock to the ramshackle cathedral of the mill and rage until dawn.

Fiona had overheard complaints from her dad and other members of the Hamm town council: passed-out club rats huddled on every inch of the train station platform, puddles of vomit dotting Oak Avenue, not a single bottle of Benadryl or NoDoz for miles. Some of her father’s friends on the town council had thought of the partiers as “the bad element” and would cross their arms and grumble about these kids transforming their town into a drug-addled freak show. But a lot of locals hadn’t seen the problem, and her father, head of the council himself, had admitted that he wasn’t worried about it. Sure, these club kids were a little obnoxious and funny looking, but who wasn’t when they were young? Besides, they were bringing money to local businesses and publicity to their little burg. After the economy had died on its feet in 2008 and killed the winery, the town’s tourism trade had been officially nonexistent. They needed to bring in any funds they could, and the media coverage about the mill was helping. Did anyone see that Hamm got mentioned in a Vice article?

From the back of the council meetings in the church basement, Fiona had heard both sides of the argument, never fully understanding either one. At nine years old, she’d actually enjoyed seeing the town flooded with new faces once a week. Their clothes had been cool in a weird way, so different from everyone else’s. They were always smiling and saying hi to her. A girl with blue hair had once drawn a heart on her arm in highlighter. These were just people having fun.

Like a tidal wave, it had crashed down hard.

Two local kids, Geraldine Brookham and Jake Anderson— Fiona’s cousin—had overdosed on GHB one night at the mill. Geraldine had been found a mile away from the mill, huddled in a drainage pipe.

Jake had been found in the mill, not fifty feet from the dance floor. The coroner had estimated that his heart had stopped beating during the party. If anyone had noticed, no one had done anything about it.

Jake had fallen in with the club rats, much to the displeasure of Fiona’s Aunt Emily, but he’d always made curfew and had managed to stay sunny and sweet even when he’d obviously been wasted the night before. Fiona remembered him as a laid- back guy who would blast Hendrix and The String Cheese Incident out of his mom’s sedan, who’d worn embroidered jeans and been able to recite Poe’s “The Conqueror Worm” from memory. He would carry her on his shoulders during family get-togethers and let her braid his huge, frizzy head of hair. She’d considered him the coolest guy in the world.

The police report had said he’d choked on his own tongue.

…

Just like that, there’d been no more debate about the club rats. Everyone had agreed. Something had to be done.

But the cops had barely lifted a finger. Someone from the city, Fiona’s dad had surmised, had been greasing their palms. When her aunt and uncle had contacted the mill’s owner—some company that had relocated but still held on to the real estate, in the event an offer came along—they’d received death threats from several people, including one man who’d left a voice message describing Aunt Emily’s personal appearance, where she shopped, and how sad it would be if even further tragedy were to befall her family.

Fiona’s father had fought to help them but could do nothing. Robert Jones, head of the Hamm town council, had been at the end of his rope.

Then, one night, an impromptu meeting had been called. Her dad had been frantic. In the living room, unaware of his daughter lying on her belly at the top of the stairs, he’d whispered to Fiona’s mom that he’d found someone who could help. On the phone with the other council members, he’d been short, barking orders, insisting they tell no one.

He’d only said the name once: “They call him the Pit Viper.”

Fiona had had to know what this was all about.

But that night, after she’d helped her father set up the folding chairs and coffee in the church basement, she’d been, for the first time in her life, banished to the Children’s Room, a stuffy, foul-smelling closet space filled with building blocks and Golden Books. It had been a slap in the face—she’d always been allowed to sit in on meetings before, not banished to the nursery like some baby. The minute she’d overheard her father’s big-announcement voice, she’d snuck out of her dusty prison, crept down the hallway, and watched the meeting through the thin crack between the double doors.

At first, she hadn’t realized that the skinny boy with the patchwork coat and the bright eyes was supposed to be the savior she’d heard her father speaking about. She’d expected someone older, an outlaw, broad-chested and powerful, who cracked his knuckles as he talked. The teenager she’d seen looked more like one of the club rats they’d been trying to drive out of Hamm, all green army jacket, black hoodie, skinny jeans, huge high-top sneakers.

He’d been handsome, she gave him that; even at nine years old, she’d seen something alluring in his bright eyes and perpetual smirk. But the more she’d watched, the more she’d seen something special in him. The crowd had been rapt as he’d spoken. There’d been tension in the room, more powerful than the day Chad Wokley had brought a gun to a meeting. The teenage boy had gotten their attention just by being there.

“Here’s how it’s going to go down,” the Pit Viper had announced. “Next weekend, I’m going to DJ a rave at your mill.”

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Edgar Hokes had bellowed amid a rumble of confusion. “I thought you were here to fix our delinquency problem, not add to it—”

“You need to shut up and let me finish,” the DJ had replied. Fiona had been stunned—no one talked to Edgar Hokes that way, especially not a kid. “I am going to spin a party at your mill. I will make sure everyone’s there. Under no circumstance are any of your children or your friends’ children to attend. Chain them down if you have to, break their legs, I don’t give a shit. But they cannot be there. The next morning, your problem will be solved, and one week later, you will pay me one hundred thousand dollars.”

Another murmur of anger and confusion at the gall of this punk kid.

“What are you getting at?” Bart Sciezowski had asked in his fat, throaty voice.

The Pit Viper had waved a hand in their faces. “You don’t need to know, and you don’t want to know. Saturday night, you keep your kids at home, and Sunday morning, your ‘problem’ will be solved. Then, one week from Sunday, I come back and you give me one hundred large, cash. Got it?”

Fiona had tried to read the council’s faces through the crack in the door. Most of them had looked suspicious, but many of them had seemed resigned. Even she had been reassured by the tone of his voice. He’d obviously meant business.

“And what if it…what if whatever you’re planning doesn’t work?” Aunt Emily had said in a soft, shaking voice. “What if our town is stuck with these…people?”

The DJ had turned to her, paused, said, “You’re the dead boy’s mom, aren’t you?”

The council had cried out as one. Fiona herself had felt a sting of rage, knowing the dead boy was her cousin. “Hey,” her dad had said, taking a step forward.

The DJ had raised his palm to Robert Jones. Fiona had expected her dad to barrel through it, but he’d stopped, looking as confused by his compliance as Fiona had felt.

“I am terribly sorry for your loss,” the Pit Viper had said calmly. “That’s why I’m here, ma’am. I’m an exterminator. My methods are unorthodox, but I get results. And you can ask my previous clients in Bergen, Kansas, and Pompeii, North Dakota. They’ll tell you I scrubbed their towns clean.” His shoulders had lowered slightly; his voice had softened. “You stick with me and your son won’t have died in vain. But you’ll have to let me do my job.”

Tears had welled in Fiona’s eyes, both for Aunt Emily and for Jake, for his curly hair and big smile that had filled every photo they’d placed around the funeral home.

A pause, without murmur, without interruption. Then, Aunt Emily, her face lowered, had said, “Do whatever you have to do.”

“A hundred grand, one week from Sunday,” he’d said, striding down the aisle between the chairs. “Keep your kids locked up Saturday night. Don’t try to find me; I’ll find you.”

He’d moved toward her, and before Fiona had realized what was happening, he’d been at the door.

She’d pressed her back to the wall and hidden behind the door as it had opened, hoping he would walk down the hallway without looking back. But then it had swung closed and there he’d been, a stylish scarecrow with hard stones for eyes, staring down at her. Her breath had caught in her throat.

The Pit Viper had glanced between Fiona and the door. He’d knelt and peered into the crack she’d been using to watch the meeting. Then he’d stood up and given her a smile that had made Fiona realize why he was named after a snake.

“Nice work,” he’d said as he’d headed down the hall, his sneakers squeaking on the floor. “But you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

…

And just like that, they’d been gone.

No one knew where they’d gone, and no one had asked. The police had towed their Volvos and Jeeps with Burning Man bumper stickers and had left them to rot in the impound. The local businesses had found their Sunday morning devoid of hungover club rats, their sidewalks puke free. The streets had been safe again; the next Friday, Fiona and her parents had gone out to dinner and had seen a live classic-rock cover band made up of local oldsters (her dad had danced with her to “Jumpin’ Jack Flash”—it was the last time she’d danced with him). And though everyone enjoying downtown Hamm had worn the skittish, confused faces of people waiting for the other shoe to drop, there’d been an understanding that had filled the streets, an unspoken agreement that had been passed around like a note in class: the problem children were gone. Hamm belonged to its citizens once more.

She’d never heard her father speak of the money again; whether they’d even tried to gather it was a mystery. But she’d listened in on his phone conversation with Edgar Hokes on Sunday afternoon and had felt a sickening cold spread through her as her dad had told Hokes to bring rope or duct tape, and to be ready for a fight.

“He’ll be at the church at eight,” he’d said softly. “We’ll be waiting for him. I was thinking out by the winery sign… Yeah. Exactly.”

…

Fiona grimaced. Her breath was coming out in short, sharp bursts.

Over the years, her memory of that night had diminished in volume like an echo, but it had never gone away entirely. These days, it was a constant soft undercurrent in her mind, telling her that purity was a myth and it was best to rebel. Normally, she just chalked it up to being punk rock, but she knew it stemmed from that awful night.

And now, the record in Horace’s box. That green, glittering snake, ready to strike. It felt like it had been foretold by the bleeding DJ facedown in the dirt. What was the word— prophetic.

She hopped back on her bike and pedaled down the smooth pavement of the country road rather than taking another jostling ride over the back paths. She was too emotional for an uneven ride, too engulfed by sadness and nostalgia and dread.

She needed to check herself. She needed Betty.