They had to take a city bus and transfer twice. Scott pulled his scarf tighter and squinted at the expanse of empty grass. This was Avalon Park: four thousand acres of lawn and old-growth trees that the Goodborough town council had created when they were competing to host the World’s Fair of 1893. The town lost to Chicago, but it was still a nice park. Scott didn’t really understand what he and Mick were doing in it.
“If I was a rabbit-man and I had escaped from Goodco, I wouldn’t stay in Goodborough,” he told the elf. “I’d get out of town.”
“You an’ me both,” said Mick. “I usually head straight for Ireland. Had two good years in the north o’ Dublin before they caught me this last time. Shipped me back to the States in a pet carrier.”
“How’d you end up in the Port Authority?”
“’Twas the airline, bless ’em. They mixed me up wi’ a Pekingese, sent me to New York instead o’ Philadelphia. A lady came an’ picked up my carrier, certain I was her little Sweetums or whoever. Let me out to stretch my legs in the bus station, an’ you know the rest.”
“I guess.”
“But Harvey’s a bit of a coward, an’ he knows they’ll be watching the borders. All the borders,” Mick added with mysterious emphasis.
Scott stifled a yawn and thought, How about the border of Dullsville? Because we crossed that back by the Porta-Potties.
They had been walking for three hours, crisscrossing the park through its trails and abandoned pavilions. They’d passed the same statue of Zachariah T. Goode twice. It was the day before Thanksgiving, and everybody was probably warm at home with their families. Nobody came here when the weather got cold.
Actually, there were two people, far across the field by a ring of thick trees. They looked like men from where Scott stood, but it was impossible to tell much else.
“Harvey’s a weird name for him, isn’t it?”
“It’s not his True Name. Yeh think Mick is my True Name?”
On the bus ride over they’d talked about Goodco, and what the last hundred years of Mick’s life had been like. Which meant, of course, that to the few other passengers on the bus Scott had appeared to be whispering to his backpack, but he’d ridden enough public transportation to know that a person talking to a backpack wasn’t terribly out of the ordinary.
“My mom didn’t know anything about it,” Scott said now. “About you and your friend being held prisoner and … tested on or whatever. A lot of good people work at Goodco.” He realized he was sounding defensive. He’d felt defensive all morning, ever since Mick explained how he and Harvey had been treated.
“We weren’t bein’ tested on. I told yeh. They were stealing our magic. Bleedin’ us dry. That an’ using us as bait.”
“Bait?”
“Bait for other Fay, an’ for magical creatures. Glamour attracts glamour, like I said. They used us to pull others across the border.”
There was that word again. “What border?” asked Scott. “You mean like from Mexico?”
“The border ’tween your world and mine. A magical border.”
The last time Scott had heard the word magical this often he’d changed the channel to a better cartoon. But now he had to admit that even a lousy TV show was better than watching a tiny old man sniff toadstools.
“This isn’t what I thought we’d be doing today,” Scott said.
Mick eased backward onto the seat of his red track pants and once more pulled a little metal flask from the hip pocket. He unscrewed the cap, and the meadow filled with a thick, eye-watering smell of lilies. He took a pull.
“Helping the clurichaun’s no fun anymore, ’s that it?”
Technically, it never was fun, thought Scott. “I just don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing. Besides carrying the backpack.”
“Keepin’ your eyes peeled mostly.”
“For a rabbit-man.”
“For a pooka.”
“A … what?”
“Harvey is a pooka. Did I tell yeh that? He’s one o’ the old Irish Fay: a shapeshiftin’ fairy-man. He can turn into a rabbit. A full-on, normal-size rabbit. Other pooka can turn into goats or horses or dogs or things. Okay?”
“Okay.” Scott sort of resented Mick’s tone: lecturing him as if about the four food groups.
“Harvey may not be able to turn into a full-on coney right now. Might not have the magic left for it. But he’s still a rabbit-man, and his instinct is going to be to get underground, maybe wait out the winter. Now you an’ I both can see Harvey fine, but he’s tryin’ not to be seen right now, an’ with good reason, so I’m sniffin’ for some hint o’ his old glamour.”
Scott remembered that day by the drainpipe. “When he left me he changed things around him. Made them more … magical.”
“So yeh said. He was under stress, innit? Fifty years of Goodco’s sticky fingers have robbed him o’ his control. They had machines. Magical machines,” Mick said uncertainly, as though the phrase confused him. “They made the glamour flare up in us, an’ then they sucked it out. Don’t know wha’ they did with it. Put it in cereal boxes, I guess.”
“Why?”
The question got Mick peevish. “You tell me why. Eh? Why d’yeh got all them Goodco cereals in your cupboard back home?”
Scott shrugged. “My mom gets them free at work. I don’t eat them—they have a weird taste.”
“Oh,” said Mick. He scratched his neck. “Beg your pardon. Anyway, when yeh saw Harvey he was newly escaped from Goodco headquarters—the one on the island in Lake Meer. Those machines wore him out, made it hard to control his own glamour, an’ it was just pouring out of him. It’s probably trickling out now.”
A flash of something across the field caught Scott’s attention. The two men were still there. The slighter of the two was closer, in fact. He had his hands up by his head, and then there it was again: two sharp points of light as if the sun were glinting off a pair of huge, glassy eyes.
“I think someone over there has binoculars,” whispered Scott. “I think he’s looking at us.”
Mick tensed. He rose and walked slowly but deliberately behind Scott’s legs. “Probably can’t see me,” he said. “S’probably just noticing you.”
Scott wasn’t accustomed to being noticed. “Don’t you think you should…”
“Aye.”
Scott kneeled and let Mick into the backpack between the city map and the Tupperware of trail mix. The lean man was crossing the field.
Scott could think of nothing to do but watch him approach. How was he going to explain what he was doing here? He wasn’t, Scott decided with an inward nod. He was just a kid in a park. Kids go to parks.
The man had binoculars in one hand, a cigarette in the other. He was as lean and tan as a belt, in skinny jeans and one of those sorts of T-shirts that appear all old and faded but actually cost forty dollars. His hair was bleach-blond and looked like a cake decoration.
“Hey, you,” said the man when he was close enough to speak conversationally. “Where are your parents? Your mom here? You shouldn’t be wandering off by yourself.”
“I’m allowed,” Scott answered. He had, in fact, asked for permission to go to the park alone. Mom likely assumed he’d meant River Park, closer to home, but legal loopholes have always been the playgrounds of rich men and children. Besides, he wasn’t really alone, a fact that suddenly weighed on his shoulders a little more heavily than before.
“Whatcha doing out here, big guy?”
Scott shrugged. “School project. What … what are you doing here?”
From across the yellow field came the thin reed of the other man’s voice. “Haskoll! Get back here!”
The man called Haskoll gave Scott a prim smile, as though privately savoring whatever it was he was about to tell him. He let the silence tick for three seconds, four, before finally punctuating it with a wink.
“It’s wabbit season,” he said. “We’re hunting wabbits.”
Haskoll and Scott approached the other man, whom Scott had already been coached should be referred to as Papa. Scott didn’t care to meet Papa at all, but Haskoll had roped his arm around Scott’s shoulders, just over the backpack, and steered him across the meadow with a kind of grabby friendliness.
“Now be vewy, vewy quiet,” said Haskoll. “Elmer Fudd. Just kidding, though—Papa is a very important man. A great hunter. I think you’re really going to like him. Papa!”
The other man was older, square jawed and white haired, with a khaki vest and his pants tucked into boots and a long rifle in his faintly shaking hand.
“I’ve been calling you,” he told Haskoll. “I’ve found more fewmets. Who is this?”
“This is my new friend, Scotty. Why don’t you tell him a little about what we’re doing here?”
Papa frowned at Scott. “I don’t think that would be wise.”
Haskoll spoke to Scott directly. “Goodco has asked us to look for a rabbit they lost, Scotty. It’s sort of their … company mascot, you know? And Papa here is hot on its trail.”
“Hm. Yes. Well, I’ve found some of the creature’s … scat.” The old man must have recognized the blank look on Scott’s face, because he added, “Its … leavings, you know. I need you to check them, Haskoll. My back, and all that.”
“Ah … you know what?” said Haskoll. “I forgot the rock at home.”
Papa scowled. “Well, collect them for later then.”
Haskoll took a plastic bag and tweezers from one of Papa’s pockets and kneeled by the man’s foot, where there were three droppings the size of M&M’S. Once they were inside the bag he tucked it back in a vest pocket while Papa gazed with quiet dignity at the horizon.
“The spyglass, please.”
Haskoll produced a small retractable spyglass from another vest pocket and handed it to Papa. This spyglass had a pink lens.
“I see nothing. What do you see, Haskoll?”
Haskoll used his own binoculars. “Nada,” he said, and turned to Scott. “How about you, buddy?”
Scott didn’t see anything, either.
“You know what, Papa?” said Haskoll. “I wanna get that poop back to the Batcave, check it against the rock. I’ll take the van and be back in thirty minutes, tops.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. And what should I do without you here?”
“Hunt the beast. Track it. Footprints and, I don’t know, tree rubbings and whatever.”
“… Yes, but—”
“I don’t think the world’s greatest hunter needs my help, right, Scotty?”
This seemed to clinch it. Scott had never seen this kind of manipulation work on an adult before. He felt embarrassed for both of them, most of all Papa.
“Do you see that strip of turf?” Papa announced, pointing at the grass. “Shinier than the rest. Means the blades have been disturbed by some animal’s passing, you know.”
“There you go. C’mon, Scotty.”
Haskoll and Scott walked some distance off before Scott spoke. “Well, I should get going. My mom’s expecting me.”
Haskoll responded by clapping Scott on the back. Or rather clapping Scott on the backpack and in all likelihood striking Mick in the head. “Oh, don’t rush off now. I thought you might like to see our little hunting lodge.”
“Ah … no thanks.”
Just then Scott felt a kick from inside the backpack. He winced.
“Well, on second thought…,” he said. “Maybe.”
Mick kicked him again.
Had they thought of it ahead of time they might have worked out a “one kick means yes, two kicks mean no” sort of system, but they hadn’t; and now Scott had no idea what Mick was trying to tell him.
“You all right, big guy?”
Scott nodded. “Sure. Let’s … go to your hunting place. Thanks.”
And now the backpack was still.