RICK HAD STILL NOT SLEPT.
In the gold of the morning, Rick sat on the floor of Mom’s living room, still seeing those streaks of light in the corners of his eyes. He could make them out better now, see they had colors and shapes. A curl of black hair streaked left. A short, striped shirtsleeve, red and blue and ivory, streaked right. Then a streak of skin like Rick’s own. Like Anna’s. A streak of skin a few shades darker than dirt.
They were Dell Junior’s—that hair, that skin, that shirt he’d worn the morning he’d gone off and got killed. Which was weird. Rick had wondered last night if the streaks had always been there at the corners of his eyes, if he’d just never noticed them. But this should’ve been the sort of thing you’d notice and remember, Dell Junior streaking around after he got killed.
The only thing weirder than the streaks was Rick seeing himself on the floor in front of him. Rick felt himself in his grown body, the couch at his back, but there he was, lying right there on the living room carpet, near six years old.
It must’ve still been the morning Dell Junior died, then. That was about as weird as the streaks, but there it was. Eighteen years later, and it was still that morning.
Rick watched himself tinker with the toy train engine. He wondered whatever happened to that toy train engine made of cold, sharp metal. Or the chrome rocket. Or the spinning top. Or Dell Junior’s stockpile of baseball cards and comic books. The picnics, Paul always said. Mom wandered off with Dell Junior’s stuff when they had those picnics at the old, dilapidated house with the front porch roof coming loose.
Part of Paul was there in the living room, too, a streak of him kicking the bottom block in a stack he’d made, just to watch them fall. That was all there was of Paul. That foot kicking the block. Which was fine. Rick didn’t want to see the rest of Paul right now.
Streaks of Dell Junior glided, yelled something.
Mom shouted from the kitchen. A short honk. Not words but a honk. So she was here, too, just not all of her. Only a short honk from the kitchen, making a big deal out of something that wasn’t.
The streaks of shirt and skin and black curl crossed the floor and the door sprang open and shut. Dell Junior’s Schwinn didn’t scrape against the clapboard like it usually did. That was where he always leaned the Schwinn. He’d been told not to. That day, he’d left it there. Months after he was gone, Rick asked about getting a bike. Mom said to use his older brother’s. It was out in the shed. Paul wound up with it when he was big enough. Rick wouldn’t ride it. Didn’t feel right about it. But Paul didn’t mind. Paul didn’t even remember Dell Junior.
A bang at the door. Three bangs. Then the streaks were gone. The short honk was gone. Anna gave a quiet grunt behind him.
Rick’s head spun back to look at her. He was holding her ankle too tight. He loosened his grip. She rubbed her eyes with balled fists. Rick put a finger to his lips. A shadow darkened the drape by the door.
Three more bangs. Then the shadow shrank. It got smaller. Rick crawled to the window. He pinched and lifted a corner of the drape.
A cop. He was leaving. But he was a cop. He might be back. Cops did that.
Why were the cops looking for him? Rick needed to think. The pills? He didn’t need them anymore, and there were only six left. He could flush them. But he’d stolen the gas, too. And Paul’s pickup. Paul?
Rick could call the motel. Paul’s was the last voice he wanted to hear, but Rick could feel him out, see if he’d called the cops. Rick crept across the floor toward the phone and kept low so his shadow wouldn’t bleed through the drapes. In case the cop wasn’t really gone. In case he was on a stakeout.
Rick got the number from information and called the motel. He asked for Paul’s room.
The clerk asked if Rick meant the kid with the van. The skinny kid with the hair. That was him, Rick said. Gone, the clerk told him. Missed him. Turned the key in already and left.
Rick hung up. He’d thought Paul used all his money from the Wilton job to fill the pickup. That was right—they’d got paid on the Wilton job. Thirty bucks. Rick had forgotten the money in the envelope behind his wallet. He’d forgotten it before he dumped the flour container. Well, now he and Anna had a little bit more.
Maybe Paul went out to the job, to the dead cowboy trailer in Seneca. No, Paul was worthless. He wouldn’t do any work on his own. He’d be on his way back here. Not here, not Mom’s, because he’d been too worthless for that, too. If he’d looked after Mom like he was supposed to, if he’d done the one real job he had, Mom would still be here. Would Paul go to Dad’s? No, Dad would be pissed he wasn’t at the trailer in Seneca. Then again, Dad never got too pissed at Paul.
Pam. Paul would head right for Pam. Paul would head right for Pam and ride her like he rode that bike of Dell Junior’s.
Rick dialed his own number. Seven rings. Eight rings. Fine. He’d let it ring.
She answered. She sounded like the phone woke her.
His voice came out a wordless croak. He hadn’t used it above a whisper in what felt like days. It might’ve been days. How long had he been awake? Three, four days? Across the way, Anna stretched.
He cleared his throat. “What are you doing?” he asked her.
“I’m—” she said and stopped. “I was getting ready to clean the kitchen.”
Clean the kitchen. Her way of saying she knew he’d been there. That she knew he’d taken the money and Anna. That she knew that he knew every goddamn thing there was to know.
But she couldn’t know. Not for sure. She just thought she knew. For all she knew, somebody could’ve come in there and stole Anna and the money. That was why you couldn’t leave the door unlocked, Pam. That was why you couldn’t go off and screw Rick’s own brother in the middle of the night and leave your baby girl alone to wake from a nightmare about werewolves and crush her windpipe on the crib rail, Pam.
He kept his cool. “Where’s Anna?” he said.
She was quiet. That’s right. Where’s Anna, Pam? Thought you knew, didn’t you?
“She’s taking a nap. In her room.”
His eyes shot to Anna. No, she was still here, sitting up on the couch. That was Anna. Were parts of her back at the trailer, too? Was that how things worked and he just never knew it? Like the streaks? Anna had to be hungry by now. Rick would find her something to eat. There had to be a can of green beans or something in the cupboard. He put his finger to his lips again.
“How’s the work going?” Pam asked. “Be out there much longer?”
“Shit,” he said. “Operator just came on. We’re about to get cut off.”
“All right,” she said.
All right, she’d said. He hung up.
Rick needed to think. He needed to figure out why the cop was after him. The cop might come back. Rick needed to get him and Anna out of here before the cop came back. He wondered if the cops wanted him for the pills. He’d ditch the pills. But maybe it was the stolen gas. Or Paul’s truck.
Paul. He was on his way back. Paul was on his way to Pam. Well, that was fine. That was just fine. Rick would park on the embankment where he did last night. Wait to catch that backdoor son of a bitch on Rick’s own front porch.