Not that he supported vandalism. But still… toothbrushes? For trick or treat?
He’d gone upstairs to use the bathroom, had a bowl of spaghetti his mother had foisted on him, and then retreated to the basement again. Now he sat staring at the shoddy Frankenstein mask his mom had brought home and tried to decide what to do. He loved her so much and he knew that she loved him and just wanted what was best for him, but the truth was that she didn’t always know what was best—and neither did Rory. They were both learning, and that always made the decisions and the conversations difficult.
Trick or treat meant chocolate, yes. But what he loved about it most was the anonymity. He could go from house to house and mostly manage to avoid being recognized. The social encounters of the evening were so deeply ritualized that nobody expected any further interaction beyond the ringing of the doorbell, the chorusing of “trick or treat,” and the grateful acceptance of proffered candy. Rory understood this exchange. It didn’t require him to parse words, to search for hidden meanings, to gauge someone’s tone of voice—all strategies his therapist had taught him that took enormous effort and focus.
Halloween meant he could be anything or anyone, that people would see only the mask. As much as he struggled with the word normal, and knew that being on the spectrum was not at all unusual, every year he went out trick-or-treating and felt like he’d been suffocating all year and he’d finally learned how to breathe properly.
And yet… Halloween also made him sad. That was the awful part, the double-edged sword of it all. While he was out collecting candy, out among the people who had no diversity in their neuro and didn’t embrace it in others, he felt good. Happy. But at some point, either when he’d arrive back home or shortly before, he would begin to think about the mask and be forced to acknowledge that people were treating him normally because they didn’t know it was Rory McKenna behind that mask. They hadn’t had a conversation with him, only engaged in the ritual. The mask made them more comfortable than Rory himself would have, because they didn’t have to make an effort with the mask.
He pondered all of this as he picked up the Frankenstein’s monster mask and poked his finger through the eyeholes. At the same time, he wondered how many people would be giving away Hershey chocolate. Hershey chocolate and Reese’s Cups were his favorites. He liked the neighbors who allowed him to choose from their candy bowl instead of choosing for him. Usually he came home with about forty percent candy he would eat, and his mother would complain for a week about her lack of self-control as she ate the other sixty percent.
The thought made him smile. Mom liked Baby Ruths the best, which was funny, because from his observations in overhearing the conversations of his classmates and other kids in the neighborhood, nobody liked Baby Ruths the best aside from Emily McKenna.
Amid these thoughts, Rory paused, a frown creasing his forehead. He turned to glance at the small box window, high up on the basement wall. A scratching at the window made him cock his head. He heard a snuffling noise, like a big dog might be right outside, sniffing and scraping at the ground. He remembered the pit bull from earlier and wondered if it might be the same dog.
The sound moved off and after a few seconds, he couldn’t hear it anymore.
Rory turned his attention back to the Frankenstein mask. Unimpressed, he tossed it onto the table. After all, it wasn’t the only mask he’d gotten that day.
Emily stood at the sink with the water running. The bowl from Rory’s pasta was in her hand, but her mind had wandered a moment, as it often did. He seemed happy tonight—the prospect of chocolate usually accomplished that—but she always felt nervous about him trick-or-treating without her. Emily knew there were kids at school and in the neighborhood who were less than kind to Rory. There had been instances of outright bullying. He tried to put on a brave face, or hide the hurt from her, but even with the difficulty that sometimes came with deciphering his feelings, a mother knew. But Rory had a lot of heart and no one could deny he was brilliant—he would have to make his way in the world without his mother around. He had to learn to negotiate the social landscape in a way he could manage for himself, for a lifetime.
She sighed and rinsed the red sauce out of his bowl.
A creak on the floor behind her nearly made her drop the bowl, and she swung round. Had she heard the back door click shut? Placing the clean bowl in the drainer by the sink, she grabbed a dish towel and started for the kitchen door, wondering if Rory had gone outside.
The doorbell rang. She frowned—it must be that time already, but it felt to her as if the kids showed up earlier and earlier every year. She tossed the dishtowel onto the counter. She grabbed the bowl of candy as she made her way through the foyer to open the front door.
The men on her front steps weren’t there for candy.
In the center, there stood a handsome guy in a dark suit. He flashed a brilliant smile at the same time as he brandished an ID badge. Armed men flanked him on both sides and Emily wondered how many more there might be, out there in the dark on a street where hundreds of kids were about to go door-to-door.
“Mrs. McKenna?” the suit said. “Can we have a word?”
She squinted at his badge. Last name TRAEGER.
“Let me guess,” she sighed. “He’s done something crazy.”
That smile again. “Why would you say that?”
Emily silently cursed her husband—ex-husband—whatever he was to her now. “Because the look on your face says he’s not dead, and yet here you fucking are.”
Agent Traeger’s gaze shifted past her. Emily glanced over her shoulder and saw that he was eyeing Quinn’s gun case.
“Those are his,” she explained. “He’s a hunter.”
Traeger nodded sagely. “Shot a buck when I was six.”
Good for you, Emily wanted to say. Get off my stoop.
Instead, she mirrored his sage nod. “Our son never took to it. He’s more a ‘rescue bugs’ guy. He actually burns ants he thinks might hurt other ants. And sports… forget it.” She frowned as a memory touched her. “His dad did teach him to slide, though.”
“Slide?”
“Baseball,” Emily explained. “Didn’t go well.”
“Your son. Where is he?” Traeger asked.
“Around here somewhere.” She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”
“Mind if we speak with him?”
Emily shifted her body slightly, almost unconsciously. Smiling secret agent man and a bunch of black-clad fuckers with guns wanted to talk to her boy? Instinct kicked in, and she couldn’t help the way every muscle twitched, wanting to put herself between these guns and her son.
“Why the hell would you want to do that?”
Traeger arched a questioning eyebrow. “Just being thorough, ma’am.”
Emily inhaled slowly, running scenarios through her head. These guys weren’t here because Quinn McKenna had won a medal. They were here because he’d done something he shouldn’t have done, and it wasn’t the first time. What worried her was the biggest question of all—if they were here looking for him, that meant the army didn’t know the whereabouts of one of its Rangers, so where the hell had Quinn gone? In some ways, that question worried her more than what he might have done.
“Fine,” she said, then pointed at the armed men behind Traeger. “But they stay out here.”
“Agreed,” Traeger said, stepping over her threshold.