Dodge leaned over, reached into the unzipped duffel, and rummaged inside. Objects clanked.
‘We need to take pictures,’ William explained. ‘At various stages. So we can show them to the next guy, see, who thinks he can get one over on Boss Man.’
When Dodge’s gloved hand emerged from the duffel, it was gripping a ball-peen hammer.
Ted moaned softly.
William said, ‘I need you to sit over here. So we have room. The angle, you see. No, here. There you go. Thank you.’ Stunned, Ted complied. William stepped back, admired his positioning. ‘Dodge here, he gets impatient. So we’re gonna get going. Dodge, where you want to start?’
Dodge hefted the ball peen, let it slap the leather of his palm.
‘Joints,’ he said.
The white van rattled up the dirt road, veering side to side on wide, trash-littered switchbacks. The ground finally leveled off, the headlights sweeping past an endless chain-link guarding a disused auto-wrecking yard. Vehicles smashed into neat rectangular bales were stacked treetop high, the unlit aisles running as long and true as cornrows. Caught wrappers and plastic bags wagged in the barbed wire. Rust ground into the hilltop dirt had turned the soil an Indian red.
Past the wrecking yard, beyond a massive setback of dead weeds, rose a two-story clapboard house. It had settled westward, resigning itself to the wind. A blue oak twisted up out of the brown earth like something from a painting.
The van halted in front of the house, dust clouding around the tires. The breeze picked up to a faint moan. Dodge climbed out, slammed his door, stretched his spine. It was early-morning dark, the hilltop as desolate as an abandoned mine.
A light clicked on upstairs in the house.
William was a bit slower getting out. Wincing, he fumbled a pill from his pocket and downed it dry, then rubbed at the backs of his legs. He palmed a handful of sunflower seeds into his mouth, his jaw shifting with machine precision, then spit a few hulls in the dirt. He’d started at eleven years old with tobacco dip, but a few years ago someone had shown him a video of people with holes in their lips and cheeks, and so sunflower seeds it was. He had enough problems already without a sieve for a jaw.
He walked around the van, running a hand along the chipped white paint, and opened the back door. Ted lunged out, bellowing, his voice strained through the pillowcase tied over his head. William sidestepped, his wilted leg nearly buckling, and Ted tumbled off the rear bumper into the dirt. He screamed, arms flopping boneless at his sides, shattered at the shoulders and elbows.
He used his chin to shove himself up, shuffling and grunting like a blind bear, then bolted. The pillowcase was spotted red around the mouth where William had punched a knife through to give him some air; it was hard to be precise when they struggled.
About twenty yards away, Ted tripped and fell. Found his feet. Kept on.
William’s brother, Hanley, emerged from the front door and paused on the rickety porch, staring out across the Sacramento Valley. Morning edged over the horizon, a thin plane of gold. Hanley gave a half nod to the new day, stepped down, and peered into the back of the van. A body neatly wrapped in plastic drop cloth, one leather couch cushion seared from a bullet, rags soaked with bleach strong enough to make the eyes sting. When Hanley nudged the couch cushion to explore the bullet hole, the microcassette beside it clicked to life, a few baby squalls escaping until he stopped the recording again.
The footing of the sprawling front yard was uneven, ground squirrels doing their work beneath cover of the weeds. Ted ran, tripped, knee-crawled, ran. He blazed a frantic, meandering path, making poor progress. The three men paid him no mind.
Hanley drew a hand across his mouth, his stubble giving off a rasp. The family resemblance was apparent, though Hanley was clearly a healthier version of his older brother. Well-defined muscles, smooth pale skin, no kink in the posture or tweak in the limbs. ‘Nice work, brother,’ he said. ‘Dodge do his thing?’ Eagerness showed in his voice. This was new for him, and more than a little exciting.
‘He did indeed,’ William said.
Dodge was rooting in the duffel bag. He’d donned a rubber butcher’s apron and slaughterhouse goggles. The apron, pulled tight across his massive chest, held the marks of jobs past. He paused from cataloging his implements and drew himself upright, towering a full head above the van’s roof. That mannequin face, blank as a turned-off TV.
Behind them Ted collided with the trunk of the oak and went down hard with a grunt, vanishing into the waving foxtails. He struggled back up and stumbled onward at a new trajectory.
William nodded, bunched his lips. ‘We’ll prep the cellar,’ he said.
The brothers started toward the house, Hanley helping William up the stairs.
Somehow Ted had navigated his way across the giant stretch of yard. His ragged breaths carried back on the wind. He was sobbing something unintelligible, trying to form words.
Dodge shouldered the duffel and started calmly after him.
Leaning heavily on his brother, William dragged his lame leg up, one step at a time. They reached the porch, and he glanced down at a plastic-wrapped edition of the Sacramento Bee. He jerked to a halt.
Hanley said, ‘What, brother? You all right?’
William’s cheek twitched to one side, a dagger of teeth showing in the wire of his beard. He pointed down at the newspaper’s front-page photograph. ‘The face,’ he said.
Hanley looked down. Dumbstruck. ‘It’s not possible. It can’t be.’
William’s eyes hardened. He spit seeds across the black-and-white print. ‘Sure as hell looks like it. We’ll find out. We’ll make sure.’
‘And then?’
Down below they heard Dodge catch up to Ted. A crunch of bone and tendon, followed by a thin, wavering scream. A grunt as Ted was hoisted onto a shoulder and then the scrabble of arms flailing weakly against Dodge’s back.
‘Coming,’ Dodge said.
THEN
Chapter 6
‘What’s your name? Can he hear? Is he listening? Hello? Hey there. Your name?’
‘Michael.’
‘Okay, great, kid. Last name? Can you tell me your last name?’
‘He’s in shock, Detective.’
‘You don’t know your last name? How about your dad’s name? Do you know your dad’s name?’
‘John.’
‘Good, that’s good. And your mom? You remember your mom’s name? Hello? What’s your mom’s name?’
‘Momma.’
‘Okay. Okay. That’s fine. John and Momma. It’s a start, right?’
‘I don’t see how sarcasm’s going to help either of you, Detective. Michael, honey, how old are you?’
‘Four. And a quarter.’
‘Good, kid, that’s good. We need to figure out how to get you home. Do you understand?’
‘I think we should give him some more time, Detective.’
‘Time is of the essence, ma’am. Son, do you live nearby? Do you know – Hey, kiddo, over here. Look at me.’
‘I really think I should complete my assessment before-’
‘What town are you from? Michael? Michael? Do you know the name of the town you live in?’
‘The United States of America.’
‘Jesus.’
Chapter 7
The first year passes in bits and pieces, fragments with sharp edges. It is defined by voices. Conversations. Like this one:
‘How about a street? C’mon, help us out here. You must remember a street sign, something.’
And him pointing to the letter X on an alphabet puzzle. ‘Like that.’
‘Hey, Joe, you know any street names start with the letter X?’
‘How ’bout Fuckin’ Xanadu?’
‘I think that starts with a F.’
And this one:
‘My dad’s coming back.’
‘Sure, shithead. My momz, too. All our parents is coming back. We gonna have a big fat Thanksgiving turkey dinner and fall asleep ’round the fireplace.’