“Nick?” Jack said uncertainly.
“I said go! Will, you see that he gets there. We'll talk later.” Nick turned away from them, his face fierce and intent, looking back down the street at the high school. Will grabbed Jack by the arm, literally dragging him home.
They broke into a run, side by side, feet thudding on the pavement. Jack remembered the message he'd left on the answering machine. Becka must have sent Nick out looking for him. She was angry he'd gone to soccer practice instead of coming right home. He was toast.
He began to wonder if he really should be running home to take his heart medication, but by then they were turning on to Jefferson Street.
The neighbors were out in force, despite the weather. Mercedes was in her front garden in a heavy cotton Japanese jacket. With her long, thin legs and pointed features, she looked like some exotic wading bird.
“Jackson!” she said, looking greatly relieved when she saw them. “You'd better get into the house. Your mother's looking for you.”
Iris Bolingame leaned over her front gate to tell him the same thing. She was a tall, imposing woman, who wore her long blond hair in a single fat braid decorated with glass trinkets, like some Norse goddess. Even Blaise Highbourne was walking up the street, swinging his leonine head from side to side, searching the cross streets. It was as if the entire street were ushering him home.
But then, that's the way it was in a small town. Everybody knew your business.
Sleet slanted across the street as he and Will parted on the sidewalk. Jack went in to take his medicine. Literally and figuratively.
His mother was seated at the kitchen table, her face blotchy from crying, surrounded by a garland of tissues, like offerings at a shrine.
“Jack!” she cried, leaping to her feet. “I didn't get home until an hour ago. When I got your message, I was so worried. And when you were late …” Her voice broke.
“I'm sorry, Mom. I wanted to come home and get my medicine, but Mr. Penworthy wouldn't let me. Well, he would have, but then I'd have had to serve a detention. And then I would have missed soccer tryouts.” He hesitated, realizing he was making matters worse. “Remember? I told you about tryouts this afternoon?”
“Soccer tryouts! You should have come right home! I've already called the school, the hospital, and the police station. The neighbors are out looking for you.” Now she was really pissed.
He nodded, his face hot with embarrassment. “I know. I ran into Nick.”
“Nick?” She blinked, distracted. “I didn't even talk to him.” Then she refocused. “How could you be so thoughtless? What if something happened to your heart?”
“Really, Mom, I feel great.” And it was true. Despite a three-hour workout, being thrown to the ground and covered with mud, he felt positively light on his feet. It was hard to explain. The world seemed unusually sharp, more in focus. There was a keen, primitive edge to everything. The wind shrieked, and he could hear the harsh splatter of ice on the roof. The old windows rattled in their wooden frames. He felt like going back out into the wind, shaking his fist and howling back.
“Well, you look awful! You have mud in your hair!” she said, pulling him in for a hug. She reached for the bottle on the table. “Here, you'd better take your medicine right away. Dr. Longbranch said if you ever forgot a dose, to take it as soon as you remember.”
She poured out a tablespoon of the nut-brown liquid and handed it to Jack. It carried the scent of damp basements and old paper, last fall's leaves stirred from the bottom of a pile. He swallowed it down.
“Now, you'd better get upstairs for a shower. And maybe lie down for a little while before supper. I have some work to do tonight. How's Thai food sound?”
“Sure. Great,” he said, the flavor of the medicine lingering on the back of his tongue. It tasted somehow of old sorrows, old regrets. He brushed his fingers across his eyes, feeling an uncanny sense of loss.
Becka was unloading her briefcase. “Your Aunt Linda is coming tomorrow.”
“She is?” Jack's head snapped up. It had been more than a year since his aunt had visited. What was even more surprising was that she'd called ahead to warn them. “What's up?”
“Don't know,” said Becka. “She says she's coming to see you.”
Ted Slansky was seated at the battered table in the equipment room, nursing a cherry soda and reviewing his notes from the afternoon's scrimmage. He rubbed his chin, informally matching players and positions, faintly conscious of the stench of old sweat and leather that permeated the place. The papers stirred with a sudden movement of air as the door opened.
He looked up, expecting to see one of the players, someone hoping for some early feedback. But two men stood in the doorway, long coats hanging loosely from their shoulders, open in front, as if they did not feel the cold. One was an older man, tall and slender, with a scholarly beard. The other was young and athletic looking, with a sharp jawline and straight dark hair. They glanced quickly about the room, and then back at Slansky.
“Was there a boy here?” the older one asked. It was an odd question, and spoken with a faint accent, as of someone born overseas.
Slansky might have laughed, but didn't. Somehow it didn't seem like a good idea. “There were about thirty boys here, as a matter of fact, but I think they're all gone now,” he replied. “Did you look out front? Some of them may still be waiting for rides.”
“There are no boys out front,” the older man said, as if it were Slansky's fault.
Slansky shrugged, feeling uneasy. There was something threatening about the two men. “Which one is your boy? I can tell you whether he was here or not.” He laid the sign-up sheet in front of him on the table.
“We don't know which one it is,” the younger man hissed. “That's why we are here.” At this, the older man lifted a hand to still the other. He picked up the sheet from the table, scanned it quickly, then folded it and put it in his pocket.
“Hey!” Slansky protested. “I need that.” He would have said more, but the bearded man put out a hand and rested it on his shoulder. Slansky was very conscious of the shape and weight of the man's hand, the heat of it burning through his sweatshirt. He fell silent, eyes wide, overtaken by an unreasoning fear.
The building shuddered under the assault of the wind. The younger man stood, head cocked as if listening. “This shouldn't be so difficult if the boy's untrained,” he growled. “There's some disruption about, someone interfering …” His voice trailed off.
“Why were thirty boys here?” the older man asked softly, speaking to Slansky. He tightened his grip, and Slansky felt his heart respond, as if the man could stop it with a touch. Sweat trickled down between his shoulder blades.
“Soccer tryouts,” he replied, swallowing hard.
“Soccer tryouts,” the man repeated, as if in disbelief. “There was a release of power here,” the man continued. “Was there, perhaps, a fight?”
Slansky shook his head. “It gets pretty competitive sometimes, but…” He shook his head again. “No fights.”
“Did you notice anything unusual? Did any of the players … stand out? Perhaps a new player who did something remarkable?”
Slansky desperately reviewed the afternoon's scrimmage. “There were some good plays, but… perhaps if you tell me what the … what you're looking for, I could help you.”
The bearded man made an impatient gesture. He pulled the list of players out of his pocket and thrust it at Slansky. “Circle your five best players,” he ordered. “We'll start there.”
When the coach had done that, the stranger slid the list back into his pocket. The younger man shifted from one foot to the other, as if impatient to be off. The questioner moved his hand from Slansky's shoulder to his head. His scalp prickled, as if all of his hairs were standing at attention. He quivered with dread.
“Ana memorare” the man whispered. That was what it sounded like, some kind of Latin phrase Slansky might have remembered from Catholic school.
Slansky awoke some time later and lifted his face from the table. He realized he must have been asleep for a while, because it was getting dark and the room was cold. Somehow, he'd knocked over his can of cherry pop. He wondered why the door was open and where the sign-up sheet had gotten to.
After supper, Jack slipped out the back door and crossed the gravel driveway to the garage, carrying his social studies book and notebook under his arm. He climbed the stairs to Nick's apartment, and was lifting his hand to knock, when he heard Nick's voice from within. “Come on in, Jack.”
As usual, the old caretaker's apartment was tidy, though several books lay open on his desk. Only three rooms, and the place was packed with stuff: books, model airplanes, a miniature steam engine that Nick and Jack had built the year before, jars of chemicals and plant extractions. Bunches of drying plants hung from the ceiling, like some exotic upside-down garden. There was a large wooden cabinet that had been a store display, with rows of tiny drawers full of antique hardware and scavenged items. One whole room was devoted to books, layered two deep on shelves from floor to ceiling on every wall. The apartment always smelled of paint and varnish and spices and dust: exotic, like one of the Indian markets down by the university. Nick at home somehow reminded Jack of an old bear denned up for the winter.
Nick Snowbeard looked up from his solitary dinner. “Sit down, Jack. You're just in time for dessert.” Warily, Jack dropped into the offered chair. Nick shuffled around the apartment, clad in his usual attire of flannel shirt and work pants.
Dessert was chocolate marshmallow ice cream. Jack got partway through his dish before Nick started in on him.
“So you forgot to take your medicine,” Nick said abruptly. “Your mother must have been beside herself.” He still seemed unusually hard-edged and intense.
“I guess.” Jack looked away from Nick, toward the window. A shallow tray was laid out on the table. It had been spread with different colors of sand, raked into an intricate design, littered with small metal objects.