“She said, ‘ That’s a you problem. ’ I’m not telling these people no…”
“If The Corporation didn’t take the others, then who did?”
“You think I’m fucking stupid? You promised me no more fiddling with underage girls. I worked hard to get rid of the problem last time. To get you this job around kids, for Christ’s sake.”
“I didn’t—”
“Shut the fuck up. They’re coming for the girl, Jenna, tomorrow. You pack her stuff after they get here and keep the other kids in line. And keep your hands off the girls or I swear…”
The door opens, the voices trail away. And Nico knows they have no choice now.
A bird squawks, bringing Nico’s thoughts back to the tree fort. This mess he’s in. He looks down at the planks, which are green from moss. The duffel bag—the evidence—is still here lodged in the corner. He’s safe. No one knows. He sits, legs dangling over the edge, catching his breath from the climb. Looking through a break in branches and leaves below, he pictures shirtless Donnie’s skinny pale torso, Ben giving him a boost to climb the tree.
Nico will wait here until dark, then climb down （somehow）， and get rid of the bag.
As the sun lowers, he sits thinking about the surreal last two days: getting trapped in the mine, the rescue team showing up looking like spacemen in their oxygen masks, ruthless O’Leary flying a kite with the wonderment of a young child, Natalie telling him she never wants to see him again. And now, chased through the sprawl of Chestertown by someone—who, the FBI?—and sitting in a lopsided tree fort he helped build a quarter century ago.
Something catches his eye. A shiny object against the wall of the fort. He slides over on his rear,
picks it up with his index finger and thumb, and examines it. And his heart drops. This isn’t some trinket from back in the day. Isn’t something Nico dropped on his last visit to the fort. It’s a gold cuff link.
But it’s not the cuff link that causes Nico’s stomach to roil, his heart to hammer. It’s the initials engraved on the gold face: R.B.W.
Robert Benjamin Wood.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
DONNIE
Donnie and Reeves sit at a bar eating Reuben sandwiches and drinking cold beer on Bleak Street in Chestertown. Bleak is right.
Reeves has only taken a couple bites and seems lost in thought. Maybe he’s outlining the book.
Taking all the material Donnie has given him so far and organizing it into some semblance of a story.
Or maybe he’s still processing the conditions Donnie grew up in. The bartender asks if they want another round and Reeves and Donnie respond simultaneously: Reeves shaking his head, Donnie nodding. Donnie laughs and says, “Okay, I’ll take his drink too, darlin’。”
The bartender—she looks like a weather-beaten New Englander—cackles.
Reeves says, “Anything reminding you of what Boo Radley means? Or what Ben was trying to tell you?”
“Nada.”
Reeves seems to be caught up in the mystery.
Donnie says, “I’m sure Benny read that mockingbird book, but I don’t remember him mentioning it. He read a lot of books. He’d get a pile from the library or Goodwill. I’d sometimes pinch him a new one from the drugstore.”
Reeves gives a nod like he’s someone who understands the love of reading. “Did he have a favorite book? I sometimes think that says a lot about a person.”
Donnie thinks on this. “He liked Hemingway.”
This elicits a crooked grin from Reeves, perhaps tired of the nickname.
“Benny read a book about Hemingway, and told me that the guy had said some racist and fucked-up shit, but Benny still loved his books.” Donnie thinks more. “He also loved lawbooks. In Philly, we used to sneak into the law library at Temple and he’d ask the law students what they were reading and track down copies on the shelves. When Ruth arrested us for stealing food, she asked us a bunch of questions. Benny gave her a hard time about not reading him the Miranda warning, and how we could tell her that we murdered someone and they’d have to throw the whole case out. He said the ‘fruit of the poisonous tree, shall set us free.’ He loved to rhyme. It made him sound like a famous lawyer he worshiped.”
“Ruth was the cop who ended up adopting him?”
Donnie nods. “She passed a few years ago.”
“How about you, Donnie?”
“How about me what?”
“You have a favorite book?”
“Damn, Hemingway, you’re still trying to get inside this head? Let me spare you the trouble, boss. I ain’t that deep.”
Reeves offers a reproachful smile.
“I went to Chestertown High, and didn’t finish ninth grade,” Donnie adds. “The last math class I had was called ‘consumer math,’ where they teach you how to add up groceries and things like that. I failed Algebra One three damn times.”
“But I’ve read the lyrics to your songs, Donnie. Some of them”—Reeves smiles—“and I mean some of them, are like poetry.”
“Why, thank you,” Donnie says, with a hint of sarcasm combined with genuine appreciation at the remark.
“I’m being serious.”
“Okay, you wanna know my favorite book? I’ll tell you the only books I ever read for fun—and I’m gonna regret telling you because if you put this in the book I’m gonna look like an idiot.”
Reeves raises his eyebrows and waits for him to continue.
“Benny used to get me these books that were collections of Calvin and Hobbes.”
“The comic strip?”
“Yeah, the one with the kid whose best friend was a tiger, but everybody else sees Hobbes as a stuffed animal. I loved those.”
“I get it.”
“How’s that?” Donnie asks, thinking Reeves may be patronizing him.
“There’s something about seeing the absurdity of the world through the eyes of a mischievous six-year-old that’s appealing.”
Donnie is impressed that Reeves didn’t turn up his nose.
Reeves continues, “I read a piece once about how Calvin and Hobbes is great literature. The comics parodied the artistic world, pondered the meaning of life, the existence of God, and the perils of mankind’s self-destructive ways.”
Donnie chuckles. “I don’t know about all that. But Calvin had this tree fort that gave me the idea for ours.” He raises a hand preemptively. “I’m not taking you there, because those woods are even scarier than the streets after dark.”
Reeves doesn’t debate him on that.
Donnie looks out the window of the bar into the gloom. “Actually, the last thing Benny ever gave me was about Calvin and Hobbes.”
Reeves looks at him, interest piqued.
“On my last visit to Philly, he gave me a magazine to read on the plane home. One of those ones fancy people read. Hell, I bet your bathroom at home is full of ’em. The New Yorker or one of those.
They ran a short story some fella wrote, fan fiction I think they call it, about Calvin on his deathbed.
In the story, Calvin’s an old man and he’s dying and his wife, the girl he always battled with in the comics, brings him his stuffed tiger to the hospital to say goodbye. It’s been years since Calvin has seen the real tiger anytime he looks at the stuffed animal. But in his final moments, his best friend