They were in the habit of translating Wendy’s tips into pieces of the house they hoped to buy one day.
“That doesn’t suck for a Thursday lunch,” Cricket said.
“It sucketh not,” Wendy agreed.
“We don’t need a mansion like Mr. Toad has.” Although just in second grade, Cricket read at a fifth-grade level and was currently breezing through The Wind in the Willows at Bertha’s house and also in the evenings with her mother. “All we need is a nice little place with a big dog. We gotta name the dog something. Mr. Toad is called Toad ’cause that’s what he is, you know?”
“Makes sense. But Mr. Dog isn’t good enough for our dog.”
“Bertha says her mom named her Bertha ’cause it’s like this old German word that means someone who shines. She asked why my name is Cricket Moon Sharp, and I don’t know. So why is it my name?”
Wendy had expected this question for some time. “Sharp is my maiden name. Your father chose the others. He liked unusual names.”
“He was a really bad man, wasn’t he?”
“Very.”
“Like Dracula or something.”
“Better you don’t know his name. Trust me about that.”
“I trust you about everything. So do you like my names?”
“Do you?”
“I kind of do. Anyway, it’s who I’ve always been.”
“I like them, too,” Wendy said. “A cricket is sprightly and quick, and so are you. Crickets sing, and you’re always singing.”
“I sing better than crickets.”
“You do indeed.”
“Crickets know one song. I know like a hundred. Why Moon?”
“Why not? The moon is beautiful, and so are you.”
“So did you ever think about changing my names?”
“At first. And then I thought, just because someone names you doesn’t mean they own you. Nobody owns you, Cricket.”
The girl thought about that, nibbling her cookie, and then said, “We have to name our dog. So then won’t we own him?”
“No one owns a dog, sweetie. We adopt them. They’re family.”
“I think I’d like a sister. A dog sister, I mean.”
They had been sitting on the bench for fifteen minutes when Wendy noticed that the number of people in the park had declined dramatically. By the time she and Cricket finished their Cokes and cookies, and discussed possible dog names at length, the joggers and cyclists and skaters all but disappeared. Wendy became aware of men and women in dark suits and sunglasses, who were sitting on distant benches and loitering along the pathways, like morticians who had left their funeral homes in search of business prospects among the melanoma-courting sun worshippers and head-injury-prone skaters who refused to wear helmets.
She said, “I think they’ve closed the park.”
“Who did? They can’t close a park. There’s no doors on a park.”
Although Wendy didn’t believe the Snake would come looking for them after all this time, though operatives in black suits were not how those true believers in his cult chose to style themselves, she was nonetheless disconcerted. “We better go,” she said.
“But we just got here, Mom.”
As Wendy rose from the bench, a man behind her said, “We mean you no harm, Ms. Sharp.”
She pivoted, suppressing a small cry of alarm. She never let anyone know that anything frightened her. Bad people thrived on your fear, saw it as a weakness, and moved in fast on you.
The guy was tall and slim and handsome, dressed in white from head to foot, with a fresh red carnation pinned in the buttonhole of his suit coat. Nature had given him a kind face and a sweet smile—but it was wise to remember that oleander bushes produced beautiful flowers so poisonous they were as lethal as a bullet in the head.
“Who are you?”
“Ordinarily, I withhold that information. But in your case, considering what you’ve endured, I know you’ll need to be reassured that I’m trustworthy.” He produced a business card. “Google me. But use my phone, not yours. Your phone is most likely hacked. It won’t be good for either of us if your name is connected to mine.”
Wendy surveyed the park. Now she saw no one but men and women in black suits. They remained at a distance but watchful. The man in white gave her his iPhone and his password.
Having gotten off the bench, Cricket studied the stranger while Wendy googled him. “You look like you sell ice cream.”
“I guess I do,” he said.