“Great. Either Linda, Marco, or FJ will drop off the schedule. We’ve all got two-hour shifts. It’s very important. You can’t shirk or who knows where that pervert’ll strike.”
Jane nodded.
“I’ve been very clear with the Pontis and it bears repeating. Violence is the last option. This watch is to keep that from happening,” Rhea said.
“Don’t you worry, sweetheart. Whatever happens, I’m on your side.”
Rhea smiled. “That means so much… But there are no sides. Arlo’s in pain, or he wouldn’t have done the things he’s done.”
Jane made this funny barking sound. A cry. Voice cracking, she said, “I don’t know how you can be so understanding.”
Dave came halfway down the stairs, alarmed by the sound of his mother’s pain.
“I hope you never have to understand,” Rhea answered. “Take care of your mother, Dave. Bye-bye, Tim,” she called, and then was gone.
Tim?
Stomach tight, Dave looked behind. There was his dad in a ratty bathrobe, unshaven. Bitumen still caked the creases of his eyes. Three days since he’d been part of that brick-throwing mob, and he still hadn’t washed it off.
His mom, down below, looked up. Direct eye contact. Not with Dave. She took a baby step over the Sharpie line. You never knew when this kind of thing would blow up. When they’d start yelling horrible things at each other. In his mind, Dave psychically blew her back into the safe zone. Then he blew her out of the house. Then he blew the whole house away and was free.
For a sick man, his dad took the stairs fast. They met like that, each facing the other. Standing close, his dad spoke directly to his mom for the first time in recent memory. “I’ll help with the neighborhood watch.”
Silence. Then, “Are you well enough?”
“Yeah. It doesn’t ache today. The little fibers. Thank you for asking.”
They started for the kitchen, shoulders so close they nearly touched, Sharpie line between them, like that coyote and sheep dog from those old cartoons, relaxing at the end of a long day.
* * *
Soon after, Dave broke the house arrest that the Maple Street parents had quietly agreed upon. Charlie Walsh opened on the first knock, like all he did was sit around, praying for visitors. He’d planned to suggest that they sneak out and drink the oilcan of Foster’s that he’d nabbed from his big brother. But the inside of Charlie’s house （pretty furniture, books organized by subject, happy family photos on the walls） looked so inviting. “You got any food?” he asked.
“I’m making a turkey sandwich. Want one?”
As they ate, Charlie said, “I’ve been talking to Julia. We’re gonna find Shelly.”
116 Maple Street
Thursday, July 29
At dinner that evening, the Wildes were interrupted by a bang on the door. It sounded like a rock. Arlo’s first instinct was to flip the table and use it like a shield.
Another rock: Bam!
“Hey! Hello?” a man’s deep voice called from outside. “It’s me! Peter Benchley!”
“Stay here,” Arlo called to the kids, gruff. Then he checked the window. There was Peter, right at the edge of the stoop. He’d been tossing pebbles because his chair couldn’t traverse the steps. “It’s okay. Everything’s okay. Just stay where you are,” Arlo told Julia and Larry, then went out, shut the door behind him, and met Peter at the landing.
The guy wore a plain white T-shirt and khakis pinned back. He was carrying a leather case on his lap. He’d shaved, but there was a pallor to his complexion. His eyes were pinpricks. More than a decade sober, Arlo still felt a twinge at the back of his neck. A pull and release pleasure-memory.
He crouched and extended his hand to Peter. “You vouched for me with the cops. I never thanked you. Thank you.”
Peter nodded.
“I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner. It meant something to me and Gert that you helped us and you stood up. Can I do anything for you?”
Peter let go. He had a loose grip and baby-soft skin, like maybe he only rolled that chair once a week. “I need to tell you something,” he said. His voice was distant, like he was only half living in this world. Arlo remembered that feeling with fondness and alarm. It’s different from drinking. It’s different from anything you can imagine.
“What?” Arlo asked. Though he didn’t want that hot shot of white gold, he could hear the pant of desire in his voice.
“They’re after you.”