“Floyd? Are you okay?” The last time I’d seen him, he’d been passed out in his bed. And before that—the last time I’d seen him awake—he’d been inconsolable.
“Yeah, I’m fine. And listen, about before, about that… I’m sorry.” He gave Charlie a cautious look, like he might not want to talk in front of the seventeen-year-old, but he went on, anyway. “I was being stupid, but I’m better now. I’m under control.” He held out his hand, palm down, and tried to hold it steady in midair, to demonstrate just how cool he was. When it started to shake slightly, he clenched his fist and took another drag on his joint.
I felt uncomfortable lying on the futon with both Charlie and Floyd towering over me, so I pulled back my covers and sat up in the middle of my bedding. I was still wearing my jeans and sweatshirt. I couldn’t remember when I’d last taken them off.
Floyd saw the screen of Charlie’s notebook and quickly knelt down at his side, grabbing the computer and lifting it up into his lap. He handed me his joint, freeing up his hands. “Is this Devon?” he asked urgently, mousing back and forth on the image, panning it from side to side. “Do you know where he is?”
“Maybe,” Charlie said. “Yes.” He turned his pleading glance back my way. “I was just telling Dean about how we need to go there. My parents… I think Devon knows something about my parents.”
“That’s good enough for me,” Floyd said with a nod. “That fucker’s got some shit to answer for.” He looked at me and tapped at his temple, his eyes going wide. “Binocular shit. Tunnel shit!”
After a moment, I nodded reluctantly. I didn’t feel too confident about this, following Charlie’s mysterious email, looking for Devon. It felt like we were being led by the nose here, and I didn’t trust that sensation; there was too much potential for traps, for disaster. But I could see that it was going to happen whether I liked it or not. With or without me.
Charlie and Floyd had already made that decision.
Floyd’s joint was sitting idle between my fingertips. I took a deep drag before I handed it back.
Taylor answered her door on the second knock. She looked tired, as if she hadn’t slept at all that night.
“Yeah, Dean, I’ll come,” she said coldly, when I told her what we were planning to do. “I’ll help Charlie any way I can.”
I stared at her for a while, taking in her pinched lips and wrinkled forehead, the clenched and jutting muscles of her jaw. Who is this person? I wondered. At times like this, I couldn’t figure her out. She was wearing a mask—a cold facade that she hid behind whenever she came under assault—and I had absolutely no idea how to peel it back.
“What’s wrong, Taylor?” I finally pleaded. “What did you find in that drawer back at the Homestead? What can I do to help?”
For a moment, her expression relaxed and her jaw unclenched. Then she closed her eyes and shook her head, raising a hand to cover her dark and weary eyelids.
“There’s nothing for you to do, Dean,” she said, speaking from behind the sanctuary of her fingers. “But don’t worry about it. It’s not you; it’s not your fault. I just need time, okay? I need time to figure things out. Priorities, you know?”
After she finished speaking, she lowered her hand. Her eyes were red—bloodshot—but there were no tears. She tried to force a smile, but it came across as a horrible grimace, a mélange of fake, stillborn emotion.
“But you can count on me,” she said. “I’ll do everything I can… for you, for Charlie, for my friends.” After the word friends, her voice trailed off, and I barely caught her final sentence: “I’d never let you down.”
Next I went to check on Sabine. She was smiling when she opened her bedroom door, practically beaming. Her forehead was dotted with beads of sweat and smeared with graphite. I looked over her shoulder and saw large sheets of drawing paper scattered across the floor. They were dark with pencil and charcoal.
“What are you doing?” I asked, surprised at her attitude and her energy. She’d been hiding from everyone for the last couple of days; ever since she’d met with the Poet, she’d been locked away in what I had assumed was a depressive funk.
“It’s a surprise,” she said, flashing me a sly smile. “It’s a project I’m working on. And it’s absolutely brilliant. Just brilliant!”
She saw me staring over her shoulder and reached up to block my view with her palms. “No, no! It’s a secret,” she said. “It’s not done yet, and I can’t sacrifice the impact of that first viewing. It’s got to hit! It’s got to hit hard, like a kick to the balls.” She pulled back her leg as if she were going to demonstrate the impact on my balls. I stepped back in surprise, and she laughed. Then she closed the door to just a crack and peeked out at me through the narrow gap.
“Are you okay, Sabine?” I asked. “You’re acting strange.”
Her face settled for a moment. “I’m just excited, Dean. That’s all. It’s my process. It’s how I work. But I’m fine, really. In fact, I’m better than I’ve been in a long time now. I’ve got a plan, a purpose.” She nodded toward the art on her floor. “But I’ve got to get back to work. The muse—she’s moving, and I don’t want to fall behind.”
Then she closed the door in my face. I heard a playful little laugh come from inside the room as I turned and headed back toward the stairs.
The manic swings here were dizzying. At the moment, Charlie, Floyd, and Sabine were up—way up—and Taylor was down. But I got the sense that it could change at any moment. We were all fragile here, fragile and out of control.
Give the city a moment, I knew, and everything would change.
This house needs some serious therapy, I thought as I clambered down the stairs, cinching my camera bag tight against my back. I met Charlie, Floyd, and Taylor at the front door.
The research park was deserted. And it wasn’t really much of a park. It was just a square of squat gray buildings with a grassy space in the middle.
Charlie knew just where he was going. He led us down a path between two of the buildings and out into the central courtyard. There was a cherry tree here in one corner, and a stagnant fountain in another. Sometime in the last couple of months, the cherry tree had toppled over, pulling up a huge knot of roots. Its bent trunk stretched across the path, ending, leafless, in a crown of broken branches. There were eight buildings in the square—two on each side—and empty windows looked down on us from every direction. One of the buildings had a broken window up on the third floor, and an office chair lay in the courtyard below, surrounded by glass and shattered computer parts. It was perfectly still inside the courtyard. There wasn’t even a hint of wind inside this secluded space.
Charlie smiled widely and gestured for us to follow, breaking into an excited trot as he crossed to the far side of the square. He led us around the base of one of the buildings—the one with the broken window—and back out onto the street. The planter from Charlie’s photograph was right there, at the building’s entrance.
“You’ve been here before, haven’t you?” Taylor asked. “You didn’t hesitate, didn’t take a wrong turn.”
Charlie shook his head. “I walked by weeks ago, looking for my parents. I just remembered it, that’s all. I’ve got a good memory for this type of thing. Places. Directions.”
Taylor responded with a skeptical grunt.
“C’mon,” Floyd said. “Let’s see if this fucker’s home.” He crossed to the front door and pulled at the handle. It rattled in its frame but didn’t open. “Fuck. What now? Should I knock?”
“No,” Charlie said. “Look.” He pointed toward the planter. On the wall, behind the concrete bowl, I saw a red light blinking steadily.