"This is where Princess Di crashed," Bobby Waddle said. His eyes darted like Geiger counter needles as he assessed approaching dangers and opportunities to skirt them. He risked a quick swipe at his nose and wiped what came away on his jeans. He sniffed hard to avoid another such distraction.
Next to him, Cole Martin scrunched his nose. "Who?"
"She was going to be queen of England. Mom liked her."
Bobby's car left the ground as it came out of the tunnel onto Pont de l'Alma. Biting pavement again, the rear tires spun with unfocused power and caused the back end to skitter into the side of a taxicab. Sparks flew, and the speedometer instantly dropped ten miles per hour. He was doing only eighty-five now.
He glanced at the rearview mirror and didn't like what he saw: another sleek sports car, this one red, gaining quickly. He pushed a button and released a thick stream of oil onto the roadway. His rival spun out of control and crashed into a bus.
"No fair!" Cole yelled.
"The oil was an upgrade I picked up on the last lap," Bobby said, laughing. He coughed and reminded himself not to laugh.
Cole threw down his controller. On the lower half of the television's split screen, his car was on fire. Words flashed over it—Respawn: HIT BUTTON A.
"Come on. It's no fun by myself," Bobby said. His eyes never left the screen. His fingers moved over the controller with robotic efficiency.
"You always win!" Cole complained.
Bobby set the controller in his lap and turned to his friend. He coughed. His chest felt tight, and it hurt. "I've been playing longer than you. You want me to let you win?"
"No. I just . . . I don't know. I don't like this game anymore."
"Wanna play Halo?"
Cole shook his head.
"Quake?"
"No."
"What do you want to do?"
"How about Nerf-gun tag?"
That sounded good. They'd been on the Xbox for about an hour, as long as his mom allowed him per day.
"It," he said.
"You're always it."
"All right, you be it." He turned off the TV and dropped the wireless controllers into a drawer. As they were heading out the back door, the phone rang.
Bobby's mother yelled down the stairs: "Bobby, could you get that, honey?"
"Aw, Mom!" But his words weren't as loud as he thought they should be. His lungs just couldn't push them out. He decided it was easier to answer the phone than to argue.
"Hello?" He watched Cole pick a Nerf gun out of the toy box on the deck and check it for sponge bullets.
"May I speak to Robert Waddle, please?" A man's voice.
"Who is this?"
"Jeff Hunter, from the New York Times."
"We already get a newspaper."
"I'm not calling about a subscription. Is Robert Waddle there?"
Cole was waving at him to come. He waved back.
"That's me, but nobody calls me Robert. Just Bobby."
"You live in Castle Creek, right? New York?"
"It's next to Binghamton."
There was a pause. "Is your dad also named Robert?"
"His name was Philip. He's dead." He was getting annoyed.
"I'm sorry. Did he die recently?"
"When I was a baby."
"When you were what? I'm sorry."
"A baby. I have a cold."
"How old are you now?"
"Ten. I'm not supposed to talk to strangers."
Cole had jumped off the deck and was making his way toward the woods at the back of the property. Bobby wanted to play around the house, but Cole thought because Bobby wasn't there, he got to choose the rules. Dang it.
"That's right, you shouldn't. But let me just ask one thing. Has anything unusual happened to you lately?"
"Like what?"
"Oh, I don't know. An accident, or has anybody—"
"Bobby, who is it?" His mom whisked into the kitchen and held out her hand for the phone.
"Some guy . . ." He placed the handset into her palm, glad to be done with it, and bolted toward the door.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," his mother said. She raised a finger to tell him to hold on. "Who is this, please?" She listened for three seconds, then hung up. "I don't have time for salesmen. Did you sweep the garage like I asked?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"You're so good. Come here." She touched his forehead. "Still warm. How do you feel?"
"Stuffy. Tight right here." He patted his chest.
"Worse than this morning?"
"A little."
"That means a lot. Don't stay out too long, and stay out of the brook."
"Aw, Mom."
"Do you want to not go out at all?"
He shook his head.
"Okay, have fun." She slapped his bottom, and he ran out the door. Cole was nowhere in sight.
A kid. What was it Alice said in Wonderland? Curiouser
and curiouser. Jeff Hunter typed a note on the line that contained Robert Waddle's name. He scrolled down a ways and selected another.
"The lobster cakes and Dom Perignon sound lovely,"
Gretchen Gaither told the woman sitting beside her on the couch. Her smile faltered slightly. "But they're out of our price range."
The woman touched Gretchen's hand. "For your fortieth anniversary? Why not splurge?"
She thought about it. It would be nice. Just this once. She knew Jim would go along with it . . . and then quietly work a few weeks of double shifts to pay for it. She couldn't do that to him.
"I'm afraid not," she said. "What else do you have?"
The woman looked disappointed—or disgusted. She leaned over to a large volume of menus and photographs on the coffee table, flipped a few pages, then a few pages more. "Bruschetta and Torciano Fragolino? Fourteen dollars a bottle."
Gretchen nodded. Jim would have hated this meeting with the caterer. It would have reminded him that things hadn't turned out the way they had dreamed. Still, he had always provided for their needs and had found a way to put their two children through college. It had been a little easier when she worked as a substitute teacher. But two years ago, her arthritis had grown too painful to ignore or sufficiently medicate. And an already tight budget became even tighter. She'd told him that their anniversary needed no special commemoration, other than their own remembrances of the happy times they'd shared. But he had insisted: "Ask the kids to come, invite some friends. Let's have a little party—catered, because the guest of honor shouldn't do the work."
"How many people?" the woman asked.
"About thirty, with the kids and their families."
The caterer looked around the small living room. "Have you thought about renting a banquet room? They can be had for a very reasonable price."
"Our backyard has hosted many a birthday party," Gretchen said, smiling at the memories. "I think it'll do for this."
The phone rang and she excused herself.
She found the cordless handset on the dining room table. "Hello?"
"Gretchen Gaither?"
"Yes?"
"Jeff Hunter, with the New York Times. Do you have a few moments?"
After speaking to the Gaither woman, Hunter disconnected
with a mouse click. Retired schoolteacher. No recent problems with financial institutions or anyone else that she could think of. Seemed like a sweet lady. He could tell his call had spooked her. He hoped she didn't follow up with a call to the news desk or, worse, to the police. He wasn't ready to answer questions, and he wasn't ready to let the list go.
Andrew Wallenski looked at the wall of the boys' restroom
and shook his head. Kids these days. To know such words in middle school was bad enough, but to actually spray paint them on a public wall! No respect. Not for property. Not for the people who had to clean up their messes. If they were his kids, they'd show respect, that was for sure.