•Together they fled into the fir-scented night, and their Robert-half seized control and sped them away. Ned felt as though pedaling uphill on a leaden bicycle, then as though swimming underwater against a strong current. His muscles ached, his lungs strained for oxygen. Mile after blurry mile slipped by. With no transition, they came to rest in a vacant lot where Queen Anne's face trembled about them. Robert peeled him off like a dirty shirt. Millions of stars gleamed down from the night sky.It's too much, Ned thought,way too much.
"Where are we?"
“I'm somewhere in Wisconsin," Robert said. "You're in Edgerton, with Mom."
Ned pulled his knees to his chest as a spike drove into his head.
•80
•“And I was you," said Robert. "Long enough to get us out ofBoulder, anyhow."
“I can't believe I forgot what we did," I said. “I saved your life." “I've saved yours a couple of times," Robert said. "Can you stay alive until our birthday? I can't protect you every minute of the day." "We have more to talk about," I said, but he was gone.
81 • Mr. X
•O You Hoverers, You Smoke Ravening from the Cannon, Your Son is wondering if in Your Triumphant Millennium what used to be called "the servant problem" still exists. Do you, in Your Exalted Realms, employ the services of humbler beings, no doubt enslaved, no doubt from Conquered Territories? If so, you know what I'm talking about. A slave is no different from a servant, except for being an even greater responsibility. The patron saint of servants is Judas. My earthly parents suffered the depredations of disloyal maids and housekeepers, and I, too, have had my Judases, the first of them one Clothhead Spelvin, whose betrayal I answered with a summary visit to his jail cell. And now, that twitchy collection of street-sweepings, Frenchy La Chapelle, has failed me.
This morning I snatched sans payment a copy of theEdgerton Echo from the newsstand and nipped up Chester Street, scanning the front page. The editors had been allowed time enough only to insert a paragraph reporting the destruction by fire of a "modest rooming house." A single fatality was considered a possibility. Tomorrow's rag would supply photographs and complete details.
I strolled to the scene of the happy event in the guise of an ordinary mortal. My visible, daytime self possesses the dignity of a retired statesman or diplomat, with perhaps a hint of a general's authority. In a weathered manner, I am still handsome, if I say so myself. (To complete these details of my mundane existence, I employ a false or assumed name, which contains a revelatory joke no one is likely to perceive, and I have recently retired from an executive position.)
One matter niggled as I neared the site. I should haveknown of my son's death, as I hadknown of his mother's. Yet this was the weakling offspring, whose share of my legacy may have been too insignificant to permit telepathic transmission.
The "modest rooming house" had been reduced to a heap of rubble. Within a network of red tape declaringDO NOT CROSS HAZARDOUS AREA DO NOT CROSS HAZARDOUS AREA, investigators in orange space suits prowled through the mess. A collection of dimwits and ghouls had assembled across the street.
I circulated through them and picked up what I could. Several blamed the fire on faulty wiring. Many considered Helen Janette, the landlady, an ill-tempered harridan. I nearly went mad with impatience:What about the fatality?
At last I buttonholed a wheezing wreck.Didn't one of the tenants perish?
"Say what?"
Some guy died.
"Oh, yeah. Otto. Damn shame. Did you know him?"
Notto speak to.
The wreck nodded. “It shakes you up more than you want to let on."
Oh, it does shake me up.
I hastened back to the sty and fastened onto the news broadcasts. An unidentified body had been removed from the scene. An hour later, identity was suspected but unconfirmed. Identity had been confirmed but withheld. Not until noon was the victim named as Otto Bremen, a seventy-year-old crossing guard at Carl Sandburg Elementary School.
By evening, the broadcasters were exercising their internally amplified voices to announce that investigators and fire specialists in the pay of Edgerton's Departments of Fire and Police had concluded that the fire was of suspicious origin.
You understand my complaints about the servant problem.
•Truth be told, Frenchys are hard to come by. I have decided to give the snake a second chance. Frenchy is not so stupid as to boast of his crime. (Except to Cassie Little.)
Frenchy's life shall be spared, as long as he can repair the damage and look up some old acquaintances to discover if they have been unwise. Star would never have divulged the name "Edward Rinehart": she was good at secrets. Clearly, she never told the weakling that he had a brother. Blast him. Blast his brother, too.Ithought there was only one of them—
Years back, I nearlyhad the boy—the atmosphere electric—my excitement profound—I sensed thepresence— yet the quivering shadow slipped from me—the singularity of the occasion troubled & intrigued—now I understand.
I believe the twoconnected—joined together. The Dangerous Son was close to hand—Resolutionnigh. My failures had a single cause—Ignorance.I thought there was but One—not Two—I believed theShadow the image of my Prey—not the helplessShadow of his brother.
I object! You People got things wrong!
But no more complaint. During her lifetime, the cow apparently exerted a protective influence. Understanding strengthens me, as does blessed Recognition—success in maturity—in what some may call old age—is sweeter than in youth.
82 • Mr. X
•Six hours later. I require sleep. Unpleasant dreams beset my brief doze, and I tossed and turned for yet another hour. However.
The morning's edition of theEdgerton Echo informs all and sundry that the Chester Street fire resulted from an act of arson. Below the fold, two elegiac columns accompany a photographic representation of Crossing Guard Bremen's bloated visage. PLUS!—the mind reels— in devotion to the memory of Mr. My Mustache Is Bigger Than Yours, Carl Sandburg Elementary School has announced a $10,000 reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the arsonist.
I am on the verge of palpitations. If I were found incinerated, would anyone fork out $10,000 for the name of the incinerator? Besides that, Cassie Little would slit her mother's throat for a handful of nickels, much less $10,000.
Before the sun travels another five feet of sky, Frenchy receives his marching orders.
•83
•Before Ashleigh's flight the next morning, I walked over to Merchants Hotel to pick up the satchel and tell her about the fire and Captain Mullan while we had breakfast.
"Laurie called earlier. I told her I managed to get some useful information. I didn't say how, and she didn't ask."
"Good."
Ashleigh jabbed her spoon into her granola. "Mullan checked you for a wire? It sounds like he's being investigated. Or is afraid he will be. I bet he's worried about what's going to come out if Hatch is indicted. About two days from now, these guys will be sweating bullets."