The woman made her way around a small counter lined with stools, and then back toward the sizzling grill. Antigone hurried after her.
Cyrus inhaled long and hard. The dining room was full of the sounds and smells of bacon frying and diced potatoes hopping in the grease. Only a few booths held customers, and they were all men, each of them alone with their newspapers and toothpicks and trucker hats and coffee cups and grease-stained knuckles. The photo of Dan had wiped away Cyrus’s hunger, but the power of the smells brought it roaring back. His mouth was watering and his stomach was ringing hollow bells. Cyrus’s body needed to eat, and that angered him. Dan was gone. Taken. He shouldn’t eat. He shouldn’t smell. He should be gone, too.
In his daze, Cyrus nodded at the other customers as he passed, but their return nods were better, more practiced, exchanging respect with only the slightest lift of the head and a glance from unblinking eyes.
Cyrus slid into the corner booth beneath a low-hanging lamp with a dead bulb. The key ring dug into one leg; the lightning bug glass dug into the other. His neck burned, and his wrist itched. From across the table, John Horace Lawney leaned forward, tenting his fingers. “What will you have?”
“Anything,” Cyrus muttered. He grimaced and shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to adjust the contents of his pockets. “Dirt. I don’t care.”
The large woman was lumbering toward them with what looked like a pint of carrot juice. Horace flashed her a wide smile. She smiled back. According to the plastic rectangle on her shirt, her name was Pat.
“You dolls ready?” she asked. “What can I get ya? I can tell you right now that you’ve never had waffles as mean as what we sling. You’ll be full till Christmas.”
Cyrus’s stomach seethed, and he groaned. He made himself look up. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s just that waffles …”
Pat shrugged. “Don’t you worry about it. You’re not a waffle kid. Well, you can’t go wrong on this menu, no matter where you settle. And wherever you settle, it’s gonna be on the house. This breakfast is on Pat and Pat. It’s gotta be hard, your place burning down.” She hesitated. “You are the Archer kids, aren’t you?”
Cyrus looked at his sooty hands and then back up at the big woman. “Yeah. No water at the motel right now. No showers.”
She patted Cyrus on the shoulder. “Well, you kids ever need to eat, tell Dan to bring you on by.”
Cyrus nodded.
Horace rose to his feet. “Madam,” he said. “Pat, we are ready to order.” He handed her the menus. “Do you squeeze your own orange juice?”
“I stomp the oranges myself.”
“Where are the oranges grown?”
“You know,” Pat said. “I couldn’t say. But they’re orange, they’re sweet, and they come with peels.”
“Right.” Horace rubbed his hands together thoughtfully. “We’ll have a large pitcher of fresh-squeezed, a pot of coffee, two plates of links, one of patties, half a pound of bacon, eight eggs scrambled with your sharpest cheddar, diced ham, tomatoes, mushrooms, chopped — fresh, not frozen — spinach, black pepper, and a pinch of cayenne. Four fried eggs, not too runny, and half a loaf of wheat toast. And hashed browns. A pile of them. Oh, and with gratitude for your offer, I will be picking up the tab nonetheless.”
He sat down, raised his eyebrows, and looked at Cyrus. “Will that do?” he asked.
Cyrus blinked. “I thought we were in a hurry.”
“Oh, we were. We are. In part so that we could have time for this.” Horace smiled. “Always breakfast like a man condemned. One never knows what a day may bring.” He nodded at the waitress.
“Okay then,” she said, tucking the menus under one arm while she scribbled notes on a tiny pad. “We are hungry, aren’t we? Big Pat will be happy. He never likes an empty grill.” Dropping the pad into her apron pocket, she turned and moseyed slowly away, the floor creaking beneath her.
Horace sipped his carrot juice, leaned back, and rubbed his jaw. Fine black-and-white stubble rasped against his palm.
Cyrus stared at him. “Tell me how to get Dan back.”
Horace pursed his lips. “That’s a difficult question.”
“I have lots of questions,” Cyrus said. “Not that you’ll have any answers.” He leaned forward. “What’s so special about the keys? Who was Skelton? How do you know he was our godfather, and what exactly did he leave us besides a lot of trouble?”
Horace sighed. “Should we wait for your sister?”
“No,” said Cyrus. “Start with the keys. What’s the deal? They turn things on, don’t they? Our sign never worked, not until Skelton touched it. And I had a broken record player, too. That’s it, right? The keys turn things on.” He looked at the dead lamp above him. Glancing at Horace, he reached up and wriggled the bulb. Nothing. He lowered his arm. Ridiculous. He was going crazy.
“Guess not,” he muttered.
“Well …,” said Horace.
The lightbulb blinked and buzzed. But it wasn’t alone. Every booth in the diner had its own dangling lamp, and half of them — running down the length of the room — had been out. Now, in unison, they pulsed dimly, sputtered, and came to life.
“It appears,” said the lawyer, “that you have your answer. But only part of it.”
Cyrus frantically tugged the keys free of his pocket and dropped them loudly onto the table.
Horace groaned. “Without meaning to be paranoid, I cannot advise leaving them visible. Remember Skelton’s warnings.”
Cyrus swung a glance over the room. Antigone was coming. And none of the men in trucker hats seemed to have noticed a thing. He would be more nervous with the keys back in his pocket. He scratched at his itching wrist and looked down, surprised. He couldn’t feel his nails, and his wrist seemed swollen. But it didn’t look swollen. It looked soot-covered and grubby. He poked at it. His fingertip stopped short of his skin, but he was definitely touching something — something soft and very smooth.
“What is it?” Horace asked. “What are you doing?”
Cyrus didn’t answer. He ran his hand over his blistered neck, remembering Skelton’s liquid arms holding the glowing hot necklace in the dark. He’d torn it off. And then it had … he focused on his wrist. It was … he didn’t know what it was. Carefully, he pinched his nails around the soft, invisible bulge, and he tugged.
Antigone slid into the booth next to Cyrus. “They said Dan didn’t qualify as a missing person yet, but I told them about the picture and now they’re sending someone right out. They’ll come by here first, and then the motel. Cyrus! What is that?”
Every head in the diner turned, but Cyrus didn’t notice. He was unwinding a snake — now visible — from around his wrist. Slender, silver, smooth, it twisted around his fingers and slid its own tail into its mouth. As it did, it disappeared.
Horace chuckled. “Little Patricia, I am very glad to see you. Or not, as the case may be.”
“What’s going on?” Antigone asked. “Cy, a snake? Is that what he put around your neck?”
Cyrus nodded, and he blindly pulled the snake free of its own tail. Visible again, he let it slither through his palms. After a moment, it wound itself tight around his fingers, ate its tail, and again disappeared. Pulling it free, Cyrus tilted his head to the side, exposing his neck. “And it burned me, Tigs. There are blisters.”
Antigone leaned forward, squinting. “You have a little snake brand all the way around, Cy. A blister for every scale. Jeez. That could scar. I can even see the head on your collarbone.” She looked at Horace. “What is this thing?”