“Quinn,” he said, and sobbed and finally screamed. “He came for me. He hit Penny. I couldn’t see it but I heard it—Quinn and bam and waaah and we’re going to Lana I’ll kill you witch.”
“He’s a good guy, Quinn.”
“Yes,” Cigar said.
“He wants you to tell me about the little boy.”
“Little boy? He’s next to you.”
Astrid fought the urge to turn and look. No one was beside her. “I don’t see him.”
Cigar nodded as though he knew this, as though it was a given fact. “He’s a little boy. But he’s big, too. He can touch the sky.”
Astrid choked out the words, “Can he?”
“Oh, yes. Little boy is better than an angel, you know; he has the light so bright it shines through you. Tseeeew! Right through you.”
“And his name is Petey?”
Cigar was silent. He lowered his head. Again it was as if he was listening. But maybe he was listening only to the terrible nightmare screams in his own head.
Then, with perfect lucidity that was stranger in its way than all his tics and sudden eruptions and weird gestures, Cigar said, “He was Pete.”
Astrid sobbed.
“That was his body name.”
“Yes,” Astrid said, too paralyzed even to wipe away the tears. “Can I … Can he hear me?”
“He can hear … anything!” And again the mad cackle, an almost ecstatic sound.
“I’m sorry, Petey,” Astrid said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Little boy is free now,” Cigar said in a singsong voice. “He’s playing a game.”
“I know,” Astrid said. “Petey? You can’t play that game. You’re hurting people.”
Once again Cigar lowered his head to listen. But even though Astrid waited a long time, he said nothing more.
So in a quiet voice Astrid said, “Petey. The barrier is turning dark. Can you stop it? Do you have the power to stop it?”
Cigar laughed. “Little boy is gone.”
And Astrid could feel the truth of it. The sense of something unseen looking at her was gone.
Sanjit did not travel alone. He had intended to, and Lana had said he should, but by the time he got onto the highway heading in the direction of the turnoff to the lake, he was in a gaggle of kids.
People were fleeing Perdido Beach. Sanjit could see at least twenty, arrayed in groups of two or three. A cluster of three had formed around him. Two twelve-year-old girls, Keira and Tabitha, and a little boy of maybe three with the very grown-up-sounding name of Mason.
Mason was trying to be a good little soldier, but just a half mile out of town he was already stumbling on very tired legs. The girls were hardier—they’d both put in time working the fields, so they were strong and had the stamina for long hours on the road. But Mason was a little kid hauling a backpack filled with his favorite things—some broken toys, a picture book called Owl Babies, a framed picture of his family.
The girls pushed their things, as well as some food and water, in a Ralphs grocery cart with one bad wheel. It rattled as they went. Sanjit knew it would never survive the dirt-and-gravel road that led to the lake.
Mason complicated matters further by insisting on wearing a plastic Iron Man helmet that covered his whole head. He had a small paring knife in a woman’s white belt.
Lana had impressed on Sanjit a need for speed when she’d handed him the grubby envelope with the note inside. And he knew he could outpace his three fellow travelers. But somehow, having fallen in with them, he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. Instead he ended up hefting Mason onto his back.
“Are you and Lana, like, together?” Tabitha asked.