The structure was more of a temporary shelter than a house or storefront. Cinder blocks on the bottom, metal roofing for sides, and clear plastic sheeting for a roof. The word FIREWORKS was painted in red on an old piece of plywood.
Wendy pulled over and stepped down from the van.
“Hello?” she called out. “Hello?”
A person emerged. He was fortyish and unkempt and carried a shotgun. Only then did it occur to her that she should not have come alone. No one knew where she was. Her phone probably didn’t even have service.
“Police? Press? FBI?” the man demanded. The words SEE YOU IN HELL… were tattooed in neat calligraphy along his collarbone. He wasn’t pointing the shotgun at her, but it was in his hand. He held it casually, like a lit cigarette he was tired of smoking. “How’d you find me?”
“Google,” Wendy explained. “I’d like to buy your fireworks. Whatever you have, I’m sure they’ll be fine.”
“I didn’t put anything on Google.”
He was holding the shotgun more tightly now. His muscular forearms were streaked with dirt. His teeth were straight but discolored. His greasy hair was curly and long. He might have been attractive if he were clean and not so paranoid.
Wendy pointed bravely at the sign. “Aren’t you selling fireworks?”
The man seemed to notice the sign for the first time. “Huh. I don’t know. Maybe?”
Wendy looked at her watch, even though she’d stopped wearing a watch years ago. “Well, that’s disappointing.” She sighed, trying to sound like a normal person who wasn’t scared to death. “I’ll have to call around and see if I can find them somewhere else.”
“No.” He waved the shotgun around and she almost screamed. “Let’s look for them. If we find them, you can have them for free. Finders keepers.”
He turned and went into the shelter. Wendy really wanted the fireworks. Against her better judgment, she followed him.
It was a murderer’s lair, that much was certain. The actual discarded dirty clothes and shoes—women’s shoes—of his victims and more randomly, a collection of hairbrushes, lay on a blue plastic tarp on the ground.
“I’m trying to gather enough stuff to open my own vintage shop.” Of course he was lying. That’s what all murderers said. “I wanted to collect typewriters, but they’re so heavy.”
“Mmmm,” Wendy said, too frightened to speak actual words.
A tall, lidded garbage can stood in the corner. It was probably full of body parts. The man removed the lid.
“Oh, here you go.” He pulled out a long, thin cardboard box printed with red and yellow Chinese characters. “Bingo. It’s full of ’em.”
How had he not noticed this before?
He picked up the garbage can by the handles and carried it out of his lair. “I can’t do anything with these. They’re illegal to sell. I don’t want to draw attention. You understand.”
Wendy followed him to the U-Haul. He was still carrying his gun. If she said one wrong thing, he could change his mind, shoot her in the head, and steal her hairbrush, which was in her purse.
“I’m trying to stay under the radar,” he went on.
He heaved the garbage can into the van and propped it against the dismantled picnic table. Wendy did her best to smile.
“Thank you very much. I was never here,” she said, and walked in what she hoped seemed like an unhurried, unafraid fashion to the driver’s-side door. “Good luck.”
He waved his shotgun in the air. “See you in hell!”
* * *
“I miss home.”
As soon as he’d written the words, Roy sat back in his chair and wondered: Did he miss home? Did he miss England?
England’s climate was cool and damp. The rooms were always cold, no matter how well the heating worked. The tap water was not as tasty as Brooklyn tap water. The dryers took forever to dry anything and shrank your socks. There was less pressure to work late and exercise and more of an inclination to meet at the pub for a pint or have a nice cuppa and a biscuit and relax in front of the telly.
Did he miss it? Yes, sometimes. He was fifty-six years old and he did still sometimes miss home. But if they hadn’t moved, Shy would never have learned to play table tennis and he never would have thought about Mars or written Red. Or Gold.
Definitely Red.
He’d made great progress in the few short hours since Shy’s inspiring table tennis match. Both girls were pregnant and had married Ceran in