as an Institute stringer, used the station-house phone to call Doc Roper, but first he used his cell to call a number he had gotten in the early hours of the morning. Then, he had been pissed off at being awakened. Now, however, he was delighted.
“That kid,” he said. “He’s here.”
“Just a second,” Andy Fellowes said. “I’m transferring you.”
There was a brief silence and then another voice said, “Are you Hollister? In DuPray, South Carolina?”
“Yeah. That kid you’re looking for just jumped off a freight. Ear’s all tore up. Is there still a reward for him?”
“Yes. And it will be bigger if you make sure he stays in town.”
Norbert laughed. “Oh, I think he’ll be stayin. He banged into a signal-post and it conked him silly.”
“Don’t lose track of him,” Stackhouse said. “I want a call every hour. Understood?”
“Like an update.”
“Yes, like that. We’ll take care of the rest.”
HELL IS HERE
1
Tim led the bloodied-up kid, obviously still dazed but walking on his own, through Craig Jackson’s office. The owner of DuPray Storage & Warehousing lived in the nearby town of Dunning, but had been divorced for five years, and the spacious, air-conditioned room behind the office served him as auxiliary living quarters. Jackson wasn’t there now, which was no surprise to Tim; on days when ’56 stopped rather than barreling straight on through, Craig had a tendency to make himself scarce.
Past the little kitchenette with its microwave, hotplate, and tiny sink was a living area that consisted of an easy chair planted in front of an HD television set. Beyond that, old centerfolds from Playboy and Penthouse looked down on a neatly made camp bed. Tim’s idea was to get the kid to lie down on it until Doc Roper came, but the boy shook his head.
“Chair.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
The kid sat. The cushion made a tired woofing sound. Tim took a knee before him. “Now how about a name?”
The kid looked at him doubtfully. He had stopped bleeding, but his cheek was covered with gore, and his right ear was a tattered horror. “Were you waiting for me?”
“For the train. I work here mornings. Longer, when the 9956 is scheduled. Now what’s your name?”
“Who was the other guy?”
“No more questions until I get a name.”
The kid thought it over, then licked his lips and said, “I’m Nick. Nick Wilholm.”
“Okay, Nick.” Tim made a peace sign. “How many fingers do you see?”
“Two.”
“Now?”
“Three. The other guy, did he say he was my uncle?”
Tim frowned. “That was Norbert Hollister. He owns the local motel. If he’s anyone’s uncle, I don’t know about it.” Tim held up a single finger. “Follow it. Let me see your eyes move.”
Nicky’s eyes followed his finger left and right, then up and down.
“I guess you’re not scrambled too badly,” Tim said. “We can hope, anyway. Who are you running away from, Nick?”
The kid looked alarmed and tried to get out of the chair. “Who told you that?”
Tim pushed him gently back. “No one. It’s just that whenever I see a kid in dirty torn-up clothes and a torn-up ear jump from a train, I make this wild assumption that he’s a runaway. Now who—”
“What’s all the shouting about? I heard . . . oh dear-to-Jesus, what happened to that boy?”
Tim turned and saw Orphan Annie Ledoux. She must have been in her tent behind the depot. She often went there to snooze in the middle of the day. Although the thermometer outside the station had registered eighty-five degrees at ten that morning, Annie was dressed in what Tim thought of as her Full Mexican outfit: serape, sombrero, junk bracelets, and rescued cowboy boots sprung along the seams.
“This is Nick Wilholm,” Tim said. “He’s visiting our fair village from God knows where. Jumped off the ’56 and ran full-tilt-boogie into a signal-post. Nick, this is Annie Ledoux.”
“Very pleased to meet you,” Luke said.
“Thank you, son, same goes back. Was it the signal-post that ripped off half his ear, Tim?”
“I don’t believe so,” Tim said. “I was hoping to get that story.”
“Were you waiting for the train to come in?” the boy asked her. He seemed fixated on that. Maybe because he’d had his bell rung pretty hard, maybe for some other reason.
“I’m waiting for nothing but the return of Our Lord Jesus Christ,” Annie said. She glanced around. “Mr. Jackson has naughty pictures on his wall. I can’t say I’m surprised.” Can’t came out cain’t.
Just then an olive-skinned man wearing biballs over a white shirt and dark tie came into