Reunion at Red Paint Bay - By George Harrar Page 0,4

the spinout, as if luck had saved them from cremation. It was the kind of quirky detail the Register was known for.

He scanned the rest of the proof. Man Sues Town Over Landfill Mishap read the lead headline, and underneath: Big Toe Worth $500K? A provocative question indeed. Just below the fold, a grip-and-grin shot of First Red Paint Bank president John DeMonico handing out twenty-year service medals was cropped so tightly that the recipients looked like smiling heads on a platter. Simon scribbled, “These people have necks, don’t they? Recrop.” In a small box next to the picture was the headline 25th Reunion. He had run the notice for the last month, a recurring reminder of his own impending milestone. He could anticipate the question from classmates he hadn’t seen in decades—What happened, Simon? You’re the last person I expected to get trapped in Red Paint. The boy the yearbook had declared Most Likely to Go to Mars now owned the only newspaper in town and lived just a mile from the house he grew up in. There was his name on the last line of the box. Simon Howe—Reunion Publicity. It was hard to explain, even to himself.

His eyes drifted to the bottom right corner of page one and The Weekly Quotation: “Humankind cannot bear very much reality” —T. S. Eliot. “Intriguing choice, Barb,” he wrote to his newly divorced editorial assistant, “but how about something a little more upbeat next week?” That was it, another edition ready for press with barely a glimmer of hard news. On the positive side, he had stretched copy and enlarged pictures to cover all thirty-two pages. It was an achievement worth noting, but to whom? Did Pulitzer give an award for filling space?

Simon dialed the pressroom, then cradled the phone at his neck as he pulled on his jacket. “I’m done marking up page one, Meg,” he said. “I’ll leave it on my desk.” A few moments later the rear door opened, and the rapist came in. How else could he think of him? It was the first time Simon had seen his new hire at the office. Rigero’s hair was trimmed to the scalp on the sides and his mustache was shaved off, which made him look ten years younger. But instead of seeming like a younger version of himself, he looked like an entirely different person, a complete change of face. It unnerved Simon a little to try to match up the image in his mind with the man in front of him.

“Ms. Locklear sent me for the proof, Mr. Howe. She’s on paste-up.”

Simon didn’t recognize the voice, either. It was lighter, with a kind of smoothness to the tone, nothing halting or clipped.

“Mr. Howe?”

Simon held out page one. “Here it is, David.”

Rigero stared at the lead headline. “Kind of strange.”

“What’s that?”

“If a big toe’s worth a half a million, how much would fingers go for, or like a head or something?”

“I don’t know of any blue book of body parts,” Simon said. “They’re worth whatever a jury says.”

Rigero held out his left hand in a fist and opened his fingers one at a time, as if counting up how much each one could bring.

There was something about Davey that seemed odd to Simon lately. The boy hadn’t grown noticeably. His hair was the same—gelled up to make him appear taller. His voice didn’t have any hint of adolescent timbre to it yet. He still dashed and crashed around the house, still curled up on the couch between them watching a movie on Friday evenings, still wanted to be read to at night and tickled to get out of bed in the morning. But there was an added dimension to all these things, something unfamiliar just below the facade. Like at this moment, standing in the driveway with an object in his hand, staring into the backyard. His chin was slightly turned up, inclining his gaze to the trees. Simon watched him for a minute and was amazed at how motionless the boy could be when he wanted to. Not a trace of hyperactivity. But what could make him want to stay so still? Simon pulled back from the kitchen window, went to the side door, and stepped outside. Davey’s hand was empty now. He was looking at his feet.

“What’s up, buddy?”

“Nothing.”

Simon moved closer, trying to detect any bulge in a pocket or shirt that might hint at the hidden item. Then he saw the drawing on the front