"Why do you wanna know this s.h.i.t?"

"Pete, just give me some kind of description." I lowered my voice. "Please, I think it's important."

"It was a younger guy." Pete said this mystified.

"What did he look like?"

"Look like? He looked like a college kid. In fact he was was a college kid. He was a student at that place you teach at, man." a college kid. He was a student at that place you teach at, man."

The writer began grinning.

The writer was writhing ecstatically in his seat.

The writer wanted to applaud.

My silence encouraged Pete to continue.

"I was meeting up with some kids the first week of cla.s.ses, and I gotta admit I tried everywhere, even a guy I knew down in Cabo-that thing was just not available-and I knew how much cash you were laying out, so I was getting kinda desperate and so I was just asking pretty much everybody and one night when I was . . . visiting . . . the college, making a little run, I asked this group of kids if anyone could get me one of those things and this kid said he could get me one the next day. No problem."

I was driving down the interstate.

I was ignoring the unswaying palm trees that had turned the interstate into a corridor.

I had aligned the car with the lane we were in.

The writer could no longer contain his glee.

Kentucky Pete kept talking, though what he said no longer mattered.

"And so I stopped by the parking lot of the Fortinbras and we met up and he had it and that's all she wrote." Pete inhaled on something, and his voice deepened. "I gave him half the cash and I kept the rest as a finder's fee and it was a done deal."

"What did he look like, Pete?"

"Jeez, man, you keep asking that like it means something."

"It does. Tell me what he looked like."

Pete paused and inhaled again. "Well, you're probably gonna think I'm taking the easy way out of this one, but he looked a little like you."

I found it in myself to ask: "What do you mean?"

"Well, he looked like you if you were a little younger."

I found it in myself to ask: "Was his name Clayton?"

"I don't keep records, dude."

Outside this car everything was a blur. "Was his name Clayton?"

"All I know was that I met him up at the college and he drove this little white Mercedes." Pete coughed. "I remember the car. I remember thinking d.a.m.n, the kid is loaded. I remember thinking that this was going to be a very lucrative term." Static. "But I never saw the kid again."

The Porsche swerved slightly. Another wave of fear delivered.

"Was his name Clayton?" I stuttered and tried to sit up straight. I might as well have been talking to myself.

There was a long pause crackling with static. And then there was silence.

I was about to click off.

"You know what?" Pete finally returned. "I think that was was his name. Yeah, Clayton. Sounds right." A concerned pause during which Pete figured something out. "Wait a minute-so you know the guy? Then what the h.e.l.l are you calling me for-" his name. Yeah, Clayton. Sounds right." A concerned pause during which Pete figured something out. "Wait a minute-so you know the guy? Then what the h.e.l.l are you calling me for-"

I clicked off.

I concentrated on the blinding emptiness of the interstate.

What you just heard will not answer anything, Bret. This is what the writer said. This is what the writer said.

Look how black the sky is, the writer said. the writer said. I made it that way. I made it that way.

21. the actor

The Porsche dived into the garage.

The writer's laughter had subsided. The writer was a blind guide who was slowly disappearing. I was now alone.

Everything I did had an intent that was solely mine.

The stairs seemed steeper as I climbed them.

I opened Robby's door.

The computer was off.

(It was on when I had been interrupted.) After I restarted it I sat in front of its screen for three hours.

The moment I typed in the pa.s.sword to open the MC file the computer screen flashed back to the desktop.

The screen started blinking, its edges shallowing out, and then it burned green and was stubbled with static.

I kept trying to wade through the glitches. I kept telling myself that if I could read those files everything would become untroubled and weightless.

I unplugged the Gateway. I restarted it.

I was on hold with the company's emergency hotline for an hour before I hung up, realizing there was nothing they would be able to do.

My eyes were aching as I kept tapping keys with one hand while moving the mouse around in useless circles on its pad with the other, my face flushed with concentration.

The computer was now a toy made from stone that just stared back at me. The computer was not going to lose this game.

Each keystroke took me further from where I wanted to be.

I was receding from the information.

Within the random flashing and static I could occasionally make out the hills of Sherman Oaks rising up out of the San Fernando Valley, or I glimpsed the sh.o.r.eline of a hotel in Mexico, my father standing on a pier and he was lifting his hand, and the sound of the ocean was coming from the computer's speakers.

Briefly there was a shadow of the Bank of America on Ventura Boulevard.

Another familiar apparition: Clayton's face.

And then the computer was dying.

Before the sound faded out completely there was the faint and m.u.f.fled verse from "The Sunny Side of the Street."

And then the computer whirred itself into silence and died.

The only answers were going to come from Robby, I told myself as I pushed away from the desk.

The writer immediately materialized.

The writer asked in his thin voice: Do you really believe that, Bret? Do you really believe your son will supply the answers? Do you really believe that, Bret? Do you really believe your son will supply the answers?

When I responded affirmatively, the writer said: That is sad. That is sad.

I told Marta I would be picking Robby up from Buckley. I didn't let her say anything. I just walked out of her office as I announced this.

I could hear her reluctantly agreeing as I moved down the hall to the garage.

Outside, the wind kept altering its direction.

On the interstate I saw my father standing motionless on the walkway of an overpa.s.s.

After I unrolled the window and flashed my driver's license to a security guard, I pulled into a line of cars waiting in the parking lot in front of the library. The spires of gnarled pines rose up around us, encircling the school.

I glanced at the scar in the palm of my hand.

This was either going to be an ending (endings were always so easy for you) or something would get healed, and the healing would forestall a tragedy.

The writer, in his own way, vehemently disagreed.

Privileged children mumbled warnings to one another as they headed toward the fleet of SUVs waiting for them. Security cameras followed the boys. Sons would always be in peril. Fathers would always be condemned.

Robby's backpack was flung over his shoulder and his shirt was untucked and the gray and red striped tie loosened, hanging slackly from around his neck: the parody of a tired businessman.

Robby was staring at the Porsche and at the man in the driver's seat. Robby looked at the man questioningly, as if I were someone who had never known his name.

My questions were going to merge with his answers.

I could feel his doubt as he stood rigidly in front of the car.

I was begging him to move forward. You have to surrender, I was begging. You have to give me another chance.

The writer was about to hiss something, and I silenced him.

And then, as if he had heard me, Robby shuffled toward the car, forcing a smile.

He took his backpack off before opening the pa.s.senger door.

"What's up?" He was grinning as he placed the backpack on the floor.

As he sat down he closed the pa.s.senger door. "Where's Marta?"

"Okay, look," I started, "I know you're not happy to see me, so you don't have to smile like that."

Robby didn't even pause. He immediately turned away and was about to open the door when I locked it. His hand clutched the handle.

"I want to talk to you," I said, now that we were both encased within the car.

"About what?" He let go of the handle and stared straight ahead.

The division in the car a.s.serted itself, as I had expected it to.

"Look, I want all the bulls.h.i.t dropped, okay?"

He turned to me, incredulous. "What bulls.h.i.t, Dad?"

The "Dad" was the giveaway.

"Oh, s.h.i.t, Robby, stop it. I know how miserable you've been." I breathed in and tried to soften my voice but failed. "Because I've been miserable in that house as well." I breathed in again. "I've made everyone miserable in that house. You don't have to pretend anymore."

I watched his smooth jaw clench and then unclench as he stared out the windshield.

"I want you to tell me what's going on." I had turned in my seat so that I was facing him. My arms were crossed.

"About what?" he asked worriedly.

"About the missing boys." There was no way to control the urgency of my voice. "What do you know about them?"

His silence emphasized something. Around us, kids were piling into cars. The cars were maneuvered out of the circular drive while the Porsche sat stationary against the curb. I was waiting.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said softly.

"I talked to Ashton's mom. I talked to Nadine. Do you know what she found on his computer?"

"She's crazy." Robby turned to face me, panicked. "She's crazy, Dad."