Chapter 20: Ten Years Late.

Millie woke to a clacking sound, a rhythmic tic-tic-tic-tic outside her window.

"Jerry?"

The shape next to her mumbles and rolls over. "Mmmmm."

Millie slides out of bed, flinches when her feet touch the cold wooden floor, and goes to the window. She parts the blinds. Sunlight forces her back for a moment, but her eyes adjust. What she sees drives a spike through her already hangover-addled skull.

The street below is devoid of cars. Now covered with ruddy cobblestones, she traces it to the distance and finds the source of the sound: a black carriage, polished to a high gloss, pulled by two horses.

"Jerry. My G.o.d. It's happened."

"Mmm...what?"

Millie's mouth hangs open but her tongue can't form around the three little syllables: Y-2-K.

Chapter 21: The Ox-Cart Man.

Until we were twelve years old, Billy Wilson and I searched for the Ox-Cart Man during our summer vacations in New Hampshire. Our searches grew over the years, adding new technology and techniques to find the worn path where that phantom supposedly trekked home from the Portsmouth market.

That last summer was very special-we both knew it would be our last chance to find the old road and maybe catch a glimpse of the Ox-Cart Man together. Billy's dad was being transferred to California, and I would have to reconnoiter the Piscataqua River valley alone, climbing over rock and stone, through old forests, and near quietly murmuring streams for a hint of the legend. We pledged to find him that year.

Billy collected anything to do with the Ox-Cart Man-sc.r.a.ps of stories in old newspapers, books of regional ghost stories, pictures of lost throughways, bridges, and foundations of homes that time pushed aside. He constructed a map of the region, complete with every reported sighting.

I snuck out of my house on that last night. Both of us traveled by bicycle, dangerous in the dark, but stealthy too.

"I've learned some new stuff," he said, eyes glowing like silver embers under the moon. "Mom drove me to the library in Portsmouth today. They have a whole new local folklore section."

We slid off our bikes near an old crossroads.

"All the stories corroborate, he was shot by some highwaymen. He was on his way home from the market after bartering all his family's goods, even the ox and cart." Billy snapped on a flashlight and ducked under a sycamore branch.

"Okay, we know that bit," I said, tromping after him.

Billy stopped, turned, and smiled. "There's a part of the legend I'd never heard before. His son left looking for him after the Ox-Cart Man didn't return. The son never came home, either."

A chill breeze danced through the trees.

"They say his son is still looking for him," Billy whispered. "He was our age." He nudged me with a k.n.o.bby elbow. "His name was William."

We found a spot where the old path dipped low beside a dying stream. Billy's notes indicated this might have been the location the Ox-Cart Man met his fate. I felt a little childish when fear crept in my chest; Billy needed some closure on his own childhood-he needed some verification of his beliefs.

The moon shifted back toward the morning horizon, filtering long streams of pale light through the light forest. The night smelled black: the rich smell of mud and old moss. Billy and I kept the vigil in silence. Then he arrived, shimmering like a morning fog.

The Ox Cart Man looked more solid than I'd expected. He loped with a steady gait, a pole over his shoulder holding a black kettle. His face was drawn, long and rimmed with a reddish beard, just like the legends said. The man wore a rough cotton shirt and black coat. His feet struck the ground with no sound but the light brush of breeze.

Billy stood up. I remember the burning in my arms and legs-the tingling nerves. I wanted to stop him, but all I could do was watch as my friend walked toward the Ox Cart Man.

The man stopped, regarding Billy. He knelt after a moment, smiling. I heard a voice-not from the specter but in my head, William? Billy nodded. The Ox Cart Man reached inside his black kettle and pulled out a small candy, wintergreen so the stories told, and offered it to Billy.

They stood for a few minutes in silence until finally without a look back, Billy walked away with the Ox Cart Man. I could do nothing but sit with throbbing heart as the father and son vanished into the trees, fading like the mist.

Chapter 22: Crenshaw's Gift.

Little Ralphie hugs the package to his chest and shakes it back and forth. The contents rattle, a muted clatter-clatter.

"It's so big," he says, smile beaming.

Mom leans over to Dad and lowers her voice to a whisper. "Legos, right?"

Dad shakes his head while Ralphie strips the paper from the large box.

"Well...it's big. Almost as big as the boy." She frowns. "Tinker Toys?"

Head shake.

"Lincoln Logs?"

Head shake.

"All right...I give."

Ralphie yanks open the end of the box. "Whoa..."

Dad smiles. "Remember old man Crenshaw down the street?"

Ralphie tips the box and the contents tumble to the floor in a noisy, off-white pile. The skull, round and empty, falls out last.

Mom frowns and covers her mouth with one hand. "My G.o.d..."

"Don't worry honey. I bleached 'em clean." Dad looks at Ralphie. "Careful boy--there's no spare bits in there. A real one-of-a-kind set."

Chapter 23: Better Lessons.

Stefan found the monkey hiding under a dumpster in the alley behind the Caleta Hotel. He was a scrawny Barbary Macaque with matted, clumpy hair. Lost and hungry. Stefan, himself a little lost and hungry in a different sense, lured him with a biscuit. He smiled as the monkey's fingers, long and pink and trembling, s.n.a.t.c.hed the treat from his hand. Crumbs tumbled from his busy mouth.

"You're quick with those fingers. Far away from the Ape's Den or the tunnels, too." Stefan hoisted the monkey on his shoulder. "We'll call you Yanko for G.o.d is gracious to poor Stefan. We can have a good business, you and I."

Yanko learned the quiet art of the pickpocket, and took to thievery like it was oxygen. The pair worked the crowds of tourists: Europeans and Americans rapt by Gibraltar's stark beauty and the mobs of Yanko's cousins, delightful in their comfort with humans and comic antics. Stefan's purse grew, swelled with wallets, jewelry, and watches liberated by Yanko's hungry fingers, and the two pirates lived with impunity in a hostel room, anonymous and safe. Who could name the thieves from an island of grinning monkeys?

Stefan often whispered stories from his beloved Romania at night, drifting off with words still tumbling from his lips. "Perhaps, some day we will go, you and I," he would say. He mentioned his wife and daughter, holding his finger and thumb together to indicate the gold locket his precious Sofia wore. "A heart with a picture of sweet Florica tucked inside. My little flower," Stefan said, his voice rattling with time and memory.

"I was too young to be a papa. Too young and too hungry."

Stefan fell asleep with the image of Sofia in his eyes. He woke alone in the dark of early morning and searched for his friend. Yanko returned after dawn, still lean despite his fill of biscuits and fruit and nuts for weeks. His tiny fingers clutched a heavy gold chain and fat broach bright with diamonds.

"You've fallen in love with the thrill, little one." Stefan smiled. "Have you been hopping ledges of the Caleta again, creeping through sleepers' open windows to have at their luggage?"

Yanko chattered, his eyes glittering and black, pink fingers pressed against the treasure until his knuckles turned white.

On the second morning Yanko crouched in the center of an array of gems and heirlooms laid out in rows on Stefan's dresser. His pink hands rested on his knees.

"All from one night's haul?" Stefan's smile wavered. "Success has made you greedy, my friend. We must take caution. You'll be caught...maybe worse." He patted the monkey's hairy head. "But with this," Stefan's hand swept over the cache, "we can live like kings, little one."

Stefan brushed the treasures into a wooden box and stashed it under the bed.

Yanko waited at the windowsill on the third morning. A thin, gold chain trailed from his paw. The monkey pulled his closed paw to his chest as Stefan approached.

"What is it?"

Pink fingers unfolded. In the middle of Yanko's palm lay a tiny heart of gold.

"A locket?" Stefan's heart pinched against his ribcage.

Yanko held his prize forward.

"It's like...it's like my Sofia's," Stefan said, picking up the locket with one hand and touching the opposite to his throat. "I can see against the skin of her neck." Stefan fumbled with the clasp and pried it open.

"I thought...perhaps..." Stefan raised his eyes from the empty locket. The window stood open, and Yanko was gone.

The next day, before he left the hostel for the docks, Stefan opened the wooden box and took just enough for pa.s.sage to the mainland and rail fare to Romania. He dragged the box to the Caleta and left it just inside the lobby.

"Sir," the concierge called. "You've left something."

Stefan paused at the door. "I know. And I'm going home to find it."

Chapter 24: Communion.

Two shapes move behind the beam of a single flashlight: a man and a boy. The man sets the light on a counter and begins to search the cabinets. He moves slowly, opening each door and peering inside. The boy's head tilts to the boarded windows. His eyes flash back and forth in the yellow light.

"I can still hear them."

The man nods. He finds a box of wafers and a gla.s.s jug with a few swallows of wine remaining.

"Do they...know..." The boy's voice shakes and fades.

"We're okay for now." The man pulls a pistol from his waist band and lays it next to the flashlight. "We need some rest."

Both eat in silence, chewing the stale wafers slowly, savoring each bite even though it tastes like glue. They share the wine from the bottle, not bothering with the gold chalices under the counter. After their meal, the boy's eyes grow heavy.

"Go ahead. Try to get some sleep," the man whispers.

The man leans against the counter and guides the boy's head to his lap. Outside, distant moans echo. The boy shifts a few times and settles. His eyes lost to memories, the man strokes the boy's hair. The flashlight magnifies the shadow of a cross on the opposite wall.

"Some of the others...back where we were...said G.o.d was dead," the boy says. He is almost asleep, exhausted.

Gla.s.s breaks somewhere down the street.

"Nonsense," the man whispers. "If G.o.d were dead, we wouldn't be here together." The man's voice wavers, but does not break.

They sit in silence for a few, long minutes. The noises outside grow faint. The man thinks of the grey things shambling in the street. He closes his eyes and sees their black mouths, smells the reek of rot and decay, the stench of urine and blood. He imagines their relentless, blind stares. They will not rest.

When he is sure the boy is asleep, he reaches back onto the counter and collects the pistol. He snaps open the chamber and counts two cartridges.

"If G.o.d were dead, little one, there wouldn't be a bullet left for both of us."