Fortunately for w.i.l.l.y, Tom had long since pa.s.sed out, and Aaron's mom answered the doorbell. w.i.l.l.y did a double take a he hadn't seen Aaron's mom in a while and had forgotten how pretty she was. He noticed a bruise below her right eye that she'd obviously tried to cover with makeup.

"h.e.l.lo, Mrs. Quinn," he said. "Aaron's not home by any chance, is he?"

"Oh a hi, w.i.l.l.y," she said, looking past him into the street. "I was hoping he was with you. He left on his bike during dinner and hasn't come home."

She checked her watch. 9:45 p.m.

"I'm starting to worry," she said, and then her heart was lifted by an idea. "What about your grandparents? Maybe they've heard from him."

w.i.l.l.y shook his head sadly. "Sorry, Mrs. Quinn," he said. "They wouldn't know it if Aaron walked in the house and sat on the couch with them."

Ashley cringed. "I'm sorry, w.i.l.l.y," she said. "Aaron never tells me anything."

w.i.l.l.y wasn't surprised a Aaron never told him anything either.

"I'd better go," he said. "I'm sure he'll show up." He was fibbing about the last part, but he hoped like everything it was true. He turned and trotted down the steps.

I hope you're right, Ashley said to herself, watching him leave. She liked w.i.l.l.y a he was always the perfect little gentleman. She called after him. "If you see him, send him home right away, okay?"

"Will do," w.i.l.l.y said, then with a little wave, "Good night, Mrs. Quinn."

Chapter 9.

Gran Cavallo The ancient, cage-style freight-elevator rattled its way toward the top floor of Michael's apartment building. Aaron grinned as pipes and cables rushed past his face, giving him an exhilarating sense of speed.

"This old elevator sold me on the property," Michael said. "My dad had one in the mill where he worked, and he'd let me ride it whenever I visited."

The cage jerked to a stop. Michael pulled on an oiled leather strap, raising the wooden gate that served as a door.

The elevator opened onto a s.p.a.cious rooftop garden and a long, brick walkway canopied by a yachting-blue awning hung on heavy, polished-bra.s.s arches. The walkway was flanked by stone benches and large pots full of fresh flowers and lead to an exquisite pair of huge, hand-tooled copper doors.

Aaron stopped to check them out. The doors depicted a magnificent horse.

"That's Leonardo Da Vinci's Gran Cavallo," Michael explained, "the magnificent, twenty-four foot high clay equestrian model he completed in 1492. I found the doors in Milan and had them shipped back here by boat."

"I can't believe I've never heard of that," Aaron said, running his fingers over the highly detailed copper relief. He had read many accounts of Da Vinci's life, but none had mentioned this.

"It's an amazing story," Michael said. "The Gran Cavallo was one of Da Vinci's greatest and most unknown masterpieces. Seventy tons of bronze were set aside for the casting of that horse, but before De Vinci could use it, the precious bronze was sent off and used to make cannons. Then, in 1499, during France's invasion of Italy, French archers used Leonardo's beautiful clay model for target practice, dashing Da Vinci's hope of ever having it cast in bronze, and breaking his heart in the process."

He keyed in the entry alarm code and invited Aaron into his loft with a chivalrous bow and wave of his arm.

"That's an unbelievable story," Aaron said as he stepped through the doors. "To have something that is such a huge part of your life destroyed like that. It's sad."

Michael could relate. "It's very sad," he agreed.

Chapter 10.

The Loft Aaron's eyes went wide; never in his wildest dreams had he imagined living anywhere as cool as Michael's outrageous loft apartment. He stood in the entry area craning up at the high ceilings and admiring the eclectic blend of fine original artwork mixed with movie and exotic-car posters.

Next to him, from high in the rafters, a broad sheet of clear water flowed down the face of a polished travertine wall before disappearing into the floor. He poked his finger into the silvery fluid, creating a tiny arcing wave.

The loft was heated to a comfortable temperature. Michael carefully lifted his jacket from Aaron's shoulders and laid it over a chair.

"Take a look around," he said. "The hardwood floors and ceilings are original to the building, but the rest is mine. Oh, and if you need to use the restroom, there are three to choose from." He indicated the doors, each in a separate corner of the loft, then walked over to the kitchen to start a kettle of water.

Aaron didn't know where to begin. In one corner of the enormous s.p.a.ce was a cla.s.sic arcade with pinball machines, console video games, a bowling machine, a dartboard, a chessboard, candy and drink vending machines, and in honor of 21st century technology, a replica 1950s era jukebox with 100 CD capacity, iPod jack, and surround-sound speakers.

Another area was outfitted as a gym, with a basketball hoop (with regulation key), a full-size trampoline, a weight machine, a treadmill, a stationary-bike, and a weight-bench surrounded by free-weights.

In a far corner, Michael had set up a music studio equipped with a dozen vintage guitars and amps, a pro drum kit, and an array of keyboards. The digital recording console had an immense, automated mixing board and was fitted with a pair of the biggest display monitors Aaron had ever seen.

"Your loft ... it's incredible!" he said.

Michael smiled and nodded a he was proud of his success.

He washed and dried his hands then removed a first aid kit from a drawer, opened it, and laid a few items out on the large granite island. "Come on over and sit down for a second," he said. "But wash your hands first."

As Aaron washed up, he found scratches on the backs of his hands that he hadn't noticed under all of the grime. d.a.m.n dog, he thought, as a brief, frightening image of the manic animal jumped in and out of his mind. Then he took a seat on a stool by the island.

Michael cleaned Aaron's cuts and abrasions and applied antiseptic, gauze and tape. "That should do the trick," he said.

Aaron stood, feeling renewed. He smiled at Michael, grateful for the man's kindness.

While Michael straightened up his mess, Aaron walked across the loft to a wall of gla.s.s that provided a spectacular view of the city. He could see Creek Side Park and the post lanterns sparkling off the icy water flowing in the stream. In the distance he could see the Community Plaza Bank building and the lights in his middle-school parking lot.

Michael walked over to a cozy sitting area carrying a tray with two cups of hot chocolate. "Have a seat and help yourself," he said, gesturing toward the sofa. He set the tray on the large ottoman and returned to the kitchen.

Aaron sank into the glove-soft leather, then laid his head back and closed his eyes for a moment. The day's disturbing events simmered in his skull like beef stew over an open fire, blending together into a thick broth, no single event standing out from the rest. He opened his eyes and leaned forward to hook his finger into a cup of chocolate, then took a cautious sip of the steaming beverage.

Michael returned with some brownies and napkins and sat down in an overstuffed chair. "I'm sorry to hear about your father," he said.

Aaron nodded politely. "I was nine when he died," he said. "He was killed while serving in Afghanistan." He couldn't help but recall that dreadful night four years earlier when the doorbell rang: It was around midnight, and he and his mother had both been asleep. He'd been too young to understand why she held his hand so tightly as they walked down the stairs to answer the door. He remembered the look on her face when she saw the notifying officer and the medic. The despair in her eyes. The loneliness. The terror. She had known why they had come.

"I'm very sorry," Michael said.

Aaron took a bite of brownie and grinned, revealing a row of chocolate teeth. "These brownies are amazing," he mumbled.

"You can thank the bakery counter," Michael said.

Aaron chuckled and took another bite.

"Are you ready to shoot some eight-ball?" Michael asked. He stood and walked over to his custom-made, tournament-size table. "I always say, if you want to feel normal, do something normal."

"Okay," Aaron said, wiping his mouth and hands with a napkin. "What's eight-ball?"

"Don't tell me you've never played pool before," Michael said as he filled the rack with b.a.l.l.s.

Aaron didn't say anything.

"Well, it's time you learned," Michael said.

Aaron came over and picked up the glossy cue ball, then rolled it across the table's smooth blood-red baize. It careened off three cushions and came to rest inches from his hand. He marveled at the mysterious physics at work and thought of the pioneering mathematicians who wrote the first theorems defining it.

Suddenly a different image popped into Aaron's head.

"s.h.i.t," he said a a word meant for himself, but accidentally spoken out loud.

"Pardon?" Michael said.

"Oh, sorry," Aaron said. "I just remembered something important I forgot to do." He searched his pockets for his phone, but it was missing. He figured he must have dropped it back at the cannery.

"Uh ... Michael?" he said. "May I use your phone?"

Michael nodded. "It's in my jacket, there on the chair."

Aaron found the phone and walked over to the kitchen to make a call.

w.i.l.l.y lay on his bed at home, trying to read. His phone rang with an unfamiliar ringtone, but he picked up anyway.

"w.i.l.l.y, it's Aaron."

w.i.l.l.y instantly sat up, dropping his book. "Where the bleeding h.e.l.l are you?" he said. "I've been looking all over creation for you. Whose number is this?"

"I a uh ... I'm at a friend's house," Aaron said, glancing at Michael.

"Why didn't you text me back?" w.i.l.l.y demanded. "Do you even know I came down to the cannery to see you? Like you asked me to?"

"I lost my phone and a wait ... You came? When? Was I there?"

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l yes, you were there!" w.i.l.l.y said, growing more upset as they talked. He grabbed a pencil from his night table and twirled it nervously through his fingers. "Who's your new friend?"

"Did you see what happened to me?" Aaron asked.

"Of course I did, you w.a.n.ker! I saw the whole blasted thing! Why aren't you at home?"

"I a uh, I got sidetracked."

w.i.l.l.y paused for a moment, close to losing it. "So, who's your new friend?"

"Oh, he's just a man I met at the park. He's a"

"A man? What man? And you're at his house? At night? Are you off your trolley?"

"His name's Michael. He helped me after the a"

"Good for him. So you're headed home now, right?"

"Well a uh ... not yet. We're starting a game of pool. You should see his loft, w.i.l.l.y."

"d.a.m.n it, Aaron. Who the h.e.l.l does this Michael guy think he is?"

"Hey!" Aaron snapped with sudden viciousness. His temper was short after what he'd been through tonight. "I don't have to take c.r.a.p from you or anyone else, okay? I'll explain everything tomorrow on the way to school a and in the mean time, you can just chill the h.e.l.l out!"

w.i.l.l.y felt like he'd been struck by a fist and was unable to speak for a few moments.

"What's with you, Aaron?" he said at last, his voice as empty as he felt. "It's me ... w.i.l.l.y ... your best friend, remember? Did you at least call your mom? She's worried sick, you know. I was over there earlier, and she's not doing too well."

Aaron had forgotten about his mother, but he could no longer be bothered with the trifles of family life. After all, he had escaped being eaten by a dog, then nearly shot and killed, and now he was playing pool in a cool loft a like a man. He felt strong ... independent ... invincible.

"Tell someone who cares," he said, his tone cold as an ice axe.

w.i.l.l.y felt as if an artery had been severed. With one unbelievably cruel remark, Aaron had effectively ended their conversation a and their lifelong friendship.

"Screw you, you arrogant son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h," he said.

Aaron was unfazed. "I gotta go," he said.

w.i.l.l.y kept the phone to his ear, but he couldn't speak. Tears came.

"See you tomorrow, w.i.l.l.y," Aaron said with a detached air. He ended the call, then walked over and returned Michael's phone to where he found it.

Michael couldn't help but overhear. "What was that all about?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing," Aaron replied. "Just dealing with an old friend."

w.i.l.l.y tossed his phone on the night table and punched his pillow. "Screw you, Aaron Quinn," he said. "You can just b.u.g.g.e.r the h.e.l.l off!" He lay back, pulled his blanket up over his head and cried.