The two remaining boys have turned the color of skim milk and seem incapable of movement. “Don’t worry about him,” Jack says. “He’ll be fine. In fifteen, twenty minutes, you’ll be free to go home. I didn’t think there was any point in talking to someone who lies from the git-go, that’s all. Remember: even lousy cops know when they’re being lied to, and I am a great cop. So this is what we are going to do now. We’re going to talk about what happened this morning, about what Tyler was doing, the way you separated from him, where you were, what you did afterward, anyone you might have seen, that kind of thing.” He leans back and flattens his hands on the table. “Go on, tell me what happened.”
Ronnie and T.J. look at each other. T.J. inserts his right index finger into his mouth and begins to worry the nail with his front teeth. “Ebbie flipped you,” Ronnie says.
“No kidding. After that.”
“Uh, Ty said he hadda go someplace.”
“He hadda go someplace,” T.J. chimes in.
“Where were you right then?”
“Uh . . . outside the Allsorts Pomorium.”
“Emporium,” T.J. says. “It’s not a pomorium, mushhead, it’s a em-por-ee-um.”
“And?”
“And Ty said—” Ronnie glances at T.J. “Ty said he hadda go somewhere.”
“Which way did he go, east or west?”
The boys treat this question as though it were asked in a foreign language, by puzzling over it, mutely.
“Toward the river, or away from the river?”
They consult each other again. The question has been asked in English, but no proper answer exists. Finally, Ronnie says, “I don’t know.”
“How about you, T.J.? Do you know?”
T.J. shakes his head.
“Good. That’s honest. You don’t know because you didn’t see him leave, did you? And he didn’t really say he had to go somewhere, did he? I bet Ebbie made that up.”
T.J. wriggles, and Ronnie gazes at Jack with wondering awe. He has just revealed himself to be Sherlock Holmes.
“Remember when I drove past in my truck?” They nod in unison. “Tyler was with you.” They nod again. “You’d already left the sidewalk in front of the Allsorts Emporium, and you were riding east on Chase Street—away from the river. I saw you in my rearview mirror. Ebbie was pedaling very fast. The two of you could almost keep up with him. Tyler was smaller than the rest of you, and he fell behind. So I know he didn’t go off on his own. He couldn’t keep up.”
Ronnie Metzger wails, “And he got way, way behind, and the Misherfun came out and grabbed him.” He promptly bursts into tears.
Jack leans forward. “Did you see it happen? Either one of you?”
“Noooaa,” Ronnie sobs. T.J. slowly shakes his head.
“You didn’t see anyone talking with Ty, or a car stopping, or him going into a shop, or anything like that?”
The boys utter an incoherent, overlapping babble to the effect that they saw nothing.
“When did you realize he was gone?”
T.J. opens his mouth, then closes it. Ronnie says, “When we were having the Slurpees.” His face pursed with tension, T.J. nods in agreement.
Two more questions reveal that they had enjoyed the Slurpees at the 7-Eleven, where they also purchased Magic cards, and that it had probably taken them no more than a couple of minutes to notice Tyler Marshall’s absence. “Ebbie said Ty would buy us some more cards,” helpful Ronnie adds.
They have reached the moment for which Jack has been waiting. Whatever the secret may be, it took place soon after the boys came out of the 7-Eleven and saw that Tyler had still not joined them. And the secret is T.J.’s alone. The kid is practically sweating blood, while the memory of the Slurpees and Magic cards has calmed down his friend to a remarkable degree. There is only one more question he wishes to ask the two of them. “So Ebbie wanted to find Tyler. Did you all get on your bikes and search around, or did Ebbie send just one of you?”
“Huh?” Ronnie says. T.J. drops his chin and crosses his arms on the top of his head, as if to ward off a blow. “Tyler went somewheres,” Ronnie says. “We didn’t look for him, we went to the park. To trade the Magic cards.”
“I see,” Jack says. “Ronnie, thank you. You have been very helpful. I’d like you to go outside and stay with Ebbie and Officer Dulac while I have a short conversation with T.J. It shouldn’t take more than five minutes, if that.”
“I can go?” At Jack’s nod, Ronnie moves hesitantly out of his chair. When he reaches the door, T.J. emits a whimper. Then Ronnie is gone, and T.J. jerks backward into his chair and tries to become as small as possible while staring at Jack with eyes that have become shiny, flat, and perfectly round.
“T.J.,” Jack says, “you have nothing to worry about, I promise you.” Now that he is alone with the boy who had declared his guilt by falling asleep in the interrogation room, Jack Sawyer wants above all to absolve him of that guilt. He knows T.J.’s secret, and the secret is nothing; it is useless. “No matter what you tell me, I’m not going to arrest you. That’s a promise, too. You’re not in any trouble, son. In fact, I’m glad you and your friends could come down here and help us straighten things out.”
He goes on in this vein for another three or four minutes, in the course of which T. J. Renniker, formerly condemned to death by firing squad, gradually comprehends that his pardon has come through and his release from what his buddy Ronnie would call vurance dile is imminent. A little color returns to his face. He returns to his former size, and his eyes lose their horror-stricken glaze.
“Tell me what Ebbie did,” Jack says. “Just between you and me. I won’t tell him anything. Honest. I won’t rat you out.”
“He wanted Ty to buy more Magic cards,” T.J. says, feeling his way through unknown territory. “If Ty was there, he woulda. Ebbie can get kind of mean. So . . . so he told me, go downstreet and get the slowpoke, or I’ll give you an Indian burn.”
“You got on your bike and rode back down Chase Street.”
“Uh-huh. I looked, but I didn’t see Ty anywheres. I thought I would, you know? Because where else could he be?”
“And . . . ?” Jack reels in the answer he knows is coming by winding his hand through the air.
“And I still didn’t see him. And I got to Queen Street, where the old folks’ home is, with the big hedge out front. And, um, I saw his bike there. On the sidewalk in front of the hedge. His sneaker was there, too. And some leaves off the hedge.”
There it is, the worthless secret. Maybe not entirely worthless: it gives them a pretty accurate fix on the time of the boy’s disappearance: 8:15, say, or 8:20. The bike lay on the sidewalk next to the sneaker for something like four hours before Danny Tcheda spotted them. Maxton’s takes up just about all the land on that section of Queen Street, and no one was showing up for the Strawberry Fest until noon.
T.J. describes being afraid—if the Fisherman pulled Ty into that hedge, maybe he’d come back for more! In answer to Jack’s final question, the boy says, “Ebbie told us to say Ty rode away from in front of the Allsorts, so people wouldn’t, like, blame us. In case he was killed. Ty isn’t really killed, is he? Kids like Ty don’t get killed.”
“I hope not,” Jack says.
“Me, too.” T.J. snuffles and wipes his nose on his arm.
“Let’s get you on your way home,” Jack says, leaving his chair.
T.J. stands up and begins to move along the side of the table. “Oh! I just remembered!”
“What?”
“I saw feathers on the sidewalk.”
The floor beneath Jack’s feet seems to roll left, then right, like the deck of a ship. He steadies himself by grasping the back of a chair. “Really.” He takes care to compose himself before turning to the boy. “What do you mean, feathers?”
“Black ones. Big. They looked like they came off a crow. One was next to the bike, and the other was in the sneaker.”
“That’s funny,” says Jack, buying time until he ceases to reverberate from the unexpected appearance of feathers in his conversation with T. J. Renniker. That he should respond at all is ridiculous; that he should have felt, even for a second, that he was likely to faint is grotesque. T.J.’s feathers were real crow feathers on a real sidewalk. His were dream feathers, feathers from unreal robins, illusory as everything else in a dream. Jack tells himself a number of helpful things like this, and soon he does feel normal once again, but we should be aware that, for the rest of the night and much of the next day, the word feathers floats, surrounded by an aura as charged as an electrical storm, beneath and through his thoughts, now and then surfacing with the sizzling crackle of a lightning bolt.