“Which of you is supposed to be my uncle?” Luke asked. “Or is it both of you?”

Rocking Chair Man frowned. “Can you understand what he’s saying?”

“No. I’m going to put him in Mr. Jackson’s back room.”

“I’ll take his legs.”

Luke was coming back now. His ear was actually helping in that regard. It felt as if it wanted to drill right into his head. And maybe hide there.

“No, I got him,” Forklift Man said. “He’s not heavy. I want you to call Doc Roper, and ask him to make a house call.”

“More of a warehouse call,” Rocking Chair Man said, and laughed, exposing the yellowed pegs of his teeth.

“Whatever. Go and do it. Use the station phone.”

“Yessir.” Rocking Chair Man gave Forklift Man a half-assed salute, and set off. Forklift Man picked Luke up.

“Put me down,” Luke said. “I can walk.”

“You think so? Let’s see you do it.”

Luke swayed on his feet for a moment, then steadied.

“What’s your name, son?”

Luke considered, not sure he wanted to give it when he didn’t know if this man was an uncle. He looked okay . . . but then, so did Zeke back at the Institute, when he was in one of his rare good moods.

“What’s yours?” he countered.

“Tim Jamieson. Come on, let’s at least get you out of the sun.”

25

Norbert Hollister, owner of a decrepit motel which only kept operating thanks to his monthly stipend as an Institute stringer, used the station-house phone to call Doc Roper, but first he used his cell to call a number he had gotten in the early hours of the morning. Then, he had been pissed off at being awakened. Now, however, he was delighted.

“That kid,” he said. “He’s here.”

“Just a second,” Andy Fellowes said. “I’m transferring you.”

There was a brief silence and then another voice said, “Are you Hollister? In DuPray, South Carolina?”

“Yeah. That kid you’re looking for just jumped off a freight. Ear’s all tore up. Is there still a reward for him?”

“Yes. And it will be bigger if you make sure he stays in town.”

Norbert laughed. “Oh, I think he’ll be stayin. He banged into a signal-post and it conked him silly.”

“Don’t lose track of him,” Stackhouse said. “I want a call every hour. Understood?”

“Like an update.”

“Yes, like that. We’ll take care of the rest.”

HELL IS HERE

1

Tim led the bloodied-up kid, obviously still dazed but walking on his own, through Craig Jackson’s office. The owner of DuPray Storage & Warehousing lived in the nearby town of Dunning, but had been divorced for five years, and the spacious, air-conditioned room behind the office served him as auxiliary living quarters. Jackson wasn’t there now, which was no surprise to Tim; on days when ’56 stopped rather than barreling straight on through, Craig had a tendency to make himself scarce.

Past the little kitchenette with its microwave, hotplate, and tiny sink was a living area that consisted of an easy chair planted in front of an HD television set. Beyond that, old centerfolds from Playboy and Penthouse looked down on a neatly made camp bed. Tim’s idea was to get the kid to lie down on it until Doc Roper came, but the boy shook his head.

“Chair.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

The kid sat. The cushion made a tired woofing sound. Tim took a knee before him. “Now how about a name?”

The kid looked at him doubtfully. He had stopped bleeding, but his cheek was covered with gore, and his right ear was a tattered horror. “Were you waiting for me?”

“For the train. I work here mornings. Longer, when the 9956 is scheduled. Now what’s your name?”

“Who was the other guy?”

“No more questions until I get a name.”

The kid thought it over, then licked his lips and said, “I’m Nick. Nick Wilholm.”

“Okay, Nick.” Tim made a peace sign. “How many fingers do you see?”

“Two.”

“Now?”

“Three. The other guy, did he say he was my uncle?”

Tim frowned. “That was Norbert Hollister. He owns the local motel. If he’s anyone’s uncle, I don’t know about it.” Tim held up a single finger. “Follow it. Let me see your eyes move.”

Nicky’s eyes followed his finger left and right, then up and down.

“I guess you’re not scrambled too badly,” Tim said. “We can hope, anyway. Who are you running away from, Nick?”

The kid looked alarmed and tried to get out of the chair. “Who told you that?”

Tim pushed him gently back. “No one. It’s just that whenever I see a kid in dirty torn-up clothes and a torn-up ear jump from a train, I make this wild assumption that he’s a runaway. Now who—”

“What’s all the shouting about? I heard . . . oh dear-to-Jesus, what happened to that boy?”

Tim turned and saw Orphan Annie Ledoux. She must have been in her tent behind the depot. She often went there to snooze in the middle of the day. Although the thermometer outside the station had registered eighty-five degrees at ten that morning, Annie was dressed in what Tim thought of as her Full Mexican outfit: serape, sombrero, junk bracelets, and rescued cowboy boots sprung along the seams.

“This is Nick Wilholm,” Tim said. “He’s visiting our fair village from God knows where. Jumped off the ’56 and ran full-tilt-boogie into a signal-post. Nick, this is Annie Ledoux.”

“Very pleased to meet you,” Luke said.

“Thank you, son, same goes back. Was it the signal-post that ripped off half his ear, Tim?”

“I don’t believe so,” Tim said. “I was hoping to get that story.”

“Were you waiting for the train to come in?” the boy asked her. He seemed fixated on that. Maybe because he’d had his bell rung pretty hard, maybe for some other reason.

“I’m waiting for nothing but the return of Our Lord Jesus Christ,” Annie said. She glanced around. “Mr. Jackson has naughty pictures on his wall. I can’t say I’m surprised.” Can’t came out cain’t.

Just then an olive-skinned man wearing biballs over a white shirt and dark tie came into the room. A railroader’s pillowtick cap was perched on his head. “Hello, Hector,” Tim said.

“Hello to you,” Hector said. He glanced at the bloody boy sitting in Craig Jackson’s easy chair, not showing much interest, then returned his attention to Tim. “My secondman tells me I have a couple of generators for you, a bunch of lawn tractors and such, about a ton of canned goods, and another ton of fresh produce. I am running late, Timmy my boy, and if you don’t unload me, you can send the fleet of trucks this town doesn’t have to pick up your goods in Brunswick.”

Tim stood up. “Annie, can you keep this young man company until the doctor gets here? I have to go run a forklift for awhile.”

“I can handle that. If he pitches a fit I’ll put something in his mouth.”

“I’m not going to pitch a fit,” the boy said.

“That’s what they all say,” Annie retorted, rather obscurely.

“Son,” Hector said, “did you stow away on my train?”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”

“Well, since you’re off it now that’s nothing to me. The cops’ll deal with you, I guess. Tim, I see you got a situation here, but goods won’t wait, so help a man out. Where’s your goddam crew? I only seen one guy, and he’s in the office on the phone.”

“That’s Hollister from the local motel, and I can’t see him unloading anything. Except maybe for his bowels, first thing in the morning.”

“Nasty,” Orphan Annie said, although she might have been referring to the gatefolds, which she was still studying.

“The Beeman boys are supposed to be here, but those two no-accounts seem to be running late. Like you.”

“Ah, Christ.” Hector took off his cap and ran a hand through his thick black hair. “I hate these milk-runs. Unloading went slow in Wilmington, too. A goddam Lexus got stuck on one of the carriers. Well, let’s see what we can do.”

Tim followed Hector to the door, then turned back. “Your name isn’t Nick, is it?”

The boy considered, then said, “It will do for now.”

“Don’t let him move,” Tim said to Annie. “If he tries, give me a holler.” And to the bloody boy, who looked very small and badly used: “We’re going to discuss this when I get back. That work for you?”

The kid thought it over, then gave a tired nod. “I guess it has to.”

2

When the men were gone, Orphan Annie found a couple of clean rags in a basket under the sink. After wetting them with cold water, she wrung one out tight and the other loose. She handed him the tight one. “Put that on your ear.”

Luke did so. It stung. She used the other to clean the blood from his face, working with a gentleness that made him think of his mother. Annie stopped what she was doing and asked him—with equal gentleness—why he was crying.

“I miss my mom.”

“Why, now, I bet she misses you, too.”