"Dammit, Sam," said Mom. I turned and saw that she had read the card—she'd seen the screwed-up school year and the broken promise, and she was hanging her head wearily, rubbing her temples. "I'm so sorry, John."
"That looks cool," said Lauren, glancing over. "I got a portable DVD player and a DVD of the Apple Dumpling Gang—apparently we used to watch it together, and he thought it was special or something. I don't remember it."
"He makes me so mad," said Mom, standing up and walking into the kitchen. "He can't even buy your love without screwing it up."
"An iPod seems pretty cool to me, too," said Margaret. "Is there something wrong with it?" She read the card and sighed.
"I'm sure he just forgot, John."
"That's the whole problem!" shouted Mom from the kitchen, She was banging dishes around noisily, venting her anger on them, as she clattered them through the sink and into the clisliwasher.
"Still, though," said Margaret, "it's better to have an empty one anyway—you can fill it with whatever you want. Can I look at it?"
"Go ahead," I said, standing up. "I'm going out."
"Wait, John," said Mom, rushing in from the kitchen, "let's have dessert now—I bought two different pies, and some whip cream, and—"
I ignored her, grabbing my coat from the hall closet and walking to the door. She called me again, but I slammed the door shut, stomping down the stairs and slamming the outside door as well. I got on my bike and rode away, never looking back to see if they had followed me out, never looking up to see if they were watching through the window. I didn't look at Mr. Crowley's house, I didn't look at Brooke's house, I just pedaled my bike and watched the lines in the sidewalk fly by and hoped to God on every street I crossed that a truck would slam into me and wipe me across the pavement.
Twenty minutes later, I was downtown, and I realized that I'd ridden almost directly to Dr. Neblin's office. It was closed, naturally, locked and hollow and dark. I stopped pedaling and just sat there, maybe for ten minutes, watching the wind whip curls of snow into the air, twirl them around and fling them into brick walls. I didn't have anything to do, anywhere to go, or anyone to talk to. I didn't have one single reason to exist.
All I had was Mr. Crowley.
There was a pay phone at the end of the street; the same one I'd used to call 911 a month before. Without knowing why, I propped my bike against it, dropped in a quarter, and dialed Mr. Crowley's cell phone. While it rang, I pulled up the tail of my T-shirt and wrapped it over the end of the phone to hide my voice, praying that would actually work. After three rings, he answered.
"Hello?"
"Hello," I said. I didn't know what to say.
"Who is this?"
I paused. "I'm the one who's been sending you notes."
He hung up.
I swore, pulled out another quarter, and dialed again.
"Hello?"
"Don't hang up."
Click.
I only had two quarters left. I dialed again.
"Leave me alone," he said. "If you know so much about me, then you know what I'll do if I find you." Click.
I had to think of something to keep him on the line; I needed to talk to someone, to anyone, demon or not. I dropped in my last quarter and dialed again.
"I said—!"
"Does it hurt?" I asked, interrupting him. I could hear him breathing heavily, hot and angry, but he didn't hang up. "You ripped off your own arm," I said, "and cut open your own belly. I just want to know if it hurts."
He waited, saying nothing.
"Nothing you do makes sense," I said. "You hide some bodies and you don't hide others. You smile at a guy one minute and rip his heart out the next. I don't even know what you—"
"It hurts like hell." He stayed silent a moment. "It hurts every time."
He answered me. There was something in his voice—some emotion I couldn't identify. Not quite happiness, not quite fatigue.
It was something in the middle.
Relief?
Months of curiosity poured out in a flood. "Do you have to wait for something to break down before you replace it?" I asked. "Do you have to steal parts from people? And what about that guy in Arizona—Emmett Openshaw? What did you steal from him?"
Silence.
"I stole his life."
"You killed him," I said.
"I didn't just kill him," said Crowley, "I stole his life. He would have had a long one, I think. As long as this, at least. He would have gotten married and had kids."
That didn't sound right.
"How old was he?" I asked.
"Thirty, I think. I tell people I'm seventy-two."
I had assumed Openshaw was older, like the recent victims. "You hid his body—well enough that no one ever found it— so why didn't you hide Jeb Jolley's? Or the two after that?"
Silence. A door closed.
"You still don't know, do you?"