In glowing red letters, the sign out front read OSCAR’S BAR, and alone in the lot behind the building, Béka found the hunter’s green pickup. He and Onions jumped into its bed and rode, undetected by the drunken driver, to the man’s house out in the country. She laughed when she read the name off the mailbox: LOVE’S. They memorized the location, sharing the good news with us later that night. With the information in hand, Igel set in motion our reconnaissance and assigned shifts of teams to watch the boy and his family to learn their movements and habits. He instructed us to pay close attention to the boy’s character and demeanor.
“I want a detailed account of his life. Does he have any brothers or sisters? Uncles or aunts? Grammy and Gramps? Does he have any friends? What sort of games does he play? Any hobbies or spare-time activities? Find all there is to know about his relationship with his parents. How do they treat him? Is he inclined to daydream? To wander about by himself in the woods?”
I transcribed his words in McInnes’s composition book and wondered how we might undertake such a task. Igel walked over and stood in front of me, glaring down at my scribbling.
“You,” he said, “will be our scrivener. I want a complete record. You are to be his biographer. Everyone else can tell Aniday what they learn. Don’t come pestering me with every detail. When the story is complete, you can tell it. This will be the most perfect change in our history. Find me a new life.”
Before I saw the child again, I felt as if I knew him as well as myself. Chavisory, for instance, found out that he was named after his uncle Oscar. Smaolach could do a passing imitation of his voice, and Kivi had applied an unknown calculus to plot out his height, weight, and general body type. After years of mere self-preservation and maintenance, the faeries’ industry and devotion to the task bordered on the fanatic.
I was assigned to watch for him at the library, but I rarely bothered to look for him there, and it is by chance that he appeared at all. His mother had dragged the poor child along and left him alone on the small playground out front. From my hiding place, direct observation was impossible, so I watched his reflection in the plate-glass windows across the street, which distorted his appearance, making him smaller and somehow transparent.
The dark-haired, beetle-browed boy sang quietly to himself as he climbed up and swooshed off the slide over and over again. His nose ran, and every time he mounted the stairs he’d wipe the snot with the back of his hand, then wipe his hand on his greasy corduroys. When he tired of the sliding board, he sauntered over to the swings to pump and pull himself into the clear blue sky. His blank expression never changed, and the song under his breath never faltered. I watched him for nearly an hour, and in that whole time, he expressed absolutely no emotion, content to play alone until his mother came. A thin smile creased his face when she arrived, and without a word he jumped down from the swing, grabbed her hand, and off they went. Their behavior and interaction baffled me. Parents and children take such everyday moments for granted, as if there is an endless supply.
Had my parents forgotten me completely? The man who cried after me that long-ago morning surely had been my father, and I resolved to go see him, my mother, and my baby sisters one day soon. Perhaps after we had abducted the poor misfortunate bastard from the playground. The swing stopped, and the early June day faded. A swallow appeared, chasing insects in the air above the iron bars, and all of my desires were tipped by the wings as the bird scissored away into the milky dusk. I felt sorry for the boy, although I knew that changing places was the natural order. His capture would mean Igel’s release and one more step toward the head of the line for me.