Redemption.
The Prophet sips from his juice box. “How do we save ourselves?” he asks. “By saving others.”
“I know. But how? Who?”
The Prophet rubbed his temples. He’d been raised on a farm outside Lincoln, Nebraska, surrounded by corn. His best friend was a tree stump his uncles used for target practice.
“Has Louise brought up the story of the Pied Piper?” he says. “How first he took the rats, then the children?”
Simon nods.
“People act like the story is about the Piper, the evils of a man who steals children. But it’s about adults. The corruption of adults. This delusion that they can get whatever they want for free. That they can lie needlessly, promise anything, and then cheat the consequences. This is the delusion of power. The belief that power erases the need for honesty. That power in and of itself is a fact that supersedes all other facts. And what is the price they pay, our elders for stiffing the Piper? Their future. Because what is the future, if not children?”
“So…,” says Simon.
“We are going to save the children, Simon, not from the Piper, but from the arrogance of power. The certainty that the grown should control the young.”
Simon sighs. It’s all so vague.
“But…,” says Louise. “From the Piper, too, though, right? ’Cause guys with flutes are creepy.”
“Definitely,” says Duane.
The Prophet studies Simon. He can tell his words haven’t lessened Simon’s doubts.
“Louise,” he says. “Tell Simon about the Wizard.”
In the front Louise freezes.
“That’s…,” she says. “Do I have to?”
A long pause.
“We are, all of us, here for a reason,” the Prophet tells her, implying This is yours. So Louise—who was feeling so good, so high and free and weightless, exhales raggedly and begins.
“Okay. So I don’t know his name, but the Wizard is, like, a billionaire from a, whatever, hedge fund or energy fracking or something. And he likes young girls. And he has a mansion in San Francisco and, like, a compound in Texas, and maybe an apartment in Paris, and his own island, I think. And he has this kid in San Francisco, the Troll, a teenager, who finds him young pussy. And I mean young, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. Plus, like, a whole team around the world who serves him up these girls. Feeds them to him—one, two, three a day.”
“And you know this how?” the Prophet asks.
Louise is silent. “You know how,” she says.
For a long time the van is quiet. Simon watches the streetlights pass. They have left the wealthy suburbs, snaking into the urban outskirts. Sherwin-Williams Paints, Arby’s, Ross Dress for Less. The buildings are closer together now, older-model cars parked at the curb. The traffic picks up. Concrete and steel. They are inside the city limits—streetlights and sidewalks. Nightlife.
Welcome to McDonald’s. May I take your order?
In the distance there is the flashing of blue and red lights. Police activity.
For a moment Simon worries that this is the dragnet, closing in. That he has become public enemy number one, and the cops—when they stop the van—will shoot to kill. But he shakes it off. Float is a private facility, one his parents checked him into voluntarily. Plus, cops are not his father’s style. No, when dad finds out Simon has run away, he will call Gabe Lin, his head of private security, and Gabe will track them down.
“So is that where we’re going?” Simon asks. “San Francisco?”
Louise looks at Duane’s phone, mounted to the dashboard by a remote arm. Google Maps is open, broadcasting the blue line of their future.
“The magic device says Missouri.”
Simon is about to ask, What’s in Missouri? when he sees a clown standing under a streetlight. Or more accurately, he sees a bald man in a clown costume, his face painted white, his nose red, exaggerated black lines painted over his eyes. You know, a clown. Except this clown has a thick mustache and he is smoking a cigarette. Plus the costume is filthy, streaked, and the clown has an AR-15 strapped across his chest, its long black barrel pointed down. A clown with a rifle. But it’s his eyes. How his eyes are on the van, watching as it passes. So much so that Simon feels like the clown is staring straight at him.
A filthy, mustached, middle-aged clown with an assault rifle looking at Simon.
And then they are past him. Simon turns to look through the back windows.
“Did you see that?” he asks.
“What?” the Prophet asks.
“It was a—clown. With a gun.”
The Prophet glances to the front of the van, his eyes meeting Duane’s in the rearview. Something passes between them, a flash of fear, as if deep down somewhere they’re not surprised, that they were afraid this might happen. But it’s too soon.
Too soon.
“Did he see you?”
Simon shrugs, shakes his head, worried that if he says yes, it will make the clown real. Not that he knows why that would be bad. But something inside tells him to say no.
“What’s in Missouri?” he asks.
“Shit,” says Duane, braking hard. The van slows, stops. They are at a crosswalk, traffic light a solid green overhead. Ahead of them a large crowd moves across the intersection. A river of people with no beginning and no end. They hold signs and banners—lit from the front by a distant orange glow, flickering. And from behind, a counter light, flashing blue and red. Smoke drifts through the intersection.
Save Our Children.