Maggie slipped into his room that night. She had been lying in her room—cooling off after another hot, hot shower. She had started to cry, alone. It was okay alone. But she still cut off the crying as quickly as she could, to toughen herself. She was a wolf, a wounded wolf. She’d sink her teeth in those boys’ throats. Her thoughts returned to how the animals were drawn to LaRose. She would trust her paw to his boy hand.
Move over, she whispered, and popped under his quilt.
Her hot feet on his shins.
I gotta ask you something. Her nose was still plugged by the unwilled crying. Her face was swollen. But his skin cooled the soles of her feet.
Please, LaRose. Don’t laugh. I’m gonna ask you something serious.
Okay.
What would you do if boys jumped me, if they touched me and stuff, all over, in a bad way.
I would make them die, said LaRose.
Do you think you could?
I would figure it out.
Could a saint kill for love?
Saints have superpowers, said LaRose.
Do you think you’re a saint?
No.
I think you are, said Maggie.
She rolled over, stared at the crack of dim light underneath the door. It was a cool night. The warmth of him suffused the bed. The itchy, dirty, cooty-fingered film on her skin dispersed. The roiling craziness her mother caused with her chewing habits dissipated. Everything bad was drawn into the gentle magnetism of the bedsheets. She began to drift.
LaRose stroked the ends of her hair on the pillow beside him.
I am a broken animal, she whispered.
IT WAS GOING to snow, first snow of the season, Romeo could smell it. He could always smell that gritty freshness before it happened, before the weatherpeople turned the snow to drama on his television. He plunged outside, across the lumps of torn earth, and took the road to town. Sure enough, as he rollingly walked, flakes began and he had the impression, maybe it was the drug he’d taken, that he was all of a sudden stuck. He was in a globe, frozen on a tiny treadmill in a little scene of a man walking to the Dead Custer, forever, through falling bits of white paper or maybe some snowlike chemical that would sift down over and over as a child turned his world upside down in its hands. He liked this idea so well that he had to remind himself it wasn’t true. The motionless motion was so transfixing, and his thoughts—his thoughts were centered.
Landreaux happened to drive through this tableau, oblivious as always, but the snow swirled in his wake and got Romeo’s thoughts back on his old favorite, revenge. Landreaux believed he was outside of Romeo’s reach and interest. But no, he wasn’t. Landreaux was so full of himself, so high on himself that even now he did not remember those old days of theirs. Far back when they were young boys hardly older than LaRose. That’s how far back and deep it went, invisible most times like a splinter to the bone. Then surfacing or piercing Romeo from the inside like those terrible fake pills the old vultures had tricked down him.
Bits of snow melted in Romeo’s filmy hair. It was just a fluke, maybe, but he’d got himself put on to a substitute maintenance list at the hospital. Be still my heart! So many prescription bottles, so little time. Because his habits had already become invisible to the ambulance crew, he overheard a sentence that he’d copied out on scratch paper. Never touched the carotid. He’d palmed a box of colored tacks and fixed the paper to the wall. Working out connections. It would be the first of many clues to what had really happened on the day Landreaux killed Dusty.
Lennie Briscoe, the weary hound, and Romeo, his weasel sidekick, would assemble the truth.
In the clarity of thinking that he enjoyed after Landreaux’s car passed, Romeo thought about how people with information spoke quietly, in code. He was learning to decipher what they said. Sometimes he had to make an educated guess. But he knew they were possessed of crucial knowledge.
To get the truth, I must become truth. Or at least appear truth-worthy, he decided.
Therefore, Romeo cleaned himself up. He applied for a real full-time at the hospital. Slim chance. And the paperwork always made him sweat. But there, at the hospital, he thought maybe he could be important again. The other people on maintenance were respected community members. Some of them even drove the ambulance, and all of them were trusted. Sterling Chance really was, for instance, sterling. As head of maintenance, he listened to Romeo answer interview questions with a calm and perceptive gaze.
Self-contained, thought Romeo. He admired Sterling Chance. For the first time since, well, since Mrs. Peace was his teacher, Romeo truly wanted something other than reliable pathways to oblivion. He wanted this job. Not just a measly part-time intermittent job, but a full-time job. True, his motives were sketchy. Drugs and vengeance. But why quibble with a budding work ethic? There was no question that this job would make his old drug sources look pathetic. Never again would he have to suffer the indignation of crisscrossing side effects. And information? If he did get information on this job, it would be information he would keep until he really needed it—sad information. But information so rare and shocking that maybe, perhaps, you could use it to blackmail a person for life. Which was a satisfying thought when you’d previously failed to kill that person.