“Yes,” Arlo said. Even with his hindbrain clawing with old desire, Peter made the junk seem like a nonoption. Like suicide. “You’re not crazy, Peter. You’re sharp. But you’re on too much junk.”
Peter winced. It was the first thing Arlo said that the kid had actually heard. Then he smiled, and it was clear to Arlo that he still wasn’t sure this conversation was happening. Wasn’t sure of anything. “Yeah. I know.” Then he lifted the case from his lap. “So here. Take it.”
Ass on ground, Arlo took the case. Something heavy. “I don’t like these,” he said once he looked inside.
“It’s loaded,” Peter said. “Only use it if you have to. Because they really are. After you.”
Arlo closed the case. Peter didn’t say good-bye. He wheeled around and rolled fast for his parents, who were waiting in front of the service van to load up his chair.
It was eight at night. Still as an echo chamber.
Arlo stood to follow. To hand it back. But something prevented him. Mostly, it was awkwardness—did Peter’s aged parents really need to worry about all this? Didn’t Arlo owe the kid something, if only his silence?
The safety of his children, who were back inside that house, prevented him. The neighbors prevented him, too. Because he noticed, then, that all of them were watching. The Pontis and Hestias and Singhs-Kaurs. The Harrisons and Walshes, too. Rhea Schroeder was standing in the middle of her dark dining room, under the misapprehension that he would not see her if she stood very, very still.
What stopped him was snitch, smeared in shit.
Friday, July 30
Arlo would have carried Gertie over the threshold of 116 Maple Street, but the kids were buzzing around, so nervous and excited to have her back home that he was afraid they’d get underfoot and topple him. So he wrapped his arm around her and they walked in together, arm in arm.
Her temporary bed was the ground-floor couch. She’d been ordered by the doctor to stay in it, feet propped, until her next checkup, when they could be sure the swelling was gone. No stairs. It was still morning and the mercury would take hours to reach its summit. Right now, it was ninety-six degrees.
Once the kids went to their rooms, Arlo showed Gertie the gun. It surprised him when she held the thing with skill. “It’s a .42 revolver. Safety wasn’t on,” she said, clicking it into place. “See this? Red means dead. You have to pull hard.” She pulled a metal piece and the red disappeared.
Then she emptied the chamber. Reloaded. Six bullets, no extra. “Do you know how to use one of these?”
“Do you?”
“Gun shows and beauty pageants. They go together like peas and carrots.”
While their kids stayed in their separate bedrooms, unusually quiet, she showed him how to aim, how to hold, how to carry.
“Did Julia mention where that Pain Box evidence was hidden?” Gertie asked, nonchalant.
Arlo loaded the chamber. Bullets landed with metallic clicks. “She doesn’t know. I asked her.”
“It’s in that house, though,” Gertie said.
Arlo put the safety on, pointed. “Should we break in?” he joked.
Gertie waited a beat. “Maybe.”
They decided to keep the gun in their bedroom, closer to him. While she knew better how to use it, her behavior in the hospital did not marry well with a gun.
* * *
Friday morning passed into afternoon. They learned that the special diver had given up, unable to traverse the underground tunnel. It was too small. The rescue workers packed up and went home. Trucks pulled out. Neighbors went inside their houses. Reporters disappeared. After the weekend, the hole would be filled.
No body recovered.
The Wildes waited for police to arrive. An arrest, or another inquiry. Someone at the police station had to be making a decision right now. Choosing whether to proceed with the case against Arlo Wilde.
But hours passed into late afternoon and nothing happened. No police came. Due to the excavation, the hole and surrounding broken ground had grown to an improbable sixty square feet, the entire park and streets and pavement slick with tar. It looked like a terrible massacre had happened, and the Wildes began to wonder if Maple Street’s madness, having gone too far and frightened even itself, had died down.
It was disappointing, then, when a new set of authority figures arrived at their front door. These introduced themselves as representatives of Child Protective Services. They’d been alerted by the police of potential child endangerment. Could they talk to Arlo alone, at their office?
“I thought this got settled already,” Arlo said as he stood at the front door. “Call the Garden City Station and check for yourselves. Detective Bianchi.”
“This is a separate investigation. The Garden City Police are obliged to forward all child endangerment reports. They only alerted us this morning.”
“They didn’t tell us they’d do that!” Arlo said. His voice, like sometimes happened, got louder than he’d intended. They authority figures cringed, then came back more ferocious.