stacks according to denomination, he feeds the dog some of the cookies that he bought at the pet shop.
Together they count their fortune. Crispin announces the total—“Six thousand, seven hundred, forty-five dollars”—and the dog seems to agree with his math. He rolls the money into tight bundles again and returns them to the stuffsacks.
They will not starve. With this much money, they will be able to hide out for a long time, moving every night to a new refuge.
Exhausted, the boy lies back in the pile of blankets. The dog curls up beside him, its head on his abdomen.
Crispin gently rubs behind the dog’s ears.
As sleep is descending upon him, the boy thinks of the dead drug addict, mouth yawning and teeth yellow in the candlelight. He shivers but surrenders to his weariness.
In the dream, Crispin’s younger brother lies on a long white-marble table. His hands and feet are shackled to steel rings. A hard green apple is crammed into his mouth, stretching his jaws painfully. The apple is held in place by an elastic strap that is tied securely at the back of the boy’s head. His teeth are sunk into the fruit, but he isn’t able to bite through it and spit out the pieces.
The raised dagger has a remarkable serpentine blade.
Like a shining liquid, light drizzles along the cutting edge.
The cords of muscle in Crispin’s brother’s neck are taut. The arteries swell and throb as his heart slams great tides of blood through his body.
The apple stifles his screams. He seems also to be choking on a flood of his own saliva.
Crispin wakes in a sweat, crying his brother’s name: “Harley!”
For a moment he doesn’t know where he is. But then he realizes that he is under the shop of magic and games.
You can undo what has been done and still save them.
Those words whisper through his mind, but they seem like nothing more than wishful thinking.
When the terror recedes, he knows that he has found the perfect name for the dog. It is a name that will protect the animal from any malevolent spirit that might wish to enter him.
“Harley,” Crispin repeats softly. He names the dog for his lost brother. “Harley.”
The dog gently but insistently licks his hand.
All these years later …
The night is cool, the sky deep, the stars as sharp as stiletto points.
At twelve, Crispin is strong and tougher than any boy his age should have to be. His senses are sharp, as is his intuition, as if from his association with four-legged Harley, he has acquired some of the dog’s keen perceptions.
This October night, the streets are filled with goblins and witches, vampires and zombies, sexy Gypsy women and superheroes. Some hide behind masks that look like certain despised politicians, and others wear the faces of leering swine, red-eyed goats, and serpents with forked tongues.
These people are on their way to parties in seedy lounges, in modest workingmen’s clubs, and in the ballrooms of older hotels that are desperate to have a profitable night in this economy that has been a mean Halloween for more than three years.
In this lower-middle-class district, Crispin feels safe enough to wander the streets, scoping the scene, enjoying the costumes and the bustle and the decorations. Halloween is swiftly becoming one of the biggest holidays of the year.
The people whom he fears are not of this neighborhood. They are not likely to descend to these streets for any celebration. Their tastes are more expensive and more exotic than anything that can be provided here.
Three months have passed since his most recent encounter with them. They had almost caught him in an old elementary school slated for eventual demolition.
His mistake then was to spend too many nights in the same place. If he remains on the move, they have greater difficulty locating him.
Crispin doesn’t know why being stationary too long puts him at risk. It’s as if his scent becomes concentrated when he lingers in one place.
He knows the legend of the Wandering Jew who struck Christ on the day of the crucifixion and was then condemned to roam the world forever without rest. Some say this condemnation was in fact an act of grace because the devil can’t find and take a man whose remorse drives him to wander ceaselessly in search of absolution.
In addition to his good dog, Crispin’s constant companion is remorse. That he could not save his brother. That he could not save his little sister. That he was so long blind to the truth of their stepfather and to the treachery of their unloving mother.
Now he and Harley pass a two-story buff-brick building that houses the local VFW post. The structure seems to tremble and swell with the muffled backbeat of a band playing an old Beatles tune, as if such rock and roll can’t be constrained without risk of explosion.
A wave of laughter and chatter and louder music washes across the sidewalk when two men, fumbling packs of cigarettes from their pockets, push open the door and step outside for a smoke. One is dressed as a pirate. The other wears a tuxedo, a fake goatee, and a pair of horns.
They glance at Crispin. The devil thumbs flame from a butane lighter.
The boy looks away from them. He takes up the slack in the leash, and brings the dog to his side.
Fifty yards or so from the VFW post, he dares to look back, half expecting the men to be following him. They are where he last saw them, smoke pluming from their mouths as if their souls must be on fire.
At the end of the block is a nightclub called Narcissus. No smokers loiter outside. The windows are two-way mirrors, offering no view of the interior.
A tall man stands beside a taxi. He assists a woman from the vehicle.
His dark hair is slicked back. His cheeks are rouged, his lips bright red. His face is painted like that of a ventriloquist’s dummy, with prominent laugh lines from his nose to the corners of his mouth. The woman’s makeup matches the man’s.
Attached to their white clothes at key points are thick black strings that have been broken. They are not costumed as ventriloquists’ dummies but instead as marionettes freed from their puppet master.
The man says to Crispin, “What a handsome dog,” and the woman says, “Your sister tasted so sweet.”
The encounter is by chance, but you can be killed by chance as easily as by someone’s design.
The dog runs, the boy runs, the man snares the boy by his jacket, the leash jerks from the boy’s hand, and the boy falls …
Before Crispin went on the run …
He
