Daryl Gregory - The Devil's Alphabet

“I bet they’d rather have had an earthquake,” Pax said. The death toll had stalled at 6,500, but only because the Ecuadorian government had clamped down on reporters. Babahoyo had been quarantined “for their protection and ours.” Rhonda announced that one of the first tasks of her charity would be to send volunteers to the city-and some of those volunteers would be Switchcreek citizens, led by the mayor herself.

“I’ll say this,” Weygand said. “She moves fast.”

Nothing sexual had happened with Weygand; they never even touched each other after that moment Thursday afternoon. By the time Weygand came home from Rhonda’s press conference Paxton was asleep on the couch, and when he awoke Weygand was in the kitchen burning soy burgers and the attraction Pax had felt had vanished. For perhaps an hour he’d been someone Pax desired, someone he understood -and then he wasn’t.

The next day Weygand helped Pax work on the yard. Pax kept trying to apologize and Weygand repeatedly told him not to worry about it. Pax wanted to explain that he wasn’t like one of those gay-for-a-day frat-party lesbians-he’d slept with a couple of men. A few women too. And it wasn’t the vintage that made him suddenly want Weygand-or not just the vintage. He’d been this way since leaving Switchcreek. Most of the time he wasn’t attracted to anyone at all, and then he was-for a few hours. His desire for whatever body ended up next to him never seemed to last longer than it took him to put on his pants.

Women thought he was gay. Men thought he was straight but playing tourist. And Pax thought he was… waiting. The last time he’d felt anything real-the last time he felt real-was with Jo and Deke. The three of them had been perfect together, a completed circuit. Everything since had been pantomime.

On Sunday afternoon Weygand told him that he was driving back home in the morning-friends in Amnesty International were organizing a group to drive into Ecuador from Colombia and record what was happening inside the city. Pax thought he was crazy; he could end up in a South American jail. Weygand shrugged it off. “What about this laptop thing? Are we going to do this or not?”

Paxton had no phone number for the twins, and he didn’t even know where they lived inside the sprawl of trailers at the Co-op. Nothing to do for it but go over there and ask. “How about you drive?” Pax said.

The gates to the Co-op-the Whitmer farm’s old iron cattle gates-were closed. Two teenage girls in white scarves, perhaps a few years older than Rainy and Sandra, sat on the other side in lawn chairs.

“Everybody’s getting paranoid in this town,” Pax said to Weygand, and got out of the car.

The girls looked at him but didn’t get up. A small black music player rested on one of their laps, and they were sharing a single red headphone cord, one earbud apiece.

“Hi, girls,” he said. “I’m looking for Sandra and Lorraine-the Whitehall twins?” Stupid: of course they had to know who Sandra and Rainy were.

“Nobody told us you were coming,” one of them said.

“I didn’t know I needed reservations.” He smiled. They watched him with small tight mouths. “So. Can I come in?”

The girls looked at each other. One of them pulled the bud from her ear and walked off toward the center of the compound. She could at least run, Pax thought. The remaining girl inserted the other earpiece and immediately lost interest in him.

Pax looked at Weygand through the windshield, shrugged.

He rested his forearms on the top of a gate and looked up at Mount Clyburn. It was the first week of October, but the afternoon sunlight was still summer-strong. It wouldn’t be long until the leaves began to turn, crowning the mountain, then seeping down in a months-long wave until the valley was drenched in color. He’d forgotten how long spring and fall were in Tennessee-in Chicago those seasons went by in a blink, just a couple weeks to toggle the thermometer between Too Damn Cold and Too Damn Hot. Why in the world had he stayed up there? When he turned eighteen he could have moved south, could have moved anywhere. For some reason he’d made the choice binary-Chicago or Switchcreek.

The girl who’d walked off was returning with another beta, a man wearing a baseball cap. Tommy. Sandra and Rainy were nowhere in sight.

Pax ran a hand across the back of his neck. He and Weygand could leave now, but that would look like they were doing something wrong. Pax waved hello and waited.

Tommy stopped a few feet from the gate. “What can we do for you, Paxton?”

“I was worried about Sandra and Rainy,” Pax said.

Tommy tilted his head. “Why would you be worried?”

Pax couldn’t read Tommy’s tone. Did he know that the twins had been visiting him?

“I heard about the stuff in Lambert Friday, at the Wal-Mart. I thought maybe they’d be upset by what was happening.” It sounded lame even to himself. “I can see you guys are taking precautions.”

“There are hooligans on the road. Knocking down mailboxes, vandalizing. We thought it better to keep an eye out.” Then: “The girls are fine.”

“That’s great,” Pax said. “Do you think I could see them?”

“Who’s your friend?”

Pax looked back at the Prius. “His name’s Andrew. He was a friend of Jo’s.”

“No he wasn’t,” Tommy said.

“You didn’t know all her friends, Tommy.” He wasn’t about to tell Tommy anything about Andrew, or about Brother Bewlay and Jo’s online life. “So how about I talk to Rainy and Sandra for a while, and then leave you alone.”

Tommy stepped forward and put his hands on the gate. The man was trembling-from rage? Something else?

“The girls are staying home, Paxton. You may be too distracted to notice, but there’s a crisis going on. We’re not going to have them- I’m not going to have them-running around unsupervised, not until it’s safe. But even then, even when this blows over?” He glanced at the two girls sitting a few feet away and lowered his voice. “I can’t believe you have to be told this. They’re twelve-year-old girls, Paxton. You’re a grown man. If you come around looking for them again, or if you ever bring them into your house, I’ll call the police.”

“What? I’m not-”

“I don’t know how this works up in Chicago, but here in Tennessee the cops do not tolerate pedophiles.”

Paxton stepped back, his face hot.

“Good-bye, Paxton.” Tommy stood with his hands at his sides, unmoving. After a long moment, Paxton turned, got back into the car.

Tommy was still standing there when the car pulled away.

“WE CAN NOT BE late for the appointment,” Donna told him as they stepped down from the Jeep. “The egg-timer is going off.”

Deke laughed and plucked the plastic sacks from behind the driver’s seat. “They’ll keep warm for a couple more minutes. We’ll just drop this off and leave.”

The only other cars in the Martin driveway were the Reverend’s old Crown Vic and Paxton’s Tempo-no Prius in sight. He’d heard that Andrew Weygand had left town again, and it looked like he hadn’t come back-yet.

The house was looking better than it had in several years. The lawn had been cut sometime in the last week, and the tall growth that had been encroaching on the yard had been hacked back several feet. The old swing set had been dismantled and lay in a pile beside the driveway, next to the ancient plaid couch. Deke made a mental note to take care of those for him-Amos could haul them to the dump in the company truck.

The front door was open. Deke knocked on the frame and leaned in. “P.K.! You up?” It was 9:30 in the morning. He wasn’t sure what kind of hours he was keeping.