He didn’t stop writing.
“Do you remember Dan Mercer?”
“White boy.”
“Yes. And Phil Turnball?”
“Unleaded gas gives the benefactor headaches.”
“Your friends from Princeton.”
“Ivy Leagues, man. Some guy wore green shoes. I hate green shoes.”
“Me too.”
“The Ivy Leagues.”
“That’s right. Your friends from the Ivy League. Dan, Phil, Steve, and Farley. Do you remember them?”
Kelvin finally stopped scribbling. He looked up. His eyes were blank slates. He stared at Wendy but clearly didn’t see her.
“Kelvin?”
“Himmler likes tuna steaks,” he said, his voice an urgent whisper. “And the mayor? He could not care less.”
Ronald slumped. Wendy tried to get him to look her in the eye.
“I want to talk to you about your college roommates.”
Kelvin started laughing. “Roommates?”
“Yes.”
“That’s funny.” He started cackling like, well, a madman. “Roommates. Like you mate with a room. Like you and a room have sex and you get it pregnant. Like you mate, get it?”
He laughed again. Well, Wendy figured, this was better than Himmler’s fish preferences.
“Do you remember your old roommates?”
The laugh stopped as though someone had flicked an off switch.
“They’re in trouble, Kelvin,” she said. “Dan Mercer, Phil Turnball, Steve Miciano, Farley Parks. They’re all in trouble.”
“Trouble?”
“Yes.” She said the four names again. Then again. Something started to happen to Kelvin’s face. It crumbled before their eyes. “Oh God, oh no . . .”
Kelvin started crying.
Ronald was up. “Kelvin?”
Ronald reached for his brother, but Kelvin’s scream stopped him. The scream was sudden and piercing. Wendy jumped back.
His eyes were wide now. “Scar face!”
“Kelvin?”
He stood quickly, knocking over his chair. The orderly started toward him. Kelvin screamed again and ran for the corner. The orderly called for backup.
“Scar face!” Kelvin screamed again. “Gonna get us all. Scar face!”
“Who’s scar face?” Wendy shouted back at him.
Ronald said, “Leave him alone!”
“Scar face!” Kelvin squeezed his eyes shut. He put his hands on either side of his head, as though he were trying to stop his skull from splitting in two. “I told them! I warned them!”
“What’s that mean, Kelvin?”
“Stop!” Ronald said.
Kelvin lost it then. His head rocked back and forth. Two orderlies came in. When Kelvin saw them, he screamed. “Stop the hunt! Stop the hunt!” He dropped to the ground and started scuttling across the floor on all fours. Ronald had tears in his eyes. He tried to calm his brother. Kelvin scrambled to his feet. The orderlies tackled Kelvin as if this were a football game. One hit him low, the other got him up top.
“Don’t hurt him!” Ronald shouted. “Please!”
Kelvin was down on the ground. The orderlies were putting some kind of restraint on him. Ronald begged them not to hurt him. Wendy tried to get closer to Kelvin—tried to somehow reach him.
From the ground, Kelvin’s eyes finally met hers. Wendy crawled closer to him as he struggled. One orderly shouted at her, “Get away from him!”
She ignored him. “What is it, Kelvin?”
“I told them,” he whispered. “I warned them.”
“What did you warn them, Kelvin?”
Kelvin started crying. Ronald grabbed at her shoulder, trying to pull her back. She shrugged him off.
“What did you warn them, Kelvin?”
A third orderly was in the room now. He had a hypodermic needle in his hand. He shot something into Kelvin’s shoulder. Kelvin looked her straight in the eye now.
“Not to hunt,” Kelvin said, his voice suddenly calm. “We shouldn’t hunt no more.”
“Hunt for what?”
But the drug was taking effect. “We should have never gone hunting,” he said, his voice soft now. “Scar face could tell you. We should have never gone hunting.”
CHAPTER 27
RONALD TILFER HAD no clue what “scar face” meant or what hunt his brother might have been talking about. “He’s said that stuff before—about hunts and scar face. Like he does with Himmler. I don’t think it means anything.”
Wendy headed home, wondering what to do with this quasi-information, feeling more lost than when the day began. Charlie was watching television on the couch.
“Hi,” she said.
“What’s for dinner?”
“I’m fine, thanks. How about you?”
Charlie sighed. “Aren’t we past fake niceties?”
“And general human courtesy, so it seems.”
Charlie didn’t move.
“You okay?” she asked him, her voice registering more concern than maybe she intended.
“Me? I’m fine, why?”
“Haley McWaid was a classmate.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t really know her.”
“Lots of your classmates and friends were at the funeral.”
“I know.”
“I saw Clark and James there.”
“I know.”
“So why didn’t you want to go?”
“Because I didn’t know her.”
“Clark and James did?”
“No,” Charlie said. He sat up. “Look, I feel terrible. It’s a tragedy. But people, even my good friends, get off on being involved, that’s all. They didn’t show up to pay their respects. They showed up because they thought it’d be cool. They wanted to be part of something. It’s all about them, you know what I mean?”
Wendy nodded. “I do.”
“Most of the time, that’s fine,” Charlie said. “But when it comes to a dead girl, sorry, I’m not into that.” Charlie put his head back on the pillow and went back to watching television. She stared at him for a moment.
Without so much as glancing in her direction, he sighed again and said, “What?”
“You sounded like your father there.”
He said nothing.
“I love you,” Wendy said.
“Do I sound like my father when I ask yet again: What’s for dinner?”
She laughed. “I’ll check the fridge,” she said, but she knew that there’d be nothing there and so she’d order. Japanese rolls tonight—brown rice so as to make them healthier. “Oh, one more thing. Do you know Kirby Sennett?”