Ricky’s dining companions laugh, but the Reverend and I turn scarlet with unease. “It’s nice to meet you,” I say, charging ahead as if the man hadn’t said anything, and I shake his hand, which he grips softly.
“G…” Ricky says, but each syllable requires concentration and determination. “Gentle…man.”
“Good to see you out with your old theater gang,” the Reverend simpers, dipping ever so slightly into contempt. Ricky’s friends harden.
“Hi, Stanny,” one of them says.
Before I can savor the delights of big ol’ scary Reverend Packard being called “Stanny,” he clears his throat and snaps back, “Reverend Packard works fine, thank you. You came all the way from the city to eat at our humble little greasy spoon?”
“For our friend,” another one replies icily.
“Where would we be without friends?” The Reverend swallows hard and pushes me closer to Ricky with his hefty paw. “Anyway, Ricky, you’ll be seeing a lot of Connor this summer. You and your mother will be on his Meals on Wheels route.”
Smiling, Ricky moans appreciatively until a light switches off behind his eyes. His smile collapses. He glances at the Reverend with eyes frozen open in fright. We all stiffen as the mood darkens imperceptibly. “C…Con…?” Ricky asks.
“Connor Major, yes, I mentioned him—”
“No,” he whines. In a blink, he’s crying. Frustrated tears. Two of his friends scramble forward in their booth, reaching across the table to pat his shoulder, but none of us are sure what went wrong.
My name seems to have set him off.
“No what, Ricky?” the Reverend asks, glancing around the diner, petrified of being at the center of this growing tantrum. “You’re all right?”
“NO,” Ricky growls as he winces at the fussing hands of his friends. “Con…nor…”
“Maybe I should take off,” I say, but no one is paying me the slightest attention. Ricky struggles in his chair as his friends and the Reverend fail to calm him. Weeping silently, Ricky finds me through the cluster of people surrounding him. Our eyes lock. A long, pleading glance. I want to run, but how would I explain myself to the Reverend?
“Conn…r…Y…you…can’t…” Ricky pivots again to the Reverend, only this time, his eyes are red, wild, and pumping with fury. The Reverend jumps backward. “No…You kn…know…”
“I know what…?” the Reverend asks desperately.
“YOU…KN…KNOW.” Ricky spins his fury to the other diners—not his friends, but the entirety of the restaurant. Accusing them. Grizzled, impassive faces stare back under the brims of mesh trucker hats. Even Sue has abandoned her watch at the struggling shake maker to approach Ricky. “YOU KN…KN…KNOW. ALL…KNOW.”
“Ricky, you’re frightening everyone—”
“Con—nor…” Energy abandons Ricky as swiftly as it came. He slumps an inch back into his chair, his eyes wandering back to me a final time. I can’t be sure, but his next word sounds like “help.”
CHAPTER FOUR
THE INK-BLACK DRINK
TODAY
For hours, Molly and I have been below deck in the Nightlight boat. My shoulders sway heavily in rhythm with the choppy water beneath our hull. Above us, floodlights pierce through the burlap canopy shielding our berth from a rainstorm that, in less than a minute, went from droplets to a downpour that is collecting under my feet in wider and wider puddles. We wait and worry on benches in the lampless lower berth where our kidnappers have stored the rest of their junk: shabbily folded tarps, coils of heavy rope, and open cans of paint. The boat’s chilly iron bench unhinges the skin from my bones, and I have to tug down my gym shorts to better shield my thighs from the cold metal. As I do, my left wrist catches on something hard—handcuffs.