“Heart attack. Don’t usually happen that way to someone so young, but…” He trailed off, shook his head. “It’s a damn shame.” He reached over Mark’s leg, popped open the glove compartment, pulled out a half-finished bottle of rye. “Like a little drink?”

Mark shook his head.

Roy drove for a few seconds with his knees as he expertly opened the bottle, taking the wheel again with his left hand as he used his right to tilt the bottle to his lips. “Aaaah!” he sighed, grinning.

“Dave still in town?” Mark asked.

“Hell, no. Moved to Phoenix after Mom passed on. It’s just me and the old man now.”

“How’re things going here?”

“They’re going.”

What he really wanted to ask about was Kristen, her funeral, the details of her death, but some of his parents’ reticence must have rubbed off on him, because he didn’t feel comfortable discussing personal matters, family matters, in public. Especially not with someone like Roy.

Ahead, through the dirty windshield, to the right, the bulk of the house was growing ever bigger, ever closer.

Giant.

Roy took another swig from his bottle. “You know,” he said. “I never did like your house. Never understood why Kristen stayed after your parents passed on. She could’ve sold it, moved somewhere else, somewhere nice.”

Mark didn’t understand either, not really, and a slight chill caressed his spine. He licked his lips. “Is Mr. Billings still there?”

Roy frowned. “Billings? Never heard of ‘im.”

“Hired man? Used to work for my father? Had a retarded daughter?” He tried to jog Roy’s memory, but the other man just kept shaking his head.

“Don’t ring no bell.”

That wasn’t entirely surprising. As Roy said, his parents hadn’t exactly socialized with their neighbors, and it had been a long time ago. Maybe his father had eventually fired Billings. Or laid him off. Or Billings had simply moved on.

And taken his retarded daughter with him.

“Fuck me in the ass.”

He tried to imagine the girl as a teenager; as an adult, but he couldn’t. She’d have to be in her mid-twenties now, but Mark could not picture her as anything except the child he remembered.

“Your father does it.”

“Kristen didn’t live alone, though. She had help—”

“No. Far as I know, she lived by herself.”

“No other people came to the funeral? No one you didn’t recognize? No… hired help?”

“No one ‘cept her friends from Dry River.” He looked over at Mark. “How’d they ever get in touch with you? I heard tell Frank Neeson was tryin’ like hell to find your sorry ass but no one knew where you were. Weren’t even in Kristen’s phone book or nothing. Guess he finally tracked you down, huh?”

“Yeah,” Mark said, not wanting to explain.

“Didn’t tell you much, though, did he?”

Mark shook his head. “No.”