Page 35

ONE

E ddie scrambles to his feet. It’s him. It’s really him. Not a twin, not a cypher, not a doppelg?nger, not a look-alike, not a coincidence. It’s the same boy, from the taxi, from the photograph, from Jefferson Market, from the Hangout. He’s right here, standing on the grass in the Great Lawn, casual and relaxed and confident, like he’s always been right here, like he’s always been real, like he belongs.

Hello, Eddie. I’m Francis.

Eddie can’t speak. Can’t answer. Can’t move a single muscle. He just stands, eyes wide, absorbing the boy.

Look at him. Look at his nose, strong, broad, a little crooked, maybe broken once. At his chin, somehow both rounded and square. At his ears, his neck, his jet-black hair, peeking out from his cap. At his lips, deep red, a small cut on the lower lip. His Adam’s apple. His shoulders, capped over long arms. His wrists, sinewy and pulsing.

Eddie searches for the boy’s hands but he can’t see those. They’re buried in his pockets.

“I’m Francis,” the boy says again. “That’s my name.”

Eddie understands the meaning of the sounds, knows the words, hears the boy’s voice perfectly. But he can’t answer. He’s struck silent, looking up at the boy’s eyes, hypnotized.

The boy’s expression morphs from a friendly smile to a look of concern. “Eddie?” he asks.

That’s you, Eddie. The boy has said your name. But still, Eddie can’t speak. His eyes move up to the bridge of the boy’s offset nose, and then to his irises, his impossible rainbow beetles, each a pulsing glow of green and gray and violet and gold and a thousand other colors besides.

Speak, Eddie. Move your mouth. Use your tongue and teeth and breath and speak.

“Francis,” he says finally, and that’s all he says.

“Yes,” Francis says, holding his cap to his chest. “That’s me. I mean, that is I. If I remember my grammar lessons correctly. It’s been some time since I sat in school.”

“Francis,” Eddie says again.

“Still me,” Francis says, and his smile widens. He excavates a hand from his pocket and holds it toward Eddie to shake. Eddie takes his hand, and the electricity of the contact makes him gasp. His skin is warm, alive, fitting snugly into Eddie’s. Francis grips tighter. He doesn’t let go, holding on a beat longer than a handshake would require, and then another beat, and another. They stand, just like that, hands clasped in greeting, like a photograph, a frozen moment.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Eddie,” Francis says, extracting his hand. He pats Eddie on the shoulder. “Finally.”

Finally .

Eddie, still struggling, only manages, “Me too,” immediately feeling stupid.

Francis smiles. “Good.” He nods toward the east side of the park. “I’m going that way.”

Eddie can’t tell if it’s an invitation or the beginning of a goodbye, so he just says, “Oh.”

Francis takes a step. Eddie doesn’t follow. Francis turns back and raises an eyebrow. “You should come, too.”

It’s not a question, it’s a statement, and if Eddie were thinking clearly, if he were certain this was real, he would say something like why? or where? He would be, if not suspicious, at least inquisitive. What does Francis want?

“Wait a second,” Eddie asks. “How did you know my name?”

“Lucky guess, I guess.”

“Seriously,” Eddie says, digging in. “How?”

Francis’s face takes on a puzzled look, as if the answer should be obvious to Eddie. “It was in your book,” he says.

Eddie’s eyes glaze as the memory comes over him. This boy was at the Algonquin, too. He was his waiter. He must have picked up the book after—after whatever happened that day.

“It’s probably still in the Lost and Found closet,” Francis is saying. “I don’t think they ever clean that out. I’ll look next time I’m there.”

Francis is still speaking when an image of Cookie suddenly floods into Eddie’s brain, the vision of her standing, disheveled, in the kitchen. He can’t leave her too long. The sun has gone behind the clouds now, and Eddie’s not sure what time it is.

“I have to be somewhere,” he says.

“Now?”

“By four.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Francis says. “You’ll have plenty of time. All you need, actually.”

“But—”

Think, Eddie. This is a stranger. This is the first time you’ve met him. Is he dangerous? Is he a stalker? The Pied Piper? Is Francis even his name? You should ask him some questions, Eddie. Where do you want to take me? Why do you want me to come?

Oh, but look at that confident smile. He’s happy to see you. And you wanted to find him, didn’t you? You walked around most of the night, searching. And now here he is, this magnet, inviting you, special Eddie, into his world. Are you going to change your mind?

“Don’t you want to come?” Francis asks.

Eddie takes a breath and then—curious enough to be brave, or trusting enough to be foolish—he hears himself say, “Yes.”

Francis’s face dissolves into a smile again. “Good,” he says. “Let’s go this way. I have so much I want to show you.”