The Chronoliths

“No,” I said, “this is bullshit. The guy at Easy’s recognized your name… and you just described him to me.”

I was driving into the sunset and the lights on the dash were just starting to brighten. The air coming in the window was cool and relatively sweet. Hitch took his time answering.

Then he said, “Let me tell you a little story, Scotty. When I was a kid I lived in Roxbury with my mom and my little sister. We were poor, but that was back when the relief money was enough to get you by if you were careful about things. It wasn’t especially bad for me, or at least I didn’t know any better than to be happy with what I had, plus maybe a little shoplifting on the side. But my mom was a lonely woman, and when I was sixteen she married this tough old piece of shit named Easy G. Tobin. Easy ran a mail pickup and sold coke and meth out the back door. I will say for Easy that he never actually hit her — or me or my sister, either. He wasn’t a monster. He kept his drug business away from the house, too. But he was mean. He talked mean. He was smart enough that he never had to raise his voice, he could cut you down with just a few words, because he had the talent for knowing what you hated about yourself. He did that to me and he did that to my sister, but we were the minor leagues. Mainly he did it to my mom, and by the time I was ready to leave home a couple years later I had seen more of her tears than I cared to. She wanted to get rid of him but she didn’t know how, and Easy had a couple of other ladies on the side. So me and a few of my friends, we followed Easy to one of his ladyfriends’ houses and we went in there and punished him a little bit. We didn’t, you know, beat him senseless, but we made him scared and we kicked him around some and we told him to get his ass out of my mom’s house or we’d do worse than that. He said that was okay with him, he was sick of me and my sister and he had used up my mom — his words — and he meant to leave anyhow, and I said that was fine as long he did it, and I would be keeping my eye on him. He said, ‘I’ll forget your name in a week, you little shit,’ and I said he’d hear from me now and then and he’d better not forget my name because I wouldn’t forget his. Well, we left it at that. But I made it a point for some years to see that he did come across my name, at least now and then, every once in a while. A card, a phone call, like a negative Hallmark moment. Just to keep him on his toes. I guess he remembered me, huh, Scotty?”

I said, “He could have killed me.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think it was likely. Besides, that was a fair piece of change I gave you. I figured you understood it might entail a little bit of risk.”

“God damn,” I said faintly.

“And, see? This way, you don’t have to thank me.”

We were lucky enough to find Mrs. Jeffrey Helvig home alone.

She came to the door in casual clothes, wary as soon as she saw us in the porch light. We told her it was about her son, Jeff Jr. She told us she had already talked to the police and we certainly didn’t look like police to her, so who were we and what did we really want?

I showed her enough ID to establish that I was Kaitlin’s father. She knew Janice and Whit, though not very well, and had met Kait on more than one occasion. When I made it clear that I wanted to talk about Kaitlin she relented and asked us in, though she was clearly not happy about it.

The house was meticulously clean. Eleanor Helvig was fond of cork coasters and lace antimacassars. A dust precipitator hummed in one corner of the living room. She stood conspicuously next to the home security panel, where a touch of her finger would narrowcast an alarm and a camera view to the local police. We were probably already being recorded. She was not afraid of us, I thought, but she was deeply wary.

She said, “I know what you’re going through, Mr. Warden. I’m going through it myself. You understand if I’m not anxious to talk about Jeff’s disappearance yet again.”

She was defending herself against some accusation not yet made. I thought about that. Her husband was a Copperhead — a true believer, according to Whit. She had accompanied him to most but not all of the meetings. She would probably echo his opinions but she might not be deeply or genuinely convinced of them. I hoped not.

I said, “Would it surprise you, Mrs. Helvig, if I told you it looks like your son and his friends are on a haj?”

She blinked. “It would offend me, certainly. Using that word in that way is an insult to the Muslim faith, not to mention a great many sincere young people.”

“Sincere young people like Jeff?”

“I hope Jeff is sincere, but I won’t accept a facile explanation of what’s happened to him. I should tell you honestly that I’m skeptical of absentee fathers who rediscover their children in times of crisis. But that’s the kind of society we live in, isn’t it? People who think of parenthood as a genetic merger, not a sacred bond.”

Hitch said, “You think Kuin will make that better?”

She stared back at him defiantly. “I believe he could hardly make it worse.”

“Do you know what a haj is, Mrs. Helvig?”

“I told you, I don’t like that word—”

“But a lot of people use it. Including a lot of idealistic children. I’ve seen a few. You’re right, it’s a rough world we live in, and it’s hard on the children in particular. I’ve seen them. I’ve seen haj kids butchered by the side of the road. Children, Mrs. Helvig, raped and killed. They’re young and they may be idealistic, but they’re also very naive about what it takes to survive outside of suburban Mi

Eleanor Helvig blanched. (I believe I did, too.) She said to Hitch, “Who are you?”

“A friend of Kaitlin. Did you ever meet Kait, Mrs. Helvig?”

“She came by the house once or twice, I think…”

“I’m sure your Jeff is a strong young man, but what about Kaitlin? How do you think she’ll do out there, Mrs. Helvig?”

“I don’t—”

“Out there on the road, I mean, with all the homeless men and soldiers. Because if these kids did go off on a haj, they’d be safer in a car. Even Jeff.”

“Jeff can take care of himself,” Eleanor Helvig whispered.

“You wouldn’t want him hitchhiking, would you?”

“Of course not—”

“Where’s your husband’s car, Mrs. Helvig?”

“He took it to work. He’s not home yet, but—”

“And Jeff’s car?”

“In the garage.”

“And yours?”

She hesitated just long enough to confirm Hitch’s suspicions. “In for repairs.”

“At what garage, exactly?”

She didn’t answer.

“We don’t have to discuss this,” Hitch said, “with the police.”

“He’s safer in the car. You said so yourself.”

She was whispering now.

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“Jeff Jr. didn’t talk about the… pilgrimage, but when he asked for the car I guess I should have suspected. His father said we ought not to tell the police. It would only make Jeff a criminal. Or us, for abetting him. He’ll be back, though. I know he will.”

“You could help us—” Hitch began.

“You see how upside-down everything is? Can you blame the children?”

“Give us your license and the car’s GPS signature. We won’t bring the police into it.”

She reached absently for her purse, then hesitated. “If you do find them, will you be nice to Jeff?”

We promised we would.

Hitch talked to Morris Torrance, who traced the car to El Paso. The GPS package was sitting in a local recycler’s yard; the rest of the car was missing, probably sold or bartered for safe passage across the border. “They’re bound for Portillo,” Hitch said, “almost certainly.”

“So we go there,” I said.

He nodded. “Morris is arranging the flight. We need to leave as soon as possible.”

I thought about that. “It’s not just a rumor, is it? Portillo, I mean. The Chronolith.”