Century Rain

TWENTY-FIVE

Floyd stood in a public telephone kiosk just outside Gare du Nord. It was Tuesday morning and his head didn’t feel any better. With both of them injured, but not wanting to have to deal with helpful or inquisitive strangers, the train journey back from Berlin had been a long and wearying one. There had been tense moments while their documents were inspected, neither of them daring to say a word until the officials had moved on. Floyd doubted that his own injuries were any cause for concern, but he was extremely worried about Auger. He’d left her in the waiting room, bandaged and drowsy, but still adamant that she didn’t want to be taken to hospital.

“Maillol,” a man said on the other end of the line.

“Inspector? It’s Wendell Floyd. Can we talk?”

“Of course we can,” Maillol said. “As a matter of fact, you’re just the man I wanted to speak to. Where have you been, Floyd? No one seemed to know where you’d gone.”

“Germany, monsieur. I’m back in Paris now. But I don’t have much money and I’m calling from a public telephone.”

“Why not use the telephone in your office?”

“I figured it might not be safe.”

“Sensible boy,” Maillol said approvingly. “Well, shall I start? I’ll be quick about it. You’re aware of my anti-bootlegging operation in Montrouge, aren’t you? As it happens, we’ve turned up something interesting: a floater.”

“A floater, monsieur?”

“A body, Floyd, floating face-down in a flooded basement in the same warehouse complex where we found the illegal pressing plant. Identification revealed the individual to be a Monsieur Rivaud. Forensics say he can’t have been in the water for more than three or four days.”

“It’s early, monsieur, and I haven’t had much sleep, but I don’t think I know that name.”

“That’s odd, Floyd, because you seem to have met the gentleman. He had one of your business cards on him.”

“Still doesn’t mean I know him.”

“He also had a key that we traced back to Monsieur Blanchard’s building on rue des Peupliers. Rivaud was one of his tenants.”

“Wait,” Floyd said. “He wouldn’t be one of the tenants on the second floor, would he?”

“So you do remember him.”

“I never met him. Custine interviewed him: that’s how he came by the business card. When I went round to make follow-up enquiries, no one was home.”

“Probably because the young man was dead.”

Floyd closed his eyes. Just what the case needed: another death, no matter how peripheral it might be. “Cause of death?”

“Drowning. It could be accidental: he might have stumbled and fallen into the flooded basement. On the other hand, Forensics turned up some curious abrasions on the man’s neck. They look like finger marks, as if someone had held his head underwater.”

“Open and shut, in that case—homicide by drowning.”

“Except,” Maillol said, “the finger marks were very small.”

“Let me guess: they were the right size for a child.”

“A child with long fingernails, yes. Which of course doesn’t make any sense—”

“Except I already told you there are some bad children associated with this case.”

“And we have that stabbing in Gare du Nord, of course. We still haven’t turned up the boy the witnesses saw.”

“You probably won’t,” Floyd said.

“Do you know something about that incident?”

Floyd pulled a fresh toothpick from his shirt pocket and slipped it into his mouth. “Of course not, monsieur,” he said. “I just meant to say… the child’s probably well away by now.”

Maillol said nothing for ten or twenty seconds. Floyd heard his breathing above the muted background chatter of typewriters and barked orders.

“I’m sure you’re right,” Maillol said. “But you see the problem from my point of view. I had no interest in the rue des Peupliers case beyond my desire to do what I could for Custine. But there was no connection between those two deaths and the goings-on in Montrouge.”

“And now?”

“Now I have a connection, and it doesn’t make any sense. What was your man Rivaud doing nosing around in Montrouge?”

“I have no idea,” Floyd said.

“This is a loose end,” Maillol said. “I don’t like loose ends.”

“I don’t like them either, monsieur, but I still have no idea what Rivaud was doing there. As I said, I never even spoke to the man.”

“Then perhaps if I had a word with Custine?”

“Actually,” Floyd said, “Custine’s the reason I’m calling.”

“Has he been in touch again?”

“Of course we’ve been in touch. What else would you expect? He’s my friend and I know he’s innocent.”

“Very good, Floyd. I’d be disappointed if you said anything different.”

“I can’t tell you where to reach Custine. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“But I think I’m close to finding your suspect. You’re just not going to like it very much when I hand one of them over.”

“One of them?”

Floyd pushed coinage into the iron belly of the payphone. “Custine didn’t kill Blanchard. One of those children did. You spoke to the witnesses in Gare du Nord. You know how they described that boy.”

“Including one witness who spoke French with a pronounced American accent.”

“The child was real, monsieur. There are several of them, boys and girls, but up close they don’t look like children at all. If I can deliver one of these monsters to you, I’ll have kept my end of the deal, won’t I?”

“We didn’t have a deal, Floyd.”

“Don’t let me down, monsieur. I’m trying to retain some lingering shred of respect for the authority in this city.”

“I can’t keep Belliard off your case indefinitely,” Maillol said. “He’s already following every lead that stands a chance of throwing up Custine. That bar you frequent? Le Perroquet Pourpre?”

“Yes?” Floyd asked, worriedly.

“There’s a nice burnt-out shell where it used to be.”

“Michel, the owner—is he all right?”

“There were no deaths, but witnesses saw a couple of men in greatcoats with petrol cans fleeing the scene in a black Citroën. They were last seen heading in the general direction of the Quai des Orfèvres.” Maillol paused to let that sink in, then added, “If Custine was hiding there, then you can be sure Belliard is closing on him.”

“Custine can take care of himself.”

“Perhaps, Floyd. The question is: can you? Belliard won’t stop at one fish.”

“I just need more time,” Floyd said.

“If—and I repeat if—you hand one of these mock children over to me, alive and in a state amenable to interrogation… then I might, conceivably, be able to do something. Though how I’ll explain matters to the examining magistrate, I don’t know. Paris terrorised by a gang of feral children? He’ll laugh me out of the Palais de Justice.”

“Show him the child, sir, and I don’t think he’ll be laughing for long.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

“I’m glad to know we still have some common ground,” Floyd said.

“Common ground that is dwindling by the moment, mon ami. In return, I’ll want your assistance to close off the Rivaud connection.”

“Understood,” Floyd said. He put down the receiver, then dug into his pockets for another coin for the next call.

The car slowed down, pulled out of the flow of traffic and scraped its right wheels against the kerb with a hiss of rubber. The rear passenger-side door was flung open and a hand—belonging to a large man lost in shadow in the front passenger seat—directed them into the back of the car. Auger climbed in first, then Floyd. He slammed the rear door shut just as the driver gunned the engine and pulled back on to rue La Fayette, his abrupt entry into the procession of vehicles greeted by a symphony of angry horns.

Custine turned around in the front passenger seat, while the driver—who turned out to be Michel—nosed the car on to rue Magenta.

“It’s good to see you back, Floyd,” Custine said warmly. “We were beginning to worry.”

“Nice to know I’m appreciated.”

Custine touched the brim of his hat in Auger’s direction. “You too, mademoiselle. Are you all right?”

“She’s been shot,” Floyd said. “I’d say that makes her pretty far from all right. Only problem is, she won’t let me take her to a hospital.”

“I not needing hospital,” Auger said. “I only needing station of the train.”

Custine looked at Floyd. “Is it me, or did she speak perfect French the last time I saw her?”

“She had a bump on the head.”

“Must have been a bad one.”

“That’s nothing. You should hear what’s happened to her English.”

“What happened to you, Floyd?” Custine asked, noticing Floyd’s bandaged head for the first time. Floyd’s hat, which had rolled off his head in the basement of the Kaspar Metals building when Auger pulled him to safety, had never been retrieved.

“Never mind me. How are you? How is Greta? Is Marguerite still…?”

“I spoke to Greta yesterday. She was—naturally enough—more than a little agitated at your sudden departure.”

“I didn’t have time for a debate. You were there. You know what it was like.”

“Well, I’m sure she’ll forgive you—given time. As for Marguerite… well, she’s still holding on.” Custine slid his hat over one side of his face, masking himself as a police car droned past in the opposite direction. He waited until the car had turned on to a different street before allowing himself to relax again. “I don’t think anyone has much hope of her lasting the week, though.”

“Poor Greta,” Floyd said. “She must be going through hell.”

“All this isn’t exactly helping.” Custine looked uncomfortably at Auger, perhaps wondering how much had taken place between them while they were in Berlin. “She’s still expecting an answer from you,” he said delicately. “That little dilemma hasn’t gone away in your absence.”

“I know,” Floyd said heavily.

“You have to make a decision sooner or later. It’s only fair.”

“I can’t think straight until we get out of this mess,” Floyd said. “And that means clearing your name. Not much point in handing over the investigation business to you if you’re going to be running it from prison, is there?”

Custine shook his head. “Leave it, Floyd. They will always find a way to take me down. I can be out of Paris by the middle of the week. I have friends in Toulouse… a man who can create a new identity for me.”

“I just spoke to Maillol again. He still thinks he can get you off the hook if I turn up another suspect.”

“Put it like that, it almost sounds easy.”

“It won’t be. But before I can help you, I have to help Mademoiselle Auger.”

“Then take her to a hospital, irrespective of her wishes.”

“She made it pretty clear, Custine—there’s something down in that station that can help her. That’s why we’re going to Cardinal Lemoine.”

“When was she shot?”

“Yesterday—nearly twenty-four hours ago.”

“Then she is more than likely delirious. In this instance, Floyd, the patient is very much not to be trusted.”

“I trust her. She’s been saying the same thing since she was shot. She knows what’s best for her.”

“Who is she?”

“I don’t know,” Floyd said. “But after all I’ve seen, I’m beginning to have my doubts about the Dakota story.”

Custine and Michel dropped them at the entrance to Cardinal Lemoine, then sped away into the traffic. It was nine in the morning, in the thick of the rush-hour, and no one paid much heed to either Floyd or Auger. Floyd’s injury was obvious to anyone, even more so now that he had lost his hat. But a man with a bandaged head only attracted so much attention. An argument in a bar, an altercation with a lover or rival… there were infinite possibilities, and an equally infinite number of reasons not to ask. As for Auger, Floyd had cleaned, sterilised and dressed her wounds before they left Berlin, using pieces of cloth torn from his jacket as bandages, and once again before the train arrived in Paris. With a few layers of clothes on, the makeshift dressing wasn’t obvious, and the only thing that marked her out as unwell was a stiffness on her right side and a paleness about her face. Floyd tucked her good arm around his and guided her into the tiled depths of the station, moving with the flow of the other commuters.

If the bullet or bullets had done serious harm, she would be dead by now. Internal bleeding killed you a lot sooner than this. But sepsis was a different matter. He wasn’t sure exactly know how long it took to set in, but he knew it could be a slow and unpleasant way to go.

“I hope you’re right about this,” he said, pressing his mouth to her ear and speaking English.

“I am right. Trust me, OK?”

“I take it there are other people down there who can help you?”

“Yes.”

“I need some proof,” Floyd insisted. “I can’t just let you stroll into the tunnel and hope for the best.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s exactly what you’ve got to do.”

He stopped on the stairs, letting the other passengers find their way past them.

“You’ll let me know where I can find you later, won’t you? I have to see you again, to know you’re going to be OK.”

“I’ll be fine, Floyd.”

“I still want to see you.”

“Just to know I’m well?”

“More than that. You know how I feel. Maybe I’m wrong, but I think I know how you feel as well.”

“It couldn’t ever work out between us,” she said.

“We could at least try.”

“No,” she said firmly. “Because that would only put off the inevitable. It won’t work. It couldn’t ever work.”

“But if you wanted it to—”

“Floyd, listen to me. I like you a lot. I meant everything I said in Berlin. Maybe I even love you. But that doesn’t change the fact that we can’t ever be together.”

“Why? We’re not so very different.”

“We’re more different than you realise. By now you’ve probably figured out a thing or two about me. Believe me, whatever it is you think you know isn’t even close to the truth.”

“Then tell me the truth.”

“I can’t. All I can tell you is that no matter what feelings we might have for each other, we can’t be together.”

“Is there someone else back home?”

“No,” she said, a little quietly. “As a matter of fact, there isn’t. There used to be, but I liked my work too much and I slowly squeezed him out of my life. But there is someone else in your life, Floyd.”

“You mean Greta? Sorry, but it’s over between us.”

“She’s beautiful and clever, Floyd. If she’s giving you a chance to start over again, I’d take it.”

“Her chance means leaving behind everything and everyone I know in this city.”

“Still sounds like a good offer to me.”

“You’re just trying to get me to walk away, with no regrets.”

“Is that so wrong of me?”

“I can’t help the way I feel about you. Greta’s the one who left. I can see that she’s beautiful and clever, but she just isn’t a part of my life any more.”

“Then more fool you.”

Auger slipped free of him and resumed her progress down the stairs, towards the bustling underground platform. Floyd caught up with her a moment later, slipping his arm through hers again.

“You never really answered my question,” he said. “Will I see you again, when they’ve fixed you up?”

“No,” she said. “You won’t see me again.”

“I’ll stake out every station in Paris. I’ll always find you.”

“I’m sorry. I wish there was some other way of ending this, but I don’t want to give you false hopes. I think you deserve better than that.”

A train slid into the station as they reached the platform. “Auger,” Floyd said. “You can’t hide in that tunnel for ever. I’ll always be waiting for you.”

“Don’t, Floyd,” she said. “Don’t waste the rest of your life on me. I’m not worth it.”

“No,” he said. “You’re wrong. You’d always be worth it.”

A hand suddenly grasped her sleeve, turning her away from Floyd. Floyd looked up, startled, as he felt another hand grab his arm. The man restraining Auger wore a bowler hat and a long raincoat over a heavy serge suit. Another plainclothesman detained Floyd.

“Inspector Belliard,” Floyd said.

“Glad to see that I made an impression,” said the young policeman holding Auger’s arm. “Did you ever get reimbursed for that damaged ornament?”

“I decided I could live without it. Who tipped you off? Maillol?”

Behind him, another voice rumbled, “Actually, Floyd, I did everything in my power to help you. Unfortunately, I didn’t count on being bugged by my own department. As soon as you called from Gare du Nord, they put a squad on to you.”

Belliard glared at Maillol. “I warned you not to follow us here. I also warned you against taking an interest in the Blanchard case.”

“Floyd is a peripheral witness in my own investigation,” Maillol said sweetly. “I had every right to question him.”

“You know he is withholding information about the whereabouts of André Custine.”

“I’m only interested in the Montrouge affair. Custine is no business of mine, as you’ve made abundantly clear.”

Belliard barked an order at his own man, then snarled at Maillol, “We’ll continue this discussion at the Quai, where you can explain why you attempted to sabotage a Crime Squad investigation. In the meantime, let’s find somewhere discreet to deal with these two.”

That was when Auger made her move, slipping free of Belliard’s grasp and darting into the swarm of passengers still milling around on the platform. Floyd lost sight of her just before the carriage doors hissed shut. Belliard pulled out his gun and badge and barged towards the train, shouting at people to get out of his way. He arrived at the side of the train just in time to hammer his gun against a window. But the train was already moving, picking up speed until the last carriage hurtled into the tunnel.

Belliard turned back to his man. “I want every station on this line sealed off. She isn’t getting out of the Métro.”

“I’ll make sure she doesn’t get far,” the man said, letting go of Floyd and walking quickly towards a puzzled-looking Métro official.

“You don’t even know who she is,” Floyd said.

“She seemed unwilling to talk to us,” Belliard answered. “That’s reason enough for suspicion.”

“And me?”

“How does harbouring a fugitive sound?”

Maillol leaned in and spoke urgently. “Floyd—you can’t win this one. They’ll find the American girl, and they’ll find Custine. Don’t make it any worse for yourself than it already is.”

Floyd looked at the other plainclothesman, who was still engaged in discussion with the Métro official. It was now or never. He ducked away from Belliard and Maillol, losing himself as quickly as possible amongst the assembled commuters. Belliard shouted something and started coming after him: Floyd could see his bobbing bowler hat two or three heads behind him. Floyd lowered his own head and ploughed on, oblivious to the disgruntled shouts of the people around him.

“Floyd!” he heard Maillol cry out. “Don’t do anything stupid!”

Another train rattled into the station, spilling more passengers on to the platform. The surging, barging mass was exactly what Floyd needed. A gap was opening up between him and Belliard, giving him just enough time to fumble the automatic out of his jacket pocket. He had no idea what he was going to do with it, but he felt better with it in his hand.

He reached the limit of the platform and risked a glance back over his shoulder. Belliard’s bobbing hat was still worryingly close. Worse than that, the policeman still had his own gun drawn, held at head-height with the barrel pointed towards the ceiling.

The rushing passengers formed a temporary screen, most of them unaware of the drama that was playing out. The distraction gave Floyd time to position himself at the edge of the platform just as the train accelerated past him, exiting the station. With a steely roar, the last carriage plunged into the tunnel. He watched its rear red light dwindle and wondered if he had the courage to follow it.

“Stop!” Belliard shouted.

Floyd turned around, raising his own weapon and pointing the muzzle straight at the policeman. Maillol was a few paces behind Belliard, shaking his head in dismay. By now the spectacle had begun to register with the commuters, who had cleared a space around the three men.

“Get back,” Floyd said. “Get back and keep walking.”

“You won’t get anywhere,” Belliard said. “In a few minutes I’ll have men covering every possible exit from the entire Métro system.”

“In which case, you might as well have a little fun catching me.”

“Drop the gun,” Maillol said, his tone pleading.

“I said walk away. That goes for you too, monsieur.” Floyd aimed a little high and squeezed off a single round, just to make his point. “I will use this, so don’t make me.”

“You’re a dead man,” Belliard said. But he was walking backwards, his hands raised and his own gun dangling from a single finger.

“Then I’ll see you in the bone yard,” Floyd replied.

He moved quickly, lowering himself to the level of the rails and slipping into the darkness of the tunnel. Behind, on the platform, he heard excited voices shouting. He heard someone blowing sharp blasts on a whistle. A train arrived in the station, slowing to a halt with its cab just beyond the mouth of the tunnel. Men were already assembling on the platform near the front of the train, some of them in uniform. One of them dropped to his knees and shone the beam of a torch into the maw of the tunnel, swinging it around. Floyd pressed himself against the brickwork, mere centimetres beyond the limit of the beam.

After a moment, the headlamps of the train dimmed to burnt-out embers.

They’d cut the power.

Floyd ran into a thickening, congealing darkness, stone chippings crunching beneath his feet. He kept his left hand against the wall, feeling his way forwards with his right hand in front of him. With every step he had to fight the fear that he was about to step over the edge of a precipice. Somewhere ahead there was another discharge of gunfire. Behind him, moving silhouettes were already clotting his view of the station. Multiple torch beams sliced the air, scissoring the darkness like anti-aircraft searchlights.

He heard Maillol shout, “Floyd! Give yourself up while you still can!”

Floyd plunged deeper into the tunnel. He dared not shout out Auger’s name while Belliard still thought she’d made her escape on the train.

He heard a single gunshot and a single inhuman shriek. The sound had come from deeper in the tunnel.

He could no longer resist calling her name. “Auger!”

He might have been imagining it, but he thought he heard someone call his in return. His right hand tightened on the automatic and he forced himself to walk towards the sound, even though every muscle in his body wanted to turn back to the light, back into the safety of custody. Maybe they wouldn’t hurt him, especially if he threw away the gun. In his present state, with his head bandaged, they might even treat him with kindness and understanding. He had just become a little confused, that was all. A bang on the head, a bit of disorientation: they’d sympathise, wouldn’t they? Now that he was feeling sharper, he knew he had no business down in this tunnel, and all he could do was offer his embarrassed apologies. As reasonable men, they’d see things his way, wouldn’t they?

“Floyd?” a voice hissed. “Floyd—is that you?”

Her voice sounded pitifully weak. It was difficult even to guess how far away she was, especially with the commotion behind him.

“Auger?”

“They’re here, Floyd. They’re in the tunnel.”

He knew she wasn’t referring to the police. He quickened his pace until his toe scuffed against something soft. Despite himself, he gasped in surprise. He knelt down, one heel touching a rail. He reached out and explored the form, finding an arm, then a neck, and finally a face.

“I’m tired,” she said, leaning into him. “I don’t think I can make it on my own.”

“I heard a shot.”

“There were several of them. I think I got them all.” She coughed. “You shouldn’t have followed me. I didn’t want you to come down here.”

“I was never one for goodbyes.”

“Feel around and see if you can find my torch. I dropped it when they attacked. It can’t be far away.”

Floyd fumbled in the darkness, finding the rails. He worked his hand between them, praying that the electricity wouldn’t suddenly surge through them. His fingers closed around the ribbed shaft of the torch. He held it up, shook it, found the sliding switch. The torch flickered, then came back to life.

He turned it off. “Got it. Now what?”

“Help me up. It isn’t far.”

The men couldn’t have been more than fifteen to twenty metres behind them. They were taking their time, their voices low and cautious, as if they now sensed something of the danger that might lie in ambush down here.

“How far exactly?” Floyd asked, still unwilling to move her.

“A couple of dozen metres. There’s a wooden door in the wall. You’ll feel it. Get me through the door. Then close it and get the hell out of here. I’ll take care of myself after that.”

He helped her move along the wall. The voices and torches behind them moved closer, picking up the pace with a renewed urgency. Floyd’s eyes were beginning to adapt to the low light, picking out vague, floating shapes in the darkness. He risked turning on the torch briefly, using his own body to shield it from the men. The beam flickered on and then off again.

“There,” Auger said. “A gap in the wall. You see it?”

“Yes.” Floyd looked back. The voices sounded no more than nine or ten metres behind them.

“Force it open. Get me through. Then save your skin.”

Floyd clamped the torch between his teeth. Leaning Auger against the wall, he jammed his shoulder against the old wooden door and pushed as hard as he could. The door swung open. He started helping Auger into the cavity beyond, trusting that she knew exactly what she was doing and almost believing it. Then something wrenched him away from the side of the tunnel, sending him sprawling across the tracks. He felt his spine crack against the rails. The torch dropped from his mouth, clattering against steel with a crunch of shattering glass.

The automatic fell from his hand.

Floyd forced a breath into his lungs. They hadn’t turned the juice back on. He thrashed his arms wide, trying to push himself off the rails. Barely distinguishable from the darkness that surrounded him, a child loomed over him. It planted a shoed foot on his arm, preventing him from reaching the automatic. He had just enough vision to make out the ghoulish curve of its smile, its sunken cheeks and the dead, recessed hollows of its eye sockets. Torchlight from the advancing party fell upon the child, freezing it like a statue. It was looking right at the men. It hissed like a snake, and something gleamed in its right hand.

The child’s arm moved, directing the muzzle of its little gun back along the tunnel, in the direction of the search party. The weapon discharged, spitting out rounds in a single brief burst.

He heard one of the men cry out in pain, and then a volley of return fire scythed overhead. None of the bullets hit the child, who aimed the gun again and delivered another burst of rapid fire, scything the gun from side to side. Floyd heard more anguished shouts and screams. Torches fell to the ground and died.

With a groan of effort, he managed to slip his arm free of the child’s foot. His fingers brushed the grip of the automatic, groped for a purchase and managed to drag the gun a little closer. His hand closed around the butt. He brought the gun around, supporting his wrist with his other arm. The child looked down, and for an instant its smug expression changed to one of bewilderment.

Floyd squeezed the trigger. The gun clicked in his hand. Nothing happened.

The child’s smile returned. It lowered the muzzle of its gun towards Floyd, its fingers coiled around the grip like pale eels.

There was another high-pitched volley of bullets.

The child shook like a doll, suspended in the air as rounds tore through it. Auger kept firing, squeezing the trigger until the gun fell silent, its muzzle aglow. The remains of the child, shredded clothes and lacerated flesh melded into an inseparable mass, flopped to the tunnel floor like a butcher’s offcut.

Floyd stumbled to his feet and followed Auger through the gap in the wall.

“Floyd, you can’t come any further.”

“You think I want to take my chances out there? They’ll assume I was the one shooting at them.”

“Trust me: you’re still better off trying to reason with them.”

“They’ll shoot first,” Floyd said.

She growled in frustration. “You follow me, you’re getting into very deep water.”

“I’ll take that chance.”

“Then close the door, before those men get here.”

He did as he was told. “You think they saw us come in here?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, her voice still weak and her breathing ragged and irregular. “But they’ll want to know what happened to us. They’ll comb every inch of the tunnel now. They’re sure to find that door.”

“I hope you have another way out of here, in that case.”

“So do I.”

They were in a much narrower tunnel, with no rails on the floor. No train could have fitted inside it. It was too low for Floyd to stand up in, and even though he ducked, he kept barking the top of his head against the rough-hewn ceiling. Auger led him onward, pausing now and then to gather her strength.

“We were lucky,” she said. “The children don’t see very well in the dark now. As they get older, their vision deteriorates.”

“How old are they?”

“They’ve been here for at least twenty-three years, maybe more, getting more decrepit every day.”

“Something tells me you’re ready to talk now.”

“In a moment, Floyd, you’re going to have all the answers I always said you didn’t want.”