24 Hours

The first thing he saw was a McDonald’s restaurant. It reassured him after his night of isolation. The McDonald’s stood in the middle of a suburban strip mall parking lot. As Peter panned his eyes around the mall, he recognized the stores: Office Depot, Barnes amp; Noble, the Gateway 2000 store. He’d spent hours in that store. It was only a few miles from his house. He looked down at his wrists, which were bound with duct tape.

“Can you take this off now?”

He asked without looking up. The man behind the wheel of the truck was hard for him to look at. Peter had never seen or heard of Huey before yesterday, but for the last twenty-four hours, he had seen no one else. Huey was six inches taller than his father, and weighed at least three hundred pounds. He wore dirty mechanic’s coveralls and heavy plastic glasses of a type Peter had seen in old movies, with thick lenses that distorted his eyes. He reminded Peter of a character in a movie he’d seen on the satellite one night, when he sneaked into the home theater room. A movie his parents wouldn’t let him watch. The character’s name was Carl, and the boy who was Carl’s friend in the movie said he sounded like a motorboat. Carl was nice, but he killed people, too. Peter thought Huey was probably like that.

“When I was a little boy,” Huey said, peering thoughtfully through the windshield of the pickup, “those golden arches went all the way over the top of the restaurant. The whole place looked like a space-ship.” He looked back at Peter, his too-big eyes apologetic behind the thick glasses. “I’m sorry I had to tape you up. But you shouldn’t’ve run. I told you not to run.”

Peter’s eyes welled with tears. “Where’s my mom? You said she was going to be here.”

“She’s gonna be here. She’s probably here already.”

Through the heat shimmering off the asphalt, Peter scanned the sea of parked cars, his eyes darting everywhere, searching for his mother’s BMW. “I don’t see her car.”

Huey dug down into his front coverall pocket.

Peter instinctively slid against the door of the pickup truck.

“Look, boy,” Huey said in his deep but childlike voice. “I made you something.”

The giant hand emerged from the pocket and opened to reveal a carved locomotive. Peter had watched Huey whittling for much of the previous afternoon, but he hadn’t been able to tell what Huey was working on. The little train in the massive palm looked like a toy from an expensive store. Huey put the carving into Peter ’s bound hands.

“I finished it while you was sleeping,” he said. “I like trains. I rode one once. When I was little. From St. Louis, after Mamaw died. Joey rode up by hisself on the train and got me. We rode back together. I got to sit in front with the rich people. We wasn’t supposed to, but Joey figured a way. Joey’s smart. He said it was only fair. He says I’m good as anybody. Ain’t nobody no better than nobody else. That’s a good thing to remember.”

Peter stared at the little locomotive. There was even a tiny engineer inside.

“Whittlin’s a good thing, too,” Huey went on. “Keeps me from being nervous.”

Peter closed his eyes. “Where’s my mom?”

“I liked talking to you. Before you ran, anyway. I thought you was my friend.”

Peter covered his face with his hands, but he kept an eye on Huey through a crack between his left cheek and palm. Now that he knew where he was, he thought about jumping out. But Huey was faster than he looked.

Huey dug into his coveralls again and brought out his pocketknife. When he opened the big blade, Peter pressed himself into the passenger door.

“What are you doing?”

Huey grabbed Peter ’s bound wrists and jerked them away from his body. With a quick jab he thrust the knife between Peter ’s forearms and sawed through the duct tape. Then he reached over and unlocked the passenger door of the truck.

“Your mama’s waiting for you. In the playground. At the McDonald’s.”

Peter looked up at the giant’s face, afraid to believe.

“Go see her, boy.”

Peter pushed open the truck’s door, jumped to the pavement, and started running toward the McDonald’s.

Joe reached across Margaret McDill’s lap and opened the passenger door of the BMW. His smoky black hair brushed against her neck as he did, and she shuddered. She had seen his gray roots during the night.

“Your kid’s waiting in the McDonald’s Playland,” he said.

Margaret’s heart lurched. She looked at the open door, then back at Joe, who was caressing the BMW’s leather-covered steering wheel.

“Sure wish I could keep this ride,” he said with genuine regret. “Got used to this. Yes, sir.”

“Take it.”

“That’s not part of the plan. And I always stick to the plan. That’s why I’m still around.”

As she stared, he opened the driver ’s door, got out, dropped the keys on the seat, and started walking away.