Near the end of the beach, X felt the pain in his body flare, and looked up to see his prey coming toward him in the rain. The man was tall and wiry. He wore glasses and a red wool hat, which bobbed up and down as he walked. It was the only fleck of color in sight.
The rain crashed down in sheets now. The shore was deserted except for the bounty hunter and the soul he had come for.
Between them, there was a cliff that had been hollowed out by the tide. It rose up and over the beach like a giant, curling wave. The man ducked beneath it to get out of the rain, and took a seat on a fallen tree trunk. X stopped a hundred feet away, his boots sinking into the spongy sand. Should he turn back or continue? Every possibility, every thought, every emotion rushed at him at once.
The man saw X standing in the downpour. He cocked his head: What are you doing out there? He waved for him to come under the cliff. He gestured to the tree trunk he sat on: Plenty of room right here. Even in his torment, X found the innocence of the invitation touching. The man had no idea that X had been commissioned to kill him.
X stepped into the shelter, and sat without speaking. Above them, rainwater struck the top of the stony wave, then dripped off its outermost edge, like a beaded curtain. X looked at the ocean, at the bed of stones at his feet, at the smooth, curling wall of rock behind him—at everything but the man sitting beside him.
“Gonna be a while,” said the man.
X wanted to turn, wanted to speak, but found he could do neither. The man barreled ahead, unfazed.
“How freakin’ awesome is this rock?” he said, pointing up at the cliff behind them. “Sandstone. Coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”
X finally turned to him.
The man looked as harmless as a leaf.
X searched for something to say, but there was so much violence in his brain that it crowded out all thought.
The man smiled expectantly.
“Is this your first time in Canada?” he said.
X furrowed his brow.
“Is this Canada?” he said.
The man laughed, and X realized, with relief, that he thought he was kidding. The man was in his forties. He had a mop of brown hair and surprising green eyes that X recognized somehow. Beneath his jacket, he wore dingy clothes. His boots, coat, and glasses had all been repaired with the same shiny black tape. His clothes smelled like fish. He saw X notice the odor.
“I’ve been doing some ice fishing,” the man said. “It’s awful hard to make any kind of living up here.”
X felt an intense wave of loneliness pouring off his bounty. Ordinarily, he didn’t pretend to know what went on in people’s hearts, but loneliness was one of the few emotions he felt qualified to judge.
The man removed a glove and offered his hand to X.
“I’m Leo Wrigley,” he said. “What’s your name?”
X looked down at the man’s hand, which was pink and splotchy from the cold. He couldn’t make himself take it. Was it because of what the man had done? Was it because X was ashamed that he was meant to murder him? He wasn’t sure, but it was as if his arms were bound to his sides.
The man’s smile faltered. He withdrew his hand and gave X a long, hurt look.
Only now did X realize why he had recognized the man’s eyes: they looked like Jonah’s eyes.
X stood. He had to get away. The pain was too much.
“Your name is not Leo Wrigley any more than mine is,” he told the man. “It may be what you call yourself now, but it is not your true name.”
X ducked through the curtain of rainwater that fell from the cliff, and walked toward the noisy sea. He thought of Zoe. He would go to her now and see her one last time before he descended back to the only home he had ever deserved. He didn’t know how he would tell her—or if he would tell her—that her father was still alive.
sixteen
Zoe woke up giddy, as if someone had injected her with light. It was Sunday morning. Her body ached from caving. Still, it was the right kind of ache—an athlete’s ache. At nine o’clock, her mother peeked her head in and asked if she wanted to go into town with her. Zoe could hardly turn her head toward the door.
“Only if you have a stretcher,” she said.
“Terrific,” said her mother, leaning down to stroke her hair. “Now I have two kids who can’t leave the house.”
“Stop, stop, stop,” said Zoe. “That hurts.”
“Your hair hurts?” said her mother. “Is that even possible?”
“Apparently,” said Zoe.
When her mom left, Zoe inched her way to the edge of the bed, her muscles resisting even this tiny journey. Once upright, she staggered out of her bedroom and lurched across the hall to Jonah’s room, where she shouted, “Move, bug, move!” and collapsed onto his bed a fraction of a second after he had scrambled out of it.
Jonah listened to her groan for five minutes, then clambered back onto the ladybug, kissed her on the cheek, and said, “You are in no condition to be in charge.” He went down to the kitchen and made a tremendous amount of noise while constructing some sort of breakfast for her. Zoe heard so many machines ping and grind and whirl (the microwave, the blender, the Vitamix, the dehydrator, the cake mixer?) that she shuddered to think what lay in store for her. Still, it was the first time in days that Jonah had seemed … like Jonah. It was because she’d gone caving. She would have done a dance if her body had been up to it. Jonah’s laptop was open on the floor. He’d made her I WILL COME BACK photo his desktop background.