The place was called Hazel’s Drive-In, and the big, brightly lit windows looked inviting. Judging by the number of cars and trucks parked there, the food was probably decent too—an assumption supported when Harry entered and inhaled the delicious scents of sizzling meat and frying potatoes. But the din of conversation made him wince, and so did Eddie Fisher crooning on the jukebox.

  “Just one?” asked the waitress nearest the door. She slightly resembled Harry’s mother, with her drawn-on eyebrows, too-red lipstick, and deep lines at the corners of her mouth.

  “Can I, um, get something to take with me?”

  “Sure, honey.” She handed him a menu. “Whattaya want?”

  He glanced at the offerings. “Cheeseburger with everything and french fries. And a bottle of Coke.”

  “How about a piece of pie to go with? Our apple’s real good.”

  “Okay.” He had plenty of cash right now; he could afford a small splurge.

  “That’s a dollar and five cents.”

  He gave her the money and then leaned against a pillar near the entrance, watching the other customers. Tables held young couples or raucous groups of teenagers or families with little children. Some men sat at the counter; maybe they were travelers, like him. Harry wondered what these people would think if they knew his errand. If they discovered what lay in his bed at the El Rancho Motel. Or if they learned any of his other secrets, for that matter. But none of them even glanced his way.

  The waitress returned quickly with a paper bag containing his food. At the cashier stand, she added a few paper napkins, a couple of mints, and a book of matches. “Thanks,” Harry said when she handed everything over. He gave her a quarter, which she tucked into her apron.

  “You have a good evening, now,” she said.

  He returned quickly to the motel, eating some of the french fries along the way. He almost expected to discover John missing, but when Harry opened the door, there was John on the bed, exactly as Harry had left him. He probably couldn’t have gone far even if he tried. As far as Harry could tell, John couldn’t sit upright, let alone stand.

  Harry plopped down in the armchair facing the bed, and John watched as he pulled out the paper-wrapped hamburger, the cardboard container of french fries, and the bottle of Coke. Then Harry set the bag on the adjacent dresser with the pie still inside. “You, um, don’t need to eat, right?”

  The answer came as hardly more than a whisper. “I don’t.”

  “Okay.” Thick, juicy, and a little greasy, the cheeseburger tasted great. But having John stare at him while he ate was weird, especially because John’s nudity was suddenly very obvious. He’d been naked all along, of course, and Harry had touched almost all of him when John was in the tub. But Harry hadn’t really been thinking of him as a person then, while now for some reason he did.

  After finishing the burger, he wiped his hands clean with the napkins, stood, and proclaimed, “Clothes.” John watched Harry lift his suitcase onto the empty side of the bed and shuffle through the contents. Nothing he owned would be a proper fit for John, who was little more than a skin-covered skeleton, but eventually Harry selected an undershirt and pair of tan trousers.

  He closed the suitcase and set it aside. “You can put these on,” he said, nudging the clothing toward John.

  John’s eyes widened, but he didn’t budge. “I… put them on?”

  “Yeah. We’re going to need to jury-rig a belt somehow, but they’re better than nothing.”

  Moving slowly, John reached over to stroke the undershirt. “It’s soft,” he said, voice filled with wonder.

  “I guess.”

  Harry watched him for a few moments, but it soon became clear that John lacked the strength to pull himself upright. He also didn’t seem to have any notion of how to get dressed. After he fumbled the shirt onto the floor, Harry sighed and stepped around to help.

  John cowered when Harry neared him. “I’m sorry, master.”

  Shit. “Master?” That came out more harshly than Harry intended, so he forced himself to soften his tone. “I’m not your master. I’m Harry, okay?” He sighed. “Let’s get these clothes on you.”

  Although the outfit was many sizes too large, John looked even more human when dressed. How old had he been when he died? Harry couldn’t tell. After Harry helped him lie down again, John kept running his fingers reverently over the fabric of his shirt and pants. Something about those small movements twisted Harry’s heart.

  “Gonna turn in,” he announced, more loudly than necessary. “Long drive tomorrow.” He got ready quickly, then turned out the light in hopes it would make climbing in beside John less awkward. It didn’t—although at least he didn’t have to face John’s startled gaze.

  “You do, uh, sleep, right?” Facing away from John, Harry rearranged the thin pillow into a more comfortable position.

  “Yes.”

  Morbid curiosity brought the next question. “Do you dream?”

  “No,” John replied after a long pause. “I don’t think so.”

  Would that be a good thing or bad? Harry had been plagued with nightmares since he was young; sometimes he’d cried out, loud enough to wake his family and cause his father to stomp into the bedroom and yell at him. The man who rented the room next to his at the March once complained too. But now and then Harry dreamed wonderful things—of flying like a bird or triumphantly slaying dragons. Of dancing in the arms of a man who loved him.

  “Harry?” The whisper came when he was almost asleep.

  “Yeah?”

  “Did I…. Am I bad?”

  At first Harry thought he’d just ignore the question. But he could feel John’s presence just inches away, and he imagined the disquiet on that ruined narrow face. Not to mention the shadows in John’s bright blue eyes.

  “What do you mean? You did what I told you today.”

  “Yes. I tried to be good. I won’t…. You don’t have to silence me.”

  Shit. “Okay.”

  “B-but did I do something bad? Before?”

  “Before what?”

  “Before I was… like this?”

  Harry hadn’t given any thought to John’s memories or sense of self, and it hadn’t occurred to him that John might not know who he’d been before he died. Harry certainly didn’t know the answer. It hadn’t occurred to him to ask Townsend, who in any case might not have known either. But this wasn’t a line of examination that Harry wanted to explore right now. Or possibly ever.

  “You weren’t bad,” he said, although that might have been a complete lie.

  John sighed into the darkness. “Thank you.”

  Chapter Six

  John wasn’t certain he was sane. After all, his memories began with a black abyss, and his life had been steeped in misery. Sometimes in the cell, especially at night, he doubted his own existence. But he’d been suddenly whisked away and now faced so many things he’d previously only imagined: The sky and the stars. A clean body covered in soft clothing. A bed. And a man who spoke with him—called him by name!—and whose touches never hurt. Maybe these were the desperate fictions of a tattered mind.

  If it was a delusion, John intended to relish it as long as he could. He lay in the darkness, feeling the warmth from Harry’s body, listening to the symphony of Harry’s even breaths. This was contentment, better than a brief pool of sunshine.

  And Harry said John hadn’t been bad.

  He fell asleep smiling.

  ***

  He woke early and spent some time watching Harry sleep. He was a beautiful man, with a diamond-shaped face that tended toward frowns when he was awake but smoothed during slumber. John traced a finger over his own cracked narrow lips and envied Harry’s, lush and soft-looking. Unlike John’s skin, pale as a mushroom, Harry was a light tan with slightly ruddy cheeks.

  Harry opened his eyes and startled so violently that he nearly fell off the bed. “Shit!”

  “I’m sorry!” John curled into himself protectively. He hadn’t intended to make Harry angry.

  But after a long look at John, Harry rubbed his eyes and shook his head. “You’re different.”

  “I….”

  “You look….” Another head shake. “Never mind. We need to go.”

  It didn’t take long for Harry to get dressed. He carried his suitcase outside and returned immediately for John, who settled comfortably into his arms. John felt oddly safe when Harry held him, although he had no assurances that Harry wouldn’t harm him eventually. Fine. He’d enjoy the contact for now.

  Harry grunted as he crossed to the door. “You feel heavier.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Not exactly your fault, is it?”

  As he had the previous morning, Harry put John in the trunk. This time John wore clothing and wasn’t in chains. Still, Harry seemed hesitant to close the lid. “Are you gonna be okay in there? We got a long way to go today.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Frowning, Harry shut him inside.

  In truth, the trunk was uncomfortable. John could barely move and definitely couldn’t straighten his limbs, and sometimes the car’s sudden starts and stops slammed him into the metal walls. But he was well accustomed to solitude, inactivity, and darkness, and at least the trunk was warmer than his cell. Also, when the car moved smoothly—which was most of the time—the gentle bouncing soothed him. Although he couldn’t see or hear Harry, John knew he was close by, and that was a solace as well.

  The car stopped several times, but not for long, and John remained locked in the trunk. By the time Harry finally opened the lid, it was nighttime again, but the stars were shrouded by an overcast sky. Without saying anything, Harry carried him into a room similar to the last, although this one had two narrow beds instead of a wide one. Harry set John down on one mattress—still without comment—and then took a quick shower in the adjacent bathroom. He emerged with wet hair, wearing boxer shorts and an undershirt, and after a long silent scrutiny of John, he turned out the light. Bedsprings creaked as he got into the other bed.

  John wanted to ask a thousand questions, but he dared not risk angering his keeper. So he remained quiet, although he didn’t fall asleep for a long time.

  In the morning John discovered he could sit up by himself. He held up his arms, and in the weak light that crept around the curtains, he thought he discerned more substance to his body than he was used to. He was still terribly thin, but now weak muscles seemed to have developed, and his skin felt softer and more supple. More alive.

  He brushed a trembling hand across the top of his skull and encountered… hair. Nothing like the thick brush Harry possessed, but far more than the few tiny wisps John was accustomed to.

  He glanced at the other bed and discovered that Harry was awake and staring at him. “You look different. You’re changing. How come?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Have you done this before?”

  “I… I don’t know.”

  Scowling at John’s unsatisfactory answers, Harry got out of bed and prepared for their departure.

  In the trunk John noted that today’s journey was shorter and that toward the end there was far more starting and stopping. Traffic noise filtered into his cocoon, and he eventually realized that the odd pinging sound must be raindrops hitting the metal above. When Harry popped the trunk open, John wasn’t surprised to see that his hair and clothing were damp. Behind him was a neon sign for the Totem Pole Motel.

  “Got us another room. I’ll look for something better tomorrow. God, I’d love to have a real kitchen! I’m so sick of eating restaurant food. I haven’t had a home-cooked meal since I left Missouri.” His face scrunched up, as if that were an unhappy memory. Then with a loud groan, he hoisted John into his arms.

  Two beds again. John’s slight disappointment was ridiculous, because he ought to be deeply grateful to have a bed at all. This room was slightly larger than the others, with a desk, a small round table, and a few chairs. Several paintings of Indians adorned the walls. John sat on his bed instead of lying down as he watched Harry fuss around, getting settled.

  He finally hazarded a question. “Where are we?”

  “Portland.”

  “Oh.” He knew in an abstract way that the city lay at the northern edge of Oregon. It had a port, he thought, and mountains nearby. A lot of trees. As always, he didn’t know where this knowledge came from.

  Harry stood at the end of John’s bed, hands fisted on his hips. “I got some errands to run.”

  John nodded.

  But Harry didn’t leave. Instead he remained rooted in place, brow furrowed as he scrutinized John. “I don’t understand you.”

  “I’m… sorry.”

  “You can talk. And feel things. And I guess you can think okay too, right?”

  Although this conversation made John uneasy, he was also gratified to have these things acknowledged. It meant Harry wasn’t viewing him as an object. “I can,” John agreed softly.

  “Yeah. I’ve thrown you in the trunk of a car and dragged you a thousand miles away, and you ain’t complained even once.”

  John sat up straighter in bed. “I’m clean, Harry. I have clothing. Beds. I’ve seen the sky! And I’m not… not alone.” That part was important. Maybe the most important of all. “Why would I complain?”

  Looking grave, Harry shook his head. “You ain’t mine. You know that, right? When this job is over, the Bureau’s gonna want you back. I don’t know what they’ll do with you then.”

  Although John had suspected as much, the words were still painful to hear. He sought courage within himself and found a small amount. “When they take me back, I’ll have good memories to bring with me. I didn’t have those before.” He even managed a smile, hoping it didn’t look too ghastly.

  “What do you remember?”

  “Pain. A room somewhere. It had white tile. A metal table. Straps and chains. A man with….” He shuddered. “With knives. He told me to call him master, but he never said my name. Then there was shouting. Gunfire? More men. And then my cell with my patch of sunlight, and more chains and knives and… and my cell again. Then you.”

  He’d never said so many words at once, and even though he knew he was far from eloquent, Harry listened closely, his usually ruddy face pale and his eyes wide. When John finished speaking, Harry remained silent. He’d trapped his lower lip between his teeth.

  Gathering all his bravery, John asked, “Can you tell me what I am?”

  After a pause, Harry nodded. “Yeah.” Then he sighed. “Do you know how to read?”

  “I… I don’t know.”

  While John watched, Harry rummaged through his suitcase. He pulled out a paperback book and tossed it to John, who surprised himself by catching it easily. The lurid cover depicted a woman in a yellow dress sprawled on a bed, unconscious or dead. Behind her a brutish man stared at his oversized hands. But the words were more important than the image, and John discovered he could read them very well. “The greatest horror story of them all,” he recited. “Frankenstein.” Swallowing thickly, he looked at Harry for an explanation.

  “Have you read it?” Harry asked. “Or seen the movie?”

  “I don’t know.” If he had, the details lay in the missing parts of his memory. But he did know one thing. “A monster?”

  “Read it.” Harry put on his jacket and a flat cap and left the room, shutting the door firmly.

  John picked up the book and began to read.

  Chapter Seven

  Harry didn’t want to think about the creature in his motel room. About John. About how, back in his cell, John had looked like a prop from one of the Saturday matinees Harry had snuck off to see as a kid, the ones his mother forbade because they were the Devil’s work. But as part of that long-ago audience—surrounded by screaming girls held tightly by their boyfriends—Harry had imagined himself as the hero who defeated the monsters.

  He also didn’t want to think about how John now looked different from when he was in the cell. More human. Maybe a human who’d been ill for a long time, but now his bones carried more flesh and his movements were stronger. His eyes looked brighter too, tracking Harry’s every move, and the rustiness was fading from his voice.

  Harry most definitely didn’t want to think about the questions this situation raised. What was John? What would become of him when this Swan guy was caught?

  Fortunately Harry had plenty of other matters to occupy his brain. He drove around Portland for a time, getting a feel for the place. It wasn’t a big city—LA could have swallowed it whole—but it was much larger than his hometown. A wide river bisected it, and a range of green hills rose to the west, behind the bulky brick and concrete buildings downtown. Heavy mist hung in the air, making everything soft and gray. Harry wasn’t sure if he preferred it to LA’s smoggy sun, but at least it was a change.

  Townsend had given him Swan’s address, so Harry stopped at a gas station to buy a map, then went for a quick peek at the house. Reconnaissance work, right? But his delight at feeling like a real agent dimmed when he saw where Swan lived: a sweeping stone mansion with an expansive front lawn adorned with an enormous sculpture of a mermaid. Throw in a couple of palm trees and the house would have looked at home in Beverly Hills. How the hell was he supposed to impress a guy who lived in a place like that?

  Frowning, he pulled away from the curb and went in search of a place to eat. Not in this neighborhood, though—it was far too rich for his blood.

  He ended up at a turquoise-and-yellow diner advertising all-day breakfasts and special hamburgers. Not many customers at this time of day. He bought a newspaper from the box outside, then sat in a Naugahyde booth and perused it while eating hotcakes and sausage. He’d never had much interest in current events; they’d seemed irrelevant to his life, even after he moved to LA. But he figured he ought to have some idea what was going on in the world. Swan might expect him to know things. So Harry read the headlines and scanned the articles before moving to the classified ads.