“On Sunday,” he clarifies. “The Screamers led me back this way. I think I know why.”
“All the way back here?”
He nods and picks up the pace. Again, I follow. His excitement is contagious. I have no idea what we’re looking for, but I keep pace as he jogs through the headstones, footfalls silent against the grass.
At last, he halts at a row that hasn’t seen as much weather or neglect. Henry crouches at the side of one headstone and, with careful fingers, wipes away dirt.
Maximilian Monroe
August 3, 1960 – September 15, 1960
Little boy
Little angel
My knees give out, all at once and somewhat violently. I stare at the headstone, understanding the words and yet not understanding at all. Could there be two men named Maximilian Monroe, even in a town as small as King’s End? Maybe. Two with the same birthday?
Doubtful.
“The Screamers showed you this?”
“They led me past this spot half a dozen times.”
Of course they did.
“What do you remember about your father?” Henry asks.
“Not a lot. My mother always said he was local, that he grew up in Mankato, a town south of King’s End, and that I was distantly related to Adele.”
“And the date of birth?”
He doesn’t need me to answer, but I do. “The same.”
“Hm.” Henry stares into the middle distance, and I can practically see the thoughts churning. “A birth certificate, especially without a corresponding death certificate, is a first step in establishing an identity.”
“You mean a fake identity?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Isn’t that a crime?”
“It’s that, too, a federal crime. That doesn’t mean it’s unheard of in Enclave circles.”
“Fake identities for?—?”
“Travelers.”
“How many travelers fall through in a given year?”
“Generally, a couple per decade, although there haven’t been any in the last twenty years or so. Still, it happens, and there’s a protocol.” He nods toward the headstone. “Which your mother, as a principal field agent, would have known.”
“Are you saying my father was from another dimension?” I’m trying to parse this, but really, my mind simply spins.
“I’m saying it’s a possibility.” He gestures toward the grave. “Perhaps this was the source of the birth certificate that established his identity.”
“So my mother knew he was a traveler, she broke the law, and then kept everything from the Enclave?” Now that I’m saying it out loud, I absolutely believe she was capable of such a thing. With Adele’s help, once again, no doubt. But to keep it from me? Then again, I was four when my father died. He is someone I peer at through a mist—a face I can’t quite discern, a feeling I can’t quite name.
“Again, it’s a possibility.” He raises an eyebrow. “After all, I believe your mother’s kept a great many things from the Enclave.”
