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“Noah, are you home?” I called.
No one answered.
I pulled out my cellular telephone and waved over Fernando. A few quiet whispers between us, and he showed me where to find Noah’s profile information. Apparently he had not opened the Whirl application in over forty-eight hours. It didn’t track time away longer than that.
“Over here,” Silas said.
Creaking sounds came from inside. I hurried around the building and found an open back door. Silas was already inside.
“No one has been here for months,” he said.
I stepped into the doorway and looked over the dusty, broken floorboards, the weather-worn sofa, and blackened fireplace.
Fernando rolled straight for the fireplace. Inside, he scooped up handfuls of ash and cackled as the black bits slipped through his fingertips.
I smiled at him and went on to search the rest of the tiny building. There was one bedroom, a bathroom, and no kitchen. I checked the bathroom first, and rifled through the cabinets.
Empty pill bottles sat behind the mirror, their labels scratched out with pen so none could be read. The first drawer was empty. The second—filled with rubber duckies. There were yellow duckies, blue duckies, duckies in hats, duckies in sunglasses. I imagined Noah Darie splashing in his scummy bathtub, surrounded by bubbles and rubber fowl. He’d cradle his favorite duck by his cheek while singing the song of plastic bath toy admiration by the orange muppet from Sesame Street.
Interestingly enough, that imagining didn’t include Noah’s face. Had I actually gotten a decent look at his face? No, perhaps not. I’d glanced at the back of his head as he’d driven Imogen and I around town. It was possible I’d passed him walking down the street of Inorog and hadn’t even realized.
“Is this your guy?” Silas said from behind me.
Startled, but getting used to it, I turned around. “What kind of shoes do you wear that allow you to sneak up on people without making a sound? Whatever they are, they should be outlawed.”
His lips quirked up on one side. Was Silas Huxleysmilingat me?
He lifted a framed photograph for me to examine. In it was a young man holding a sheep, staring into the camera, and kissing the sheep on the nose. The man’s eyes were beady. The image was more than a little unnerving.
“He’s a little too into that cloud cow for my comfort,” Silas said.
“They’re called sheep, Silas,” I said.
“Not anymore. I like cloud cow better.”
So did I.
I stared at the image of the man, and realization struck. It was that exact face, that exact expression I’d seen at the foot of my bed. His tongue had lapped between my toes. Then I’d seared him and crunched his nose in a fiery kick. I shivered at the memory.
“Is this Noah?” Silas asked.
“I don’t know. I never really saw his face—he was up front, driving, and I didn’t pay attention to what he looked like,” I said. “But it’s the licker.”
The amused expression fell from Silas’s face, replaced by his most deadly scowl. His expression was nearly as unsettling as the photograph in his hands.
“Anything useful in the bedroom aside from the photograph?” I asked.
“No.”
“I found these duckies.” I pointed to the open drawer.
Silas’s eyes were filled with murder. Maybe he hated ducks.
“There’s nothing here,” he said. “It’s time to go.”
“It’s possible something tragic happened to Noah,” I said. “And that’s why he’s missing.”
Silas said something under his breath.
