I

There was an emptiness in the boy's eyes, a startling cold darkness that peered back at you. He was only four and one more years old, but moved with the slow, calculated pace of a man of sixty enmeshed in a rather important game of chess. Other children would be given to fits and tantrums, terrible outburst of howling-moon screams - but not Omber; he never did. Observing him on the playground, where I'd first met him all those years ago, it was clear there was something unusual about the diminutive blue-eyed demon. There were two ways in which his playground brood approached him; with fear and hesitation - and rightly so - or a remarkably dangerous ignorance, taunting and menacing the boy in the same foolish fashion a less learned child brandishing a stick or stone might menace a hive of bees. The latter of this bunch, the bullies and brutes, the future convicts and fugitives, quickly became aquatinted with Omber's style of accounting: liquidation. Though I had never seen the boy directly enact revenge or resort to fisticuffs or quarrel, it always happened that some terrible misfortune would befall his previous persecutor; an accident on the jungle gym, a severe stomach ailment and several missed days of school, the crash of clashing craniums on the swirling metal slide. Omber was the ringleader of that playground circus of disaster.

His parents, curiously, were always absent and were therefore unknown to me. This concocted my mind all sorts of crazy; perhaps he'd dealt with them, too - a cleverly planted squeeze-toy placed perfectly behind a brake pad, or a few torn open silica packets mixed into mommy's morning coffee. Or maybe he was without parents and had grown up on his own, in the boiler rooms of derelict buildings, feeding on rats and roaches, hordes of stolen candy commandeered during strings of playground heists and robberies. What did I know? All of this was mere speculation, of course, but through it all there glimmered one inescapable truth: Omber was all alone in this world and therefore free to act of his own accord, without fear of consequence or punishment.

Despite his severe and thorough dealings on the playground, he was always very fashionably dressed; wearing powder blue three-piece suits and those immaculate black shoes, ludicrously shined, which he evidently prided himself on - given how often he'd polish them with his white pocket cloth. Obviously, his odd behavior would eventually attract the curiosity of nearby parents and schoolteachers, but as they approached him, ready to interrogate Omber on the whereabouts of his guardians and the absurdity of his ensemble, he would reach into his sky-blue jacket pocket and present a note scribbled in a fine hand. The adult, looking down at him tenderly, would hand him back the piece of paper and pat his head gently before walking away to patrol the perimeter. What audacity, I thought, to forge a hand with such brazen assurance! He was a very cunning devil indeed!

All of this and more one day prompted me to follow the child at the playground's closing. I concealed myself in the thick swath of trees across from the park, peering out subtlety with my binoculars and hat - as to avoid looking conspicuous - and trailed the boy's meandering path. Ducking behind cars and eyeing him around corners, I watched him crouch down here or there to pick up an attractive pebble or a shiny coin, or generously throw a crumb of bread to a hungry bunch of pigeons. By this time the sun had nearly set, throwing its last glimmer of coruscating gold against Omber's pale blue suit. A curly-haired woman with inquisitive eyes, wearing a red polka dotted dress, small child in tow, probably returning home from a late evening walk, came between me and the boy. From behind her I saw him lunge toward the ground in pursuit of a green leapfrog. At first, it seemed her position was accidental, but then I understood that by her prolonged presence she meant to accost me. A feigned smile hung from her face like a used up air freshener hanging from a rear view mirror; a stale and odorless ornamental adornment. She asked me if the child was mine. Why, no, I'm afraid not, I replied, I'm trying to discover who his parents are, actually. She looked at me suspiciously, staring at my thick mustache, my sunglasses and hat, and then back again, as though tracing a constellation; Orion's belt. I see, she said slowly, drawing out those e's a little too long. If you wait right here I can help you; I think I've seen the boy before. I was becoming frustrated. I had almost completely lost sight of Omber and any time I tried to glance behind her she shifted her weight to block my view. I feared the longer she delayed me I might lose him for good. Taking advantage of my quiet deliberation she began to move toward her home without waiting for a reply, suggesting that through silence I had tacitly agreed to recruit her. Realizing I had to act quickly, I promptly said: no no, that won't be necessary at all; I'm perfectly capable on my own. Good day. And I walked briskly away after the boy. It was only when I turned the corner the possibility crossed my mind that she might be a member of his protectorship, one of those adults he was so easily able to buy or bribe. What if he had sensed that he was being followed and had somehow summoned her to distract me? When I couldn't find him I became frantic and worried I had made a wrong turn. Damnit, I growled from under my mustache, I was so close! At a crossroads I spun indecisively in quick hesitant semicircles, like a two-dimensional black metal weathercock, until I spotted ahead of me a shiny coin trailed by a small rock - breadcrumbs, Hansel. His pocket must be leaking, I thought, how fortuitous!

I raced up the block, hunched over, sniffing doggedly at the ground like a hound. I followed along, coin after coin after stone, until I was led to a dirt path that veered off into the woods. It was a hiking trail of some sort, one that I was unfamiliar with. At the entrance there was a sign with a map outlining the various trails and their points of intersection. The whole thing seemed to connect roughly in a circle, but had twisting little paths that splintered off into nowhere. Varicose National Park it was called. A nuisance of mosquitos swarmed around me like little vampire bats shrunken by some arcane sorcery. Their syringe tongues salivating and sharp, stabbed at me even as I shooed them away. A silly vision came to me, of miniature armor-clad knights riding the insects like monstrous, hideously deformed flying horses, repurposing the creature's long-lipped needles for lances, an army of aerial jousters attacking me as though I were a diabolical dragon to be slayed.

Luckily, for me, the park's entrance was relatively flat and, looking out into the open field I easily spotted Omber with his back turned, picking flowers. Quickly, I took cover behind an old tree, removed my sunglasses and waited to see what the boy would do next. A determined mosquito had followed me into hiding and nearly flew into my eye, had I not taken a step back and swatted it away - the infernal buzzing kamikaze - but as I did this a brittle twig crunched loudly under the weight of my foot and I saw Omber stop and turn in my direction. He stood up and dusted his knees before making his way toward one of the steepest trails in the park. I followed, slowly at first, cautious to remain hidden, but soon he picked up his pace to a near sprint. Had he seen me? Surely he must have. It's why he'd chosen to climb the highest peak, trusting his youthful agility over mine. As I clambered up the hill after him I knew I had to make a decision: would I reveal myself or would I try to stay concealed? Perhaps he was simply barreling up the mountain with an intentionless childlike exuberance. It was hard to tell.

Until we got to the summit.

Panting and wheezing, sweating amphibiously, I reached the top only to see him dash around a public restroom, throwing me a panicked backwards glance as he disappeared. I smiled, gleefully, realizing what he hadn't realized - that he was now trapped. Eager to corner and question the child, I swung around the structure and clobbered the first door I saw. My error was made clear almost immediately, when I was greeted by two apoplectic women jeering at me with pantomime torch and pitchfork. Incensed and empowered by my trespass, they screamed obscenities and incredulities, hurling insult and injury, while I, calmly, reasonably, tried to explain that I was looking for a boy that might have traveled this way. With their words and forward momentum, charging, they blasted me from the bathroom and I stumbled backward through the door, my hat rolling off my head and down the mountain. I picked myself up and entered the mens room hoping for better luck. Empty. He must’ve escaped during the commotion in the adjoining room. Curses! The guileful brat!

After that, he didn’t show up at the playground for another two weeks. I had begun to wonder if he had chosen another location for his criminal charades, as a hustler moves from one town to another to avoid detection and to evade the retaliation of those he’s wronged or robbed. But on a fateful Thursday afternoon I’d found him rocking dutifully on a springed pony, laughing mirthfully to and fro as he swayed. He looked up at me wickedly as I approached him. The malice on his face was sharp and bloodstained. We stared at one another not saying a word and, not blinking, I foisted him a cyanimde smile. Yea pal, it’s me, remember? I’ll kill your mother, and then your wife, he said. Stay away from me if you know what’s good for you, Jack.

How did he know my name? How was this happening? Listen I said to him, you better buck up now and tell me what’s going on, or else you’re going to be sorry. Is that right, he asked, smirking stoically, elucidate me. Scoundrel! How bold you are to reveal your true voice! I have never been anything but true this entire time, fool, said Omber. His horse stopped swaying; so did the swings. The mushroom shaped sprinkler stopped, too. He whispered, whispered!

Clatu borada niktu. I stood still, the earth stood still.

Oh, hello Mr. Imago, a voice said from behind me, it's so nice to finally meet you. I turned to face a green-eyed woman, much younger than myself, stout, with small sausagey limbs and a large mole on her cheek near to her lip. She had red-rimmed glasses and bright red lipstick that drew attention to her mole - from which three little hairs protruded - and before I could reply Omber had leapt from his horse and lassoed my leg with his arms. Papa! he yelled. I was stilted by confusion and my mouth became estranged from my brain. My arms hung limply, unsure what to do, and my hands raised limply in a sort of subtle protest. Oh, tell me, how is your wife, Dorothy, Mr. Imago? I understand from her letters that she is very ill, has been for some time now. This whole ordeal has been very challenging for Omber, and you too, I'm sure. She tells me that you have been working long hours at the factory. I'm so glad you could take time out of your busy day to come visit Omber for our parent teacher conference this afternoon. No no, I stuttered, there has been some misunderstanding. From below, Omber stomped savagely onto my foot and, looking up into the red spectacled lady's eyes, he asked tearfully if he could go home and see his mommy today, that I had promised him she would get better. Oh, Omber, she said, I will only keep your father for a moment, to get him caught up on your affairs, and then you may adjourn to visit your mother. I began to say excuse me, to explain that I was not the boy's father, but as soon as I spoke he threw a frightful fit of coughing and crying, making a terrible scene which garnered great sympathy from the woman. Oh dear, I have never seen Omber act this way Mr. Imago, he is usually extraordinarily well-behaved. Perhaps it is best that you take him home if he is feeling ill. Home, home, home he began to plead. I would very gladly take him home I started to say, if he were my child, but I was unable to finish the sentence because Omber had feigned fainting at my feet. Oh no, Mr. Imago, Omber! Come now, the boy hasn't fainted, he's pretending so that he can get what he wants. She bent down and picked the child up. That's no way to talk Mr. Imago, this is serious. Now where is your car, she asked, taking me by the hand and leading me toward the lot, we must get him home at once, at once, and call a doctor. Before I knew what was happening he was being tucked into the passenger seat of my vehicle and strapped in. Ms. Mole waved me off with a concerned smile after handing me a piece of paper with her number scribbled on it - in case I should need anything.

Slowing to a stop at an intersection I looked over at Omber who, smiling deviously, began to laugh as he reached into his pocket and extracted a pack of cigarettes. I yanked them from his hand and asked him what he thought he was doing. Don't do that again, he said, and reached into a second pocket, producing a second pack of smokes. In his little hands the cigarette looked more like a thin, chalky cigar, the silver lighter a lantern. Irritated by his audacity, again I reached for the cigarettes but, this time, Omber had recoiled and revealed a revolver. Nah uh uh, he said, pointing the barrel at my belly, I told you not to do that. Now, shut up and drive, he said, snapping closed the lighter and pulling deeply from his cigarette. I didn't say anything at first, I just kept driving. Thoughts crossed my mind, depraved thoughts, of somehow disarming the demon and killing him in self defense. But over and over again the grim eventuality of my incarceration played out in my head. Who would believe a child capable of holding a grown man hostage, of committing the vulgar atrocities Omber surely would and had committed? No one would, I was sure of it. It was ingeniously insidious, brilliant. I was at his mercy. My only chance was to flee, to try and lose the boy before he could discharge that weapon. Turn here, he said, still holding the gun on me. You know, that day you followed me to the park at sunset, I would have killed you if it weren't for those dreadful women in the washroom. I remained silent, not wanting to anger him, using the moment instead to think up possible escape plans. I could jam on the brakes and hope to knock him unconscious. If only Ms. Mole hadn't fastened his seatbelt! Hey, he shouted as he smacked me with his free hand, don't even think about jamming on the brakes. What do I look like to you, a goddamned idiot? Watch this, he said, as he held the gun to his own head, try to explain how this happened when the police arrive - go ahead, hit the brakes.

I was afraid. It shames me to say it but I was terrified.

It had been days now, nearly a week of driving. My car smelled constantly of cigarettes. The quality of sleep afforded to me during this time was mocking and meager. I had pulled over, my eyes heavy from exhaustion, beleaguered by fear and stress, and I began to doze under the aim of his revolver. As far as I could tell, the boy did not need to rest. Repeatedly I would wake, wrestled from sleep by splintered nightmares and the macabre zoetropes projected like lightning against my mind, only to see his stone eyes staring. Suddenly his fist thundered against my leg: get up, it's the cops; don't do anything stupid. Behind us I heard a door shut, followed by the sound of footsteps on gravel. The officer's shadow, lengthened by his headlights, surveyed and stretched itself out over the car as he shined his light through the driver's side window. I rolled the glass down and greeted him with bloodshot eyes. He ran the light over me, then the boy, and then my lap. May I ask what you are doing here on the side of the road. I'm terribly sorry officer, I had been driving for too long and needed to catch a moment's rest. He didn't respond to me but instead continued rummaging through the car with his eyes. May I see your license and registration for this vehicle, he asked. I reached across Omber, who quietly growled at me as I opened the glove box to remove the registration, and presented it to the policeman. Where are you headed. We're going to visit his mother, in Westend, she is very sick. I realized I needed to do something to catch the cop's attention, should I risk losing this fleeting opportunity at escape. I began to wink somewhat spastically with my left eye, the one Omber couldn't see, and I said: I think we'll be out of here pretty soon, officer, no need to worry about us. The patrolman looked at me queerly and asked me to step out of the car. What's going on; what did you do, Omber asked with agitation. It's okay, I'm just going to have a nice chat with the policeman, don't worry. He clenched his teeth and twisted his face into a quiet snarl. I opened the door and was led to the rear of the car. I discerned from his body language that he wanted to give me a sobriety test or frisk me for weapons. If only he had searched the boy first! I looked at the name printed over his heart before I said: Officer, officer O'Maley, if I may address you frankly, you will find that I am not drunk or under the influence of drugs, nor am I in possession of a firearm. The truth is, I am in great danger. It may startle you to know that the child in the passenger seat is not my own, and furthermore, that the diabolical boy has held me here against my will. Is that so, asked O'Maley, eyebrows raising. As expected, he was unconvinced. I wish it weren't true, I said, but if you'll search the child you will find countless packs of cigarettes, lollipops and a loaded handgun; it's all the proof you will need. Can you place your hands behind your back for me, officer O'Maley asked. Why I hardly think that's necessary, officer, I am not the one you need protection from. I can see you judge my story dubious. Don’t you think I’ve already considered how unlikely this all seems? Turn around, he asked. I promise you I’m telling the truth. Moments later I was in the backseat of the cop car in handcuffs - for my protection I was told. I understood too late that I was being placed under arrest. How inequitable! But wait, I thought, a trip to jail would set me free of the boy. Oh, the cold steel irony of my bound hands! I could’ve kissed officer O’Maley’s feet! Now all I needed him to do was to discover Omber and this would all be cleared up. Even if he was to find nothing on the boy - had he had enough time to stash the gun - I would still be deemed mentally unsound and be taken in for questioning, at which point I would have eluded the child for good.

But then - bang.

From the open door I watched the policeman fall over backward and then saw two little shoes, shiny and glinting in the headlights, jump down onto the pavement. His small hands quickly riffled through the compartments of the now deceased officer O’Maley, pausing briefly to examine the contents and then confiscate them. He stood up and began marching toward the cop car. Now, in honesty, I am a man of some small pride - I am not ashamed to say - but as the child came toward me I screamed out and cried and kicked in abject terror. He'd just killed a man, a highway patrolman, without hesitation or concern for the sanctity of human life, and now he was heading for me. He flung open the car door and glared at me as though I were a dog that had misbehaved. For a moment I was uncertain if he would shoot me, too. Regrettably, I cowered and thrashed around the backseat trying to avoid the bullet, like a caricature of a coward in front of a firing squad. He didn't shoot, though. Get out, let's go, he said, unless you want to explain to the ensuing detectives the dead cop lying on the roadside. I didn't kill him, I yelled. Didn't you, he asked. He walked back to my car and slammed the door. I waited for a moment in the back of the car considering my options. He was right, of course, about the other cops that would come. They are like pigeons aren't they? Always arriving in aggregates around some lowly piece of stale bread. And even if I could convince them that I hadn't killed O'Maley while handcuffed and locked inside the car and, he, dead beside mine, they would not believe it was the boy - they would assume an accomplice. I had no choice but to get back into my brown car and drive. I found the keys to the handcuffs on my seat. Meticulous blue-eyed devil.

After that horrible encounter we drove only at night and slept in motels during the day. He instructed me to pay in cash and to always leave fake names, to avoid leaving a trace. While we slept he would handcuff me to the bed so that I couldn't elude him, but every time I woke I would find him always staring at me. I quickly grew tired of this death march he had me going through the motions of and when we woke one evening to begin our nighttime egress, I refused to leave the room. I won't carry on like this any longer, I said. If you're going to kill me, get it over with already. We haven't gotten where we're going yet, he said dismissively. And we won't get there, I added, because I'm not going to play the part of your owl-eyed chauffeur driving my own hearse to some undisclosed location where you can kill and dispose of me. I'd be a fool! Omber laughed heartily at this, holding his stomach and bearing an enormous half-moon grin. You dolt, he said, wiping a tear from his eye, if I wanted to kill you don't you think I'd have done it already? You are payment, a hostage, ransom. Even as he spoke I knew it was possible that he was merely misleading me, trying to trick me into cooperation. A ransom, I repeated, to whom? In exchange for what? Who would pay any sum of money for my return? It's unlike you to employ such an obvious lie. Omber laughed even more uproariously than he had the first time. You really haven't figured it out, he asked incredulously, laughing like a child. Have you not, truly? Are you the only one who doesn't know? Were I not chained to the bed, and were he not holding a gun, I would have walloped him across the face. I'll not entertain you at all. I don't need to suffer your impudent tongue or its indignities - I'm not going anywhere. Oh come now, he said condescendingly, have I hurt the little man's feelings? Would you like some ice cream? Neapolitan perhaps? Shut up, I screamed, yanking at my chains. You wretched imp, release me or kill me! He smiled and said nothing for a long while. I'll do neither, he said finally, reaching into his jacket pocket. With a thud he tossed a fist-sized metallic object onto the dresser just outside my grasp. It was O'Maley's badge. If you must know, the reward for any information leading to the arrest of a cop-killer is $15,000.

Why, that's absurd. All that money, for what? You're a child! Precisely, said Omber. Do you have any idea how much candy I could buy, how many toys, cigarettes? You won't even know what to do with that kind of money, I told him. I know; that's the best kind, isn't it. I couldn't tell whether he was sincere or simply sewing strands of wool across my eyes. There is a great power in uncertainty, I learned, through his misuse and abuse of me; it is the precursor to hope. And hope that is at least ostensibly attainable is a thing most hazardous to those condemned. It is a magic that prolongs misery. I looked at him sitting there in that crimson colored chair, contented with himself for having duped me, at having framed me, and saw how he'd strung me along through his trail of patchworked wreckage. I could feel the heat of hatred rise from my ears and hot rage kick from within my cleft, cracked heart, petaling it; an outpouring of abhorrence; blood full of thorns. Fantasy gripped me and I envisioned wringing his neck, running over his head with the tire of my car, choking him with a mouthful of malted chocolates. None of these wishes were granted me, of course, but then, an idea: what if I could use his incredible greed to my advantage? You're a fool, I said, to only use me for the death of a single cop. Why settle for a measly $15,000 when you could have me kill ten cops? His face grew slack at this remark, revealing his thoughtlessness. His relaxed, self-congratulatory comportment grew tense and he rocked forward aggressively, thrusting his face toward me like a giant admonishing finger. Who said we were done? I realized that to question one's ambition is as powerful and dark a magic as that other four-letter word.

We drove that night, stopping off periodically along the highway, patrolling for patrolmen, but there were none to be found. Because I had no intention of being an accomplice, and because I needed to devise an exit strategy, I tried my luck at planting seeds in the rapacious soil of Omber's mind. He sat with the pistol pointed at my midsection, as always, his feet dangling, kicking absentmindedly while he smoked a menthol cigarette. When we drove like this I was suspended always in a state of constant exasperation and relentless duress for fear of an accidental misfire that might imbed a piece of lead into my abdomen. I had read that the stomach was the least desirable place to be shot, more than even the head. There are those who welcome a quick and irreversible cranial perforation, to let out the demons, but there is a reason no one suicides with a self-inflicted shot to the belly: it allows for too much time to reconsider. I would prefer if you didn't point that at me, I said, now that we are partners. The light from the passing cars made his big eyes grow and glow malevolently, like a hollowed out orange gourd. I work alone, said Omber. Do not forget: you are expendable, a temporary necessity. To me, you are nothing more than a marionette. What I hated most about his words was...everything. And oh how he stunk! The smell of his putrid diaper perfumed the car. He always grew more irksome when he'd soiled himself. But he was right of course - I had long since lost my autonomy, and every second of my life was spent under his cruel imposition. In that instance I grew mutinous and bold and considered cutting the wheel and crashing the car, hoping that he might perish and I might live. Compared to my current fate, what did I have to lose, really? I was to either be jailed or killed, so did it matter if I died now and took him with me? The mere chance that I might survive the crash was an absolutely magnetic possibility, and I think I would've done it if he hadn't at that moment yelled the words: look out!

Out from the darkness, in front of the car, leapt a doe; a deer, a female deer.

I crushed the brakes with my foot, but my wish was hellbent on being granted. We crashed.

...