The Quest of One

Wan

Hilde knocks on the door. A few seconds later, a petite blond woman with bags under her eyes swings open the door.

"Hi," Hilde says, rather awkwardly. I narrow my eyes at her in confusion.

"Merry Christmas," the woman replies slowly, hugging herself against the cold. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, ma'am. I was wondering if Malcolm Goode lives here?"

The woman face freezes in the cold, devoid of life and emotion. Finally, she asks, "Who are you?"

"I'm a friend of the family," Hilde replies quickly. "I don't mean to intrude; I just wanted to—"

"Jesus, are you one of my husband's...colleagues?" Ms. Goode squints her eyes, rubbing the bridge of her nose in frustration. "What? He didn't give you his percent of the pay before he went off the grid or whatever?"

"Went off the grid?" I ask. "Malcolm's missing?"

"I figured you'd have known," Ms. Goode says. "Left town three years ago, never came back. No calls, nothing at all but..." She steadies herself, asks again, "Why are you here?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, I didn't know," Hilde answers. Something in her voice isn't right. It's kind of scary. "Ah, forgive me, but did he happen to leave a note or some sort of—"

"Get the hell off my porch."

Hilde starts to protest, but she receives the message clearly. "Okay, ma'am. Apologies for wasting your time. Merry Christmas."

Ms. Goode fixes Hilde with a curt nod before making to close the door. Before it shuts, I catch a small blond figure rush by the doorway carrying a small toy rocket over his head. The door slam is muffled by the gelid air and the chorus of dogs barking maniacally in the distance.

"Well, now what?" I ask, following Hilde and Wade off the porch. "Where the fuck is this guy?"

"Be quiet," hisses Hilde, not turning back to look at me.

When Wade reaches the passenger's side door, I grab his sleeved arm. "Hey, you mind sitting in the back? I need to talk to Hilde."

"Sure thing," he replies. Hilde gets into the front seat, and Wade asks in a lower voice, "I got some gummies in the glove compartment. You want one?"

"Maybe later," I kiss him and open the door, climbing into the passenger's seat.

Beside me, Hilde sits there, clutching the steering wheel, her face carved with wrinkles of stress. She doesn't speak, doesn't move to turn on the car. After about a minute, I break the silence. "We should get moving before that lady thinks we're casing the place."

Hilde swallows whatever lump in her throat is paralyzing her with fear.

She nods and turns the key in the ignition.

The engine coughs, thick and loud like it has the flu.

Then we're driving away from the house. I see that tuft of blond hair again in the form of a little boy, maybe eight or nine. He pushes the drapes aside to watch us leave, cup of hot chocolate comically massive in his tiny hands.

"He could've left because of you-know-who," I suggest in a low tone. "They might have been closing in."

"Yeah. Maybe." She drives past the other houses, past kids armed with snowballs running through their yards. The smell of bacon and waffles wafts from open doors. "You hungry?"

"Yes!" Wade cheers from the backseat abruptly. I wonder how much he's overheard.

***