Author's Note:

It's hard not to assume that anyone who isn't letting me know that they liked a chapter, didn't. I get discouraged when I don't get feedback-and when I'm discouraged, I can't write. . . .

There's some strong language in this and the following chapters. Sadly, though, it's nothing an eight-year-old kid wouldn't hear on the playground every day.

Chapter 8:

L'Auberge Chez Gagnon was a low, white-shingled building nestled on the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea. It was reached by a sandy road that wound its way through stands of cedar, feathery white pine, and birch. Many visitors found this approach part of the restaurant's charm: one drove through the woods for a mile or so, then rounded a bend and was met by a sudden view of the picturesque old house and the breathtaking expanse of ocean behind it. Even long-time customers often pulled over to enjoy the sight and take pictures. A visit to L'Auberge was a special event, worth commemorating.

The red Jaguar sped down the narrow road. Max took the curves faster than most drivers would have thought wise, given how much snow and ice had built up over the sand. When the inn came into sight, neither he nor his companion (his wife, the fourth one; they'd been together more than ten years, which was a record for him) exclaimed over the view. Max stopped the car right in front of the entrance, ignoring the "Please Keep This Entrance Clear" sign, and climbed out. Sabrina followed. The hem of her billowing, cape-like coat (tip-dyed Russian sable; it had set Max back $200,000, just before the recession hit) caught in the car door. She jerked it open and tugged the coat free impatiently, then hurried after Max, leaving the door wide open behind her.

Inside the dining room Claire heard the first door slam, and looked up from the flowers she was arranging on a table for two beside the fireplace. She saw Max bustling up the restaurant's steps, and let out a moan.

"Oh, no," she said to her sister. "Here comes trouble."

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It was the slamming of another car door that woke Noah. He blinked. For a moment he had no idea where he was. Then he remembered. If he'd had his watch, he'd have known that he'd only been asleep about fifteen minutes, but he didn't have his watch, and had no idea how long he'd been out or how far from home he was now. All he knew was that the car had stopped, and someone had gotten out.

He lay as still as he could, and listened. With the engine quiet, surely he should be able to hear something if either Calvin or Hobbes was still there, but everything was silent. Suddenly the radio spluttered into life again: "One-oh-two and one-fifty-six, report, please." There was a moment of silence, then Hobbes' voice-not in the car, but sounding strange and staticky over the radio-saying "One-oh-two and one-fifty-six arrived destination." "One-fifty-six confirm," the dispatcher requested. Calvin's voice answered: "One-fifty-six confirms." They must have been speaking into their earpieces.

So he was alone in the car. The question was, how long was he going to have to wait there?

Noah was not a patient child. He'd been lying in a cramped position on the floor of the Suburban for almost an hour. Curiosity and the need to move overrode quite easily the cautious voice in his head telling him that the logical thing to do was just to keep lying there until Calvin and Hobbes came back, and hope they'd stop off at the village for coffee or groceries on the return trip to the lighthouse. Noah eased himself onto his knees and peeked out the window.

He knew where he was at once: at the Gagnons' restaurant. It was his mother's and father's favorite; they'd taken him and Sally there many times. The owners always made a fuss over them, but he couldn't see any sign of them now-or of Calvin and Hobbes, either.

What he could see, less than three feet away through gently-drifting snow, was a long red car. A Jaguar XK, he noted immediately, and was delighted to see that it actually had the hood ornament he liked so much on older Jags. They weren't made like that anymore; someone must have retrofitted it. The car was parked between the Suburban and the restaurant, and its passenger-side door, which was facing him, was standing open, giving him an excellent view inside.

The back seats-there were two very small ones, bucket-style-were stuffed with shopping bags. Noah wondered if they had Christmas presents in them, and if so, who they were for, and what they were. Then he noticed a child seat, barely visible under the bags. If the kid was getting all that, he was a seriously lucky dude. Noah had never got that many presents at one time in his life, and he had two doting grandmothers and a grandfather, as well as his parents and sister.

For a moment Noah's thought wandered to the tree waiting back at the lighthouse, and the packages that would be under it tomorrow. He wondered if he was going to get the big new Lego set and the gaming console he'd asked for. Probably not the console-his parents didn't like his spending a lot of time with video games. He'd put it on his list, but he'd never really thought he was going to get anywhere with that one. And the Lego set was huge, and really expensive. They'd probably get him a smaller one. . . .

And then something else caught his eye. A book. A kid's book, but not for a kid who was still riding in a child seat; this was a thick book, thicker than anything most of the kids in Noah's class at school could have got through. The edges of the pages were worn, and its battered paper dust-jacket-he could see the front cover poking out from under a shopping bag-seemed to be held together with a million pieces of yellowed Scotch tape. It was a book that somebody must have tossed carelessly into the car without any concern for its future, because it was lying spread-eagled on the edge of the far seat, one cover pinned under the shopping bag, and the other pushed up at a dangerous-looking angle by one of the parcels on the floor. Several pages had crumpled at the corners, and a new, un-mended tear had been added to all the taped-up ones across the front jacket. Snowflakes were blowing through the open car door. Some of them landed on the book, leaving new splotches on the already heavily-stained cover.

Noah stared at the decrepit object, riveted. He knew that book. Not just the story in it, although he knew that too, almost by heart, but the particular, individual book itself. There couldn't possibly be more than one copy of Arthur Ransome's Swallows and Amazons with a cover like that. He recognized the pattern the pieces of tape made. He knew what name would be written inside. And he knew how much that book mattered to its owner. In a million years, Catalina Rivera would never, ever treat that book like that: it was her most valued possession.

Noah choked with fury. He thought he could feel his blood start to boil. Glancing over his shoulder he saw no sign of Calvin or Hobbes, so he opened the SUV's door and climbed out. Another moment and he was diving into the back of the Jag, digging under the shopping bags to try to free the book.

"God damn the fuckers," a man's voice said, somewhat muffled by the driver's-side window. Noah froze. The driver's door opened, and the front seat creaked and groaned as a heavy body dropped into it.

"How dare they?" That was a woman's voice, shrill with anger. She swept into the passenger seat and slammed the door. "The whole room reserved? There was only one table set! And no one was there, no one at all, until that couple came in, and if they're the kind of customer Gagnon makes a fuss about now, that place is really going to the dogs. I can't believe they could afford to eat there, the way they were dressed. What did they say to you, to make you leave like that? I thought you were getting somewhere with Gagnon before they came in!"

"They were Secret Service," the man said, angrily. "The mother-fuckers. 'Securing the premises, for the President's visit this evening.' This evening! We could have eaten and been gone by this evening, if Gagnon wasn't such a half-assed idiot. He just kept babbling about having to close so he could get ready for the President and the First Lady coming tonight, and then those fuckers showed up and said we had to go. They were so god-damned mealy-mouthed about it-"Please, sir; I'm sorry, sir"-it made me want to vomit. But I could see their guns bulging under their jackets the whole time, and only an idiot tries to mess with those fuckers."

"Awful!" the woman said. "The whole thing was awful! I've never been treated like that in my life, never!"

"Gagnon's a fucker, too. I used to book the whole room every couple of weeks, when they first opened; I was their best fucking customer, before the economy went south and I had to sell off all those properties. That's the last time I'll take my money in there, I can tell you. The god-damned mother-fucker. . . ."

He was starting the car while he raged. He backed it out of the space and executed a three-point turn in a series of angry jerks. One of the bags fell off the back seat and emptied a load of silky lingerie over Noah. He almost squeaked in surprise, but managed to stop himself just in time.

Neither of the adults in the front of the car seemed to notice the petrified boy lying among the shopping bags and lace-trimmed ladies' underwear on the floor behind them. The car roared down the road away from the inn, its infuriated driver taking the icy curves more recklessly than ever.

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To be cont'd. . . .