Free Rogue by Mark Frost Page B

way over his shoulders. He wore no shirt, just swim trunks printed with tropical fish and a pair of flip-flops. His heavily muscled torso was hairless and roughly the color and texture of a buttery tan leather sofa.
    The three boys stepped in and followed the man through the trailer to a rear door on the opposite side. He had an oddly delicate habit of shaking his hair away from his face as he stomped. He held the back door open and waved them through.
    “After you,” said the Barbarian.
    They stepped down into the little courtyard formed by the four trailers, a forlorn patch of broken concrete punctuated with spindly weeds. A pale red tent stood in the center of the space, tall and surprisingly spacious. Faint gypsy music played somewhere and the smell of garlic and barbecued meat hung in the air. They stepped to the open flaps of the tent and looked inside.
    Plush carpets, pillows, hanging lamps, and throw rugs gave the interior an Oriental atmosphere. Smoke lingered in the air, exotic flavors of incense and spice. A tall, well-muscled woman in a one-piece swimsuit—long blond hair gathered casually on top of her head—stretched out on a tiger-striped divan reading a paperback novel. A table with a big stone chess set, halfway through a game, sat nearby.
    A man sat on an elevated chair that looked a little bit like a throne, studying the chessboard, his chin on his hand, legs crossed. He wore a retro Chicago Bulls jersey, red sweatpants, and a pair of classic Air Jordans. He sported a natty goatee and appeared to be about forty. His body was well proportioned but he couldn’t have been more than four and a half feet tall. His eyes traveled to the boys as they entered and he waved them forward. He looked bored and relaxed, with a lazy smile, but Will noticed a cold steeliness in his eyes that belied the diffident pose.
    “Greetings, sports fans,” said the man, his tone wry, his voice full of easy authority and an octave lower than they expected.
    “Hello, sir,” said Nick.
    “Thanks for seeing us,” said Will.
    They both nudged Ajay, standing between them. “Indeed a pleasure, Mr. Perfessor, sir.”
    “Do you represent the Lollipop Guild, or is this a visitation from the local chapter of my fan club?” asked the Perfessor.
    “Neither, actually, sir,” said Nick, then lowered his voice. “Although, if I may, I’d like to inject that I am in fact your biggest fan.”
    “Interject,” said Ajay.
    “So to what, then, do I owe the pleasure of your company?” asked the Perfessor.
    “Actually, Henry, we have something kind of unusual to share with you,” said Will.
    At the mention of the name, the Perfessor’s eyes flicked over to the languid blonde, who was watching them all intently over her paperback, and she arched one exquisitely shaped eyebrow. Although she hardly seemed to move a muscle, Will saw her body tense and coil; some kind of menace that he had no interest in finding out about radiated off the woman.
    “About Flagstaff,” said the Perfessor.
    “Yes.” Will took a photograph from his pocket, a faded and yellowed snapshot. “To be more precise, Mr. Nepsted, it’s about your father.”
    He extended the photograph—a shot of a smiling young couple holding an infant outside a hot desert town hardware store—and the Perfessor’s eyes widened as he took it from him. The blonde saw the concern on his face, put down the book, and sat up. The Barbarian took a couple of steps in from the entrance.
    “We believe that’s you, in the picture,” said Will. “With your mother and father.”
    “My father died in a car accident,” said Henry cautiously. “Forty years ago.”
    “I know that’s what you were told,” said Will. “But he’s alive. And we know where he is.”
    The man’s gaze hardened and flicked around their three faces, settling on Will’s. “This is not the kind of adolescent prank I’m going to find endlessly amusing.”
    “I understand why you’d feel that way,”