Free Terminal Island by Walter Greatshell Page A

through the contents of the purse. At once he seemed to find what he was looking for: a white figurine shaped like a chubby infant, with two hornlike nubs on its head. It glowed translucently in the sun. With obvious relief, he held it up as if handling something very fragile. His hands were trembling.
    Henry seized the opportunity to slip away, saying, “Well, I better go before my mom gets worried…”
    The Butcher’s bulging eyes settled on Henry as if seeing him for the first time. “Kalos ho pais, ”he leered. He had a look of such cold appraisal that Henry felt like a cut of meat on the scale.
    Henry moved as quickly as he could without seeming to flee, but as soon as he got off the platform he started running. The Butcher was liable to check for the money any second, and Henry didn’t want to be around when he did. Any adult who would terrorize a little kid like that was obviously a dangerous nut, but it was more than that: the man’s look had been desperate, tormented, as if the parchment-thin skin of his face might split down the middle and something awful would emerge. Henry sensed that if not for that boat, the Butcher might have wrung his neck like a chicken…and still might.
    Not taking any chances, the first thing Henry did was get off the waterfront, running randomly up and down the back streets and alleyways to shake off any rational pursuit. If anyone reported seeing him, he wanted the search to go in circles, well away from his home base. He succeeded so well at this that he confused himself.
    The afternoon streets were quiet and mostly deserted, but he kept imagining he could hear the sound of running footsteps, or distant shouts. He felt pointing fingers and eyes peering at him from behind the curtains of second-story windows. Just in case he was caught and asked to empty his pockets, he took a brief moment to stow the money in his socks.
    Making a great circuit of the tourist district, he came near to the Formosa Hotel, but instead of going straight there he cut inland, facing the setting sun as he climbed back roads into the hills. He didn’t go far—this was part of his clever misdirection, the final trick: From up here, he could see all the way down the brushy slope to the rear of the hotel.
    Taking care that no one was looking, he ducked into the roadside weeds. Quickly, quickly now, he skidded downhill, picking up foxtails and spiny thistleheads on every part of his clothing, choking on dust and pollen. Sweat poured down his face—it had been quite a run.
    But it was almost over. There was the Formosa, dead ahead. The last part was the most difficult; the area behind the hotel was an unfamiliar maze of dirt alleyways and sheds and fenced plots which Henry now had to cross, avoiding barking dogs and climbing through bushes to reach the street. After a few dead ends, he finally emerged in the open, weary and disheveled as a fugitive from the wilderness.
    Feeling home free, he brushed off and composed himself, calmly climbing the wooden porch of the hotel. It was dim and cool in the lobby. There was someone standing at the front desk, and as Henry approached him his eyes adjusted to the dark. He faltered, almost swooning.
    It was the Butcher.

Chapter Nine
    CHARCOAL-SEARED STEAK
    T he Butcher didn’t seem to recognize Henry. He barely even glanced at him, conferring intently with the woman behind the desk. The purse was on the counter between them.
    Could it be possible that he had already forgotten who Henry was? Or just didn’t care? But if he wasn’t looking for Henry, what was he doing here? The man had traded his dirty apron for a plaid jacket, and seemed preoccupied with other matters. “My own flesh and blood,” he said in wonder.
    “I know,” the woman commiserated. “I know.”
    “ My own flesh and blood , can you believe that? And they thought they could come here ?” He laughed sharply.
    No one was looking at Henry. Was it a trick? Were the cops waiting for him? Or was it