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be a tough customer about it but when he gets back into the passenger seat next to Sue she can see how washed-out he looks, his face the color of the mushrooms that grow under the bridge in the summer, the slick nasty ones with spots on them. Mentally she’s readjusted his age to seventeen at the outside. He keeps wiping his hands on his jeans and that Adam’s apple of his just keeps bobbing and jerking like he’s trying to swallow something greasy that he can’t quite keep down.

    “I shouldn’t be up here. He might see me.”

    “You can crouch down if it makes you feel better,” Sue says.

    He tries. He’s too tall. “Not all the way. There’s nothing to hide behind.”

    “If the van comes you can jump into the backseat. But right now I want you up here. Now, fasten your seat belt.” She hits the gas.

    The kid grabs the dashboard. “Hold on, where are we going? We’re not going to Winslow. I thought you were turning around.”

    “Winslow is exactly where we’re going,” she says, “and after that, the next town on that map, all the way through, until we get to what is it, White’s Harbor?”

    “White’s Cove,” the kid corrects her. “You have to remember that. From Ocean Street in old White’s Cove, across the virgin land he drove…”

    Sue feels something curdling inside her. She knows this tune or at least it’s familiar to her from when she was young. “What is that?”

    “It’s an old poem,” he says. “You have to remember it. It can help you.”

    “Help me how?”

    “He hates the poem. They made it up a long time ago as a kind of charm to keep him away. It’s like the only thing around that’s as old as he is, so it’s got some kind of power over him. Pushes him back inside so that whatever he’s infected has a chance to get out. Maybe not for very long, just a few seconds, but hell, sometimes that can make the difference, you know what I mean?”

    Sue just looks at him. “No.”

    “Just listen,” he says, and in a slightly more audible voice he begins to recite:

    “ From Ocean Street in old White’s Cove

    Across the virgin land he drove

    To paint each town and hamlet red

    With the dying and the dead.

    He walked through Wickham and Newbury

    In Ashford or Stoneview he might tarry

    To call a child to his knee

    Where he slew it—One! Two! Three!

    Then from Winslow to Gray Haven

    Where he may begin again

    Bedecked in his unholy shroud

    To paint the Commonwealth with blood.”

    “Who is he ?” Sue asks.

    “You don’t know?” The kid looks at her, his eyes as big as silver dollars. “Isaac Hamilton.” Then somewhat bizarrely he reaches for the radio dial and seems to remember it’s not his. “You mind if I turn this on?”

    “The radio? Why?”

    “There’s something I want to hear.” Without waiting for express permission he hits the power switch. Sue has it set for the Boston NPR affiliate, but the kid thumbs the scan button up to 102.8 and sits back as an obnoxious modern rock song, half-rap and half-screaming, plays through. Sue winces but doesn’t say anything. She regards this music with the kind of irritation she reserves for mosquitoes and coffee shop hipsters who wear desert camouflage ironically.

    Finally, as the DJ comes on, Sue looks back at the kid. “You know, I’ve still got a lot of questions for you.”

    “Shh.” The kid cocks his head to the speaker, listening to the DJ’s voice.

    “You’re listening to Damien on the midnight shift, WBTX, 102.8,” the DJ says, “playing all your requests right on through till morning. Keep listening for more requests including one for that new War Pigs track and…” There’s the sound of paper being flipped over and the DJ laughs. “Oh, I like this, Elton John’s ‘Daniel,’ for my good buddy Jeff in Gray Haven.”

    Sue sees the kid nodding to himself. “Jeff in Gray Haven,” she says. “Is he talking about you?”

    “Yeah.”

    “You requested an Elton John