Page 107 of The Chain

“It is the twenty-first prime number. The number twenty-one has prime factors seven and three. A pleasing coincidence. Table seventy-seven is also free over there. It’s not prime, of course, but it is the sum of the first eight prime numbers and the atomic number of iridium. Iridium is how they finally proved what killed the dinosaurs, which was the big mystery when I was a kid. The iridium-marker layer in the K-T boundary. Atomic number seventy-seven was the harbinger of death for the dinosaurs. It’s an ending number. All books should end on the seventy-seventh chapter. They never do, though. But we’re beginning something here, aren’t we? Hence table seventy-three, which is a little more appropriate than seventy-seven, yes?”

Rachel and Pete look at him in utter bafflement.

He sighs. “All right. Mathematics is not your forte, I see. Well, that’s not important. The story’s more important than the technique. How long?” he asks.

“How long what?”

“How long have you been out?”

“About a month.”

A hungry look plays across his face. A grisly smile. “That’s good,” he says. “That’s what I was hoping for. I’ve been out three and a half years. The trail has gone cold. I need someone with the scent still on them.”

“For what?” Rachel asks.

His bourbon comes and he drinks it in one. He stands and leaves a fifty-dollar bill on the table. “I guess you’re right, I guess we are going to have to trust each other,” he says to Rachel. “Him, I don’t like. I can’t read him. But you—you’re no liar. Let’s go.”

Pete shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I think we’re fine here.”

The man runs his hands through his stringy hair and ties it back in a ponytail. “Well, I’ll tell you what: I’ll be at the Four Provinces pub on Massachusetts Avenue in Cambridge in about forty-five minutes. I’ll get one of the private rooms at the back of the pub. They’ll let me have it. I’m a regular. Maybe I’ll see you there. Maybe I won’t. It’s up to you.”

“What’s wrong with this place?” Rachel asks.

“I want a bit of privacy to tell my story. And for us to make our plan.”

“A plan for what?”

“The reason you’ve come here,” he replies.

“And what’s that?” Pete asks.

“To break The Chain, of course.”

52

They are moving again. This time it’s back east. This time it’s closer to home: Boston. They pack boxes. Decide what to keep, what to donate, what to throw away. Little Anthony and Tom will miss LA, but the twins and Cheryl have never really fit in here.

Maybe Boston will be easier. Tom’s dad lives nearby and dotes on the grandkids.

Anyway, it’s another moving weekend.

Cheryl shifts the dresser in the twins’ room.

She finds the Polaroid Oliver took of Jennifer with no clothes on. The girl is in front of her house, and the photograph was probably taken from Oliver’s bunk in his bedroom.

She shows him the photograph and demands an explanation. Oliver can’t think of one. He doesn’t deny he took the Polaroid, though. Cheryl calls him a little pervert and slaps his face. “Wait till your father gets home,” she says. Tom returns with boxes from the supermarket. He’s been away a long time. He stopped at a bar on the way back.

Oliver and Margaret are waiting upstairs. They hear Cheryl talk to Tom. They hear Tom say, “Jesus H. Christ!”

Tom comes upstairs. He grabs Oliver by the collar of his T-shirt, drags him down from the top bunk, and throws him against the wall.

“You little sicko! You know what I think? I think they put LSD in your baby food. Who knows? I mean, Jesus, you might not even be my goddamn kids!” he yells.

Anthony has come upstairs to watch the fun. Margaret sees him standing in the doorway grinning. It’s a grin that is going to cost Anthony his life.

“It was just a joke,” Oliver says.

“I’ll show you a joke,” Tom says. He picks Oliver up off the floor, drags him to the bathroom, throws him into the shower, and turns the cold water on.

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