afternoon talk shows, eight hours filled with random people and their problems.
He wasn't sure what he was supposed to make of it all. He grasped the concept of the weather forecast foremost; when they said it would rain and it rained, he took note. Nothing else seemed to be the least bit relevant to who or where he was. He figured they were talking to the wrong guy, and didn't know it. Ray had to explain to him one evening that the tv shows could be seen by anyone anywhere, not just him, and not just in that house and on that box. He lost interest after learning that, and kept the box turned off. Ray had brought home a magazine, and Dave found that more engaging. He had retained the language but lost all context. He would have to rebuild the meanings of the world for himself.
He was becoming more at ease in the nights. He began to venture further from the home base into the city, one block at a time, and carefully. Further north from the river were more residential areas, where it was quiet and mostly dark at night. In some of the neighborhoods, many of the street lamps were broken or faint, and there were no people out on the sidewalks. Traffic was scarce as well. Then suddenly he would come upon a wider street, with shops and many cars. He shied away from those, retreating back into the quieter roads. He suspected there was some sort of a plan guiding the arrangement of things in the town, and if he only knew it he could better arrange his outings. He asked Uncle Ray about it one day, and that led to his discovery of one of the most dangerous items he had yet encountered; Ray gave him a city bus map.
Six
Dave Connor wasn't the only one wandering those streets late at night, but while his excursions were largely aimless and meandering, Cookie Marquette was on a mission. It was a mission of a lifetime. Known by various names - the Dark Hunter, the Queen of the Night Brigade, the Force - Cookie was out there almost every night, seeking and invariably finding what she sought. She was a small person, short and slight but her lean build was strong and there was no one who would sensibly mess with her. From her fresh face, sparkling black eyes, and quick movements you could place her age anywhere from fifteen to forty-five, and your highest guess would still be ten years short.
She had never been uneasy about her essential transgender nature. Born Julie, and later known as Jim, it was easier to go by Cookie, a name she'd picked up on a ship's mess hall in the Navy, than to try and determine which of her aspects you were talking to. She was fluent in both female and male as needed. She kept her black hair short, always dressed in turtleneck, jeans and boots, and sometimes wore a railway engineer's cap for hoots. Her great-grandmother had stoked a steam engine in her day, and Cookie was ever proud of it.
She was legend in Spring Hill Lake, single-handedly establishing the Homegrown Mission soup kitchen that operated out of St. Filbert's Cathedral in the heart of the old waterfront neighborhood that once had been the center of the city, but now was mostly blighted and bereft of business. From there she squeezed out pennies from the powerful, and made the most of the little she had to work with. A firm, even staunch, non-believer, her decision to ally herself with the Church stemmed from the knowledge that while politicians come and go, the Church at least abides. She could count on its commitment more than that of any other institution or individual.
She had established a small staff of professionals and a cadre of volunteers to run the day-to-day operations of the kitchen and adjacent shelter, leaving her mostly free to pursue her real calling, hunting and gathering the lost and the needy. She patrolled at night since the hidden were more active then, and were easier to locate amid the sparser background field. She knew where they were apt to go, and when, and carried a large sack across her back, stuffed with fresh-baked loaves, containers of hot soup, newly knitted scarves, socks and sweaters, pencils and paper, items she knew from practice to be likely to come in handy in her task.
She rose from an early evening nap around midnight, put together her kit, and struck out into the dark, equipped also with a flashlight she kept taped to her wrist, and a switchblade tucked inside her belt. She carried no cash but lately had been convinced by friends to lug a cellphone around in case of emergency. She had rarely come across a situation she could not handle alone, but she didn't meddle where she didn't belong. She was not the law and would intervene only to protect an innocent.
Some called her Saint Cookie; they said it with derision and she knew it. She was no angel, only doing her job, according to her calling. Other people seemed to feel compelled to climb up corporate ladders. Still others had no idea at all but worked wherever they could. Some had a passion, for teaching, for medicine, for law. Cookie had a passion for concrete, immediate aid. It was the only thing that satisfied her. Some called her limited; she called herself 'practical'.
Cookie Marquette was something of a bloodhound at her work. When she caught the scent of her kind of prey, she hunted it down, and when she found it, she helped it if she could. It was very late one night when she first picked up a hint of Dave. It was the smell, of course, quite literally, the mixture of decaying flesh and eau de toilette. It was something entirely new to her nose and she detected it in a cold and blowsy wind. She could not tell the direction of its origin but she stopped in her tracks and sniffed, and sniffed again. It was out there, it was different, and it was on the move.
Seven
Lately he had begun to think, not just process information but to reflect on it, sift through it, put some things together. He had experienced enough of what he called 'the human world' to make some general conclusions. There was a lot of activity among them. They were very busy creatures. There was an energy, part excitement, part fear, a mixed-up sense of danger and caution, a lot of noise and lights. He was ultra-sensitive to both and tried to stay away from their sources. As he'd ventured further into the city, he'd found fewer safe places, fewer bushes, trees, empty spaces. He was more exposed out there, and found himself moving and reacting more quickly, as cars and trucks and buses roared by, as people emerged from buildings and vehicles and rushed along their way, as planes appeared overhead from nowhere, as dogs rushed out from yards and barked, baring their teeth and charging him.
The dogs were the only ones who seemed to take any notice of his presence. The pedestrians did not. They streamed past him, not more than glancing in his direction. The drivers of cars did not even do that. More than once he'd barely escaped collision. He separated out the objects in his line of sight between those that challenged and those that didn't. He had an instinct for self-preservation, but it was only instinct. There was no emotion to it. The only things he felt were ease and unease, and both only mildly.
The best thing he had found was to stand along the riverbank and watch the water slowly flow. This was something he could do for hours. It was where he was when Cookie Marquette decided to approach him. She had been keeping an eye on him the past few nights, always at a distance, always out of sight. She liked to keep track of all the people in her domain, and whenever new ones arrived, she scoped them out, sized them up, and either made her move or let them be.
This one was too intriguing. He was out there every night, all night it seemed, wandering about, doing nothing, going nowhere, never in a hurry, never with a pattern. What caught her attention was the way he'd vanish at the slightest disturbance, like a feral cat in the woods, keeping safe, and then, slowly, re-emerging when the flash and bang had passed. He reminded her of a wild horse. She had to tread lightly. She quietly crept to a spot upwind and downlight from where he stood, about twenty feet further on the path. She stood there quietly, without moving, for several minutes, until she was certain he hadn't noticed her. If he had, he would have fled. When she spoke, it was gently.
"They say the fishing's not like it used to be," she said. Dave was startled by her voice, and flinched, quickly glanced around for a tree or a bench to slip behind, but there was none. She went on right away, with the same even tone.
"Of course, nothing's like it used to be, am I right, or am I right, or am I right?," and she chuckled softly. She pa
used for only a few moments before continuing.
"I like to watch it go. You wonder how it never ends. Where's all the water come from anyway? Seems to go on forever, and why?"
"It's what it does," Dave spoke up. "It’s what it is."
"You said a mouthful there," Cookie nodded. "I am what I am, I know that much for sure. Name's Cookie."
Dave did not reply. He had turned to look at her, as she had turned to face him too. They were both in the dark - the other was barely more than a shadow - but there was a calmness each sensed in the other. The night felt good and slow. After a long pause, Cookie asked him what his name was. Dave paused before replying.
"Ed," he told her. "Eddie."
"Well, I'm pleased to meet you, Eddie". She turned toward the river again for fear of scaring him off. Getting a name out of someone was often a nervous event. They might feel they had given away too much. The people she came across, all too often, had little else they possessed besides their identity. It became even more precious to them.
"I carry this big old sack around," Cookie said. "Inside it there's all sorts of things a person might need. You be needing anything, Eddie? Clothes?