Children of Light by Robert Stone

bit beyond her years. She seemed like someone imperfectly recovered from a bad illness.
    Her face broke into a sudden, quite marvelous smile.
    “You don’t remember me,” she said. “I’m Lucy Brewer. I played the radical chick in
Stover.
” The child, who had Lucy’s auburn hair, shouted and pulled against her grip. “Woman, I should say. Of course, they cut a lot of me.”
    “Sure,” Walker said. “Certainly I remember you.” He had absolutely no recollection of Lucy Brewer and very little of the character.
Stover
had been the next thing to a doctoring job, done years before. “I have trouble with names,” he assured her. “But I don’t forget people.”
    “You had a cute little boy, I remember. You brought him out to the set.”
    “I have two,” Walker said. “They aren’t little anymore.”
    “Well, he was one cute little guy.”
    “He’s an actor now,” Walker told her.
    “Another one of us, huh?” She was good-humoredly restraining her own little boy with both hands. The child broke away finally and ran off toward the corral.
    “Speaking of cute kids,” Walker said.
    “We were having our nature walk. We saw the animals and the cemetery.”
    Walker chuckled agreeably. Sam Quinn came out with two drinks on a tray. Beside them was a tiny glass bottle of cocaine with a miniature chain attached to its cap. Seeing Sam, the little boy turned around and came running back toward the porch.
    “Sam Sam Sam,” the infant shouted.
    “What cemetery?” Walker asked. Quinn handed him a drink.
    “Ah,” Sam Quinn said, “we bury the animals. We have a ceremony.”
    “And we buried Hexter,” the little boy cried.
    Quinn sighed. “We gotta talk about this,” he said to Lucy. “I mean really.”
    “We buried our dog,” Lucy said merrily. “Hexter.”
    “Oh,” Walker said. A few years before he had known an aspiring screenwriter, a fellow Kentuckian, by the name of Hexter. Hexter had left for New Mexico some time before.
    Lucy gathered the child to her loins. She seemed oppressed by Quinn’s even stare.
    “Well,” she said to Walker, “best of luck.”
    “The same to you, Lucy,” Walker said. He waggled his fingers at the little boy. Lucy took the boy by the hand and led him off.
    Sam Quinn turned his back on an imaginary breeze, dipped the cap-spoon device into the vial of cocaine and had himself a snort. Done, he screwed the cap on and passed the works to Walker.
    “I’m a murderer,” Quinn explained. “I murder my enemies. I bury them under my barn and then I drink champagne from their skulls.”
    “We were talking about a dog,” Walker said.
    “We were friends,” Quinn said. “We were close. He got into fucking nitrous oxide and he was
not
getting it from me. One time he comes up here from Taos and his pickup is loaded with tanks. We have parties, it’s great, except he won’t stop doing it.” Quinn sniffed and wiped his nose with his wrist. “So one morning I go into the john and Hexter’s in the tub. He’s underwater and he’s stone fucking dead and the tank’s on the floor next to him. So what am I supposed to do, send for Noguchi? I don’t want the damn cops up here. I loved that man, Gordon. He was like a brother.”
    Walker took a hit off Quinn’s coke. It was very fine, better than his own. It dispelled his anxiety and his sorrow about his sons. He watched Quinn with a tolerant smile.
    “I welded him into an oil drum and we brought out the Bible and we laid him to rest. He was divorced, didn’t have no kids. He’s home, man, he’s in Abraham’s bosom.” Quinn shrugged. “All right—it sounds kind of sordid.”
    “I see,” Walker said, and did another tiny spoon.
    They sipped their vodka-and-tonics. The hang gliders disappeared beyond the inland ridge.
    “I have to get out of this business, Gordo. My nerves are shot. My life is in danger. Then I got Lucy and Eben to think of.”
    “Funny,” Walker said. “I can’t remember meeting