Harrison Squared by Daryl Gregory Page A

stepped toward one of the men heading for the Muninn . He was tall, with thick arms, and blond hair that hung to his shoulders. A black band was fastened around one bicep, and then I knew for sure.
    â€œErik Hallgrimsson?” I said. “I’d like to talk.”
    The man looked up at me. “Sorry kid, no work.”
    â€œIt’s not that,” I said. “I wanted to know—”
    â€œTry back tomorrow.”
    The man started down the ladder, and I strode forward. “I want to know why you bailed out on my mother.”
    The long-haired man paused. Then he said to the man in the boat, “Just a second, Gus.” He climbed back onto the pier, put his hands on his hips. He towered over me.
    â€œYou her boy?” he asked.
    â€œThat’s right.”
    Something changed in his face. He glanced at the entrance of the shack, as if checking for eavesdroppers. “I’m sorry, kid.” His voice was quieter. “It’s tough to lose a parent.”
    â€œI haven’t lost her,” I said. “ I’m not wearing a black band.”
    He glanced at his arm as if he’d forgotten he was wearing it. “No. Right. This is for the man who went down.”
    â€œHal Jonsson. He was in the Huninn , right?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œWell. At least he kept his word.”
    He squinted at me.
    â€œI was in the room when you called my mom,” I said. “I want to know why you took her out one day, then canceled the next.”
    â€œIt’s business, kid.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    â€œIt means I had pots to haul. I couldn’t afford to take her out again.”
    â€œThen you shouldn’t have agreed to take her out in the first place.”
    â€œYou’re right about that, kid.” He turned back toward the ladder.
    â€œHey!” I grabbed his arm. I’d been looking for someone to punch since my mother went missing, and he seemed like he could take one pretty well.
    Then he looked back at me, one eyebrow raised. I realized that the bicep under my hand had, evidently, been carved out of marble. It made my hand cold.
    I dropped my hand.
    â€œI wouldn’t hang out on the docks,” he said. “A kid could get hurt out here.” He didn’t say it like a threat. Then he said, “I’m sorry about your mom. I hope they find her.”
    *   *   *
    I drove the truck back to the rental. When I went inside, I was surprised to find Aunt Sel awake, staring at various pieces of the coffeemaker that were laid out on the counter like organs in an autopsy. “I thought you’d gone to school,” she said.
    â€œI found the truck. It was down by the dock.”
    â€œCould you do something with this? I have a terrible headache.”
    While I made the coffee she sat in the armchair and rubbed her eyes. “You know, it’s fine with me if you never go back. High school is a complete waste of time. The girls have no sense of style, and the boys—don’t get me started on the boys.”
    â€œI don’t care how I dress,” I said.
    â€œClearly. You’re like Tom Wolfe, possessed by a single fashion idea. But while he chose an ice cream suit, you’ve settled on … the hoodie.”
    â€œI like being comfortable.”
    â€œYou sound like your father. He went through school looking like an indigent. You can get away with that if you’re a genius. Not me, though. My only gifts were clear skin and a dirty mind.”
    â€œYou’re oversharing,” I said.
    â€œYour father loved school. Believed in it. Just like your mother. She’s so relentlessly serious about it. ‘My boy never misses a day of school,’ blah etcetera blah. She has high hopes for you, you know. Ivy League, top-of-the-class hopes.”
    â€œI know what you’re doing,” I said.
    She opened her eyes. “What? You think I want you to go to