Nightrise

gazing into the burning ash. "Anyway, it's like I told you, they won't do it. It was hard enough getting them to perform on the stage. I took a belt to them. Then I starved them. I told them — if you don't work, you don't eat. And even then they still refused."
    "So what did you do?" Banes asked.
    Don White smiled. "I used one of them against the other. I told Scott that if he didn't do what I asked, I'd beat Jamie 'til he bled. I told him I'd do worse than that. And so he agreed, to protect his brother. And Jamie did it because Scott told him to. That was the end of it. Now we get along just fine. I'm their uncle Don. They do the shows and I look after them."
    "What about school?"
    "They went to school in Carson City when they were with Ed, but it didn't work out. So now they're home-schooled. The state's happy enough about that. They even pay us money to look after them.
    Marcie's smart. She teaches them all they need to know." There was about an inch of the cigar left. Don took one last puff, then ground it out on the plate that had held his hamburger. "Maybe you're right," he admitted. "Maybe I should have put them on TV. I'm fed up with the theatre. Nobody's interested.
    Nobody comes. Look at this place! We get more cockroaches than we get paying customers. I want out.
    "So I was in a bar and I heard somebody talking about this corporation that was prepared to pay good money for information about 'special' kids. I went over to them and they gave me a name. I made a call and now…here you are. You've seen Scott and Jamie. You know they're on the level. So what do you say?"

    The man called Kyle Hovey glanced at his partner, who had been watching Don with empty eyes.
    Colton Banes nodded. "We want to take them," Banes said.
    "Take them? Just like that?"
    "Children disappear all the time, Mr. White. As you yourself have just told us, these children have no family and no friends. The state of Nevada has lost interest in them. We will look after them from now on and no one will be any the wiser."
    "What about the money?"
    "We'll pay you seventy-five thousand dollars."
    Don White licked his lips. That was more money than he had expected. But it still wasn't enough.
    "Seventy-five thousand dollars…each?" he asked.
    Colton Banes paused for a moment. But he had already decided. "Of course. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars for the two boys. But there is one thing you must understand: This figure is final. You will make no further inquiries about them, or about us. If you inform anyone about this transaction, you and your friend Marcie will also disappear. There is a great deal of sand in the desert, Mr. White. You would not wish to find yourself underneath it."
    "When will you take them?"
    "Tonight. Mr. Hovey and myself will be inside the theatre. We will have two more colleagues outside. It would help us if you would ask the boys to remain behind when the show has finished, until the other performers have left. We will then remove them and pay you the money in cash. Is that acceptable?"
    'Yeah. Sure it's acceptable." Don's mouth was dry. But there were still some questions he had to ask.
    "Who exactly are you? I mean, I know who you work for. But what are you going to do with them?
    What do you want them for?"
    "I don't think you heard what I said," Banes replied. "We are nobody. You've never met us. The boys no longer exist."
    "Sure. Fine. Whatever you say…"
    From outside the office came the sound of pop music, blaring from the speakers inside the theatre. A single bell rang once, warning the performers.

    The second show of the evening was about to begin.
    THREE
    The Neon Prison
    "For as long as I can remember, we've known what's been going on inside each other's heads. That doesn't make it easy when one of us is trying to pick up girls…"
    How many times had he spoken the same line? As Jamie began his second performance of the evening, he was suddenly overwhelmed with tiredness. He hated Reno. It was his prison. It was the island where he had been shipwrecked. But it would never be his home.
    It felt empty. The streets were somehow too wide for the number of vehicles that went up and down them, stretching in a straight line as far as the eye could see. The shops and offices were too far apart, separated by blank spaces that could have been building sites except that no building ever seemed to be going on. And there was never anyone around. They came every Friday, the tourists and the bachelor parties,