And it held in its right hand the sword that I had lost in my fall, the same sword the Last Knight had lost in another hopeless battle against the forces of darkness and despair. And the mighty Paimon, King of the Outcasts of Heaven, lowered its head, offering me the sword.
Command me.
PART FIVE
Homecoming
56
A little man with an egg-shaped head glared at me through the half-open front door while his wife and kids crowded behind him, trying to get a peek at me. “Yes, what do you want?”
“Horace,” I said. “Don’t you know who I am?”
I slipped off my Oakleys. His eyes grew wide and his mouth came open a little.
“Alfred?” he squeaked. “We heard you were dead!”
He flung the door open and I put a hand on his chest to abort his bear hug.
“Not anymore,” I said. “Where’s Kenny?”
There was a commotion behind him and I heard a voice call out, “Alfred! Alfred Kropp! Alfred Kropp! Alfred Kropp is back!”
Kenny pushed past Horace and buried his face in my chest.
“They came and took your sword, Alfred! I tried to stop them. I tried and tried and tried . . .”
“It’s okay, Kenny,” I said. “I got it back.”
“You came back,” he whispered.
“Told you I would. Didn’t I promise I’d save you?”
I motioned to the man standing behind me. He stepped forward and cleared his throat.
“Good morning, Mr. Tuttle, how are you? I’m Larry Fredericks with the Department of Child Welfare. I have here a court order authorizing the removal of these foster children.”
“You have what?” Horace barked.
“I said I have a court order authorizing . . .”
“Oh, dear!” I heard Betty gasp.
“This is outrageous!” Horace yelled. “I demand an explanation! I demand a hearing! I demand to know who is responsible for this!”
“That would be me,” I said.
“You?” Horace’s bottom lip bobbed up and down. “You, Alfred?”
“Me.”
I wrapped my arm around Kenny’s shoulders and led him to the silver Lexus parked by the curb. Horace kept yelling as the cruiser pulled into the drive with the sheriff’s deputies.
I opened the door for Kenny and he asked, “Where are you taking me, Alfred Kropp?”
“You’re going to stay with Mr. Needlemier for a while,” I said, nodding toward his smiling, baby-faced bald head behind the steering wheel. “Until we can figure something out.”
I looked back at the little house on Broadway. Horace had thrown a couple of strands of those old-fashioned Christmas lights with the fat multicolored bulbs on the bare branches of some azalea bushes the cold had killed, and had put out the same old faded light-up Santa (only it didn’t light up anymore because the bulb was missing and he was too cheap to replace it).