“So you think the Butler hides out down here?” Will asked, hiding his trembling hands in his pockets.

“My brothers said he’s rich, lives in a log mansion near the border. But he comes down to load Neverclear on trains and the occasional boat. So what exactly are we looking for, then? A big cage with Marcus’s name on it?”

“Anything,” said Will, scanning the bleak moonscape. “Everything.”

Soon they arrived at the foot of the largest of the elevators, twelve enormous concrete cylinders stood on end, all fused together like a pipe organ or a clutch of giant shotgun shells. Attached to the cylinders rose a towering structure connected by a bridge, looming two hundred feet overhead, high as the castles of Will’s encyclopedias. Painted on the side of the desolate structure in enormous flaking white lettering: SASKATCHEWAN WHEAT POOL 6.

“Hey!” Will exclaimed, “I think the Wheezing Man said something about ‘swimming in pool six’ when he grabbed me that night.”

“Okay,” Jonah said, craning his neck upwards. “We’ll start here.”

After tracing the perimeter of the elevator, they found an unblocked entrance near a covered area where the tracks spanned over a massive steel grate amid some brutish, disused machinery. “This’s where they unloaded the grain, I think,” Will said.

Jonah walked out over a rusted metal grate. “No bottom,” he said, peering into the black beneath his feet, setting Will’s stomach aflutter.

Inside, the floor was heaped with something strangely soft underfoot like moss, sweet-smelling in an unsettling way. It wasn’t until Will heard the burbling of thousands of pigeons overhead that he realized it was a carpet of droppings. Giant concrete pillars suspended a vaulted ceiling that sprouted with various mechanisms, sheltering their nests, while, below, a battlefield of metal scrap was scattered on the floor, all of it rusting, as if a great demolition derby had taken place long before either of them was born.

Everywhere was the smell of bricks, oil, metal, and wood, coupled with the stench of spilled beer dried to stickiness. They investigated a few doorways—control room, bathroom, locker room—and the instant they stepped inside, a hundred pigeons whooshed upward like dirty phoenixes to the closest smashed-out window. In these secluded nooks Will spotted half-busted bottles of fortified wine and malt liquor, a few limp mattresses that stunk of Neverclear, scattered with rank morsels of food.

Pressing deeper, climbing over broken-down doors, through ribbons of metal and wire, around open grain chutes in the floor that disappeared into nothing, the boys came upon a set of foursquare wrought iron stairs leading upward, high enough to vanish. Sunlight slashed through the shattered windows of the stairwell, illuminating rusted vents and hundreds of galvanized pipes that snaked about like a jungle canopy made of dead iron.

“Why did they have to build this thing so big?” said Jonah. “It’s like a demented cathedral.” As Will agreed, there came the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs.

Will froze, as though the embodiment of the Black Lagoon itself was at this very moment cascading down toward him like a herd of demonic horses. Then a hard tug on his shirtsleeve as Jonah dragged him into a crouch behind a large overturned table.

“Think he was telling the truth?” They heard a gruff voice echo through the staircase. “That he did what you told him?”

“Who can say,” came another, softer voice, enunciating like someone interviewed on television. “But I truly regretted that. Unfortunately, words really aren’t much use with old Corpsey.”

“Maybe another of those kids has it? Like the one who left his helmet?” the other voice said. “I checked the phone book for that name like you asked and came up empty. But I bet Corpsey knows where he is. So why’s he protecting them?”

“He’s got a soft spot for the younger set, it seems,” the soft voice said with a sigh. “Corpsey used to be such a good resource. But I’m afraid he’s overshot his expiry date.”

When they passed, the pungent smell of Neverclear wafted behind them. Will riskily peered at their backs and could make out a short bald man, accompanied by a slender one, white hair, at least a foot taller.

“Were you able to see their boots?” said Jonah after they were gone.

“There was too much bird shit on the floor,” said Will. “But that was definitely the Bald Man from the schoolyard. And my guess would be the other was the Butler.”

The boys made their way to the stairs. After the shot of adrenaline and the stair climbing, Will’s heart seemed to gear down into an unstable and dangerous cadence. Exhaustion soon tugged his face into a grimace, The one who left his helmet replaying in his mind mercilessly. They must’ve looked up Cardiel in the phone book, but of course his mother kept their number unlisted. Will’s stomach contorted, and he drove back tears as they crested the stairs and emerged into an enormous chamber that contained more droppings and disused machines. Huge windows lined the walls, providing a view of what seemed the entire world. Over the braying wind Will heard a groan and then a choked wail, halfway between a laugh and a shout.

Something was dragging itself across the floor.

“Hey,” Will said, approaching the heap cautiously. Rebar lay beside it, three pieces interlaced like pick-up sticks. A bearded man, barefoot in a dirty fur-lined parka, his thick jeans smattered with oil and mud, large lateral slashes in the fabric, the skin beneath a color past purple, before black.

“Are you okay?” said Will.

“Returning to the place. I spoke of that once,” the man whispered, his forehead pressed into pigeon droppings. The familiarity of his voice launched a flock of chills up Will’s spine.

“Jonah, let’s go call an ambulance,” Will said, still unable to move.

“No!” the man hissed with coals in his eyes, and both boys backed up. “This is an uncomfortable setting, Aurelius,” he said, twisting onto his back, sweeping the palms of his big-knuckled hands above him. “Those cruelties may revamp,” he added with a wheeze, then fought to rise, smearing more blood into his jeans.

“Please don’t move,” said Will. “You’re bleeding.”

The man chuckled. “The sound is perpetual. I’ve surrendered to it.”

“Still bleeding, dude,” said Jonah. “You should get your legs elevated.”

“I’ve surrendered to it,” he repeated, as though the middle syllable contained a special malevolence. By now the man had managed to stand, wobbly as a bear on a ball.

“My quarters,” he said, eyes on Will.

“What?” asked Will.

“Sorry buddy, we don’t have any quarters for you,” said Jonah.

“My quarters!” he howled, pointing his elbow at a door across the room. “Aurelius, invigorate your blood bank,” he said, now pointing at Will with a defocused expression.

“I think he wants us to take him somewhere,” said Will.

“He’s already there,” said Jonah.

The man shambled forward, painting a bloody masterpiece of his progress on the concrete. He threw open a heavy door and lurched Outside. The boys followed cautiously through the doorway and onto the high platform they’d glimpsed from the ground.

From this height Will could see all the way up the hill to his school and Grandview Gardens. Between this landing and the other tower was a rusted wrought-iron walkway and the man plodded out upon it. Will tested the bridge with his foot, trying not to see through its gaps.

Jonah joined Will at his side. “So this guy wheezes like a busted vacuum and is not making too much sense. It’s him, right?” he said.

Will nodded. “It’s the same voice. He’s got plenty of grain dust on him, but he’s not wearing the boots. We can follow hi—”

“Will! This is crazy,” Jonah pleaded. “Maybe he deserved to get beat like that. Who knows? Let’s just go. This is plenty of information to offer up to your constable buddy. Or we could come back with my brothers and make him talk.”