I do not own the show Gravity Falls or any of the characters in it. These are the property of the Walt Disney Company and of Alex Hirsch, the show's creator. I make no money from writing these fanfictions and write them just for practice and in the hope that other fans enjoy them.

Homecoming

Part 1: Frozen Hearts

Mr. Mystery was kneeling on the hard tile in the women's room, seating a brand-new toilet, when the knock came at the door. With a grunt, Soos got to his feet, making a mental note to come back and make sure the toilet base was properly bolted down before making the pipe connections.

The Mystery Shack felt cold—it was off-season, and he'd turned the thermostats way down to save energy—but a fire burned in the parlor fireplace, and he passed through there as the knock came again. He opened the front door onto a snowscape—a foot on the ground and more falling—and found a scraggly, tall bum standing there, shoulders hunched. "We're closed until April, dude."

"I'm looking for Jesús Finster," the bum mumbled, the words trailing off into a coughing fit. The winter wind whipped his thinning gray hair, uncut for months by the look of it, and flapped the skirt of his frayed, worn overcoat.

"Nobody here by that name," Soos said. "Come in, though, and warm up. You, uh, hungry, dude?"

"Yeah. I haven't eaten in—" he coughed again—"I don't know how many days now."

"Come on in." Soos closed the door behind him and led him to the parlor. "Sit right there in front of the fire. Dry your feet." He'd noticed the man was wearing dirty, torn white sneakers, soaked through. "How does ham and eggs sound?"

"And coffee?" asked the stranger hopefully.

"Sure thing."

Soos hummed as he busied himself in the kitchen, scrambling eight eggs, dropping in some cheese, frying two big ham steaks, popping toast into the toaster. As the aromas filled the air, he took a deep, happy breath and called, "How do you like your coffee?"

"Black's fine."

Soos poured a big, thick Mystery Shack mug full and took it to him. "Food will be ready in a minute."

He went back to the kitchen, buttered the toast, plated everything—giving the lion's share of the meal to the bum—and took the plate, knife and fork, and the coffee pot back to the parlor. The worn old shoes steamed on the hearth, and the man had his feet propped up next to them, the fire slowly drying his saggy socks. "Thank you," he said as Soos refilled his cup.

"No big thing, dude," Soos said cheerfully. He went back for his own breakfast and sat in Stan Pines's old chair. He began to eat, but was more interested in how his early morning visitor tore eagerly into the food.

"So tell me about this guy you're looking for," Soos said as he finished. "Maybe I know him."

"He's my son," the bum said, settling the empty plate aside with a sigh. "Grown man now, of course. I went to our old house, but new people own it now and they said that he moved out last summer and lives here now."

Soos almost dropped his cup. "I'm Jesús Alzamirano Ramírez," he said. "They call me—"

"Soos?" the man asked. He stared at the big guy. "Yeah, I see it now. They still call you by your baby nickname?" He fumbled inside his battered overcoat and brought out an old, faded, creased photo. "Remember? This was the last time I saw you."

Soos took the picture. In it he saw himself—four years old, then, but still unmistakably Soos—perched on the shoulder of his visitor, a younger man with a full head of dark hair and a roguish grin. "Dad?" he asked, his voice breaking.

"You took your mother's name," his visitor said. "Son, I'm Jake Finster, your old man."

"I didn't take anything," Soos said softly. "They gave it to me and I grew up with it. Nobody ever even mentioned your name. And you always signed those birthday postcards—"

"Just 'Dad,' yeah," Finster said. "Look, I'm sorry I never made it back. Things came up, and then they got word to me that your mom had died, and that sort of took the heart out of me for a return visit. But I've thought about you often."

"Yeah, I'll bet," Soos said, handing the photo back.

"So do you work here, or—"

"I run the place for the owners," Soos said. "Only we're closed for the season."

"You live here all by yourself?"

Soos shook his head. "My Abuelita lives here, too, but she's in Mexico until April, visiting her sisters and nieces." He hesitated and then added, "My wife lives here, too. Melody."

"You're married, huh? You happy?"

Soos felt his mouth quirk up in a wistful kind of smile. "Yeah, Dad. We both are. Me and Melody."

"And, uh, where's she?"

"In Portland. She used to live there and has some business to settle, closing on the sale of her townhouse and all, and she won't be back until next Monday."

Finster nodded and seemed to relax a little. "So you're alone over the weekend here? Could I ask you a big favor? Could I stay here tonight, dry out, get some food in me, some sleep? I have to be on the move tomorrow, but I'm about worn out."

"Dad—"

Finster's tone became wheedling: "Come on. You're my son. You owe me a little something."

Soos looked down, feeling his cheeks getting hot with—what? Embarrassment? Anger? He wasn't quite sure. In a level voice, he said, "Dad, I was just going to say you can stay here whenever you want. I'm addin' on a guest room, but it's not in shape yet. But there's a warm attic bedroom you're welcome to use."

"That's good of you," Finster said. He smiled. "I knew my boy would turn out all right."

He looked exhausted. Soos led him up the stairs, turned on the heat in the attic room—not too cold, anyway, since any warmth in the Shack rose—and made up one of the beds for him, fetching a few blankets. Finster stripped to his underwear and crawled into bed. He fell asleep almost the second his head hit the pillow. Soos collected his wet coat, shirt, pants, and socks and took them downstairs. After checking them for sizes, he put everything in the washer except for the coat—he hung that up on a coatrack in the parlor to dry before the fire—and then he checked the shoe size of the pathetic old sneakers.

The drive to Gravity Falls Mall was a slippery one even in the Jeep, but Soos took the curves carefully. He hit four stores inside, coming out with a backpack, four pairs of khaki pants, six flannel shirts, six pairs of socks, and six sets of underpants and undershirts. He also picked up a heavy denim jacket with pockets galore, a good sturdy pair of walking shoes, warm gloves, a fur-lined hat, and a heavy, waterproof overcoat.

Back at the Shack, he checked up: his dad was snoring. Soos stood looking down at him, noticing the missing teeth, the sunken cheeks, the pasty complexion. Whatever Jake Finster had been up to for the past eighteen years, it had beaten him down.

Soos finished his maintenance that morning. He placed his daily calls to his Abuelita and to Melody but didn't mention his visitor to either. Then for a long time he sat in the parlor just staring into the fire, listening to its steady crackle and the rush of smoke up the chimney. Eventually that afternoon he began preparations for dinner. Then at five he heard his father stirring around and took the new clothes up to him.

"Dude," he said, "you might want to take a good hot shower before getting into these. I hope the sizes are right."

"You bought those for me?" Finster asked. He grinned. "I knew I could trust your mother and grandmother with you. I was so sure you'd grow up to be a good son!"

Soos sighed. "Look, Dad, for ten years I worked for the best con artist in North America. Just don't try it, okay?"

For just a second, Jake glared at him. Then he shrugged. "Where's the bathroom?"

Soos showed him, laid out towels, soap, and razor for him, and then while his dad showered, Soos finished cooking the hearty meal—two big, thick ribeye steaks, huge baked potatoes, dinner rolls, and more coffee. He tossed a salad. By the time he got everything on the table, Finster had come in, looking better in the jacket, a fresh shirt, new pants, and new shoes. He had shaved his chin pink and had even made an effort to tame his scraggly mane of gray hair and had pulled it back into an old man's ponytail. "You're right," he said without any prelude. "I shouldn't try to con you. Let me just tell you the truth."

"Okay."

"Let me eat first. I don't usually tell the truth and I have to build up to it." They sat down to their dinner. Finster grabbed knife and fork and his elbows pumped as he cut and devoured the meat. Between wolfish bites, he mumbled, "I won't go into detail, but I'm in bad with some real bad people. They'll kill me if they catch up to me, okay? If I can just get to Canada, though, I've got friends there who'll hide me until this blows over. But I'm dead broke. I need a little travelin' cash. Son, can you spare me a hundred dollars?"

Soos sighed. It was what he had half expected and half feared.

Finster must have misinterpreted. In that begging tone, he said, "Twenty would help. Ten, even."

"It's not that," Soos said. "Yeah, Dad, I can spare you some money."

"That's my boy." Finster mopped up the last of the steak juice with a roll. "In that case, could you give it to me right now? I'll be on my way—I don't want to risk staying here and bringing them down on you."

Soos sighed. Take the money and run, he thought, but he said, "Come on, Dad. You can at least stay until tomorrow."

"I'd rather not, Son. Come on, this is your dad talking."

"Yeah, I know it is." So Soos went downstairs to the safe, opened it, and took out half of his ready cash. The men's' room renovation, he decided, could wait. The Shack did booming business in season, and the Pines brothers—who more or less owned it jointly now—weren't charging him any rent in exchange for his running the place and fixing it up. Yeah, he and Melody could manage on what was left until the Shack reopened in spring.

After a moment of hesitation, he also rifled through a box marked "PROPERTY OF STAN" until he found something that he thought might be useful. He came back upstairs.

"If you really mean to go to Canada tonight," Soos told his father, "there's a nine p.m. bus to Portland and then on to Vancouver that you can catch. I'll drive you into town." He handed him a stack of bills. "There's five thousand dollars in fifties and twenties. Dad—there won't be any more after this. You understand?"

Finster's gaze was locked on the fat stack of bills. "Five thous—Son, I don't know how to thank you. This means—"

In an angry tone, Soos said, "Don't Dad! Just—don't, okay?"

Jake Finster nodded. He rolled and rubber-banded the bills into three separate bundles before tucking them away in his inner jacket pockets.

"Here's one last thing," Soos said. He pushed the little booklet across the table.

Finster opened it and stared. "A passport?"

"It's still good, at least until June. The name's Samuel Pinella, but that wasn't the guy's real name, either. He's not wanted for anything. The picture isn't much like you, but it's nearly ten years old, and people change. Say you got sick."

"Okay."

Finster stuffed everything into his new backpack. He decided to leave the old tattered coat—but first, borrowing a pair of scissors, he cut out part of the lining and rescued a flat wallet, which he opened, showing Soos that it held no money. Then at seven they were ready to go. "We'll be way early, but I'll wait with you at the station until the bus leaves," Soos said.

They stepped into the cold front yard of the Shack. The snowfall had stopped, but a fresh three inches lay atop the old layers.

Soos headed for the Jeep, but he felt a hand close on his arm and paused. "What?"

"Son," Jake Finster said, "something else. I am sick. Real sick. I mean I won't be back, you know?"

"I'm sorry," Soos said, wishing he could feel sorrow.

"So—before I go—'cause I kind of think I owe you from when you were a kid—Son, you want to have a snowball fight?"

Even after chasing each other around in the darkness, bombarding each other with snowballs, and laughing their heads off, they still made it to the bus station just in time for Jake Finster to catch the bus north. And before he boarded it, Soos gave him a tight hug. "Thanks for the game, Dad," he said.

He stood there until the tail lights of the bus had faded and vanished over the crest of a hill. Then he got into the Jeep and in the still, cold night he drove home, humming to himself.

Part 2: Markers

1: Journey's End

From the Journals of Dipper Pines: Tuesday, July 16. Something is going on—Mabel and I don't know what. This morning as we were sitting at the table, planning out a video shoot about the Venus woodpecker trap, Soos got a telephone call. He was real solemn afterward, and he asked me, "Dude, do you think I could ask your great-uncle Stan to cover for me for a couple days?"

"Sure, Soos," I told him, a little surprised at being asked. "He loves to play the part of Mr. Mystery."

"Would—would you call him for me, man? I don't want to make him feel obligated or anything."

This wasn't like Soos, who's been in a good mood since last Saturday afternoon, when we had a little birthday party for him. He likes what Mabel calls understated birthdays (by her definition, that's any celebration that doesn't involve elephants and cannons), and this was just a quiet gathering, but he got a few neat presents, including some knitted galoshes from Mabel that she swears are waterproof (don't ask) and a high-tech watch from Grunkles Ford and Stan. I'd asked Mabel to knit a couple of Pterodactyl Bros sweaters way last winter, and she had one in my size (actually tight, because I've grown a little since then, but I can wear it) and one in Soos's. He loved them.

Anyway, this is the first day since Saturday that he hasn't been cheerful. I made the call, and Stan said, "Sure thing. Let me talk to the big knucklehead."

So I gave the phone to Soos and when he gave us a meaningful look, we left the room so he'd have privacy. Mabel's the one who tried to eavesdrop, but all she heard was something about his having to go to Canada for some reason. But anyhow, Grunkles Ford and Stan came over about an hour later, and Grunkle Stan put on the fez and the eyepatch and got ready for the next batch of tourists, and Grunkle Ford took Soos with his suitcase to the airport to catch a commuter flight to Vancouver. Melody wouldn't tell us anything, and Soos's Abuela just looked a little mad.

I caught Grunkle Stan in between performances and tried to pump him for information, but all he'd say was, "Soos will explain it all when he gets back."

Everybody but me and Mabel seem to know all about this, but nobody will talk.

I hate mysteries like this one!

The trip up to Canada and back actually didn't take more than fourteen hours, but when Soos landed that night in Portland, he had to wait for about two more hours for everything to clear. Finally, though, the big black car took the long box aboard. Soos climbed in beside Mr. Valentino. "I'm sorry, Mr. Ramirez," the usually cheerful man said gently.

Soos nodded his thanks. "Just Soos. I'm kinda tired out, Mr. Valentino. If you don't mind, I'll try to nod off on the drive back. You can take care of—?"

"Yes, of course. Melody has been in touch with Father Perez. The vigil will be tomorrow night in the funeral home chapel, and the Mass the day after at the church. Is that all right?"

"Yeah," Soos said. "Whatever Melody arranged is all right. Uh, do you, like bill us, or—"

"It's all taken care of, Mr. Ramirez—Soos. Your employee insurance."

Soos blinked, not entirely form sleepiness. "Huh. They told me the same thing up at the hospital. He, uh, passed yesterday night, kinda late, but they had him all ready for me. And they had the papers for me to sign out for everything, even the—you know, the container. It was all paid for. Funny. I don't even remember having employee insurance."

"You do, though, and it's a good policy. Why don't you go ahead and try to catch a little nap, son? I'll wake you up when we get to Gravity Falls."

The next morning Soos told the twins what had happened. "At least the docs told me he didn't like, suffer. Heart stopped in his sleep, and it was over quick. Funny, they found a card in his pocket with my name and phone number on it, like he was expectin' to die."

Mabel sounded heartbroken: "Oh, Soos! I'm so sorry!"

He shrugged and even gave a little smile. "Hey, this year he almost made it back for my birthday."

Dipper rubbed his arm awkwardly. "If—you know, if you need us for anything—just, well, you know, ask."

"Thanks, dude."

A surprising number of people from town attended the Vigil that night. The Valentino Funeral Home chapel was packed, except for the front two pews, where only a few people sat: just the immediate family, plus Wendy and her dad, both Stans, and of course Dipper and Mabel, Dipper in a dark suit, Mabel in a dark dress and hat. Wendy also wore black—Dipper realized he had never seen her look so solemn—but instead of a hat, she wore a black lacy scarf, a gift from Soos's Abuelita. There were prayers, but no long eulogies. No one knew much about Mr. Finster, except Soos's grandmother, who had nothing good to say, so she kept silent. Soos, though, wanted to speak, and they all listened respectfully.

"I didn't really know my father," he said softly, standing up front. "He left home when I was, like, four. I saw him only one time after that, last winter, when he came to visit me. He slept for most of a day and then left. You know, I used to feel real hurt because he was gone and I, like, wanted a father. But I've come to realize that over the years, though I haven't had a father, I've had a family.

"My Abuelita, God bless her, was mother and father to me. Thank you for bein' there for me." Soos held out his hand, and his Abuela got up and came to stand beside him, looking up at him with a kind of pride. Soos leaned down and kissed her forehead.

Then he said in a husky voice, "An' I had a Dad in Stanley Pines. Mr. Pines, I can't say all that's in my heart, but thank you, dawg. And I had a sister in Wendy Corduroy, and a younger one in Mabel and a little brother in Dipper. I even got a kind of an uncle when Dr. Stanford Pines showed up. Hey, I love you all so much. Will you stand with me?"

They came forward. Mabel was sobbing into a tissue, and Dipper was gulping hard. Wendy reached to hold his hand. He felt Stan's hand on one shoulder and Ford's on the other. Soos said, "I only wish that my father had known about you guys. Maybe it would have made him happy to know that though he and my Mom both left me, I wasn't alone."

He held out his hand, and his wife Melody came up, smiling through tears. "And now I have a wife in Melody, and, well, I'll say we're lookin' forward to the future. So for now I'll say farewell to a father that I only wish I'd known better. For the rest of you, dawgs, treasure your loved ones. And I can only say you can't change the past, dudes, but you don't have to forget it, either, so I'll remember that day I had with him last winter for the rest of my life."

On the way back to the Shack, Soos muttered, "I hope what I said made sense."

"Perfect sense," Ford, who was driving, told him.

"It was beautiful," Stan said.

"Uh—Mr. Pines? I didn't know about, uh—the employee insurance?"

"Yeah," Stan said gruffly. "You were covered from day one, when you started work, when you were what, twelve? I took care of the paperwork."

Dipper thought he knew what that really meant. Evidently Soos did, too, because he said, "I owe you a big one, Mr. Pines."

After the Mass the next day—even more crowded, with lots of people who knew the Ramirez family showing up, along with church members who were friends of theirs— they stood in the cemetery of St. Mathias Catholic Church as Father Perez said the prayers and then they watched as the coffin was lowered into the earth. Soos said, "I'll have to see about buying a stone marker."

"Taken care of," Stan Pines said.

2: Visitors

Stanley was sitting on the porch of the Mystery Shack a few hours later when an unfamiliar car pulled into the lot: obviously an upscale rental, a Lexus LS luxury sedan. Stan's crook sense tingled as a tall, square-built man, about thirty or thirty-five, climbed out, hitched his jacket—Packin' it in a shoulder holster, Stan thought—and, looking around as though curious about the surroundings, ambled across the lot.

Stan stood up and stepped off the porch, cutting him off. "We're closed," he said. "Death in the family."

The stranger looked him up and down. Cold eyes, empty eyes. "Lookin' for a Jesús Ramirez Finster," he said.

Huh. West-side Philly, Stan thought, nailing the accent. "He's out. This hit him hard. Went for a walk for a little alone time. I'm his business partner. Can I help you?"

"I'm a debt collector," the stranger said. "His father Jake died owin' money. My boss wants to be paid, see?"

"I see," Stan said, squinting. "Your boss wouldn't by any chance be Fast Eddie Pinter, would he?"

The big man blinked. "So this Finster guy told you? Well, then you know how it is."

"Uh-huh. Tell you what, Mr.- "

"You can call me Jonesy." Snotty tone. Guy should learn some manners.

"I see. Well, I'm Stan, Mr. Jonesy. You sit here, have a Pitt Cola on the house, and I'll go find him. He'll be out in the woods there. I know just where he likes to go."

"You gonna be back soon?"

"Ah, maybe half an hour."

"I'll wait that long. Then I might get restless."

Stan smiled as he chucked change into the vending machine and handed Jonesy a frosty can of cola. "I gotcha. Let me call my nephew to come help me look, an' we'll probably be back in even less time."

A minute later in the Shack, Dipper, now changed back into his civvies, whispered, "You want WHAT?"

"C'mon," Stan said. "It's kinda urgent."

Dipper looked into the parlor, where the rest of the family, plus Wendy, were sitting and talking, and Soos was just listening with a sad-happy sort of smile on his face. "Well—okay. Let me suit up."

When they came back outside, Dipper was wearing his pine-tree hat and—reflective mirror sunglasses. So was Stan. "We'll be back in less than half an hour," Stan said.

It took about ten minutes to go to the correct spot in the woods. It took only another minute for the resident—notoriously territorial and easy to make angry—to emerge. And it took just a little longer for Dipper, who was best at communicating, to make it clear what they wanted. He turned to Stan.

"Uh, Grunkle Stan, he wants to know what's in it for him."

Stanley sighed. "Okay, tell 'im I'll give him a brand-new Singin' Salmon in the box, plus a supply of batteries."

The deal was done.

A few minutes later, back at the Shack, Jonesy tossed the empty soda can into the yard and stood up. "That was quick," he said. "So where's Finster and the kid?"

"Comin'," Stan said. "Let's go around to the side. More privacy. Then I'll leave you two alone to work things out."

"Smart of you," Jonesy growled. He patted his chest under his left armpit.

Amateur, Stan thought.

In the side yard, not far from the bonfire log, Stan moved so that Jonesy, facing him, had his back to the woods. Jonesy said, "I'm gonna smoke."

"Nah. You won't have time," Stan said with a smile.

"Huh. Watch me." Jonesy got a cigarette between his lips—and then someone tapped his shoulder. He spun, reaching for his sidearm, but it is impossible to draw from a shoulder holster when two powerful hands the size of catcher's mitts have clamped tight on both your arms. Jonesy opened his mouth to scream and the cigarette fell out as the thing shook him. Whatever it was, it hauled him up like a baby-doll so his toes dangled two feet off the ground—and then it bent forward and stared into his eyes and he stared back and his mind shattered.

Two minutes later the Gremloblin took his Singin' Salmon back past the crouching, gibbering, weeping man, ignoring him as it strolled through the forest, crushing undergrowth and toppling a few small trees as it listened to the fish's jaunty little tune over and over.

Then the next day . . . .

The building in West Philadelphia looked like a rundown victim of urban blight, and on the outside, in a way it was. Inside, though, it was richly decorated and comfortable. It looked like an exclusive men's club, and in a way, it also was.

A grumpy-looking, balding guy in his late sixties or early seventies sat behind a desk you could have landed a helicopter on and glared at Mr. Jones. "You didn't get the money," he said flatly. "For the first time in over ten years I send you on an errand, and you fail me. Is that the shape of it, Jonesy?"

"No, sir, Mr. Pinter. I—I—I—" he fell to his knees on the thick shag carpet. "Please don't send me back to Oregon! I can't take it! I won't go!" He reached inside his jacket, produced his Colt .45 (he was a sentimentalist), and laid it on the desk, pushing it toward his boss. "If you want, you can get behind me and do it. Do it clean, please. You owe me that much. But I won't go back to Oregon!"

Pinter just stared at him. "You'd rather take a slug in the brain than be ordered back?"

Jonesy clenched his hands in front of him and nodded, shaking, tears dropping from his chin.

"Stop that. You are moistening the Surya Milan, and that carpet is four hundred bucks a square yard." Pinter shook his head. "You at least bring me back the guy's marker?"

Trembling, Jones took an envelope from his pocket and laid it on the table beside the automatic. He swallowed and shivered and muttered, "They—they—they—put me on a bus back to the—the airport. They—they—had to give me folded towels to sit on!"

Pinter sniffed. "Yeah, next time that happens, clean yaself up an' put on a fresh pair of pants before you come to the office. Let's see this thing." He studied the document and the Gravity Falls Mystery Shack business card that someone had stapled to it. His eyebrows rose. "Take your gun. I don't want that thing," he told Jones, pushing the weapon back across the desk. "Go lock it in your safe. Get hold of yourself. Take the rest of the week off. Get a massage, take a shvitz, calm ya nerves."

"You—you gonna send somebody to follow me? Gonna have me whacked?"

Pinter made a dismissive sound like a horse blowing out its cheeks. "You know better. I don't do business like that no more. Unless you irritate me, on the verge of which you are just about standin'. Don't thank me. Go!"

Jones grabbed the sidearm and all but sprinted from the office. With a sigh, Pinter called his secretary in and handed her the business card. "Call Mr. Pines on one of the unbugged lines," he said. "Buzz me when you got him on."

He had to wait less than fifteen seconds. Gloria was that good. The buzzer sounded and he picked up. Before he could even speak, a raspy voice said, "Hiya, Pinky! Long time no see."

"Stanny?" Pinter asked. "How'd you know it was me?"

"Don't know anybody else in the 215 area code."

"Sounds like Stanny's voice, all right. That really you at this whackadoodle Mystery Shack place?"

"Really me. Want me to prove it? Remember when you were organizin' for the Union among the barnacle scrapers? That big goon Management hired to take ya out? He had a tire iron as I recall, and you were down for the count."

"Just restin', Stanny, just restin'. I was gonna get up and knock him for a loop until you come along and punched him out—with a chair."

"Yeah, well, I was barely eighteen and all I knew about fightin' came from a few years of boxin' lessons. But remember, he was like thirty and had eighty pounds on me and a good eight inches in reach. I believe in a fair fight, but you even the odds when ya can. So how's it hangin', ya bum?"

"Ah, I should retire. From business I get nothing but tsurris these days. Plus, I got an ulcer and hemorrhoids, so when I eat Gloria's fantastic cookin', I get agita comin' an' goin'. Stanny, you must be in pretty good shape for an alter cocker. You really done a number on Jonesy."

"Pinky, hand to God, it just took lookin' him straight in the eye. He gonna be OK?"

"Yeah, I think so. Ya know, he's been in his line eleven years. That's a long time for enforcer muscle. I'm gonna move him up to middle management. He ain't dumb, should do all right. Now, Stanny, I got this here marker for a Jacob Finster. What we gonna do about that?"

"How much was the principal?"

"Five large and change."

"And the vig?"

"That's six months and some. That's up to three hundred k."

"You're kiddin' me. Nice work if you can get it. Look, Pinky, your boy tried to take it off of Finster's son. Only he ain't got it, see? Now, Finster was a real nice guy. In case ya can't tell, I am bein' sarcastic here. Bum deserted the family when his kid was four. Didn't go to his wife's funeral, even. Only saw his kid one time after he ran off, when his boy had turned twenty-three. Come to ask him for a loan, you believe the cojones on this guy? But ya know what, Pink? I adopted that Finster bum's kid when he was twelve. I was a dad to him longer than Finster was. What I'm sayin', he's family. So where do we stand?"

Pinter looked at the marker, waving it gently. "You willing to pay the principal?"

"Yeah, on condition that you guarantee to leave him alone. He's gonna be a papa."

Pinter laughed out loud. "You're gonna be a grandpop! Hey, Stanny, let me tell ya, you'll love it."

"Yeah, yeah, I already got a great-niece and nephew, so I'm getting' practice in. Where do I send the dough?"

Pinter turned loose and let the marker float to the table. "Ah, tell ya what, it's a wash. Keep it. Let's call it a present, one grandpop to another. We good with that?"

"Nobody's gonna come back and—"

"Nah, you got my word, Stanny. Hey, you wouldn't believe it, since I took over from the old man our business is like ninety per cent legit."

Stan whistled. "Better'n mine. Mine's one-hundred-per fraud!"

Pinter chuckled a little. "Good talkin' to you, cousin."

"Same here, Pink."

"Yeah, but Stanny, seriously, if you're ever in Philly—don't look me up."

"Hah! And if you make it to the West Coast, Pink, forget where I live."

"Deal. Keep well, Stanny. And mazeltov."

"Thanks, Pink. Be well yourself."

Pinter didn't even have to buzz after he hung up. Gloria was there beside the desk, patting the top of his head fondly. "You big old softy," she teased. When he cocked an accusing eye at her, she said, "Of course I listened in."

"It's family, Glo," Pinter said with a grin. "Look, get Mr. Ambrose in tomorrow. Tell him we need to write off—" he checked the numbers on the slip—"uh, take this down, $309,795.33 as an uncollectible debt. We'll take a tax benny on it. Ambrose is a sharp CPA, he can tuck it somewhere, maybe in the theater business. Those bums lose money like their pockets ain't got no bottom seams." Pinter picked up the marker and the business card, shrugged, and tore them cleanly in half, then again. He crumpled them and tossed them across the room to the wastebasket. Two points. He stretched and yawned. "What's for dinner, darling?"

Firmly, Gloria said, "Your diet plate of roast chicken breast, mashed potatoes, no salt, and steamed greens. And no alcohol, not even wine."

He slapped her rump. "Ah, you're gonna kill your husband."

"Nah," she said. "I'd never do that."

"You love me, don't ya, doll?"

She shrugged and grinned. "No, but I'm used to you."

"I'll take it."

3. A Green Place

The afternoon of the funeral, Wendy asked Mabel and Dipper if they'd like to come with her on a little hike. They did, and she changed into her regular clothes, flannel shirt, jeans, boots, and had them dress for a woodsy walk, too.

It was about four miles from the Corduroy place, a hilltop overlooking a big stretch of the valley, with the falls in the distance. The small private cemetery had been fenced in with a cast-iron railing. Four granite markers stood in it, none fresh, one mossy and time-tarnished.

Dipper read the names on the stone crosses: "Augustus Corduroy, 1887-1956. David Corduroy, 1925-2004. Mizoula Corduroy, 1930-1998. Amanda Corduroy, 1967-2002."

"Great-grandpop, granddad, grandmother, and Mom," Wendy said softly. She had been carrying a backpack. She unpacked it and took out two pairs of clippers and a stiff brush.

"Can we help?" Mabel asked.

"Sure, dudes. Dad likes the grass about three inches long and pretty even, so Mabel, you take these." She handed her a heavy pair of grass shears. "Dip, take the brush and scrub the crud off the markers, OK? I'm gonna use the lopper to clip down these saplings. This hilltop would go back to woods in a year if we let it."

It took them a couple of hours. Then at last Wendy sat on the grass near the graves, chewing on a clipped-off stem. "Funerals always make me wanna come here and check," she said. "Pretty place, huh?"

"Beautiful," Mabel said. "So green and peaceful. And the whole valley there—town and Falls."

"Mom's favorite spot, Dad told me. She made him promise to let her rest here instead of in her family's plot in the city."

Dipper hesitated, but then asked, "Wendy—does it make you sad to come here?"

"Well, yeah, dude. I didn't really know my grandparents much. Remember my granddad a little, but he was kinda private after Mizoula died, Dad says. Not as outgoing as Stan. But yeah, I think about Mom and I'm a little sad. But then, death is a part of life, right?"

"It scares me to think of it," Mabel admitted. "I don't think I'm scared of the idea of dying so much, but I really hate to think of being separated from everybody I love. Especially from Dipper."

"Never happen," Wendy said confidently. "You're two of the good guys. Wherever we go when we go on, you guys'll be together."

"Then we'll look for you there too," Dipper said.

Teasingly, Wendy replied, "I dunno. I've done some pret-ty mean things from time to time!"

"No," Dipper said. "You put all the mean stuff on a scale and all that's good about you in the other—like putting a little lump of dirt against a big pile of gold. You're the best."

"Well," Wendy said, getting to her feet, "I wanted you to see this, share it with me. It gives me a feeling of peace. I hope it does you, too."

"It does," Mabel said softly. "Thank you."

Dipper frowned. "But," he said, "now it kinda makes me feel like there's something I have to do."

4. Repayment

From the Journals of Dipper Pines. Thursday, July 19: I've been thinking since the funeral about Soos and Mr. Finster. And other things. I've asked Mabel and Wendy if they'd go with me tomorrow. And I told Fiddleford what I needed, and he used his metal working skills to produce just the right thing, within a couple of hours. It's cooling now. We're going out early in the morning.

Not long after sunrise they started out in Wendy's car. She parked it on a grassy track that had been a driveway thirty years earlier and they got out.

They saw several Gnomes as they walked out past the old ruined McGucket home. None of them spoke, but simply vanished into the undergrowth and kept following them—even when the three climbed the rise, then crossed Creepy Hollow, which for hundreds of years had been a place where no Gnome would venture. At last they arrived at a grassy spot beneath a low bluff. Above it, in the side of the cliff, a cave opened into darkness.

"Must've been about here," Dipper said. "Wendy, you have the hammer?"

"Right here, man," she said. "Want me to do it?"

"I got it. I owe them that much."

Fiddleford had produced a cast-bronze plaque with two long sharp spikes on either side. It wasn't large, maybe nine inches wide by six high, but it had embossed lettering on it:

In Memory of

Dippers 5-10, Paper Jam Dipper, and Tyrone

d. 2012

and Dippers 3 and 4

d 2013

Dipper drove the spikes evenly into the earth until only the plaque showed above the surface. "It looks smaller when it's actually driven in like that," he mused. "People will probably think it's just a pet grave or something."

"People who count will know better, dude," Wendy told him, putting an arm around his shoulders.

Mabel laid three red roses in front of the bronze marker. "Rest in peace, you guys," she whispered.

They stood for a while. To Dipper's surprise, a few dozen Gnomes came up and clustered around, too, with their heads bowed, just silently looking at the marker. He suspected they couldn't read, so he slowly read it aloud, and they seemed to listen and understand. Tears dripped from a few faces. And then, as if someone had given an unseen and unheard signal, humans and Gnomes turned slowly and in the sunshine of a new morning, they walked away from Death and back into Life, and the sharpest pangs of their shared griefs melted like snow on the first warm day of spring.