The Forgotten

by Bishop O'Connell

  Toto put his big head in her lap and whimpered.

  “Don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll turn up,” Wraith said as she retrieved a cigarette from one of the pilfered packs, put it between her lips, and snapped her fingers a few times until the numbers fell in place. A small flame appeared from her thumb. After a long drag, she blew out the flame with the smoke, leaned back, and fed the dog another treat.

  “Oh, I’m sure they will,” Nightstick said.

  After smoking half the cigarette, she reached into her messenger bag and drew out a giant pack of Skittles. She opened it and poured some of the colored candies into her mouth.

  Toto’s ears pricked up and he looked at her.

  “Don’t give me that,” she said. “I need the sugar.”

  Toto snorted, then laid his head back down.

  Wraith smiled and stroked the big dog. “Something’s changed, buddy. They came after us in a store, in broad daylight. As soon as Fritz and SK get here, we need to find another place to stay.”

  “How admirable, run away yet again,” Nightstick said.

  Wraith scratched Toto’s ear. “There’s a reason we all agreed to the cut-­and-­run plan if anyone got snatched. Those guys are like the freaking boogeyman, only less cuddly.”

  “You know, I should be well offended that the dog gets more attention than I do.”

  “He’s not as annoying as you,” Wraith said.

  “Oh, but your wit wounds me so.”

  Toto nuzzled her leg.

  Wraith took another drag and tried to convince herself the tears were from the smoke getting in her eyes.

  Minutes turned to hours. The sun vanished and darkness settled over the city. Nightstick grew tired of being ignored and left for wherever he went when he wasn’t offering commentary. Wraith sat at the window, never moving. She watched, hoping to see her friends in the alley or hear them coming up the stairs. With each passing minute, her heart broke a little more. It was well past midnight when her eyes finally closed and she fell asleep.

  Chapter Five

  Dante and Brigid sat in the parked SUV, down the street from the home of Richard and Mary Fredricks. It was a large, well-­kept but nondescript house. In fact, it was so innocuous that it struck Dante as unnatural.

  “You getting the plastic feel too?” Brigid asked.

  He nodded. It wasn’t a close community, physically speaking. The houses all sat on large plots of land, perhaps a quarter mile from each other, and there weren’t any cars to be seen. Upon closer inspection, no birds either. There was indeed an artificial feel to it, like a set piece done to exacting detail, but lacking any depth or warmth.

  A cold dread inched up his spine, and he looked at Brigid. “You feel that?”

  She reached into the glove box and pulled out two pistols, handing him one and securing the other to the waistband of her skirt.

  “There’s something wrong in the air,” she said.

  He nodded. It was something dark and vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it. That in itself was unsettling.

  “Well, won’t plow a field by turning it over in your mind,” Dante said and slid out.

  Brigid blinked and started to say something, but he had walked around to the back of the SUV. She got out, pulled on a dark gray blazer, and ran her hands down her skirt. As she did, the color slid from dark green to a matching gray. Then she wrapped a deeper glamour around herself. The long and flowing dark auburn hair faded to plain brown that was cut in a short pageboy style. Her perfect skin shifted, the color darkening a few shades as small blemishes and fine lines appeared. When she opened her eyes, their vibrant green had faded to a more hazel tone.

  Dante wrapped his own illusion around himself, then wrapped it again and again, like weaving together strips of leather for armor. The weight and solidity of it brought him comfort and eased away the lingering apprehension. After a long moment, he opened his eyes, now a plain brown on a chiseled but utterly average face.

  “Nice,” Brigid said as she looked from one side of him to the other. “Impressive.”

  Dante clipped the holstered pistol on his belt, in proper FBI fashion, and tucked the fake credentials into his back pocket. “Agent Thompson,” he said, nodding at her.

  “Agent Phillips,” she answered.

  They turned and headed for the house. It was actually a beautiful neighborhood, with lots of trees—­even these felt false, as though they were growing here only under protest. It was like walking through an empty Hollywood sound stage. Neither Dante nor Brigid spoke, but they were thinking the same thing: each glad not to be making this visit alone.

  “No wonder so many kids ran away from this place,” Brigid said in a low whisper.

  Dante opened the gate to the waist-­high chain link fence that surrounded the house, relieved it was aluminum rather than iron. Brigid glided past him and together they walked up the path to the front door. The lawn on either side was almost too perfectly manicured, complete with flawlessly symmetrical flower beds, and not a single wilted blossom. The grass was devoid of any sign that children lived there: no toys, no bicycles, nothing. It didn’t even have worn patches from being played on.

  They walked up wooden steps to the porch. Brigid took position just behind him and to his left. He knew it was to give her a clear line of sight into the house when the door opened. Her breathing, like his, was slow and steady.

  Dante rang the doorbell.

  An electronic version of the first few bars of “Amazing Grace” played inside.

  “You continue your studying, I’ll be right back,” a woman said from inside the house.

  Dante heard footsteps on hardwood floors approach and saw movement through the curtains that covered the sidelights. The door opened a long moment later to reveal a middle-­aged woman in a modest housedress. Her face had laugh lines and crow’s feet, but apart from that, she had no wrinkles

  “Can I help you?” she asked in a saccharine sweet voice, flashing a motherly smile that felt more insincere than it looked.

  Dante and Brigid produced their credentials as smoothly as if they’d been doing it for years. “I’m Special Agent Drew Phillips, ma’am,” he said, then motioned to Brigid. “This is Special Agent Abigale Thompson.”

  The woman looked at the IDs and badges, then back at them. “Oh, my goodness. The FBI?” Her eyes moved over them both, slow and deliberate. He could almost smell the hint of magic in the air, felt it probing the edges of their glamours.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Dante said in a firm, polite tone. “We’re investigating a series of missing children that we think might be related. We were wondering if we could talk to you about a”—­he pulled out his phone and glanced at a blank note—­“Jane Essex?”

  “Oh, of course, please come in,” the woman said and stepped back to let them through.

  Inwardly, Dante sighed in relief that she’d invited them in. “Thank you, Mrs. Fredricks,” he said, stepping into the living room. Brigid followed him, again taking position just behind and to his left.

  “It is Mrs. Fredricks, isn’t it?” he asked, scanning the house. It was immaculate with the cold feel of a model home. The furniture looked as if it were never used. The rest of the house was just as perfect, not a speck of dust anywhere. It did, however, have personal touches, or at least attempts to mimic personal touches. There were pictures of kids ranging in age from seven to their late teens, dozens and dozens of them, on every flat surface and covering the walls. He also counted no less than fourteen crosses, four pictures of Jesus, and three Bibles just in this room.

  “Please call me Mary,” she said. “Would either of you like some coffee?”

  “Thank you, ma’am, but no,” Brigid said.

  Dante smiled. “We don’t want to take too much of your time.”

  “Mary, who is it?” asked a man from upstairs.

 
; Dante could hear soft footsteps in a room down the hall and to the right from where he and Brigid stood—­children from the sound, young and in stocking feet. He glanced at Brigid.

  “Six?” she mouthed silently.

  Dante nodded subtly. From upstairs, he could hear heavier footsteps and the subtle creaking of the house that denoted three more children and the unknown man. He was big, but not huge.

  “It’s a ­couple of FBI agents, dear,” Mary said as calm and light as if saying it was the mailman.

  Dante and Brigid exchanged another imperceptible glance.

  A man in his mid-­fifties came down the stairs. He didn’t look the sort who smiled much. He wore a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt. His eyes were blue, pale blue, and hard as frozen granite.

  “What’s the FBI doing here?” he asked.

  “As I was explaining to your wife—­” Dante started to say.

  “They’re here about Jane,” Mary said.

  “She ran away,” Richard said, his voice devoid of any care or concern. “Police came out, then the social ser­vices rep, again.”

  Dante nodded. “We’re aware—­”

  “It’s not our fault these kids keep running away,” Richard said.

  “No one is saying it was, sir,” Brigid said. “As my colleague was saying, we’re investigating a series of missing children reports.”

  “We think they might be connected,” Dante said. “And if we have a serial abductor, we want to gather all we can about the victims to get a good profile.”

  “Victims?” Mary asked. “Goodness, are you saying you found Jane?”

  Richard’s expression didn’t change. His face was a mask made from the same stone as his eyes. Mary looked concerned, but like her smile, it didn’t reach her eyes.

  “No, ma’am, nothing like that,” Dante said. “The timing just makes us think she might be one of the earliest of these abductions.”

  “By any chance, could we see Jane’s room?” Brigid asked and took a step forward.

  “Not her room anymore,” Richard said, moving to block her view of the hallway. “We’re full up with kids and can’t keep rooms open for those that choose to run away.”

  “I understand,” Dante said. “You’ll forgive me for being blunt, but you’ve had a number of children run away.”

  Mary’s smile faded, and she reached up to touch a gold cross at her throat. Like everything else, the movement look rehearsed, done for Dante’s and Brigid’s benefit. No wonder the police and social workers didn’t find anything. Most mortals wouldn’t pick up on the intricate subterfuge.

  “Far too many,” Mary said.

  “Agents,” Richard said, his tone softer but resolute. “We’re good Chris­tian ­people. We take in children who’re troubled and have problems. We try to provide them a good life, a good home, but some just run. It’s how it is.”

  “We do what we can,” Mary said. “But sometimes, too often, it isn’t enough.”

  “We’ve been investigated by the police and social ser­vices more times than I can count,” Richard said. “We always cooperate and we’re still fostering. Are we being investigated by the FBI now?”

  “Not at all,” Dante said. “Like I said, we’re looking into a serial abductor. But you understand why I had to ask.”

  “Of course,” Mary said and gave Richard a reproachful glance. That at least was sincere.

  Dante felt Brigid’s body posture change. She’d noticed the glance too. Richard wasn’t playing along as well as he should, and Mary wasn’t happy about it.

  “What can you tell us about Jane?” Dante asked. “What did she read? What were her interests? Did she have any friends?”

  “The poor dear kept to herself,” Mary said, clutching her cross a little tighter. “You know about what happened to her parents?”

  Dante nodded. “We do.”

  “We’re strict but caring,” Richard said. “We try to instill good Chris­tian values. As such, we limit what books the children read and music they listen to.”

  “How many children are you currently fostering?” Brigid asked as she studied a wall of framed photos.

  “What has the got to do with—­?”

  “Richard, don’t be rude,” Mary said then turned to Dante. “Right now, we have ten.”

  “And were any of them here during the same time as Jane?” Dante asked.

  “Like I said, we see a lot of kids come through here,” Richard said. “It’s hard to keep track of who was here when.”

  Dante nodded. “I apologize. We didn’t want to have to wade through the reports. We thought you might spare us the trouble, but it was rude of us to presume.”

  Brigid nodded and pulled out her phone. “I’ll have all the records relating to the Fredricks for that time period pulled.”

  Mary and Richard exchanged a very subtle glance.

  “I believe Thomas, Michael, and Josephine were here then,” Mary said just before Brigid hit the send button.

  “I see,” Dante said and nodded to Brigid, who put her phone away. “May we speak to them?”

  There was a tense moment.

  “I’ll be honest, Agent,” Richard said. “Thomas has been with us the longest, nearly five years. Social ser­vices have found him more permanent homes over the years, but he wanted to stay here. He’s become like a son to us. The other two are eight and seven and very shy.”

  “We’ll be brief,” Brigid said.

  Mary looked at Richard, who nodded after a moment.

  “I’ll go get them,” Mary said and left the room.

  Dante looked at the pictures. “Is Jane one of these kids?”

  Richard shook his head. “We try to get photos of all the kids here longer than a few weeks, but some are, well, less than cooperative.”

  Dante watched Brigid from the corner of his eyes and saw her glance at a few. He followed her line of sight and saw a lot of changeling kids just at the edge of the Change, when a changeling’s fae heritage begins to show and their powers emerge. Without exception, they were hidden in crowds of other children, each desperate not to be photographed. He noted how few of the children were smiling, and his eyes were drawn to a picture of half a dozen children of varying ages and heritages playing some board game Dante didn’t recognize. At the edge of the photo, a thin girl with short brown hair sat in a chair, her legs drawn up and her face hidden behind some kind of math book. Brigid smiled very, very faintly.

  “Who is that?” Dante asked, pointing to the girl.

  Richard’s face went a little pale, then he forced half a smile. “Well, I’ll be. That’s Jane, all right. I didn’t think she was in any of the pictures.”

  “You’re sure?” Dante asked.

  “She’s reading a math book,” Richard said.

  “Not a common choice for a child her age,” Brigid said, nodding.

  “I prefer to find my answers in the pages of the Good Book, miss,” Richard said, putting emphasis on the last word. “All I need to know is there.”

  “Do you mind?” Dante asked, holding up his phone to take a picture of the picture.

  “Not at all,” Richard said.

  Dante leaned in close and snapped the photo.

  Mary returned with a ­couple of towheaded children, a boy and girl who were probably siblings. They held hands tight and stared at the floor, but Dante could see their eyes were pale blue, the shade that looks white in black and white photos.

  Brigid knelt down and put on a smile that was warm and comforting.

  “This is Agent Thompson,” Mary said to the children. “She’s here about Jane. Do you remember her?”

  Both children shrugged.

  “Let me guess, you’re Josephine,” Brigid said to the boy. “And you’d be Michael,” she said to the girl.

  The little boy start
ed to giggle, but the little girl shook her head. “No, I’m Josephine.”

  Brigid smiled. “Of course you are, such a pretty girl would have an equally pretty name.”

  Josephine beamed, but Michael glanced up at Richard. Dante moved to block the little boy’s view of the man without looking like he was.

  “I’m trying to find Jane,” Brigid said in a gentle tone. “Can either of you tell me about her? What she was like?”

  “She was nice,” Josephine said, eyes back down on the ground.

  “She knew magic,” Michael said.

  The room filled with a sudden, powerful tension.

  “Really? That’s pretty cool,” Brigid said.

  “We don’t approve of that kind of nonsense,” Richard said, stepping around Dante.

  Michael visibly withdrew and whispered. “Jesus says that magic is bad.”

  Brigid gave Dante a glance before turning back to the children. She asked a few other questions, but the answers were all shrugs or single words.

  “Thank you both very much,” Brigid said to the children. “You’ve both been a big help.”

  “Okay, back to Bible study,” Mary said and ushered the kids out of the room.

  Dante stepped over to Richard. “What about Thomas?”

  “He’s out running errands,” Richard said.

  Dante arched an eyebrow.

  “We get so busy, and he’s such a help,” Mary said from the hallway, urging Michael and Josephine into a side room.

  Brigid stood, smoothed out her skirt, and turned to the pictures. “Which boy is Thomas?”

  “Oh, this is him right here,” Mary said and reached for a photo. She tripped and fell, knocking several photos to the floor.

  Glass shattered and Dante had to fight the instinct to catch the woman, lest his fae reflexes give him away. He also had to fight the urge to roll his eyes at this pathetic ruse.

  “Oh heavens, what have I done?” Mary said from the floor.