A bright light emanates from the screen, and the computer seems to throb with life. The light becomes so blinding we have to shield our eyes until it retreats back into the computer, as if that’s the light’s resting place. And then Jess’s message becomes clear.
The computer goes back to its normal color and slowly words start to scroll across the screen, words in bright yellow: Keep Barnaby Away From Them.
Them?
“Who’s ‘them’?” Arla asks, reading my thoughts.
“Jess,” I say, “who are you talking about?”
The three of us look around the room as if another one of her signs is going to miraculously appear, but nothing in the room changes.
“Jess, c’mon!” I shout. “You have to give us something more than just that one message!”
Obeying my orders, Jess makes the word Three in the same color yellow start to blink on the screen.
“Which three?” Caleb shouts at the computer as if he’s staring right at Jess’s face.
In response, the word dissolves, only to be replaced with the phrase All Three of Them.
The words stay on the computer screen for a few moments and then, along with Jess’s golden light, they disappear. Jess has finished her mission and has returned to her new home.
Arla and Caleb look more confused than stunned, even though they understand they’ve just been visited by their dead friend. They look as if they’re still trying to decipher Jess’s message, but I can’t imagine that they don’t understand it. Most likely, they don’t want to believe it. Unfortunately, I’ve known for quite some time that my brother is in trouble and is in need of protection. I don’t know if I’ll be successful in saving him, but I now know more than ever before that I cannot give up trying. At least I know exactly who I have to protect my brother from.
“Jess’s message is really very clear,” I say.
“Well, on one level, sure it is,” Arla concedes. “We have to keep Barnaby away from three people.”
“But which three?” Caleb asks.
I will say the three names they’re afraid to mention because of the terrifying possibilities and the complex implications. I don’t know what it means or how the three of them are connected or how frightened I should actually be. All I know is that Jess has given me ammunition that I can use in the next phase of my fight.
“We all know who Jess is referring to,” I say calmly.
“We do?” Arla asks, not exhibiting her usual smarts.
“Of course we do,” I reply. “Luba, Nadine, and Napoleon.”
They might not have made the connection immediately, but when neither Caleb nor Arla protests, I know that I’m right.
Now I just have to find out how all three of them are connected.
Chapter 12
“Tell me everything you know about Luba, and tell me right now!”
Essie stares at me in silence, and the pause allows me to take a good look at her. She’s changed yet again. Cosmetically, she looks the same. Her haircut, makeup, and clothes are still stylish, but she’s aged since the last time I saw her. Did her date with Louis go that badly? If she was even out on a date with him? She drums the desk with her right hand, and I’m almost distracted from my objective because her newly manicured fingernails are painted a really interesting shade that I’ve never seen before, kind of like a smoky purple. But while the color is pretty, her nails aren’t; they’re bitten. Her left hand mats down a flyaway hair, and her eyes dart to the front door. I know the reason she looks different. She’s nervous.
“Essie, are you all right?” I ask.
Her forehead creases, and she smiles at the same time, as if to answer yes and no simultaneously. She reminds me of someone who has a gun to her back and is trying to give a clue about her predicament without stating the obvious and risking retaliation. And by retaliation I mean being murdered.
“Of course I’m fine dear,” she replies unconvincingly. “Just been a long day.”
Now I know she’s lying. It’s 8:00 a.m.
I remind myself to focus on the reason I cut my first class of the day to run here to The Retreat and make a mental note to broach the subject of Essie’s emotional issues—which I really, really hope have nothing to do with Louis—some other time. I have a feeling that conversation will require way more time than I have at the moment, so best to keep things on topic.
“What do you know about Luba?” I repeat.
Essie purses her lips and shakes her head slightly. I can’t tell if she is annoyed with me or just confused by my question. “I already told you everything I know about her,” she says curtly.
Not getting anywhere. Time to switch to Little Orphan Dominy mode. Good-bye direct ’n’ demanding; hello sweet ’n’ charming.
“I know you have, Essie, and you’ve been incredibly helpful, super duper helpful, which is what you always are to me . . . you know, helpful and stuff.” I blabber on, confident that I’m merely highlighting the fact that sweet ’n’ charming doesn’t come naturally to me. “But I was wondering if maybe, just maybe, there was something you forgot.”
Essie doesn’t even take a second to think about my question. “No, I told you everything I know,” she replies, her voice as flat as her expression.
This fishing expedition is not going to go anywhere unless I start to use a very specific hook. “How has Luba been feeling lately?” I ask.
Bingo! Essie’s eyes brighten and expand and come back to life. It’s as if every lash of her false eyelashes is ending on an exclamation point.
“You’ve noticed she doesn’t look so good too?” she asks in reply to my question.
“How can you not notice?” I ask.
Three questions and still no answer. However, I think our dialogue is finally making progress.
“Despite how terrible she looks, she still walks around here as if she’s the queen of this place, like some Indian Princess,” Essie blurts out. “Sorry, Native American Indian Princess.”
“I knew what you meant,” I reply, moving a few papers on her desk to the side so I can sit.
“We keep getting lectures about how we have to be politically correct, how the cultural landscape of our country is changing and our sensitivities have to change with it,” Essie explains. “I tried to tell Olive . . . oh she’s the head of PPR.”
That’s a new one. “PPR?”
“Patient Personnel Relationships,” Essie clarifies.
“Gotcha,” I say. “Go on.”
“I tried to tell Olive that I’m just shortcutting, being more efficient, which is what they always want us to be, by calling Luba an Indian without the Native American,” Essie says. “But Olive keeps telling me that I’m not being politically correct.”
I wonder what Olive would think if she knew I called Luba Psycho Squaw? I wonder how much longer Essie is going to want to discuss cultural linguistics? I wonder if Essie is going to take a breath so I can speak? Finally she inhales!
“Like you said, Es, you only have to look at Luba to know she isn’t doing so well. She looks like she might be seriously ill,” I say, remembering how ravaged her body and face looked the last time I saw her. “Have her doctors said anything about her condition?”
Unexpectedly, Essie starts to laugh. A mischievous chuckle that blossoms into a full-blown belly laugh. Not the most appropriate reaction when discussing someone’s extremely poor health.
“Are you kidding me? She’s treated like royalty around here,” Essie divulges. She smoothes out some strands of her hair that got tousled during her laughburst and manages to control herself so her laughter has subsided into hiccups of giggles. “They wouldn’t dare risk talking about her in public.”
They wouldn’t dare? They as in doctors? I didn’t think doctors took orders from anyone.
“Why not?” I ask. “Would they get into trouble if they did?”
All forms of laughter are now silenced, and Essie’s light-hearted expression disappears completely, replaced by a blank
mask. But it’s a mask that has been worn so often it’s threadbare and tattered and I can peek through it. Behind the mask, Essie is scared.
Enough fooling around. Clearly, Luba is an important person at The Retreat. Maybe she exerts as much power here as she does in my personal life. If that’s true, then Essie knows Luba can be dangerous. I doubt very much that Essie understands the supernatural component of Luba’s powers—that’s not something that Essie would ever be able to keep quiet about—but I do believe she understands that Luba is special.
Since it’s obvious that I’m not going to get much further talking about the big picture, it’s time to whittle things down and make it personal.
“Essie, has my brother been spending more time with Luba than usual?” I whisper.
Leaning back in her chair, Essie casually looks to the right. I’m blocking her line of vision, so I guess she’s trying to catch a glimpse of the front door. Right before I’m about to turn back around, I realize she’s not looking at the front door; she’s trying to look at the main office, which is located at the other end of the hallway, tucked away in a corner as far from the patient rooms as possible.
“He has,” Essie replies.
I’m so caught up with my latest discovery that I don’t know who Essie’s talking about.
“Who?”
“Barnaby,” she reminds me. “Barnaby’s been spending a lot of time with them in Luba’s room.”
This time I am paying attention, and once again that word frightens me. “Them?”
“Luba and that volunteer girl,” Essie answers. “Nadine.”
I’m staring at Essie, and I’m watching her mouth move, but I don’t hear a word she’s saying. A veil has dropped over my eyes, a thin veil that’s decorated with the image of Barnaby, Luba, and Nadine in the old witch’s room. Under normal circumstances there would be no reason for me to be alarmed by this news. I know that Barnaby has visited Luba, and I know that as part of Nadine’s job functions here she has to attend to patients. But my circumstances are not normal. And neither are Luba and Nadine, so this news is unsettling.
My primal instincts to protect my brother are on red alert; he’s in danger. But from what? Exactly what are Barnaby, Luba, and Nadine doing together? The possibilities are frightening and wicked and devastating. But they could be worse.
“Does Nadine’s brother Napoleon ever join them?” I ask.
I must have interrupted some very important train of thought, because it takes Essie a while to switch gears and answer my question.
“She has a brother?”
“Yes, a twin,” I reply. “They’re not identical, of course, but his hair is the same dark brown, and he has the same round face. He’s maybe an inch or two taller.”
“No, I’ve never seen anyone else with them,” Essie confirms. “In fact the only visitors Luba ever seems to have are Barnaby and Nadine and . . .”
I wait a moment for Essie to finish her sentence, but she doesn’t; her mouth stays closed. Her painted purple-red lips purse together as if they were sewn shut.
“Who else, Essie?” I demand more than ask. “Who else has been visiting Luba?”
“That is confidential, Ms. Robineau. Would you like staff sharing private knowledge about your mother’s visitor list with anyone who seeks such information?”
The voice is not readily familiar, but when I turn around I recognize the face immediately. It’s The Cell Keeper. That’s my nickname for the guy; everyone else refers to him as Winston Lundgarden, the hospital administrator. Although my father approved of The Retreat and always felt my mother received the best care possible here, he never trusted Lundgarden. Without any reason to doubt my father, I always shared his opinion. Now that I’m seeing Lundgarden this close for the first time in years, my thoughts about the man don’t change.
From what I remember he was always well-dressed, which around here means his typical attire is a business suit as opposed to a cop uniform or a jeans and flannel shirt combo. But now he looks like more of an outsider than ever before. His suit might be store bought, but it wasn’t bought at any store within a hundred-mile radius of Weeping Water; the fabric and cut and style scream imported. It’s a deep shade of navy, almost, but not quite, black. His shirt is navy with white stripes, and his silk tie is burgundy with specks of gray. No, not specks, stars.
The knot in Winston’s tie is thick and formidable and complete with the little dimple underneath that my father was never able to achieve the few times he wore a tie to a formal event. Winston’s wrinkle-free shirt is form-fitted to his body, and the cuff of his suit pants breaks seamlessly at the top of his unscuffed brown wingtips. If I measured the length of shirt that is visible under the sleeves of his suit, I’m sure it would equal an inch and a quarter, which is considered the only acceptable length to the fashionably unchallenged.
Perfection isn’t relegated only to Lundgarden’s wardrobe. Although his hands are clasped in front of him, I can see enough of his fingernails to know that he, unlike Essie, understands the importance of manicure maintenance. He’s smartly decided to forego the smoky purple nail polish and opted for a cleaner, more natural look. His skin is unblemished and taut and smooth; if he’s had any plastic surgery done, David Copperfield held the scalpel, because Winston looks magically youthful, but completely natural. The only thing that looks fake on him is his hair. No man Lundgarden’s age has or should have hair this thick or this dark.
I squint a little bit, trying hard not to look like I’m squinting, and I can’t see one strand of gray. Lundgarden has got to be at least sixty years old. He should have a few strands of gray hair, no matter how well kept he is, and there isn’t one on his entire head. And it’s a very big head.
His hair is parted in the middle and feathers back in perfect symmetry, covering the tips of his ears slightly and greeting the collar of his suit. Not only is it a dated look, reminding me of rock stars in music videos from the eighties that MTV sometimes plays late at night when it gets all retro and nostalgic, but it’s inappropriate for a man of Lundgarden’s stature and especially for a man who is trying desperately hard from the forehead down to remain current. I know that I sometimes put far too much importance on superficial things like looks and clothing and appearance, but I can tell with one detailed glance that this man is hiding something.
One of the many lessons I learned from my father is that the best way to find out if someone is keeping secrets is to ask them about those secrets directly.
“What’s wrong with Luba?”
Lundgarden’s eyes remain focused on mine despite the fact that Essie’s knocked over her pencil holder and scattered its contents onto her desk. I doubt her fumbling was accidental; it was definitely in reaction to my question. The man standing in front of Essie’s desk doesn’t seem to be rattled at all. He also doesn’t seem to have any answers.
“Nothing’s wrong with Luba,” he replies, his voice strong and smooth. “She’s an ideal patient.”
“Because she’s sick?” I ask.
This question results in a slight shift in Lundgarden’s physical position. His hands unclasp and reach behind his back, presumably to connect once again.
“Luba’s physical condition, Dominy, is monitored constantly,” he replies, his words sliding out of a terse smile. “And I can guarantee you that, for a woman of her age, she is in exceptional health.”
“Sick wasn’t meant to be an adjective for her physical condition,” I reply.
Another eruption occurs on Essie’s desk, but I’m not sure what’s fallen over now, because this time I copy Winston’s unblinking stare and don’t visually investigate. It’s a wise choice. If I had turned I would’ve missed Winston’s body shift.
My insinuation that Luba is mentally unstable has made Lundgarden’s physical stability falter as well. His head leans forward, and his eyes sort of roll upward, like he wants to charge at me like a rabid bull, if those things actually get rabid. His shoulders do this weird thing by rolling
inward and drooping, so they look menacing and soft at the same time. It’s a contradictory shift in his appearance. Part of him looks as if I’ve taken a sledgehammer to him; the other part looks as if he’s ready to take a sledgehammer and whack me with it.
When he speaks his voice still contains that smarmy smoothness, but it lacks the fortitude it had a few moments ago.
“Ms. Robineau, may I remind you that accusations about a resident’s mental capacities are not taken lightly, and any such diagnoses should be left to the professionals,” he states. “Not lumbered about haphazardly by the children of the incapacitated.”
What?! I jump off the desk so quickly that Lundgarden stumbles backward, looking like a scared boy in a big man’s suit. For no other reason than added effect, I pick my backpack up off the floor and sling it over my shoulder. It works; Lundgarden flinches. He wants to get personal by bringing my mother into things? I’ll up the ante by adding my brother to the equation.
“The old witch has been inappropriate with my brother,” I declare.
It takes three seconds for The Cell Keeper to reclaim his composure. It’s amazing how quickly he goes from coward to commander, but he does. And he does it with precise detail.
“Whatever Barnaby told you about Mrs. St. Croix,” he says, “was a lie.”
My mother’s incapacitated, and my brother’s a liar. Well, okay, he’s probably right, but there’s no way I’m letting him get away with such language.
“Barnaby hasn’t said anything, because victims who are abused usually keep their mouths shut!” I shout. “But there’s no reason for him to be in her room with the door closed, and if you don’t put an end to it, I’m going to call the police.”
Smiling devilishly, Winston goes in for the kill.
“Are you referring to your new guardian, newly appointed Sheriff Bergeron?” he asks rhetorically. “Louis knows all about Barnaby’s, shall we say, vivid and highly entertaining imagination.”
Sunblind Page 14
