by Greg Dragon
The others laughed.
Wilma added, “I’ve got a degree in microbiology, and I don’t recognize it. I’m certain it wouldn’t be visible without the reaction. I agree to hit this hard. I think you struck gold, Louis.”
They signed off. Louis sent several cropped photos of the microbe to colleagues over university email and asked for species identification. He cleaned his lab and plotted the COGS’ next move. He reached to turn out the lights when his cell rang.
“Doctor Janzen, please explain how you procured our patented microbe,” a woman said.
“What?” He compared his watch to the wall clock—two in the morning. He sent the digital photos less than a half-hour ago. “Who are you?”
“Doctor Ava Allen. I expected a call before you shared information you don’t own. My company, Flameion, holds the microbe’s patent.”
“Are you a GMO subsidiary?” He tried not to laugh out loud.
“Funny. Our permission is required and it’s not cheap.”
“Really? Would you identify genus for me?”
“Sorry, no. I’ll fly into Charlottesville and confiscate our property if you don’t mind.”
Confiscate. The idea burned him because he found the microbe in his relative’s head. “Better bring your lawyers and solid proof it’s yours. I’m not in the game for profit. I have no problem with stirring up patent issues.”
“So be it.” She disconnected.
Louis sat to think. He had to find a safe hiding place for Grandpop’s brain.
Wilbur
Wilbur watched a police patrol car, a red ambulance, and a fire truck pull into the driveway. He had removed his blood-soaked robe and slippers, but Wilbur still felt contaminated. He repeated his story until it didn’t make sense.
The boyish-looking detective interrupted his nervous spill. “The housekeeper said we could talk in the library. Lead the way.”
Wilbur pulled the burgundy lap blanket a medic placed around his shoulders tighter and went downstairs to the wood-paneled library. It was quiet, and a fire took the chill out of the massive room. Two cozy lamps cast a low-light welcome. Exhausted, Wilbur sat on a cane-backed chair, and the detective sat on a teal-blue sofa. The opulent room distracted the lawman from further questions. His gaze darted between Wilbur and the stunning Monet over the fireplace. The painting glowed. Its dramatic colors had a way of changing the light in the room. Gazing at it soothed Wilbur’s troubled thoughts—usually.
“So, Miss Stinson shouted ‘insanity begins with a hum?’” the detective asked, and then giggled. He removed a small notebook from his jacket. “What did she mean?”
The detective’s laugh annoyed him. Wilbur wanted to describe how the Hum sounded but couldn’t. He didn’t relish hearing giggles while trying to explain a sound that defied description. In his heart, he believed the Hum delivered a warning—like a beacon glimpsed during a storm. Or the Hum was meant to keep animals safe from a looming disaster. A few unlucky humans tuned in to the noise and were driven insane. End of story. He had to avoid sounding crazy while the police searched for answers. As Grandmother Pearl always said, Don’t go courting trouble, Burr.
But he had to answer questions.
“Blood in my eyes, my mouth,” Wilbur said, sucking in both lips not sure whether to tell the full story. “Understand Mary screamed out wild phrases. I can’t even remember them.”
A big lie.
“A word?” an uniformed policeman said from the doorway.
“We’re getting slammed tonight,” the detective explained. “I’ll be right back.”
Wilbur took a deep breath, glad for the break. Most police officers had left after the ambulance departed with Mary’s body. Crime scene technicians remained in the sick ward gathering evidence. Estate lawyers called the police chief and demanded an investigation into Miss Harwood’s near murder.
Cookie Hope, the Jamaican housekeeper, set a silver tray on the coffee table. She’d loaded the tray with two cups and spoons, a plate of hot, buttered biscuits, and a coffee carafe. The comforting aromas helped ground Wilbur’s conflicted emotions. “Careful what you say, Burr,” she chided in her melodic voice. “And next time, don’t throw a bloody book or dirty linens on the dumbwaiter. It’s kept clean because we send food on it.”
Huh?
“I warmed a damp towel for you to wash your face and hands.” She lifted the silver plate cover, exposing the folded cloth. Cookie patted his shoulder and returned to the kitchen.
He lifted the warm towel and pressed his face into it. The moist heat comforted, like the soothing hot packs Grandmother Pearl had applied to his boyhood aches and strains. He had to hold his job and work family together. If the estate lawyers sent Evaney to a nursing home over the incident, five people, including him, would be homeless.
Wilbur had rubbed his face raw while wishing he had showered before the emergency crews arrived. Mary’s blood had dried into scabs on his exposed skin. No matter how much he wiped, he couldn’t clean up his lie or his guilt for not picking up on Mary’s quiet despair. Why hadn’t he noticed her sudden religious fervor or the withdrawal from friendly gossip?
The detective returned and sat. “Doctor Hatcher said Miss Harwood doesn’t need to be checked out at the hospital. She’s fine. Doc called you a hero.”
Heroes don’t react with fear or run away.
“Between us”—the detective leaned closer after glancing behind him—“locals believe the estate is haunted. Some people say she deserves what happened to her.”
“Miss Harwood deserves to be in a coma?” Wilbur asked.
He shrugged. “I heard she went on a spontaneous trip with five friends, all Duke University seniors, and she’s the lone survivor. The others are presumed dead—their bodies have never been found, and no one knows why they left school or what happened to them.”
Shaken, Wilbur asked, “Is she a suspect?”
“She’s never been questioned or cleared. Some have insinuated she killed them and hid their bodies, but no evidence exists to support that theory. Every October the missing students’ families rile up reporters, plan a candlelight memorial service, or hire a PI to search for answers, but their investigations always end up the same.”
Until now, Wilbur thought untreated meningitis put her in the coma. In fact, Doc Hatcher told him so in the employment interview. He hated lies, and then the liar’s flush swept up his neck and scalded his ears because he had lied to the police. “Ends how, detective?”
“Dead end.” He leaned over to pour two cups of coffee straight. The detective slid one towards Wilbur. “How did blood get on the banister and stairs?”
Bile crawled up his throat. He had to fight the urge to heave it up and swallowed the putrid mess back into his stomach. He couldn’t leave gaps in the story for everyone’s sake.
“Left my phone charging on my desk. When I picked up the room phone the first time, it didn’t work—the storm, I guess. Mary needed help, so I started to run downstairs but caught myself midway. If the land line didn’t work upstairs, it wouldn’t work downstairs either. I went back to assist Mary. The room phone worked the second time.”
The Hum became a grating buzzsaw in his ears. His teeth clenched.
“What sent Mrs. Stinson off? Her employee medical history doesn’t list depression or mental illness, but she pasted Bible pages on her bedroom walls like wallpaper. She hot glued non-religious protection charms on her door and windows. What scared her?”
“Don’t know. I’ve never been inside her room.”
He jotted a note. “When you got to Miss Harwood’s room, Mary held the straight razor in her hand?”
Nodding, Wilbur rubbed his eyes. He hated lying and leaving gaps. It wasn’t like the detective would believe him if he told the whole truth.
“Ever hear any weird sounds?”
“No.” Unless you count the attic sounds at night. The noise reminded him of summer cicadas raising a ruckus down at the lake. But he thought no one el
se heard them until tonight. If he’d shared, maybe Mary wouldn’t have lost her mind.
“During the melee, Miss Harwood woke?”
“Her eyes opened for a second.”
“Mrs. Stinson flipped out over her eye movement?”
“Yes.” He couldn’t stop the bubbles floating up his spine, nor the shivers as he remembered Evaney slithering across the floor to feast on Mary. He bit down so hard, Wilbur feared he’d cracked a tooth.
“Drink coffee, man. You’re shaking.” The detective giggled again, grating on Wilbur’s nerves.
Wilbur reached for his cup and gulped the warm liquid.
The detective removed a phone from his jacket pocket and read a text.
“I never expected Miss Evaney to open her eyes. Freaked me out, I’m ’shamed to say.”
The detective said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Jenkins. Mrs. Stinson died. She lost more blood than the paramedics estimated.”
That can’t be.
The detective closed his notebook. “Heroes like you deserve a reward. If you remember more details”—he handed Wilbur a card—“call me.” He left.
“I’m no hero,” Wilbur called after him. He muttered, “Heroes don’t lie or run scared. Or let a good nurse die.”
In the silence, the Hum buzzed like a saw cutting through a tree trunk. Noise called his name. He dropped his head and covered his ears. Unlike Mary, he wouldn’t answer. Grandmother Pearl always said, Evil likes to be admired. Ignore it.
How?
The Hum deafened. His jaws ached and his ears throbbed. He raised his head to stare at the colorful Monet and willed his mind to find peace.
Eddie Jean
There was no school on Wednesday due to the power blackout after the storm. On Thursday, Eddie Jean drifted from trigonometry to English class. She hated Thursdays.
Her mother recovered, but was held overnight for observation. The doctors never found out what caused her fever, and they weren’t told about the biting and blood sucking. Eddie Jean had stayed home with the boys under the supervision of a neighbor. She and the twins had a great time until their parents returned. When the lights popped on, she made their Halloween costumes and promised to take them trick-or-treating.
Today being Thursday, her mother woke in a happy mood. She hummed songs while making breakfast. In contrast, her dad woke early and would come home late from work. This was their Thursday routine. Eddie Jean suspected the twins hated Thursdays as much as she did.
In the crowded hallway, she towered over most students and couldn’t hide from their stares. Their resentment made her muscles tense. Students were angry at her after tweets from the varsity quarterback. Scot Thomas asked football fans and boosters to give Delaneys payback. Even half Delaneys were guilty. As she passed, kids quit talking and someone dogged her heels, trying to trip her.
One boy yelled, “Friggin’ Delaney.”
Heat scorched her face, and she wanted to bolt as others snickered.
“Got swarm spirit?”
Someone shoved her. When she turned around, the other kids hid their faces or laughed. One boy with eraser-sized zits glared back with narrowed eyes. She resumed walking.
The Delaney side of her family provided continuous teen gossip. Her two older cousins were responsible for two wide receivers getting tossed from the Friday night lineup for breaking team rules. The evidence of their violations posted on Facebook. Over just one weekend Delaney girls ended Cloudland High School’s chances of a state championship title. This wasn’t a good week to be a Delaney.
She tried to stay above the scandals, but today her hands itched after healing. Her family was crumbling apart, and she couldn’t heal the breach. Eddie Jean went online and studied rabies. There were similarities to the symptoms and how her mother behaved. She wished her healing identified disease diagnosis.
The crowd parted and a senior soccer girl approached. Eddie Jean had been promoted from JV to varsity team. She knew the rest of her high school life depended on the next three seconds.
The popular girl grinned and punched fists with Eddie Jean as they passed. She said the team greeting to Eddie Jean. “Eleven hearts.”
“One team,” she quickly responded.
Her shoulders straightened under the weight of her backpack. People could tweet all the hate they wanted, but soccer girls stuck together. With two words the senior bestowed favored status back on her. The crowd left her alone.
She walked on with the assurance of belonging. She sensed the other four gifted students using telepathy as easy as voice. Telep was weird, like having a third ear. Hers kicked in during puberty, and it scared her at first. Five kids in Cloudland shared super intellect, super athletic abilities, and super self-healing, and they chatted in her head. She had an extra kick they didn’t. She could heal people by just laying on hands.
They should’ve been a close-knit group, but weren’t. The others wanted her to hide the healing gift and called her a holy roller when she refused. They ordered her to follow their rules. When she didn’t, they blocked her out. In the beginning, she freaked at being shunned. She hated being odd girl out, but followed her heart.
“EJ!” Scot Thomas, the varsity quarterback, shouted from behind her.
What now?
“Wait up.” Scot’s voice cut through student conversations and locker doors being slammed. He was the leader of the super-gifted kids. They called themselves XOs, for extraordinary. Unlike her, XOs kept their gifts under the radar to grow up semi-normal.
Eddie Jean stopped in a hallway junction. Other kids turned to gawk. As a winning quarterback, football dominated Scot’s life. College scouts had followed his career since freshman year. She wondered if Scot thought he was cheating whenever he threw a touchdown pass. Being XO provided a boost over other players. She agonized each time she drove the ball on the soccer field to score. Her usual moral tortures would resume soon.
Her breath caught as Scot drew closer. He looked so hot in his black and gold football jacket. Other players flanked him, but she noticed only Scot.
She tried not to stare. Most girls in the corridor focused on him. At six-four he towered over his teammates and the other students. His sandy blond hair curled around his neck and below his football helmet. She loved the color of his eyes, a startling Curacao blue. She wore a necklace in the same shade.
Flirty girls called out, “Hey, Scot” or “Are you over Tayla?”
He broke up with the cheerleader?
Heat flooded into her face and her body twitched as he neared. Twitching happened with Scot, and only when he drew close. She didn’t know why. “Hi.”
He pulled her down the side corridor and into a storage room full of drama production sets. Kids followed them, expecting something to happen, but Scot slammed the door. The stale air smelled like dried paint and vinegar. Seconds passed before the fluorescent light held steady. Her breathing rate increased.
“Tweets are warning Tayla you’re alone with me,” she said, slapping his hand.
He reacted by throwing up his hands. “So what? Sorry, I’m keyed up.”
“Tayla’s test strip positive?”
He reddened. Pregnancy rumors had swirled around Scot and the head cheerleader after a test kit fell out of her school locker. Tayla missed school the next week.
“We broke up weeks ago. She’s out with the flu.”
“Sorry.” Eddie Jean tugged on her silver crucifix. “Who dreamed up the payback tweet?”
His gazed flitted over her body and rested on her knees.
Eddie Jean tugged her uniform skirt lower and stepped back against an old fan.
He loosened up his shoulders as he talked. “Tayla thought she was being funny. Sorry.”
“Sorry? People are mad.”
“Tayla knows I hate Delaneys. You know why.”
Yes, she did. Her mother and his father were involved in the Thursday afternoon affair. In progress, right now. They hooked up because of her and she would never forgive herself.
The past humiliations she suffered from their affair paled next to her mother doing a slow fall into the crazy. This morning…she stopped herself from thinking about the strange crackling sounds coming from her mother’s body. They sounded like crunching dead leaves.
“Don’t you hate my father?” Scot asked.
As a rule, she never spent more than one minute around Scot. Time approached three minutes. “No. I’ve done nothing to the football team. Open the door.”
He leaned against it, staring down at her until sun-bleached hair fell over his eyes. “I need your help. Bill Franco is sick,” he said. “He’s in a Fort Payne hospital.”
Eddie Jean gasped. “I’m sorry, what’s wrong with him?”
Scot shrugged. “Numbness started in his legs and it’s spreading. Soon he won’t be able to breathe. He’s in intensive care.”
“Why isn’t he in Cloudland Memorial?”
“His mom works there.”
“Why are you asking someone you hate to help your best friend?”
He frowned and folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t, you remind me of.” He cleared his throat. “I’m offering you a chance to rejoin the XOs.”
She would like nothing better. “What do I have to do?”
“Cut class with me. Heal Bill.”
She pushed long hair behind her shoulders. “I’d be kicked off the soccer team.”
His eyes glared and she looked at his feet.
“Imagine being paralyzed inch by inch and waiting to stop breathing,” he said in a low voice. “They can’t sedate him.”
She licked her lips. Did he understand how much playing soccer meant to her? Or that one soccer girl’s support had just defused the crowd’s anger?
“Coach will bench me. It’s worth it to help, Bill.”
She raised her head. “Winning quarterbacks don’t get benched.”
He shrugged. “Can’t win without him. Way better to help a friend.”
“Go help him.” She didn’t appreciate the way he dumped his hopes on her.
