“Listen, bro, we’re gonna get a sleeping car. It’ll be more expensive, but we’re flush now and the farther away we get, the easier it’ll be to get more. Right? We’ll head down to Charleston maybe. Or Jacksonville? We’ll be snowbirds or tourists, sunning ourselves on the way to Disney World. Whatdya say?”
“I liked Florida when we were there.”
“Yeah. That sounds good. Maybe we can make it down to the Keys. Nothing to stop us.”
He yawns. “Okay. That sounds fine.”
When you’re running, what direction you run in doesn’t really matter, as long as it’s away from danger. Of course, Jack and I couldn’t even explain to you what we are running from.
We head into the station and buy Mountain Dews from a vending machine so we can get our systems a little more caffeinated for the transaction. I might have to alter our appearances. Technically, you can’t buy tickets unless you’re an adult and can present a valid form of ID. The rule is never enforced in our experience, though; we’ve bought tickets plenty of times without any kind of magic whizbangery from me. And there’s the real trick: knowing when you don’t need to do anything at all.
But whatever the case, I have to get inside and be ready to make adjustments if need be. Make the teller see college students rather than kids. Make him see a driver’s license instead of a library card. Getting into someone’s noodle takes energy, and I’m already tired from throwing myself against brick walls all day.
The ticket counters are in a row against the far wall. A guy sits behind a wire-crosshatched booth, looking out at the transients, derelicts, and travelers. He looks infinitely bored.
We approach, and I make the move once I can see the guy’s face. I’m learning my power. I need to see a face for it to work. I’ve got to be pretty close to the target. I hate thinking about people that way, but there it is: I’m predatory. Better that than the alternative.
The counter dude is sallow-cheeked and a smoker. He’s got greasy hair and an Adam’s apple like Ichabod Crane’s on a wattled, splotched turtle neck, long and crooked.
Jack has his wallet out and says, “Two tickets to Jacksonville, Florida, please.”
And now it’s time for me to go in.
The man is crusty on the outside. His insides resemble his outsides, his stream of consciousness slightly frozen over. But when I hit, it cracks and there’s a hole through which I can enter. I dive under without much resistance.
And inside it’s cold and strange. There are currents and eddies inside this guy that are as strong as the tides in oceans or the whirlpools in a sea. I descend into the depths, searching. It’s foul and cold but fascinating, too, for the inquisitive mind. I can’t help myself; I follow the pull of the waters, going darker and deeper. Down into the depths where there is no light and the pressure is near unbearable and the darkness is illuminated only by cold and foul things that give off their own sickly light…
“You’ll have to change trains in Charleston. That’ll be two seventy-five for both of you.”
He takes Jack’s money and gives him two tickets, still bored, still oblivious to my invasion. I’m struggling to come out of the depths of the man, to rise from the ocean of his thoughts and memories. I don’t know if I can make it. In the end I just rip myself away. I rip myself out of the man. He jumps and maybe, just maybe, realizes something is amiss.
Jack’s turning away as I start to retch, heaving up the sandwich and soda I had earlier, spewing it on the concrete outside the ticket counter.
“Hey!”
Jack looks at me with a worried expression on his face.
“Sorry, mister! My brother’s sick.”
I’m heaving now as Jack tugs at my arm and drags me away. I can only get myself under control once I realize that Charles Birch Dubrovnik might leave his booth and come after us.
“Go…” I stumble toward the train platforms, off-balance. Jack holds my arm and keeps me upright.
He leads me to our platform, train 213, platform 3, southbound. It smells of diesel and cigarette smoke and vomit. Maybe the vomit stink is coming from me.
“What the hell is going on?” Jack sounds exasperated and more than a little pissed.
The platform is near-deserted except for a couple of businessmen down the way and a derelict a few benches down. It’s nearing midnight, and this should be the last train of the night.
“No, Shreve. I’m serious. What the … what is going on? This is like the third or fourth time today you’ve … you’ve…” He pauses, not knowing how to say it because he doesn’t like the idea of what I can do. Poor baby.
I can’t help the bitterness that creeps into my voice. “Hey, not everyone can just go explodey. Or fly…”
I can see it hurts him, but I don’t care. He’s hurt me.
Jack sits down next to me and puts his hands on his knees. He breathes deep, like he’s trying to clean his airways.
“I’ve asked you not to call it that.”
“Yeah? Well, get off my back. When you do your thing, you don’t have to jump into cesspools. You don’t have to lose yourself in … in … monsters.”
His eyes bug. At least now I’ve got his damned attention.
“What monster? Quincrux?”
“No. We can’t leave. We got to stay here now.”
“What? Why?”
“That guy. His name is Dubrovnik. He’s got a little girl in a secret room under his house.”
Jack looks bewildered. He shakes his head, like he’s trying to deny it. “Why would he do that? What’s the point? I don’t—”
“Why do you think, man?” I spit onto the concrete platform. My mouth tastes like bile and pecan shells, acrid and nutty all at once.
We’re born into pain and we die in it, and along the way monstrous adults and horrible children do what they can to inflict pain on us because it pleases them. It gives them pleasure. Of all of them, Dubrovnik is the worst. He makes Ox and Quincrux look like angels. I got it all in the few moments I was inside. And I’ll never be clean again.
Never.
Jack stays quiet for a long time, looking at me with a confused expression on his face. It’s like he’s seeing me for the first time, and I’m not really what he expected.
I’m not really what I expected either, bro.
“We can’t leave. We have to help her.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t … I don’t know… a false memory? A fantasy? He could be crazy.”
I think about it. It’s possible. But I don’t think so.
“No. But even if it is, we have to find out.”
“We don’t. We can just leave. You know his name. You can call the cops, report him.”
That’s an idea. That’s a good idea. “Okay. Let’s do that. But we still have to stay.”
“Why?”
“What if the police don’t follow through? What if they don’t find her? She’s under the ground! Don’t you understand? He forces her to do what he wants.”
The derelict from down-platform stirs and looks at us. Another person who’s seen us. Another breadcrumb along the trail that Quincrux could pluck up. Or maybe one of his buddies is already riding behind those eyes. Maybe we’re as good as caught if we stay here another second.
Jack looks nervous and holds his hands out, trying to calm me. “Ssssh. Shreve, just—”
“It’s like the witch but worse. A thousand times worse, Jack. She’s just a baby. God, I wish you could understand. But god, I wouldn’t want you to have to see it, what happens there. Ever.”
“Listen, Shreve, we’ve got to be cool about this.” Jack grabs my shoulder. “Could it have been the … the thing you saw in the guy at the store?”
“The rider?” I shake my head. “No. Totally different. Listen, I’m no Quincrux. I can’t … I don’t want to possess people. I don’t want this! But I know what I saw. That man is a monster. He’s as inhuman a monster as you could imagine.”
“But, how do you—”
I’
m angry now. There’s no denying it anymore. The voice of reason needs a smackdown.
I tear at Jack’s mind, the hard obsidian exterior of it. I rip and fret, trying to get in. To show him.
And for a second, for just an instant, I get a foothold. I get in. And I make him see.
We dash away from here, this platform, hard and foul, out and away, down the rabbit hole. He sees what I saw. With Dubrovnik’s hands we unlock the trapdoor in the basement. With Dubrovnik’s feet we slowly walk down the steps into the raw, earthen room gleaming wetly, a single bulb in a caged socket throwing interlocking shadows on clay walls. And the bed and weathered mattress, stained and soiled, where she cowers. Where she waits, mold growing on her clothes.
I show him.
And then there’s a wrenching, the air wavers, and I’m kicked out so hard I gasp. My knees go weak and reel from the eviction. I sit down hard on my ass and the breath whooshes out of me.
It takes me a moment to recover. I look at Jack, and he’s not even the Angry Kid statue. He looks back at me with almost hatred. To save her, I had to break him. Just for a second—that was all I could manage. But it was enough.
God. What have I become?
“Never. Never. Do. That.”
It’s all he can get out. But now he knows. His shoulders slump, and he sits back down, hard, on the concrete platform. He holds his hands open in his lap. Counting the fingers maybe. I don’t know. I hope he understands why I had to do it.
We sit there for a long while. I’m looking at Jack; he’s looking at his hands. I’m holding my breath. I have nobody in this world except Jack. And now look what I’ve done.
Finally, when he talks, his voice is raw and tender.
“So we call the cops. Then we follow him home?”
“No. I managed to…” I swallow. I don’t know if this will set Jack off or…
Jesus H.
“I pulled his address.”
“Why us, Shreve?” Jack’s not looking at me. Still. “Why does this have to fall to us? Hasn’t … everything … been hard enough?”
Now he’s just feeling sorry for himself. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve felt the same way every day since we’ve been gone from Casimir Pulaski. Some people just can’t stand to see someone feel sorry for himself. I’m not that person. Sometimes people deserve a little self-pity.
“I don’t know.” I pull out my wallet and check my funds. Three-fifty. Jack has the rest. We keep the money separated in case we get separated. “It’s like asking why do dice roll a seven? There’s no why to it. It just does.”
Jack blinks his big brown eyes, wipes his nose, and then, finally, looks at me. I look back.
“I’m sorry about…”
He waves a hand like shooing a fly. He looks annoyed. “Forget it. You had to.” I don’t even have to scratch to know he’s walled up tighter than ever. Maybe even the witch would have trouble getting in now.
He’s different, my Jack.
“Well, if we gotta do it, we might as well start.”
He stands, and I follow. There’s a pay phone at the end of the platform. I walk to it. Take out some change and feed the slot until I hear a dial tone.
I dial 911.
“911, what is your emergency?”
I’m startled at the woman’s voice firing down the line into my ear. It’s all happening too fast, almost.
“A man. He’s got…”
“Yes?”
Jack stands beside me at the phone. He leans in and puts his head against mine so he can hear the woman.
“There’s a man. His name is Charles Dubrovnik. He’s got a girl locked away in his basement.”
There’s a pause on the line. “How do you know this, sir?”
“I—” I didn’t think this through well enough. “We were playing in the yard beside his house. We heard her screaming for help.”
“Did you have any further communication with her?”
“No … just heard her screaming.” I ought to try and add something. “We’re not making this up. Her situation is … was … it sounded horrible.”
Another pause.
“When was this? You were playing in the yard at midnight?”
“No, it was right before dark. It’s just … we were…”
“Scared?”
I try to make my voice small. It’s not too hard.
“Yes.”
“Okay. What is the address?”
“5310 North Palm. Raleigh.”
“We’re dispatching a patrol car.”
“A patrol car? Shouldn’t there be … I don’t know… like a SWAT team or something? I mean … he’s got her in the basement.”
“Your name, sir? Can we reach you at this number if we get disconnected?”
Man, I really didn’t think this one through.
“Horace Booth. My name is Horace Booth. You can reach me here.”
“Please stay on the line.” I hear a click. Maybe she’s recording this conversation for quality assurance.
I look at Jack, and I can tell from his expression he realizes we’ve got to move.
I’m so damned tired.
I say into the receiver, “Ma’am?”
“Yes?”
“I have to step away from the phone for a minute to use the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”
She makes a sound of assent. I very carefully lower the phone and let it hang by its metal cord.
We’ve got to run, again. On the bright side, our tickets will still be good tomorrow.
We head back up the stairs, but not before passing Dubrovnik’s counter. He’s not there anymore.
I hope he’s just on break.
SIXTEEN
Palm Street is dark and hardly looks tropical. The neighborhood consists of row upon row of small, tightly packed houses. Far nicer than trailers, for sure, but still … older and a tad run-down. I see paint peeling in the yellow porch lights. Threadbare screen doors. Cars on blocks and collapsed wading pools that have lain there, forgotten in front yards, since summer. Very much like Holly Pines.
I’m guessing these little boxes house the city’s workers, the people who man gates and sweep up at night, who teach public school and, possibly, guard wards of the great state of North Carolina.
I asked the cab driver to drop us off in the high four thousands of Palm, and he looked at us like we were crazy.
“Whatdya mean? You ain’t got a fixed address or something?”
“No, we’re just trying to surprise Mom.”
“It’s three in the morning. She’ll be surprised, son.”
“She’s waiting for us.”
“Whatever you say, kid.”
There’s another breadcrumb for Quincrux to follow.
Jack and I stroll down the sidewalk, trying to look like we belong here. But we’re conspicuous this early in the morning, and we’re both so tired it’s hard to stand up straight. The sidewalk is rippled from tree roots, and I find myself stumbling more than once.
When we get to the fifty-one hundred block, Jack slows and sits down on the grass of a lawn between two privet hedges. It’s hard to believe we started this day leaving the condo on Folly Beach. I guess it’s not this day, technically. Yesterday.
I sit next to him but keep my backpack on. I lean back into it. The grass is wet, and dew seeps into my jeans. I can feel the coldness on the back of my legs and my ass. I’m too tired to care.
I’m about to speak when the lights grow. A car is coming. We pull back our legs so the hedges cover us.
When the car passes, I see it’s just a sedan.
Not much traffic this late at night.
“We gotta keep moving, Jack. Gotta find Dubrovnik’s house.”
“How long’s it been?”
“Since we called? I don’t know. Thirty minutes maybe. If they’ve busted him, they’ll still be there. You know, forensics and stuff.”
I peek out from behind the hedge.
“I don’t see any lights from cop cars.
We’ve got to get closer.”
He sighs and rubs his face. “Okay.”
“Wait a sec.” The light is growing again. We stay put.
A police cruiser passes us.
“That’s it, Jack.” I stand. “Let’s go.”
I pull him up. I can see big black bags under his eyes, and I have to remind myself that Jack’s … what? Just thirteen? So young. But I guess I am too. I feel old now.
He squares his shoulders, and we start off again, doing our best to stick behind bushes, moving from shadow to shadow.
We trot down the two blocks until we can see the cruiser parked in front of a house. The house looks like all the others, except the yard is better tended, even this late in the year. Two very large crepe myrtles have been pruned back, making them look like the bones of some prehistoric, underground creature rising from the earth.
We cross the street, crouching low and running. I doubt it helps at all, running like this. It makes my pack bang against the small of my back and swing wildly, making more noise than if we’d simply walked quickly. But that’s how they do it in the movies, so there must be a reason.
Behind a truck in the driveway across the street we have a good view of Dubrovnik’s front door and the police cruiser.
A cop is framed in the light coming from the Dubrovnik house. He and Dubrovnik are talking, and I can see the flashing blue light from a TV inside the home. I stretch out, send out my mind, and try to get inside the cop. But he’s too far away.
They’re talking, and Dubrovnik laughs, smiling wide. The cop drops his hands from his belt. His body shakes, and I realize he’s laughing too.
“Jack, I’ve got to get closer.”
“No. You can’t help her if you’re caught.”
“I gotta see if I can make the cop—”
Jack grabs at me as I jump forward, running out and around the truck, toward the knee-high hedges at the edge of the lawn just before the sidewalk. When I hit the dirt, I look back at Jack. He’s peering at me from behind the truck. Then he runs down the driveway, in full view. He jumps. He shoots through the air, thirty or forty feet, and then in the dark of the lawn across the street I see him land, hard, squatting on his hams. But he stands, no bones gone crunchy. I’m quite happy for him, the little leaper. Good for him, he doesn’t have to violate people to save them.
The Twelve-Fingered Boy Page 14
