But when it ebbs, I realize Quincrux is out.
“Jack, let me go. You can’t save me. But you can save yourself if you run now—”
“No!”
“Go. You can escape. I can’t!”
He shakes his head furiously.
The assault begins again. Quincrux rips away at my pain and desperation, and with the last of my strength, I keep him out. I keep him out.
I release Jack’s hands.
For an instant, I hang in the air and there’s a brightness all around. I fall, tumbling downward, and above all I feel the loss of never seeing my family again. Of never playing Kick the Can with Jack in the woods where we lived for that week. Of never hugging Booth, the big idiot.
I fall. The wind rushes like a tempest in my ears, and I close my eyes for the last time. I can tumble away forever now from the things Moms said. From what Quincrux wants me to become. I’m not those things. I’m nothing now but air and rushing wind and pain. Incarcerado no longer.
A tremor. I shudder, and something passes through me.
The air wavers, my body twists. The world keels over and rights itself. Suddenly I’m rising up.
I’m rising.
I look up, and Jack stands at the edge of the roof, his hair tousled wildly by the frigid wind, his hands out, beckoning me to come to him, like he’s waving me over to join his kickball team. He’s got a surprised look on his face.
The boy who pushed everything away, he’s drawing me in.
I rise.
When my feet touch the roof, we’re facing each other. He’s panting, and I can see that, even in the cold, sweat is beading on his forehead and wetting his temples.
The rooftop’s pounding stops with a boom and a crash. Quincrux’s slaves are on the roof now, and they’re coming for us.
“Go, Jack. You can make it.”
“No. We’ll stick together. Look what happens when I’m not around to look after you.”
I’m too tired to laugh. Blood is seeping through my stolen hospital duds. I can’t feel the fingers of my bandaged arm, and the other arm hangs useless and throbbing. I’d almost appreciate Quincrux taking over now so I wouldn’t have to feel all this.
Jack comes over to me. He puts my bandaged arm over his shoulder and helps me walk toward the waiting crowd of smiling Quincruxes.
Sirens sound below us. It looks like this party is about to get even bigger. The smiles on the faces fade.
But I don’t care. I don’t care.
“I guess we can’t call you Mr. Explodey anymore.”
Jack snorts.
“Was that like a superhug you just gave me?”
“Shut up, Shreve.”
Quincrux’s drones surround us and lead us into the building, back down to earth.
TWENTY-TWO
On the inside, some things change and some things stay the same. I can’t get inside Booth’s head—he’s like a steel ball, smooth and impenetrable—and I don’t think I’d want to if I could. But I can still get under his skin.
But we’re fairly chummy now. He doesn’t lurk about, glaring at me, and I don’t deal the sweet stuff or manipulate the wards. He’s figured out something funny happened, but he’s never had the balls to ask me outright. And he’s never asked what happened to Jack.
Today is Saturday, which means no class, the commissary does a booming business, and mail call and visitors are allowed—if you have anyone who cares about you enough to visit or send crackers, cookies, or cash.
The notoriety that greeted me when I returned to Casimir faded fast. It didn’t hurt that I never spoke a word about what happened to anyone, not reporter, priest, or police. Since the events of last winter I’ve been the model citizen of Casimir Pulaski Juvenile Detention Center for Boys, home until my eighteenth birthday. Despite my hero status, they extended my term.
The board members were quite ticked off that I escaped from their institution of juvenile rehabilitation and went off and had an adventure, if you want to call it that. You read about adventures, you watch them on TV, but you never realize how hurt you’ll be at the other end when an actual adventure craps you out.
So I’ll be here for the next two and a half years.
Quincrux may have had a hand in my sentencing, but I can’t be sure.
We came down from the roof together, me and Jack. Quincrux’s smile faded quickly when we were greeted by a mass of reporters and a squadron of SWAT. It became obvious, very obvious, that he was only going to keep hold of one of us.
You can guess who he chose by process of elimination.
“Mail call!” Red Wolf bellows into Commons. He’s not wearing the Native American getup today, thank god. “Bevins! Reasoner! Van Giles!” He whips the letters and cards at the boys. “Whitmore! Washington! Smith!”
He stops, rubs his pate, and then holds out two envelopes to me. I can’t help but hope one of them is from Coco. It never is, but I can’t stop myself from hoping. She’s forgotten me, most likely. I can’t blame her. But still, it hurts some.
“Cannon!” He smiles. “I see that you made some friends beyond these walls.”
“Looks like, doesn’t it?”
“Only you can let them keep you incarcerado.” Red Wolf leans in and taps his temple with one long index finger. “In here, you are free,” he whispers like a conspirator. He taps his chest. “And in here.”
I look at the envelopes.
The first one, I tear open with eager fingers.
Shreveport,
I thought I’d send you a little something for your birthday. But I didn’t know when it was. So I thought I might just send you something. Unfortunately, you’re going to have to spend it all in one place.
Your friend,
Jerry A.
P.S. When you’re out, come visit. I will buy your ticket. The missus doesn’t like Double Shutter. And why should she? She always wins.
The card’s stuffed with a ten-dollar bill. That’s a couple Saturdays at the commissary, at least.
That Jerry. What a guy.
The next letter is larger, thicker. I open it, and a newspaper clipping falls out. Scrambling, I grab it off the floor before anyone can step on it.
Alleged “Twin Killer” Dubrovnik Dies in Jail Incident
Charles Dubrovnik, awaiting trial for over thirty charges related to the kidnap, rape, and murder of three girls, died in the Wake County Correctional Facility in an altercation between guards and inmates. Dubrovnik was found unconscious and rushed to UNC hospital. He was pronounced dead shortly after arrival. Police are withholding evidence until details of the incident can be determined.
On the back of the article, in red marker, is a Q.
I hate it that something Quincrux has done could please me so much. That I have murder in my heart. But there it is.
Not everything my mother said about me is true. And not everything Quincrux said was false. I’ve inhabited the minds of so many people—and had my own mind invaded so often—that the walls between black and white have crumbled. I don’t really know where to stand anymore. I am them and they are me. The good folks of the world. And the bad.
I have to keep my bearings. I have to remember the darkness.
But the world is a little safer today. I hope Elissa has regained her place among the living. That she’s warm and surrounded by light and laughter. That the part of her that can love hasn’t been burned away or left in that pit.
I unfold the letter. It’s written in a clumsy script. All the extra fingers must be hell on penmanship.
Shreve,
I don’t have much time to spare for writing—they keep us pretty busy here—but I wanted you to know that I am well and have found a place where I belong.
After what happened on the roof and we were separated, Quincrux got us to his car using what they call a glamour. Not like the fashion term. Like a spell or something, I guess. I don’t really understand all the psi stuff. I’m purely telekinesis-track. Which is the equivalent of being a jock in high schoo
l, at least here. Can you imagine that? Me, a jock?
I’m sorry I can’t tell you where I am. I want to … but I can’t. I mean, I physically can’t do it. I can’t make my hand write the word on this paper. I know it, I can spell it out loud, and I can say it. But every time I try to write it, I’ll find myself staring out the window or biting my fingernails or tying my shoes and there’ll be nothing on the paper.
There are other kids here. And older folks, like 25 or 30. Quincrux runs everything, and he’s still the same. Really polite and scary. His politeness seems rude, somehow. But he makes a big deal about being nice to me. That doesn’t make anything better, I know. He tried to kill you …
There’s nothing I can do. He tells me he’s going to leave you alone, but I can’t make myself believe him.
I don’t know. My brain is always foggy around here. I can’t remember things. Things I know I should remember.
But I’ll never forget you.
Please consider coming to us. Quincrux says he can have you moved here, but you have to want to come. Because of your “notoriety”— his word —you’ve attracted the attention of undesirables.
Be careful, Shreve. The witch isn’t here. I know something happened to her, but I can’t remember exactly what.
Anyway, here’s a picture of me —yeah, I know, I’ve put on some weight, but some of it is muscle! I’m a jock, remember? Ha!— and there’s a number on the back you can call at any time, and someone will come and get you out of there.
Think about it.
Your friend,
Jack
The picture is a Polaroid, thick and yellowed at the edges. Jack and a girl stand in front of a small tree ringed by industrial—military, even—buildings. Jack and the girl are holding hands. He’s filled out some, and his hair is long and hanging into his eyes. He looks washed-out and a little worn. I can’t tell if that’s because of the photo quality or something else.
The girl stares into the camera. She’s a pretty brunette, slim and willowy, unsmiling, one hand raised as if in greeting or in a gesture to the camera operator.
She has six fingers on her hand.
At the end of the day Booth escorts me back to my cell, frowning. He wants to say something, but it doesn’t look like he’s going to be able to spit it out before we get there.
“What do you remember?”
“Huh? Whatdya mean?”
I sigh. “You’ve been brooding since I got back here.”
He stays silent.
“Listen, Booth. I don’t know what he did to you. But it was real. It happened. And if you can … I don’t know… sense things now, if you can pick up—”
“Pick up what?”
I stare at him. He’s not manicured anymore. He doesn’t glisten with pomade. His mustache isn’t perfectly trimmed. His chest has lost its arrogant puffiness.
“Just try to remember. And when you have questions, I’m ready to answer them.”
We stand like that, looking at each other, for a long time. Then I can tell that something in him relents, and he nods almost imperceptibly.
I turn and enter my cell.
It was a good day, Saturday.
When she came into the visiting area, her eyes were red, as bloodshot as a vampire’s, and it didn’t take a mind reader to know she’d been drunk not long ago. But she was dressed as neatly as I can recall seeing her.
Vig was holding her hand, smiling and hopping up and down.
I hugged them both, and my heart grew and for a moment I felt like I was moving out into the wide blue yonder, knocked out of my body by pure joy. I thought I was going to blubber like a titty-baby, but Vig grabbed my shirt and tugged.
“Lemme see the scar, Shree! Lemme see! Did it hurt when she stabbed you?”
And I never believed it would be possible, but at the thought the Dubrovnik woman had done something that might bring me closer to my family, I could hardly contain myself. I laughed.
We’re born into pain. We live in it, our constant companion through life. And when, finally, we shuck off this prison, we’re free of it. For a while, at least, until we’re reborn into the world.
But there are times of joy. Times of lightness and happiness. For now, I’m content being incarcerado. I’m content with Casimir, and Booth, and my cell.
Going to the mattress, I lift it up, dig underneath. When I first returned, I thought they tossed the cell, but all my stuff was here, exactly in its place. I’ve got a sneaky suspicion it’s courtesy of Assistant Warden Horace Booth. I remember when he said, so long ago, “That means I’m your daddy,” and pointed at the Parens patriae engraving above the Commons entrance.
It takes a moment, but eventually my hand finds the glossy surface and I withdraw the comic. Run my simple, five-fingered hand over the cover, the beautiful floating woman on the cover, shooting arc lighting from her eyes.
I climb up onto the familiar springs of my prison mattress, and I try to imagine Jack sleeping in the bunk below, his breath rising and falling in time with mine.
The air-conditioning kicks on. The vent near my head hisses and gives a hollow hush, and the black blows out, covering me like a shroud.
I sleep.
And dream of Maryland.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, I want to thank my wife for supporting me through the good days and the bad. I would also like to thank my children for being so happy for me and interested in Shreve, Jack, and Mr. Quincrux, who have all assumed monumental proportions in their minds. Most likely because I won’t let them read this book until they are old enough not to emulate Shreve’s attitude. I fear I’m already too late on that score.
Of course many thanks go to my agent, Stacia Decker, for having such a fine sense of the saleable. And fashion. But the saleable pays the bills. The fashionable is just easy on the eyes.
When we were shopping this book around, Stacia informed me that Andrew Karre, head of Carolrhoda Lab and this book’s editor, wanted to have a telephone conversation with me regarding The Twelve-Fingered Boy. After chatting with Andrew, I hung up the telephone with huge a sense of excitement for the possibilities of this book. And I knew this was the best home for it. I’m truly blessed to get to work with so many incredible people in my career and very glad that Andrew was there to help me take Shreve and Jack to where they needed to go. This book wouldn’t have been the same without him and the rest of the great team of folks at Carolrhoda Lab and Lerner Publishing Group.
I’d like to thank all my buddies who did so many wonderfully stupid things at Pulaski Heights Junior High, especially Craig Hodges and Stephen Reasoner.
I’d like to thank all of those pre-readers who gave me encouragement upon reading this, my first young adult novel, especially Erik Smetana and C. Michael Cook, who’ve both been staunch supporters ever since we were stomping the boards at Zoetrope together. I also want to thank Kate Horsley and Julie Summerell for being wonderful ladies and fantastic pre-readers.
The Casimir Pulaski Juvenile Detention Center in this book (and all its staff and wards) is purely a figment of my imagination. When researching this novel, I realized very early that I wanted my juvie to resemble something more like a penitentiary than anything else, and, so, verisimilitude and the story soon parted company. Don’t take this at a literal representation of how the juvenile rehabilitation system works here in Arkansas. In many ways it’s better, though in some ways, it’s worse.
And thanks, Mom and Dad, for always being there for me.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
John Hornor Jacobs is the author of two adult novels: Southern Gods, which was short-listed for the Bram Stoker Award for First Novel, and This Dark Earth, which award-winning author Brian Keene called “quite simply, the best zombie novel I’ve read in years.” Jacobs lives with his family in Arkansas. Visit him at www.johnhornorjacobs.com.
Table of Contents
PART ONE: INCARCERADO
ONE
TWO
THREE
/> FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
PART TWO: WILD BLUE YONDER
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The Twelve-Fingered Boy Page 19
