She cried out then, and stepped backward. What happened next happened so quickly, that Bonnie could hardly follow it. She knew that she bumped into the cart, and knew that she stumbled over her own feet. The ceiling arched overhead in a blur. The cart crashed to the floor, spilling books across the carpet. The two mysteries in her hands shot across the store in an unknown, meteoric trajectory. And then he was bending over her, reaching for her, and she could not help herself, could not hold it back. She screamed.
Mike came flying out of the back room. The customer had stepped away, face now a mask of surprise. He did have teeth. Nice, white teeth, bared now in shock.
“What the hell is going on here?” Mike barked.
“I… She …” The customer, flustered and confused, was looking back and forth between Bonnie and Mike. “I just wanted some help, and she …”
“I thought he was going to …”
Mike didn’t wait for her to finish. He ushered the customer away.
“Sorry about that,” she heard him say.
There were words exchanged, and then she heard the bell tinkling. Mike came back, hands on hips, and looked down at her.
“Bonnie, this is getting ridiculous.”
“I’m sorry.”
She clambered to her feet and started picking up books, but he pulled her away.
“Look at you. Look at what’s happening. This isn’t right. It’s no good.”
“I’m sorry, Mike, it’s just, with Evan, and the police, I’m totally on edge.”
He shushed her.
“Take the afternoon off, okay? Please? I can handle it here.”
“Mike, I’m sorry.”
“And when you come back, please, please, have this settled. Please.”
Bonnie kneeled to pick up more books, tears welling in her eyes. Oh, God, what had she done? What was happening to her?
“Just leave that. Just go.”
Tears now coming at full throttle, Bonnie stood. She almost ran from the store. Mike called after her, but she could not understand him. Outside, wiping tears from her eyes, she walked toward her car. People on the street stared at her, but she did not care. She did not even care if she was followed.
“I’m so glad you called. Miss Laine, isn’t it? Bonnie? Please, come on in. Don’t mind the mess.”
Bonnie stepped past him into the office. Marcus Vernman was a big, shabby man in his mid-forties, whose clothes looked as if they had been designed for a creature of another sort entirely. He looked, Bonnie thought, like a six-foot-tall ten year old forced to wear his father’s clothes, all five sizes too big for him.
His office, a single room in an older building ten blocks from downtown, suited him. Nothing seemed quite right. The desk had a broken left front leg and was balanced on a pile of newspapers, the single window was cracked and repaired with tape and cardboard, most of the floor space was taken up by boxes and piles of magazines and newspapers. The walls were covered in maps and photographs. A computer, screen glowing, CPU fan humming, sat on the desk covered in paper. She could not see the keyboard.
“I’m sorry to call on such short notice, but I have the afternoon off. I didn’t even know if you’d be here, on a Saturday, I mean.”
“I don’t mind, not at all, really. I work seven days a week. Can you sit there?”
She lifted the old manual Smith-Corona typewriter from a chair in the corner and balanced it on a pile of papers, then sat down with a sigh. Marcus Vernman sat down in his desk chair and swiveled to regard her.
“I thought you worked for the police,” Bonnie said.
“With them. As a consultant, you see. And not just with the Minneapolis authorities, no, not at all, I’ve worked with police forces in many major cities across the country, and even in Canada and Mexico. Even the FBI has used me, you see?”
His accent was a bit English, a bit Australian. It reminded her of a South African student who bought a lot of science fiction at the store. He leaned forward and studied her. His belly hung over his belt like a water sack.
“Lieutenant Peterson gave me your name and number,” she said.
“Yes, I told him he could. Yours is an interesting case.”
“It is? The police don’t think so.”
“No, they wouldn’t. They consult with me frequently, but they don’t always listen to what I say.”
Bonnie felt her hands fidgeting with each other and stopped them, clamping them between her thighs. Marcus Vernman looked from her thighs up to her face.
“I wanted to talk to you, because my son is saying some very strange things, and Detective Peterson doesn’t seem to think it means anything, but I’m not so sure, and I saw your name in a book …”
“Oh, yes?” His eyes lit up. “Which book was that?”
Either he was very vain, Bonnie decided, or simply experienced a child’s pleasure at hearing himself talked about.
“Uh, Methods and Madness, Cults.”
“The Simon Maitland book. A good one, yes, but rather boring. I’m surprised you read it.”
“Well, I didn’t read the whole thing. I just flipped through it. I saw your name in the appendices, where you provided information about Minnesota.”
“More than that, I should say, but without credit.”
Vain, Bonnie decided.
“Lieutenant Peterson said that you didn’t think there was anything to worry about,” she said, trying to steer him back on course.
“Did he say I said that? I never did, you know. I told him, and these were my words, exactly, quote, that’s not enough information to go on, unquote, and that’s what I said.”
“I don’t know if he’s talked to you since I saw him last.”
“When was that?”
“Uh, yesterday evening.”
“No, he hasn’t.”
“But some things have happened since then.”
“Tell me about them.”
Bonnie settled herself into the seat, then leaned forward, hands clasped beneath her chin. She looked at Marcus Vernman’s knees, rather than at his face.
“A man visited me at work. He said his brother had run into some group six years ago, and that he was murdered because of it. He said he’d tracked this group down, and that they were after Evan. My son.”
“What was the man’s name?”
“Shep Thomas.”
Vernman wrote that down, then nodded. “Go on.”
“He told me he had located the group here, but they had spotted him and had uprooted themselves. He said his only lead now was Evan and me, since he thinks this group has been watching us.”
“Anything else?”
“He asked me if Evan had said anything about something called the creche.”
“The creche? Interesting. Go on.”
“Um, and yesterday Evan said a lady visited him at his grandparents. Or saw him there. He said it was a lady from before he came to live with me, one of the people that Harris, my ex-husband was involved with, before he disappeared.”
“I see.”
“That’s it.”
Vernman leaned toward her, resting his chin on his hands. “Now, other than what this man, Shep Thomas, has said to you, and other than what Evan has said, have you noticed anything yourself? Has anything happened that would make you suspicious?”
Bonnie thought about it, then shook her head. “I was followed, but it turned out to be Shep Thomas.”
“So only what the boy says.”
“Yes, but he seems so convinced, and he’s quite frightened.”
“Yes, I understand that he is. I saw the report from Dr. Johnson.”
“You have?”
“Of course I have.”
“Well, what do you think?”
“Do you mean, do I think that Evan is being hunted by an unknown cult?”
Bonnie nodded.
“I don’t know. But let me ask you something. If your ex-husband became involved with this group, and if they are as secretive and as dangerous as t
his Shep Thomas says, and as you seem to be suggesting, do you think they would have left Evan to be found by the police, where he could possibly lead the authorities to them? I don’t think so myself.”
Bonnie didn’t know what to say. She slumped, and sighed, and lowered her head.
“I don’t know what to do. I’m going crazy.”
“May I make a suggestion?”
“Sure. Anything.”
“Let the boy talk, but don’t encourage him. Don’t probe, don’t ask questions, don’t feed his fear. See what happens. You might find that in a few days, or a week, or two weeks, he’s gotten over his fear. If I understand Dr. Johnson correctly, the boy may simply be suffering from trauma-induced amnesia. It’s natural, as the fog clears, that he will be confused by the memories. When the whole picture is clear, I’m sure you’ll understand it.”
“Dr. Johnson is full of shit,” Bonnie said vehemently.
“You’re probably right,” Vernman said. “So am I, when it comes right down to it.”
“I didn’t mean to say that.”
“It’s all right.”
Bonnie shook her head, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.
“You said it was interesting.”
“What?”
“The creche. What’s interesting about it?”
“Oh, yes. I’ve cataloged a reference that sounds similar, but I doubt there’s a connection.”
“What reference?”
“A moment.”
He turned to the computer, moved an open newspaper to reveal the keyboard, and typed something. The screen changed after a few seconds. The hard drive hummed and clicked.
“I’ve been working on this data base for nearly five years now,” he said with a soft voice. “One day it will provide a comprehensive overview of the cult situation in our country, and a lot of people are going to be surprised.”
“I bet,” Bonnie said.
He typed again. “C r e c h e” he spelled out. The screen changed again. “Here it is.”
Bonnie stepped over some boxes and leaned on the side of the desk. It swayed precariously, and she backed off with a start.
“Unrelated,” Vernman said.
In a shaded field at the top of the screen was the word, CRECHE. Below that, in another field, was a date. AUGUST 12, 1982. Below that, six other single words in fields. LOS ANGELES, FEMALE, MISSING, DIARY, SKIN, OTHER.
Below that, in the largest field, were three short lines of text. Bonnie read them.
The creche has come for me.The worm is here.Help me.
“What is that?” Bonnie asked softly.
“Excerpt from the diary of a young woman who disappeared in California back in 1982. It means little, I daresay. Raving. When you mentioned the creche, I remembered it. Has Evan mentioned it, or just Shep Thomas?”
“Shep Thomas.”
“Well. I don’t know what it means myself. Bad poetry, perhaps.”
“It gives me the creeps.”
“Probably the intention of the writer.”
“There’s nothing else?”
“As I told you, nothing.”
Although Vernman seemed like he wanted to chat, Bonnie felt too uncomfortable. As soon as she could, she made excuses to leave.
“Thanks anyway, for seeing me.”
“My pleasure,” Marcus Vernman said. “Please call me if you need anything, or if I can help.”
“Sure,” Bonnie said.
She stepped over boxes and papers on the way to the door. Just like Peterson, she thought. His words meant nothing at all.
Evan was quiet when she picked him up at the Laws. This time Roberta came to the door to wave goodbye, but said nothing to Bonnie. Tom smiled wryly. Evan waved.
They said little on the way home. Vernman’s advice was fresh in her mind, and whether it was good advice or not, it was the only advice she had. She did not probe, or lead him on.
He spent some of the afternoon in the park, alone, steering clear of other children. She sat on the front steps and watched him. It made her heart ache. He came home without a fight when it was time for dinner.
As they ate the baked chicken breasts, she asked him, “Did you have a good day?”
“Sure.”
“What did you do?”
“Went canoeing with Grandpa.”
“Anything else?”
“Nope.”
She could not help herself. Despite the advice, she pushed on.
“See anything today?”
“Like what?”
“Anything strange?”
“Nope.”
He kept his head down, staring at his plate. She pushed no more.
They spent the evening in front of the television. Evan read his dinosaur book. He asked her questions periodically.
“What’s pre-da-tor mean?”
“Hunter,” she said.
“Oh.”
“What’s om-ni-vore mean?”
“Eats anything.”
“Oh.”
“What’s trans-mut-ation mean?”
“Trans what?”
“Trans-mut-ation?”
“Is that in the book?”
“No.”
“Where did you hear it?”
“I don’t know. What does it mean?”
“To change, I think. From one thing to another. I’m not sure.”
“Oh.”
It was after nine when Evan finally went to bed. The sky was getting darker. Dark clouds moving in. Another storm promised for overnight. Good, get the humidity down.
Alone at last, Bonnie turned off the television, turned on the radio, got a beer from the fridge, opened it, and lay down on the sofa. She sipped the beer and listened to the middle-of-the-road rock from the radio. With the front and back door open, a nice breeze passed through the house.
When she finished the beer, she got up to go to the bathroom. Passing Evan’s room, she noticed that the door was partially open, the light still on. She peeked through the opening, intending to say “hi” if he was awake, or to turn off the light if not.
He was sitting on the bed. He had his pajama top pulled up. His chest was covered in a horrible pink rash.
Bonnie covered her mouth to smother a gasp. As she watched, he pulled a swath of skin from his belly. It came away with a wet tearing sound. He bent down and stuffed it under the bed. He prodded and poked at his stomach. When he realized that she was standing there, he quickly pulled down the pajama tops.
“Let me see that rash.”
“It’s nothing, Mom.”
“Let me see it!”
When she heard the sharp edge to her voice she took a deep breath and forced herself to be calm.
“Let me see your stomach, Evan.”
Sighing, he pulled up the pajamas. In the dim light she could see the inflammation of his skin.
“That’s looks awful.”
“It’s just poison ivy or something, from canoeing with Grandpa. That’s all.”
“I’m calling the doctor.”
“But it’s nothing!”
“We’ll see.”
Leaving him alone in the room, she went to the phone in the kitchen. After arguing with his answering service for nearly ten minutes, the woman on the other end of the line finally agreed to call Dr. Lewis immediately with the message. To Bonnie’s relief Lewis phoned back within minutes.
In a voice that sounded weary but also concerned, he asked her what was wrong. As calmly as she could, she explained.
“It sounds like a contact inflammation,” he said. “He doesn’t appear to be in pain?”
“Not that I can tell.”
“Well, if you’ve got Calamine Lotion handy, use some of it. Keep the inflamed area exposed, if possible. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to see him until later in the week. But it doesn’t sound serious.”
“But he was peeling the skin off!”
“Miss Laine, I’m not a dermatologist, but I have had experience with this sort o
f thing. Trust me, it’s not life threatening.”
Reluctantly, she agreed to call his office on Monday to make an appointment.
When she went back to Evan’s room, he was flat out on the bed, sheets up to his neck, eyes closed. For just an instant she flashed on him pulling the flap of skin from his stomach and stuffing it under the bed.
Trembling, she backed away from the door and tiptoed to the bathroom. She sat down heavily, and stayed there for a few moments. Then she stood, bent over the pot, and threw up.
Chapter Twelve
Bonnie and Evan spent most of Sunday in the park across the street. The day was sunny and breezy. Bonnie sat on a bench with a paperback she had borrowed from work, watching from the corner of her eye as Evan played. He introduced himself to some other kids, but they moved away from him. Compared to them he looked shrunken, weak, from another species entirely.
Bonnie’s heart jumped. She wanted to run to him, cuddle him, tell him it was fine, that the world was cruel and that he’d learn its ways, but she did not move. She knew from experience that that kind of interference would only make things worse. He played alone, his eyes continually looking to the others, as if by some miracle they would suddenly accept him as one of their own.
If the rash on his stomach was painful, he gave no indication. Perhaps Dr. Lewis was right after all.
As she read, she also watched for Shep Thomas, or for anybody else that might be following them. She saw nothing. The park remained full of children and mothers with babies and a few teenagers. Nobody bothered the children.
By the end of the day, Evan’s face was red from the sun. His hair seemed more blond than usual. The day outside had done him some good, but he willingly came back to the house.
The phone was ringing as they came through the door. Bonnie answered breathlessly. It was Tom Laws.
“Oh, hello.”
“You’ve been away all day.”
“We were in the park. It’s such a nice day.”
“Beautiful. Anyway, I’m phoning to ask if you and Evan would like to come over for dinner. We have a nice roast, too big for the two of us.”
“Oh, Tom, I’d like to, but we’re exhausted. I thought we’d just vegetate in front of the television tonight.”
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