Lost Souls - Страница 16

For her part, Scout was neither awed by Deucalion’s size nor daunted by the ruined and tattooed half of his face. When he puckered his lips and made a sound like a motorboat-putt-putt-putt-putt-putt-she giggled. When he teased her chin with his finger, she seized it in one hand and tried to bring it to her mouth to test her new tooth on it.

Still sitting at the table, Arnie said, “I’ve got him on the run, Carson. He’s fussing over Scout just so he won’t have to go on with the game and lose it.”

Until the age of twelve, Arnie was autistic, so profoundly turned inward that Carson never had a normal conversation with him, only moments of connection that, while piercing, were inadequate and frustrating. After the defeat of Victor in New Orleans and the fiery destruction of his laboratories and body farms, Deucalion cured the boy by some means that Carson could not understand and that the healer could not-or would not-explain. These two years later, she still sometimes found herself surprised that Arnie was a normal boy, with boyish enthusiasms and ambitions.

As far as she could see, however, Arnie lacked those boyish illusions that tested other children, that made them potential victims, and that sometimes led them astray. He had a sense of his natural dignity but not an adolescent ego that allowed him to imagine himself as exceptional in either his abilities or his destiny. He seemed to know the world and the people in it for what they were, and had a quiet, unshakable confidence.

Carson found her brother’s assurance remarkable, considering that when he’d been in the grip of autism, he’d been able to tolerate only a narrow range of experience. He had lived by a daily routine from which the smallest deviation might plunge him into terror or into total withdrawal. Not anymore.

Accepting Arnie’s challenge, Deucalion sat at the table again, with Scout still cradled in his arm. With his free hand, he moved a game piece without appearing to consider the consequences.

Frowning, Arnie said, “You’ve done the wrong thing. Your knight was crying out for action.”

“Oh, yes, I heard him,” Deucalion said. “But the bishop gains me more. You’ll see it in a moment.”

Sitting in a third chair at the table, Michael said, “So how is life at the abbey?”

“Like life everywhere,” Deucalion replied. “Meaningful from top to bottom, but mysterious in every direction.”

Carson occupied the fourth chair. “Why am I suddenly… uneasy?”

“I have that effect on people.”

“No. It’s not you. It’s why you’re here.”

“Why am I here?”

“I can’t imagine. But I know it’s not an impulsive, casual visit. Nothing about you is impulsive or casual.”

Now through his eyes throbbed the subtle luminosity that from time to time appeared. He could not explain this glow, this fleeting tracery of light, though he said it might somehow be the residual radiance of the strange lightning that had brought him alive in a laboratory two hundred years earlier.

Staring at the chessboard, Arnie said, “I see it now. I thought I had it won maybe in five moves.”

“I think you still might, but not in five.”

“It looks lost to me,” Arnie said.

“There are always options-until there aren’t.”

Michael said, “Whatever brought you here… we’ve got more to lose now, and taking risks is getting harder.”

Looking down at the babbling baby in his arm, Deucalion said, “She’s got more to lose than any of us. She hasn’t even had a life yet, and if he gets his way, she never will. Victor is alive.”

chapter 23

Four miles from town, Erika turned off the highway onto an oil-and-gravel lane flanked by windrows of enormous pines. A sturdy gate made of steel pipe blocked entrance, but she opened it with a remote control.

The lay of the land hid their home from the highway. At the end of the long driveway, the two-story house was of beet-red brick with gray-granite coins at the main corners, granite window surrounds, and silvered-cedar porches front and back. Although not of a rigorous architectural style, the residence had considerable appeal. You might have thought a wise retired judge lived here, or a country doctor, someone who valued neatness, order, and harmony, though not at the expense of charm.

Three immense pyramidal hemlocks backdropped the house. They shielded it from north winds while leaving it exposed to daylong sun, a plus in the long Montana winters.

Erika parked in front of the attached garage and entered the house by the back door. At once she knew something was wrong, and as she put the bakery box on the kitchen table, she said, “Jocko?”

On every previous occasion when Erika returned home from doing errands, Jocko greeted her with excitement, eager to hear of her experiences at the supermarket and the dry cleaner, as if they were epic and magical adventures. Sometimes he read poems he had written or performed songs he had composed while she was out.

The silence alarmed her. She raised her voice and called out again: “Jocko?”

From nearby came his muffled reply: “Who are you?”

“Who do you think? It’s me, of course.”

“Me? Me who? Me who, who, WHO?” Jocko demanded.

Head cocked to the left, then to the right, Erika made her way around the kitchen, trying to pinpoint his location.

“Me, Erika. Where are you?”

“Erika went out. For an hour. One hour. She never came back. Something terrible happened. To Erika. Terrible. Terrible.”

He was in the pantry.

At that closed door, Erika said, “I’m back now.” She didn’t want to tell him about Victor just yet. He wouldn’t handle the news well. “Everything took longer than I thought.”

“Erika would call if she was late. Erika never called. You aren’t Erika.”

“Don’t I sound like Erika?”

“Your voice is strange.”

“My voice isn’t strange. I sound like I always do.”

“No. No, no, no. Jocko knows Erika’s voice. Jocko loves Erika’s voice. Your voice is muffled. Muffled and strange and muffled.”

“It’s muffled because I’m talking to you through a door.”

Jocko was silent, perhaps thinking about what she said.

She tried the door but it wouldn’t open. The pantry had no lock.

“Are you holding the door shut, Jocko?”

“Talk to Jocko through the keyhole. Then your voice won’t be muffled and strange and muffled. If you’re really Erika.”

She said, “That might be a good plan-”

“It’s an excellent plan!” Jocko declared.

“-if this door had a keyhole.”

“What happened? Where’s the keyhole? Where’d it go?”

“It’s a pantry. Doesn’t need a lock. It never had a keyhole.”

“It had a keyhole!” Jocko insisted.

“No, little one. It never did.”

“Without a keyhole Jocko would suffocate. Did Jocko suffocate?” His voice quivered. “Is Jocko dead? Is he dead? Is Jocko in Hell?”

“You have to listen to me, sweetie. Listen closely.”

“Jocko’s in Hell,” he sobbed.

“Take a deep breath.”

“Jocko’s rotting in Hell.”

“Can you take a deep breath? A big deep breath. Do it for me, sweetie. Come on.”

Through the door, she heard him breathe deeply

“Very good. My good boy.”

“Jocko’s dead in Hell,” he said miserably but with less panic.

“Take another deep breath, sweetie.” After he had taken three, she said, “Now look around. Do you see boxes of macaroni? Spaghetti? Cookies?”

“Ummmm… macaroni… spaghetti… cookies. Yeah.”

“Do you think there’s macaroni, spaghetti, and cookies in Hell?”

“Maybe.”

She changed tactics. “I’m sorry, Jocko. I apologize. I should have called. I just didn’t realize how much time went by.”

“Three cans of lima beans,” Jocko said. “Three big cans.”

“That doesn’t prove you’re in Hell.”

“Yes, it does. It’s proof.”

“I like lima beans-remember? That’s why you see three cans. Not because it’s Hell in there. Know what else I like besides lima beans? Cinnamon rolls from Jim James Bakery. And I just put a dozen of them on the kitchen table.”

Jocko was silent. Then the door cracked open, and Erika stepped back, and the door swung wide, and the little guy peered out at her.

Because his butt was nearly flat, he wore blue jeans that Erika had altered to prevent them from sagging in the seat. On his T-shirt was a photo of one of World Wrestling Entertainment’s current stars, Buster Steelhammer. Because his arms were three inches longer than those of any child his size, because they were thin, and because they were creepier than a loving mother would openly acknowledge, Erika had added material to extend the sleeves to his hands.

He blinked at her. “It’s you.”

“Yes,” she said, “it’s me.”

“Jocko’s not really dead.”

“You’re really not.”

“I thought you were.”

“I’m not dead either.”

Stepping out of the closet, he said, “Jim James cinnamons?”

“Six each,” she confirmed.

He grinned at her.

When she’d first known Jocko, she recoiled from his grin, which contorted his already unfortunate face into a fright mask that gave pause even to the wife of Victor Frankenstein. During the past two years, however, she grew to love this disastrous expression because his delight so touched and pleased her.

He had suffered much. He deserved some happiness.

Motherly love made beautiful what the rest of the world found grotesque and abhorrent. Well, perhaps not beautiful, but at least picturesque.