Michael wanted to kick himself. “I’m sorry, Barbara. I didn’t…the state is crazy. You two would be great parents, the best.”
Barbara laughed. “You can be such a sweetheart, my little stone boy.” She brushed the tears from her eyes. “I just don’t see how you can be so difficult to get through to sometimes.”
“I practice,” he said with a perfectly straight face.
Barbara laughed again, digging the dimples deeper into her plump cheeks. “Oh, Michael, you have such a kind heart. But do you even know the meaning of family?”
The opposite of a foster home, Michael started to say, but stopped himself. He’d hurt Barbara enough for one day. Instead, he said, “I think I do, but it has been a long time since my parents died.”
“I guess maybe that’s true,” Barbara admitted. She frowned for a moment, and then her expression brightened. “Can I tell you a story?”
Great, a couple of emotional moments and now it was story time.
“Is this going to take long? I really want to get to the library.”
“Not long,” said Barbara. “In second grade, my class spent a week playing musical chairs. Do you know the game?”
“Sure.”
“I loved musical chairs,” Barbara went on. “The best part was when there was only one chair left and two children. When the record stopped and the last child sat down, everyone in my class would cheer and clap for the winner.”
Michael grinned, tickled by the image of a young Barbara happily circling a line of chairs. “Did you ever win?”
“Only once. I remember the day like it was yesterday,” Barbara said. “It had come down to me and Trent Goodrich. Everyone was shouting for Trent to win, but I didn’t care. I could hardly believe I was still in the game. I was heavy even then, and slower than the rest of the children. The music stopped. And somehow, I beat Trent to the chair. I was so happy, so excited. I jumped up and started cheering right away…and then I stopped.”
“Why?”
Barbara smiled sadly. “I was the only one cheering. That’s when I realized no one, not even my teacher, had wanted me to win.”
At first, Michael didn’t know what to say. He settled on, “People can be jerks. You must have hated them.”
“Oh, I did,” said Barbara. “The teacher, my class, in that moment I hated them all with every fiber of my being. Up until then, I had thought of them as a kind of family. Their silence killed something in me that day. They showed me the ugly side of humanity, and I told myself I would hate them until the stars burned out.”
Michael’s jaw tightened. “I don’t blame you. You had every right to hate them.”
“No. I was wrong.”
“Why, because time heals all wounds and all that? Because they really were some kind of family and you should forgive them?” Michael sniffed. “I may not have a real family, but I know families aren’t supposed to be so cruel.”
“They’re not,” Barbara said. “And I would have kept right on hating them if not for one boy, one beautiful, stubborn, wonderful boy. All by himself, he started clapping. ‘You did it Barb,’ he shouted. ‘You did it!’ Those words took what the others had killed in me and brought it back to life, brought me back to life. Do you understand, Michael? In that moment, he loved me when no one else would. He cared, and so he became family.”
“I don’t understand,” Michael said. “I mean, I’m glad the boy did what he did, but how does that make him family? And what does that have to do with me? We don’t play musical chairs in high school.”
Barbara shook her head. “Why is it so hard with you? My point is that family isn’t about genetics. Family is about love, and choice. That little boy in my class chose to stick up for me. I chose to love him. I chose to make him family.”
“I wish it were that simple, Mrs. Wiffle.”
“It is,” Barbara said. “Families help each other, dear. If you share with us what’s bothering you, I promise we won’t disappoint you.”
Her words struck an undeniable chord in him, and once again, he fought the urge to tell her everything. But there was Diggs’s warning to consider. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t tell Barbara about the Ven. “I can’t,” he said at last. “I’m sorry.”
Barbara looked disappointed. “All right, Michael.” She reached again for the vacuum. “I won’t push. But you need to let someone in eventually.”
“I’ll try, Mrs. Wiffle.”
“Call me Barbara, dear.”
Michael went to the door, and then paused with his hand on the knob. “Barbara?”
“Yes?”
“Whatever happened to the boy? The one who clapped for you, I mean.”
“The boy?” Barbara’s smile lit her face like the sun. “I married him.”
Michael’s jaw dropped. “Karl?”
“Is that so hard to believe?”
“No, but…Karl?”
Barbara laughed and clicked on the vacuum. “Have a good day, dear,” she said over the noise. “Dinner’s at six.”
12
The Walk
Michael started down the streets in high spirits. The day was hot and clear, perfect for a visit to the library. The building would be cool at least. If Diggs wasn’t there, he would take the short stroll to the river and the drifter’s camp. The sun felt good on his skin, making him wish he hadn’t spent so much time inside the last two weeks.
As he walked, he thought of Barbara. Was she right about him? Was having a family as easy as deciding to care about someone else?
Ahead of his feet, a dozen pebbles scattered as if swept away by an invisible broom.
“Dang it.” He severed the stonesong’s connection with the sidewalk. His mind was wandering, and he couldn’t afford that right now. A family wasn’t going to solve his problems with the dollmen. He had to do that himself.
He quickened his steps. After so much time indoors, the walk was invigorating. The air smelled of mown grass and tulips, and the slap-slap of his sneakers added a pleasant backbeat to the sidewalk’s humming music.
A block from the library, a flutter of motion in a nearby tree caught his attention. He glanced up. Four crows looked down on him from above with beady, mismatched, green and brown eyes. He missed a step, hastily regained his footing, and kept walking.
It turned out visiting the library had been a bad idea. He didn’t understand what was going on, or where the strange black birds had come from, but the dollmen’s warning had been clear enough. Green and brown meant extremely bad mojo, and he had walked right into a mess of it.
A prickly sensation rested like a knife’s point between his shoulder blades, tightening his back and neck until they ached. Every passing second, he fully expected the crows to explode from the branches and descend on him in a dark blizzard of flapping wings and stabbing beaks.
He shuddered. The library was just ahead. He could hide there until he figured out what to do next. Then he spotted the library roof, a shingled slant of architecture with a red brick chimney at the crest. Today, that chimney resembled a lonely lighthouse among a tossing black sea of feathers. Crows.
So much for stopping, Michael thought. He almost turned around right there, but thought better of it. Too suspicious. Licking his lips, he walked by the library doors, glancing in as he passed. Through the Plexiglas, he should have seen Mr. Ellis, the crusty librarian, behind the counter. Instead, a wide-shouldered man in a dark suit and sunglasses sat behind the desk. Creepier and creepier.
He had been too confident, too impatient. Finding Diggs would have to wait. He had to get back home before another one of those talking cats showed up.
Sticking his hands in his pockets, he tried to look bored, while discreetly making certain no bird left its perch to follow him. He rounded the next corner, and the library disappeared from view. No sooner did he clear the crows’ line of vision than he dropped the act and blasted off like a human rocket.
At a full sprint, his muscles began to burn and his lungs to ac
he. Slowing to a jog, he forced his trembling legs to keep moving. He had to get home.
His concentration wavered, and the stonesong slipped his control in tiny surges. The sidewalk quivered beneath him, and some of his steps left spiderweb cracks in the pavement. He didn’t care.
The Ven were in Flintville. He had to get home.
His foot alighted upon a familiar curb. He was only a block from his house. He should have been relieved, but he could almost feel the Ven breathing down his neck. Tucking his chin, he coaxed out a final burst of speed and tore around the last corner running full-out.
He briefly glimpsed a pair of black slacks, and then slammed into what felt like a brick wall.
He fell back, skinning his elbow on the sidewalk and banging his tailbone painfully.
A man in a black suit and matching silk tie stared down at him through expensive-looking black sunglasses. Over six feet tall, the man had crew-cut hair, wide shoulders, and a deep barrel chest.
The man’s face split into a remarkably wide smile. “Whoa there, amigo,” he exclaimed in a cheerful southern drawl. He held out a large, tanned hand. “You need to slow down some before you get yourself hurt.”
13
Smiley
Michael took hold of the proffered hand, and the stranger pulled him to his feet. “Sorry,” he apologized, brushing dirt from the seat of his pants. “I guess I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.”
“No problem, kid.” The stranger rested a large hand companionably upon his shoulder. “Are you, okay? That was quite a spill you took.”
“Just a little sore is all.”
The man’s smile twitched at the corners, as if he found the answer amusing. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
For some reason, Michael didn’t trust the smile. The expression seemed false somehow, like the rehearsed goodwill of a used car salesmen.
“Yeah, I’m good. Sorry I bumped into you.” Enough chitchat, Michael decided. He’d apologized to Smiley. Time to get moving again. “I’d better get going.”
Smiley gave his shoulder a squeeze. “I’m glad you’re okay, amigo.” Still grinning, he turned his head and spoke to another dark-suited man standing behind him. “He’s all right.”
Michael’s mouth went dry. The man behind Smiley was terribly gaunt, almost skeletal, with sallow skin that sank so deeply into his cheeks that his face resembled a thinly wrapped skull wearing dark sunglasses.
Skullface didn’t answer Smiley. He kept his gaze on the street, as if he were waiting for a cab…or acting as a lookout.
A slithering disquiet touched Michael. “I should really get going.”
Smiley’s grip tightened a little. “Hang on a second, amigo. We were wondering if you could help us out with something.”
“Help with what?”
Smiley shrugged. “Well, we’re in a real pickle, my buddy and I. You see, we lost something around here, a black cat. Have you seen a cat?”
“A cat?” Michael swallowed, working moisture into his dry mouth. “A black cat?”
“A cat,” Smiley repeated. “That’s not too difficult a question, is it? I mean, you’d know the difference between a cat and say, a zebra, or an orangutan? You’ve seen cats before, I’ll bet. They’re small, furry things.”
“Sure. I mean…I just…” Michael gave a nervous laugh. “I know what a cat is.”
“That’s super, amigo,” said Smiley. “Glad we cleared that up. Do you live around here?” The question came out of nowhere, snapped out like an angler’s lure.
Michael almost smiled. His court-appointed therapist, Dr. Reynolds, used the same technique to try to get Michael to talk about his feelings. He answered Smiley the same way he answered Dr. Reynolds. “Huh?”
“I asked you if you lived around here,” Smiley said. “You must not have heard me.”
“Oh,” Michael replied vacantly. “Sorry.”
“Are you, amigo?” Smiley’s wide grin became a thinly pressed arc, like the last reflection of the moon before an eclipse. “Can you hear me now?” Steely fingers dug into Michael’s shoulder. “Do you hear the sound of my voice?”
Michael suppressed a groan. “I hear you.”
“And?”
“I live…I live not too far from here.”
“Not too far?” The lunar smile twitched. “That’s great, amigo. That’s just wonderful, just perfect. But I digest.”
“You what?”
Smiley licked his teeth again. “Digress, I meant to say. Back to business then—have you seen a black cat?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?” Smiley crowed. “Poor little thing is half-blind, you know. You can tell because the sweet kitty’s eyes don’t match. One is green and the other is brown. You seen any cats like that around?”
Michael’s hands began to tremble. He shoved them into his pockets.
“Nope.”
“You’re sure?” Smiley glanced down at Michael’s pocketed hands.
“I’m sure.”
“Are you sure you’re sure?” pressed Smiley. “Are you positively, one hundred percent sure?”
Michael gave a shaky nod.
Smiley shrugged. “That’s funny. I was positive you could help us out. Oh, well. Sorry to have bothered you.”
Smiley let go of him, and a tingling rush of blood throbbed into Michael’s shoulder. “I have to go,” he said weakly, edging around Smiley.
“Okay, amigo,” Smiley agreed pleasantly. “Oh, and you should probably know that all your little friends are going to die.”
Michael froze.
“Does that upset you? Well, my father always said a liar’s life is one of disappointment.” Smiley leaned in close to Michael and whispered into his ear like a dark, midnight wind. “A little black bird told me a cat died in your yard, amigo. You’re a liar, Michael Stevens.”
Michael’s heart skipped a beat. Smiley knew his name.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, come on,” said Smiley. “Tell Uncle Nabal your little secrets.” The friendly drawl deepened into an animal-like growl. “What do you know? What are they hiding?”
“Nothing!”
“Your choice, amigo.” Smiley pulled a steel-cased syringe from his pocket. “We’ll just continue this conversation somewhere more private. We wouldn’t want people to get the wrong idea.”
They were going to drug him!
Michael’s pounding heart went into overdrive. The point of the syringe hit his bicep, and then snapped off with a tinny ping.
Smiley’s grin faltered. “What the h—?”
The stonesong surged. “Get away from me!” Michael roared.
The sidewalk fractured with a sound like a gunshot, and the ground leapt up beneath Smiley’s feet, catapulting him into the nearby parked car with enough force to dent the fender.
Michael’s sunglasses shattered, and silver tendrils of light burst from his eyes and body, setting the sidewalk alight. He was the pavement, the street and the sidewalk. Water lines were numb slivers in his flesh; the crisscrossing sewers, a gaping emptiness in his belly.
“This is unit four. Come in, control!” A hissing geyser fanned up from the sidewalk next to Skullface, drenching him as he shouted into his collar and pressed a bony finger to his ear. “We have a priority one situation. Requesting immediate instructions!”
“My, my, Michael, you do have a secret.” Grinning, Smiley pushed himself away from the dented car. “I’ve seen the eyes before, but the lights?” He whistled loudly. “Now, that’s something new. Have to say, though, you don’t look so hot. You feeling okay, or are you a mite dizzy?”
Michael narrowed his silver eyes. “Stay away from me. Don’t make me hurt you.” The ground trembled anew, but less than before. His vision blurred.
Smiley shook his head. “You’re kind of new to this, am I right?”
The silver light flickered around him, and then winked out completely. Michael staggered.
/> “See? I know a thing or two about secrets, Michael. For instance…” Smiley reached up for his sunglasses, but a skeletal hand closed on his wrist.
“Get in the car.” Skullface pulled Smiley’s hand away from his glasses. “We’re leaving.”
Smiley shook free of the thin man’s hold. “Are you insane? You saw what the kid did. The doctor—”
“Has ordered us to disengage,” Skullface finished. Walking over to the dented sedan, he opened the driver’s side door. “These are direct orders, Nabal. We disengage. Get in.”
“What’s going on out here?” Mrs. Finche called from across the street. The old woman had a dirty spade in her hand, and she waved it furiously as she hobbled toward them. She must have heard the gunshot crack of shattered sidewalk from her backyard garden and come down the block to investigate. “Is that you, Michael?”
Michael tried to answer her, but all that came out was a dry rasp. Dizziness and nausea had robbed him of his voice as well as his strength.
Smiley looked from Mrs. Finche to Michael. “Saved by the hag, amigo. Oh, well.” Stepping away, he opened the passenger door and climbed inside. “Be seeing you real soon, amigo. Count on it.”
Michael’s response was to noisily vomit on the sidewalk.
Smiley laughed. Skullface gunned the engine, and the car sped away.
14
Earthquake?
Michael watched the car until Mrs. Finche’s wrinkled face blocked his view.
“It is you, Michael,” she exclaimed. She had a smudge of dirt on her nose. “Are you all right?”
Michael rubbed his churning stomach. “I feel a little sick, but I’ll be okay.”
Mrs. Finche nodded to the geyser spraying up from the sidewalk. “I believe we’ve got a busted water main. My goodness, just look at this mess.”
Leaning a little to the left so he could look past Mrs. Finche, Michael caught sight of Smiley’s car turning a corner farther up the street.
Mrs. Finche tapped the spade against her cheek, oblivious to the mud deposited in its wake. “An earthquake, do you think?”