“Do you think it changed Mason?”
Andy shook his head. “Maybe. Only God knows that. You can’t always tell if a person is changed. But you can be certain when he isn’t.”
I nodded, remembering LaReau. He had no remorse at all. “LaReau was dead inside. The only emotions I felt were dark, empty. Mason was dark, too, but it was more like a little boy trying to dig free from layers of pain.”
“I believe Mason suffered through too many repressed memories not to be affected. From what you described, his remorse is deep. He’ll never stop remembering. The change is going to be slow and painful.”
“I don’t get it. Mason didn’t do anything. In the memory I saw, he was the victim.”
“Of course.”
“What does that mean? That’s not how the Memory Lash works.”
“Think about it. What did Mason say after you released him?”
“He curled up in a ball and told his mother he was sorry.”
“Yep.”
“What, yep?”
“From what you described, Mason believes he caused his mother’s death. That was the most painful thing he ever witnessed, and he blames himself. That’s why the Memory Lash showed you that memory.”
“And the man with a decaying skull for a head? He didn’t feel like Scallion.” I knew the answer before I asked, but I was really hoping to be wrong.
“Nicolaitan. He’s very powerful. He made Mason see him as death. Hence, the skull.”
“Did he also make Mason believe it was, hence, his fault?”
“No. Mason really believes it. Just like you really believe your parents died because of you. No matter how often we tell you it wasn’t your fault. Because it wasn’t, in case I haven’t told you. You were six. Six-year-olds are innocent, even bratty ones like you.”
“Hey!”
“Now, where were we? Oh, yes.” Andy smiled and snapped his fingers. “Papers, please.”
I pulled the envelope from my backpack and took out the drawing. “See, it’s just some sort of doodle. No words, no real picture. I can’t make anything out of it.”
Andy looked at the paper, turning it in all directions, then rubbed his finger across the scribbles.
“Wow!” he hollered, nearly dropping the paper. His face got totally serious and he gaped at me like I was a burn victim. “I prayed this would never happen.”
“What’s wrong?”
Andy shook his head. “Be right back.” He turned and disappeared into a closet at the far end of his tech lab. He returned wheeling a flatbed scanner with the words Andy-Scan 1000 molded into its shining cover.
“Why are you scanning the doodle?” I asked. “You gonna Photoshop your face onto it?”
“Lemme ’splain.” Andy shook his head. “You know how, when you’re trying to think of something to draw, you start out by doodling, then ideas crystallize in your head, and you eventually end up with some very intricate artwork?”
“Uh…no. I doodle when I’m bored. Like in language arts when they talk about subjunctives and conjugation and big words that real people never use.”
“You should try doodling when you need to think,” Andy said. “Because the thought is in the doodle.”
“Sounds like drivel.”
“Doodles only drivel when the ink is wet. That’s why Munificent used pencil.”
“Okay, I’m lost. What are you trying to tell me with your twaddle?”
“Munificent was writing to the Psi Fighters. This is how he communicated with us.”
“By doodling? Andy, that is weird, even for you. Why don’t you just build them a Bat Signal?”
“I’m working on it,” Andy said, smiling down at me. “Now, follow me, if your tired brain can stay awake. How do you put thoughts on paper?”
I folded my hands, placed them daintily under my chin, and batted my eyes. “You…write them?”
“Good, good…and what do you do in language arts while you’re doodling?”
“Daydream, because paying attention would cause me to fall asleep, then I’d get detention.”
“And daydreaming would be the same as…”
“Thinking?”
“She shoots! She scores!” Andy shouted, and moonwalked around the room.
“So you’re saying my thoughts are in my doodle?”
“Keep your doodle out of this. We’re talking about Munificent’s communication to us, which we would have already known about if he had not been so inconveniently murdered. You need to hear it.”
I smacked myself in the forehead and sighed. “Where is this going?”
“Right there,” Andy said, slapping the paper into the scanner’s auto-feeder.
“So,” I said slowly, “you’re going to scan it…”
“I thought we already established that.” He pressed a key and the scanner started to hum.
“All we established is that you are a Looney Tune,” I said, ready to bang my head off the wall. “What does—”
“This is the Andy-Scan 1000, a clever device invented by—need I even say it?—my own pretty little self. It does for the written word what the MPU 3000 does for memories.”