“And you … you told them about the Regulation Room? And everything Honey said?”
Winky nods again, more vigorously. “They already talked to me,” he whispers hoarsely. “But I didn’t show them the note yet. I figured you’d want to see it first. I told them you would know more. When they find out you’re back, they’re gonna talk to you, too.” He nods toward the back of the Great House. “They’re in there now, poking round that Regulation Room.” He takes a step toward me. “Please, Agnes. I didn’t know anything about that room. I swear on God Almighty. I never seen it. Not once. And Honey never told me nothing all these years.”
It’s as if a hand shoves me forward, right into Winky’s heavy arms. And even though it’s the closest I’ve ever been to him and I’m scared to touch him, I hold him tight around the waist. He smells like sun-warmed starch and wet dirt, just like Honey used to after working in the garden all day.
Two policemen, one tall and thin, the other round and chubby, walk out of Emmanuel’s room just as I return from talking to Winky. Emmanuel and Veronica are behind them, following closely at their heels. Emmanuel’s bearded chin is jutting out over the collar of his robe and Veronica keeps clasping and unclasping her hands, which, for some reason, are red and bleeding. Both of them look as if they are on their way to a funeral. The policemen, too, seem grave. The chubby one is studying the front page of a tiny notebook in his hand, while the tall one is scanning the crowd.
“We need to talk to the children,” the tall one says finally, facing us in the middle of the room and hooking his thumbs behind one of his belt loops. “Just the children. No one else.”
There is a rush of whispers among the adults, as the children look up at their parents fearfully. Benny slides closer to Mom. Dad is glowering at the tall policeman. No one moves.
“Now, please,” the policeman says. “Children only.”
Still no movement.
Emmanuel takes a step forward. “It’s all right,” he says. His arms are lifted high above us, as if he is going to start preaching, but his voice sounds weird, like it is rupturing around the edges. “Let all the children come forward. Have faith and do not be afraid.”
Little by little, kids of all ages step away from their parents, some by themselves, others holding their brothers’ or sisters’ hands. At the front of the pack is Iris Murphy, standing alone, her little arms folded across her chest.
I glance over at Benny, who is still sitting close to Mom. Then I see Dad, who is staring at me in a way I’ve never seen him stare at anything before. It’s even worse than the stare in the car, like actual heat is radiating out from behind his eyes, pulsing in waves throughout the air between us.
I lean down nervously toward Benny. “I think we have to go, Benny. Come on. It’ll be okay. I’ll stay right next to you the whole time.” Mom glances worriedly at me as she helps Benny off the bench. I take his hand in mine and lead him toward the group of children, pretending not to feel Dad’s white-hot gaze in the middle of my back.
“Remember, children!” Emmanuel’s voice echoes in my ears. “Remember we are Believers.”
The two policemen lead the sixty or so children, including Benny and me, into a side room near the front of the Great House. I don’t recognize the room, since I have never been in it before. It is sparsely furnished, with a wooden desk on one side, a single bed on another, and a white, knotted throw rug in the middle. A large cross hangs above the bed.
“Sit anywhere,” the chubby policeman says, surveying the lot of us. “Get comfortable. We’re just going to talk.”
Iris Murphy and a few other little girls scramble on top of the bed. Amanda Woodward settles herself down in the desk chair. Peter stands against the wall, his arms crossed against his chest. The rest of us sit cross-legged on the floor. No one speaks.
“Okay, then,” the tall policeman says. He is standing in front of the room, his legs askance. For some reason, he looks familiar. A small silver bar pinned to the breast pocket of his navy shirt reads CAPTAIN MARANTINO. Could this be the same police officer who came a few years ago? “We just want to ask you guys some questions, okay?” Silence. He clears his throat. “How many of you have ever heard of something called the Regulation Room?”
Benny buries his face in the side of my arm at the mention of the room, but no one else moves. Not a hand raised, not a word spoken. I look over at Iris. She is picking a scab on the front of her knee. Peter has turned his head in the opposite direction.
“No one here has ever been inside something called the Regulation Room?” the policeman presses. “Not even once?” Silence. He shoots a sidelong glance at the other policeman, who raises his eyebrows, rocks back on his heels, and then clears his throat.
“Okay, why don’t we start from the beginning? How many of you like living here?”