“Parker, it’s Caden Flynn.” His gut tightened. “Do you remember me?” I put you here.
The pencil nub continued to move back and forth, faster and faster. A half dozen other sheets of shaded squares littered the top of the table. Like those taped to the wall, they had no pattern.
“Parker, my brother Ryan is with me. We want to ask you about Jerome Kelly. He came to see you Thursday evening. Do you remember that?”
The pencil stopped abruptly, poised on the page. Parker’s head remained bowed, but Caden sensed he was listening.
He took a tentative step closer. “Jerome’s sick. In the hospital. We’re hoping you can help us discover what happened to him.”
Parker raised his head, his eyes oddly bright, a deep blue lit from within. There was something unnatural about his gaze. As if he looked but didn’t see, his sight turned inward to a spot Caden couldn’t reach.
“This hospital?” The whisper-thin quality of his voice was unnerving. Brittle, it made him sound years older.
“No. He’s in Point Pleasant. He’s very ill.”
“A coma.”
Caden reacted with a start. Parker couldn’t possibly know. Even if someone on staff at West Central had learned about Jerome, they wouldn’t share the news with an inmate-patient. “Who told you?”
Parker tore a fresh sheet of paper from his notebook. “They did.”
“Who?”
“Cold.” He rolled the pencil between his fingers.
Caden shifted. Talking to Parker was like having a one-sided conversation in a foreign language. Equally as frustrating. “I can ask the nurse to adjust the heat.”
“Cold must return. Evening will follow.” Parker started shading the new page.
Ryan shook his head. “Caden, we’re not getting anywhere.” Turning his back on Parker, he lowered his voice. “The kid’s obviously in his own world. I don’t think he understands what you’re asking.”
“Maybe.” He glanced to the pieces of paper taped to the wall. Newspaper clippings and drawings had plastered the walls in Jerome’s office, but the shaded squares Parker was so intent on producing made no sense. Judging from the collection of pencil nubs at Parker’s elbow, he’d worn down several while creating his masterpieces.
Caden picked up two of the sheets. “These are important to you.” Half question, half statement. Something niggled at the back of his mind. Why the drawings? Why now?
“The radio talks to me.” Parker reached for a new pencil, the tip of the one he’d been using whittled to a pinhead. “Mostly at night.”
Nurse Brenner had mentioned Parker’s attachment to the radio. The small transistor box stood silent at his elbow. No batteries.
“How does it talk to you?”
Parker ignored the question. “Jerome knew. Jerome understood the puzzle. That’s why he came to see me.”
Caden rubbed his temple. It was hard to believe this boy, a fractured shell who spoke in riddles, had once been a rambunctious teenager, his only cares related to running track and girls.
“Was Jerome sick?” Ryan persisted.
Parker stayed silent.
Caden blew out a frustrated breath. “Parker this is important. What did Jerome want?”
The hint of a smile tugged the boy’s lips at the corners. Slowly, he raised his head. “The Mothman knows.”
Chapter 5
Saturday unraveled slowly for Katie. Sam fussed when she checked his eyes in the morning, but at least the swelling had gone down. Her headache departed around noon, and by evening when she and Sam joined her mom for dinner, her spirits were improved.
“Rex still hasn’t come back,” her mother told her as they washed dishes after the meal. Plopping a dirty plate in a sink full of sudsy water, she sniffled slightly. “Martin thinks he might have got hit by a car.”
Poor Rex. “Oh, I hope not.” Katie worked at drying a glass with a blue terry towel. Sam would be devastated.
“That’s not all.” Her mom hadn’t bothered to remove her chunky bangle bracelets, and the bright plastic clacked together as she rinsed the plate. “I heard the Batemans can’t find their collie. And Stu Fletcher’s shepherd disappeared. It’s creepy.”
“Don’t tell Sam.” It was bad enough Rex vanished, but Katie didn’t want him hearing about the other animals. He was already having bad dreams. Last night he’d woken up screaming, insisting someone had been looming over his bed. She’d gone over every inch of the room in an effort to placate his fears, even checking doors and windows so he could see each was securely locked.
Since he hadn’t been troubled by his visit to the ER, she was certain the dream had to do with Rex’s disappearance and the eerie rumors circulating town. Today, there’d been new gossip about peculiar lights in the sky near the TNT and renewed whispers of the Mothman. Duncan and Donnie Bradley, brothers who insisted they’d seen the giant winged creature in June, had begun to scour the old munitions site in search of the monster.
She’d tuned out the talk, but didn’t doubt there would be a number of locals hacking through the overgrowth for clues. If nothing else, it made good fodder for Halloween.
Shortly after finishing the dishes, she took Sam home to get him settled for the night. They normally attended an early church service on Sundays, but given Sam’s conjunctivitis, the doctor recommended she limit his contact for the next several days. If he was going to be stuck inside, she’d have to find something for him to do.
Other than draw.
When the night wound down, she curled into the corner of the couch with a cup of tea. The house was quiet, the television off, now that Sam was in bed. Stillness settled around her like the comforting folds of an old blanket. She closed her eyes, contentedly soaking in the peace. Within seconds, a loud clatter jarred her to her feet, the abrupt movement jostling hot tea onto her lap.
“Crap.” Hastily setting the cup aside, she brushed at her jeans.