“We’d better take a look at those,” Evie said.
From deep inside a locked cabinet, Molly retrieved a shirt box. Inside were an array of drawings. Conor was indeed quite talented. He’d drawn a detailed view of the Hell Gate Bridge as seen from a barred window and a study of a chair where the wood grain was so finely rendered it practically leaped from the page. But there were other, more disturbing pictures. In one, a great cloud with the face of an angry skull bore down on the island. In another, he’d captured the ghoulish moment with the two nurses. One of the nurses held a hook, and it seemed as if several bodies fought inside her at once. Evie paused at a drawing of the all-seeing eye symbol. It loomed in the sky like the eye of a god, and all around, floating in its beams, were the bodies of soldiers. There were also several drawings of Luther, and Evie had to wonder: Why was Conor Flynn so interested in Luther Clayton?
“Memphis!” Isaiah said, picking up one of the drawings, a sketch of an old farmhouse with a sagging porch. “I’ve seen this before. In a vision.”
“Excuse me, but could we speak to Conor Flynn?” Evie asked.
Molly shook her head. “I wouldn’t recommend it, Miss O’Neill.”
“Why not?”
“Conor is a very troubled young man. Before he came to us, he’d been in the boy’s refuge from the age of twelve. He lies. He hears voices. He even tried to take his own life.”
“Poor kid,” Theta said.
“Don’t let him fool you, Miss Knight. There’s a reason he’s in the violent ward.”
“What did he do?” Ling asked.
“He killed Father Hanlon.”
Memphis’s eyebrows went up. “He murdered a priest?”
“Father Hanlon worked at the refuge from time to time. One day, he tried to take one of the younger boys for an ice cream. Conor was jealous of the attention shown the boy. He attacked Father with a slice of broken bottle he’d hidden up his sleeve. Sliced clean through his throat. Make no mistake: Conor Flynn is quite dangerous.”
“Why would Mama want us to protect a murderer?” Isaiah asked, and Memphis shook his head.
“Still. We’d like to speak with him, please,” Evie said.
“Very well. I’ll see to it.”
An attendant brought Conor to the interview room, and Evie immediately recognized him as the boy who’d spoken to her when she’d come to see Luther. The one who’d tried to warn her about the fog. He was skittish, Evie thought. Like a fawn catching the first acrid warning of an approaching forest fire.
“Hello, Conor,” Evie said. “We met once before. Do you remember?”
Conor nodded. “You talked to Luther.”
“That’s right. Conor, when we were here last time, you said, ‘They come in with the fog.’”
“The Forgotten,” Conor said.
“Who are the Forgotten? Are they ghosts?”
Conor frowned. “Yeah. But not regular. They can hurt you. They want to hurt you.” Conor twirled and tugged at his hair. “When the fog comes in, they comes in wit’ it. Late at night, after all the boats’re gone and we’re alone out here. When it’s dark. When he tells ’em to come. They crawl in t’rough your mouth like spiders. Spiders laying eggs in your brains. Can’t shake ’em out. And then the whisperin’ starts. They’ll make you do things. Terrible things. They made Mr. Roland kill Big Mike and Nurse Mary and Mr. Potts.”
“Why did the Forgotten want to do that?”
Conor shoved his hands beneath his armpits, hugging himself. “He makes ’em do it,” he said in a paper-thin voice.
“He? Who is he?”
Conor shook his head. “Won’t say his name.”
“Why not? Does he live on your floor?”
Conor shook his head harder.
“Is it Luther Clayton?” Evie tried.
“What happened to those nurses?” Theta said, redirecting. “Was that the Forgotten, too?”
“Yeah,” Conor whispered, fidgeting in his seat, one hand tapping against his thigh in an almost hypnotic rhythm.
“Gee, sport, how do you know that if you weren’t there?” Sam said.
“I can hear the dead. In here.” He tapped the side of his head. “I hear the dead and I hear the lady’s voice, telling me what to do.”
“The lady’s voice,” Sam repeated, glaring at Evie. He motioned to the others to huddle up away from Conor, who was performing some sort of ritual, counting objects over and over. “The lady’s voice tells him things? The dead talk to him? Buncha hooey.”
Ling frowned. “Don’t forget, Sam—I can hear the dead, too.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?” Ling challenged.
“You think he could be a Diviner, like us?” Memphis asked.
“It’s possible,” Evie said.
Sam shook his head. “I don’t think we should get off the trolley. We came here to find out what we could about Luther. That’s all.”
“But what if Conor is onto something?” Evie said.
“Or what if Conor is just plain crazy?”
“Just because he’s sick doesn’t mean he isn’t telling us the truth, or his version of it, anyway,” Henry said, his voice tight.
“Okay, okay. Don’t get hot.”
“Then don’t tell me what to feel,” Henry said through his teeth.
“Why’re you so keen on believing this fella, huh?”
“I’ve got my reasons,” Henry said, stepping up to Sam. “Why are you being such a jackass?”
“I wasn’t being… say, what’s eating you, Henry?” Sam growled.
“I happen to think the people in here are very brave,” Henry said, full of fire. “Imagine living each day and not being able to trust your own mind. Imagine having it lie to you, trick you, tell you you’re worthless or that the world would be better off without you in it. It would be like… like always hearing an awful radio playing inside your head, one that you can’t seem to turn off.” He glared at Sam. “Or maybe I’m just ‘crazy’ for feeling sympathy for them.”
“Gee, Hen, I’m sorry—”
But something had come loose inside Henry. He backed away from the others, hands up. “I need to calm down. Going for a walk.”
“Hen!” Theta called as Henry stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
Memphis put a hand on her arm. “Might want to let him cool off a bit. At least, I know when I’m sore I need time to myself.”
“I really am sorry,” Sam said.
“I told you to take notes,” Evie chided. “You can make it up to Henry later. Let’s get back to Conor.” Evie left the huddle. “Conor, can you tell me more about the lady in your head?”
“She’s the one tol’ me to draw the pictures. Sometimes I can hear her. Other times, I can’t. Like something’s keeping her from talking to me. She tol’ me about keeping him out.”
“Is the lady’s name Viola?” Isaiah said hopefully.
Conor shook his head, and Isaiah’s heart sank.
“Is she talking to you right now?” Ling asked.
“Maybe. Maybe.” Conor’s demeanor changed like a sudden wind. “What’d they tell you about me? Did they tell you I was a liar? No. I don’t care. I don’t care, I don’t care! I ain’t sorry I cut up Father Hanlon. I know I’m s’posed to be, but I ain’t. I watched the blood pour over his collar, and I wished him dead a hundred times.”