Miss Polly had a Dolly (Emma Frost #2) (8 page)

Victor's
seizure stopped just as
suddenly as it had started.
His body loosened up in my arms and he stopped shaking. Victor opened his eyes
and looked at me. I breathed in a sigh of relief.

"Are you okay, Vic?"

He nodded.

"You were out for a moment there, buddy.
Did you dream anything? Did you see anything? It was like you tried to speak or
something. Were you trying to tell me something?"

Victor looked down.

"You can tell me. I won't get mad."

Victor opened his mouth and spoke very softly:
"Dolls. I saw a lot of dolls. Hundreds, maybe even thousands of them."

"Dolls. Okay. That makes sense. What else?
Did you see something else?" I asked.

Victor lifted his head once again and looked at
me. "A bowtie. Look out for the bowtie," he said.

"Bowtie, okay."

Victor took one last look at me then walked fast
with his head bowed through the living room and out into the yard. I sighed and
followed him with my eyes. If only I knew what went on inside of that boy's
head. Sometimes it seemed like he was carrying the entire world on his
shoulders. It scared me a little, to be honest. It was too much for such a
young boy to deal with. At that age, he was supposed to have fun and play
around. The rest of his life was going to contain plenty of serious stuff,
especially with his condition. There weren't many workplaces around where there
was room for someone like Victor.

Seeing him smile and run around in the yard like
a normal boy again made my unease settle for a little while and I went back
into the kitchen to get ready for Maya's return from school. I couldn't help
but think about the bowtie and wonder what that meant. Did the girl who'd
disappeared wear a bowtie? I knew Victor had these senses that no one else had,
he had proven that to me more than once. It was like he sometimes knew more
than the rest of the world. And from experience I also knew how important it
was to take things he said very seriously. It wasn't just coincidental
rambling. If he saw something or said something like this, it meant I had to
remember it. It meant it was important.

"Hi, Mom."

I turned and saw Maya entering the kitchen.
She'd just turned fourteen and grew more beautiful with every day that passed.
"I baked," I said.

"Yum," she said and sat down. I joined
her at the table and had a buttered bun myself.

"So, how was school? You're home a little
later than usual."

"Well a bunch of us went down to the port
and saw Patrick arrive on the ferry. It took a while to get back because of all
the people."

"You were down there?" I asked and
considered getting angry because she hadn't asked me if it was okay, but then I
thought it was alright, she'd been with friends and a whole crowd of people. I
had taught myself to pick my battles carefully lately to avoid being the kind
of mother who was angry constantly no matter what you told her.

"Yes. I hope it was okay that I went. It
was kind of spontaneous. We were actually on our way home on our bikes, when
someone told us that Patrick was about to get off the ferry. I couldn't resist
seeing it."

"I understand. I guess I would have done
the same. Was he as spectacular as they say?" I asked and took another
bite. I had put extra sugar on top of the buns to make them sweeter. With great
success. It was like eating cake.

"Oh yes. He is so handsome, Mom, you won't
believe it. I think he was even better looking in real life than on TV."

I chuckled when I noticed the glow in my
daughter's eyes. "Well I'm glad you had fun this afternoon."

"Me, too." Maya paused, then looked
down at her plate and ate. I sensed she wanted to say something more but didn't
dare. Then she did it anyway. "Could I go down to his hotel tonight after
dinner, just for an hour or so. Everybody is hanging out at the front entrance
in case he goes out."

I sighed with a smile. I wasn't fond of the idea
of my daughter hanging out like a groupie, screaming at him if he showed his
face, but it was the kind of thing my own mother never let me do, so a small
voice inside of me said to let her do it.

I decided to follow that voice.
"Okay—"

My daughter screamed. "Thanks, Mom. You're
the best!"

"—on one condition."

My daughter sat still but was smiling.
"Okay? What condition?"

"That you take care of the Sophia's younger
kids on Saturday when Christopher and Ida are auditioning."

"But I was planning on going down there
too—"  she said.

"You can go later, when we're back. It's
gonna last all weekend, so you'll also have Sunday. And then there is the sing
off on Monday night where all the contestants perform live at the port. I'll
let you go to that as well, if you do this small thing for me on
Saturday."

My daughter's eyes grew big and wide.
"You've got a deal, Mom."

Josephine could
hardly move around
in her aluminum cage; it was even
too small for her to stand up straight. All she could do was sit down and it
wasn't long before her legs started to hurt. She tried to move them around, but
couldn't even stretch them properly.

When the lady had first grabbed her and thrown
her inside of the cage, Josephine had screamed her lungs out. She had tried to
break the cage with her hands and kick the door open with her legs, but nothing
seemed to work. The lady had left her at first but was now back, sitting at the
desk under the lamp working on something.

"Why are you keeping me in here?"
Josephine asked.

But the lady didn't answer. She completely ignored
Josephine's pleading and talking. After a while she gave up on the idea of
getting an answer out of her. Instead, she pulled her legs up under her and
started rocking back and forth, thinking about how much she suddenly missed Ms.
Camilla and the mansion. Hell, she even missed her parents. At this point
Josephine would do anything to get back to her old life and mind numbingly
boring routine.

Anything but this.

Every now and then she would burst into tears
and cry like a baby, but not even that would make the lady turn around and look
at her. Josephine didn't understand. The lady had seemed so nice. What did she
want with her? Why was she keeping her in this cage? Josephine felt so
extremely thirsty and she needed to go to the bathroom really badly.

"Excuse me?" she asked trying to be
polite since the lady had seemed to like that earlier. But the lady still
didn't answer. She was sitting by the desk, humming while sewing something as
far as Josephine could see. "Excuse me! I really need to go to the bathroom.
I have to pee."

"There is a bucket in your cage. Use
that," the lady said without turning around to look at Josephine.
"There is also a dog bowl of water to satisfy your thirst." Then she
continued her humming and sewing.

Josephine looked at the bucket behind her in the
cage. It was an old tin bucket. It was rusty in places. How was she supposed to
pee in that? Josephine sobbed loudly as she sat on it. She had to bend her head
and back to fit. This was very strange, nothing like anything she had ever
done. How long was this going to go on?

Josephine closed her eyes when she finally
managed to pee. It felt so good. Such a relief. When she was done she climbed
down from the bucket and sat on the floor of the cage again. Then she leaned
over and drank from the bowl feeling like a dog. Never had she been humiliated
so much, she thought, sobbing. The sobbing quickly became crying. This was not
good. This wasn't good at all.

But they'll find you. They'll
come for you, sure they will. They never even let you go outside alone. They
will be looking for you all over.

The thought brought some comfort to her mind and
she relaxed a little. This was just for a short period of time. Surely Ms.
Camilla had seen the old lady take her with her at the beach and had told the
police about her. They would know who she was. The police knew everything,
didn't they? Of course they did. They would be here soon. Of course they would.
And then the old lady would go to jail for a long time. She was nothing but a
crazy old witch… Josephine stopped her train of thought when she had the spooky
thought about all the fairytales she had read with Ms. Camilla. Some of them
had an old lady or an old witch capturing children. Like Hansel and Gretel. An
old witch wanting to eat them… Josephine gasped. She cupped her mouth to stop
the sound and not draw the old lady's attention. Was that what this old lady
was? A witch who was going to eat her? Josephine felt her heart racing in her
chest. Like a drum that wouldn't stop beating. She stared at the skinny lady's
neck and back and felt a chill run down her own spine. Was that why her parents
never let her go out on her own? Were those stories maybe real? Were there real
witches in this world who were eating small children?

Patrick was
sitting in his
hotel room listening to the cheering
and chanting coming from his fans by the front entrance. He was breathing it
in, soaking in it, enjoying every second of it.

"So I say we use this one next time,"
Hanne said and pointed at a poster of him holding a microphone and screaming
out to the audience.

Patrick looked down at it. He didn't care which
picture they used for the poster or how they made the trailers for the show. He
wasn't into all those kinds of details. He looked good in all of them, that was
the important part. Otherwise, he didn't care. Still the producers insisted he
was present at the meetings where those kinds of decisions were made. A few
times he had forgotten to arrive at the meetings and the producers had been angry
with him for being absent.

"So have the meeting in my room, that way
you can be sure I'm there," he had answered.

So that's what they did now. All fifteen of the
decision makers were now in his hotel room, the top suite, of course, sitting
on the couches and chairs, talking every little annoying detail over like it
was something he should be interested in. Patrick himself was sitting leaned
back in an armchair swaying his head from side to side trying to see faces or
figures in the ceiling.

"So we're going with the green spotlight on
Patrick again when he enters the stage on Monday, right?" some guy asked.

"No, I think it makes him look sick,"
Hanne said. "Better to use the yellow."

Patrick rolled his eyes. "That's the point,
Hanne. I want to look sick when I enter. I need to be nasty. That's what the
teenagers like. They like that I'm not just another pretty boy. I want the
green light. It gives me that crazy, lunatic look when I enter."

"I have to agree with Patrick,"
another producer named Tom said. "The diabolic look is what made Patrick
so big, it is what separates him from the other hosts out there. And it fits
his nature. He's not just a pretty face like the rest of them. He's a
character. He's the maniac inside of us all."

People around the table were nodding. Patrick
sighed and leaned back in his chair again to watch the ceiling.

Stupid morons. Amateurs all of
them. If it wasn't for me, they would get nowhere. I'm the show. I'm the
character. Without me they would be out of job.

"Okay," sighed Hanne and wrote
something on her notepad. "We go with the green diabolic light for
entrance again. But please try and control that finger of yours while you're up
on stage. We have all seen it now, hell all of Denmark has seen it. It upsets
the parents."

"What?" Patrick sat up. He looked at
Hanne and took off his sunglasses.

"But, Hanne," Tom said. "The
finger is his
thing
. They all
come to see him do it. You can't stop him from doing that. That would be
stupid."

Hanne sighed again. "I know we've been over
this before. But the ratings show that we're losing audience in the 25-35 group
and our focus group polls have shown that the finger has a lot to do with that.
The numbers don't lie, Tom."

Patrick got up with a snort. He stared at the
small woman. Oh how he wanted to grab her and snap her neck, right here and
now. It would be so easy. Patrick growled and walked to the window. A fan
spotted him from the street.

"There he is! Patrick!" she yelled.
Others came running and stared at him as well. Patrick put his face to the
window, then opened the doors and walked outside on the balcony. The entire
street was filled with teenagers. They started screaming when they spotted him.
Patrick smiled, then raised his arm and slowly rolled up the finger. The crowd
went ballistic.

"See, I told you they want it," he
yelled at the producers in the room. "They freaking love it!"

"But those are teenagers, Patrick. This
show has viewers other than teenagers," Hanne yelled back. "We need
the 25-35 year olds, as well. It's a lot of people that you alienate by raising
your finger like that."

"Ah, to hell with them," Patrick
mumbled and looked down at the crowd. He felt stirred up inside. Even more than
usual. There was something about this island that made him so angry, so out of
control. Usually he would never go for the kill until the show was over and
they were about to leave the town, but maybe, just maybe he was going to bend
his rules a little this time. Heaven knows his body craved it. It was like he
was in withdrawal, like a drug addict he needed his fix to not go crazy. And he
knew exactly how he was going get it.

Patrick laughed manically as he grabbed on to
the railing of the balcony and climbed up on it. Then he let go of his hands
and stood on the railing without holding on. The crowd went quiet. Then they
screamed in joy as Patrick started whining his famous scream that they all
loved so much.

That's it you suckers. Scream
all you want. Tonight I'm the one who's gonna have all the fun.