Seraphim (6 page)

“What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Amy McNeil.”

“How old are you, Amy?”

“Ten-and-a-half.”

“Certainly you’ve had your picture taken before. Right?”

She nodded.

“Well then,” he assured, “this is no different than when your grandma or mommy takes your picture with their little pocket brownies. Nothin’ to it.”

Yeah, right, pocket brownies
, he thought. Christ, he was well into the 21
^st
Century yet he continued to spout off comparisons as antiquated as his own equipment and techniques.

Seeing that she didn’t have a clue as to what a brownie was, he said, “You know, digital cameras and such.”

*****

Amy was reminded that she never liked having
those
kinds of pictures taken of herself either. Seeing her face in snapshots had always given her the creepy feeling that she was not really looking at herself, but at a twin sister who had been born—and continued to live and grow—in those glossy, rectangular patches of still life. A twin whose face always stared back at her with sad,
haunted
eyes. And she did not like seeing herself represented that way.

She was happy, always had been. At least she thought so.

Life had, so far, been good to her. She had a wonderful mom and dad, a nice big house, awesome clothes, had visited Disneyland and Knots Berry Farm and Sea World more times than she could count, always got straight A’s (an achievement requiring little, if any, effort, and one that caused her occasional guilt), and a weekly allowance that confirmed her own suspicions that she was spoiled rotten. But she’d been careful never to flaunt her good fortune, and she attributed this bit of humility to an abundance of honest, well-intentioned friends. She was, in fact, instantly liked by nearly every person she met, adult and child alike. And to give thanks, she always knelt in prayer at bedtime—a nightly ritual encouraged by her best friend and family’s live-in maid, Juanita Santiago.

Amy’s parents weren’t as outwardly religious, if they were religious at all, and they certainly didn’t go around knocking on people’s doors “pushing Christ like a vacuum cleaner,” as her dad was fond of saying. They never attended church, much to Juanita’s disapproval, but Amy felt that they all led a clean life. One without of any
major
sins, at least.

There was only one thing in the whole world that she hated (a word not often heard in her above-average vocabulary) and that was having her picture taken. She’d always felt the need to duck whenever a camera was pointed in her direction, to quickly glance away at the last second as if the shutter’s intention was to capture more than just a moment in time. And more than a few of the snapshots taken of her (mostly the ones where she was three and older) were, from the neck up, blurred by this phobia.

To Amy, photographs were like silent lies. They quietly led the viewer away from the real truth with beguiling expressions; a concept, she imagined, that was certainly familiar to the sweating, rankled photographer before her.

She hated cameras, what they produced. And, strangely, always had. But today, that profound dislike was quickly turning into a kind of smothering fear, and she had no idea why. She wanted desperately to hop down from this wobbly stool and run. Run home. Already her heart was strumming in her ears. Her hands were trembling, and her knees felt cold and rubbery. She’d also begun to sweat and was aware of an awful odor coming from her armpits—a strong, skunk smell, much more powerful than the kind she sometimes noticed in gym class.

Frightened and ashamed, she pulled her arms tightly against her body.

“Let’s try this one more time,” said the photographer. “C’mon, how about a pretty smile.”

Just as she was about to tell him that she wasn’t feeling well, and that she would like to leave, he tripped the shutter.

The flash seared through her eyes and into her brain, exploding there like a balloon filled with silver helium. She blinked frantically, trying to reestablish her eyesight. She wobbled on the stool, then began to fall. But what should have only been a two-foot drop to the floor began to seem incredibly long. She could actually feel the wind rushing around her, powerfully so, as if she were falling from a skyscraper rather than a chair.

The roar of an ocean engulfed her ears. There was now an itching, tearing pain across her upper back, and she feared she’d somehow injured herself. Then the taste of saltwater filled her mouth and stung her nostrils, making tears form at the corners of her eyes.

Goodbye

She didn’t remember hitting the floor, but could now feel the cold tile against her left cheek and arm.

The photographer rushed to her side. Gently taking her right arm, he said, “Easy sweetie, easy.”

Her vision hazily restored, Amy reached for the stool to steady herself, but missed. Her right hand landed on the lower edge of the photographer’s backdrop, a watercolor miasma of grays, whites, violets, and blues. Then, as if some supernatural sponge, her hand began to absorb the colors from the canvas. Surging just beneath the skin, those tinctures spiraled around her wrist, then into the rest of her exposed arm, giving the limb the appearance of having been hideously bruised.

She found the stool with her other hand, pulled herself up to her feet.

The photographer stumbled backward, tripping over one of his umbrella reflectors. He fell hard on his butt, then shuffled backward on palms and heels until he wedged himself into a corner, not once taking his eyes from the cyclonic attack.

Amy stared at her predicament with attentive wonder, unsure if her eyes were playing tricks, or if her hand was actually sucking up the cloudy colors. She was experiencing no pain, just a droning in her arm; a tingling, as if its circulation had been crimped.

Very afraid now, she tried to jerk her hand away, but found that she could not. Instead, her efforts seemed to have the opposite effect, her hand plunging deeper into the canvass. She didn’t feel like she was being forcefully
pulled
in; rather, it felt more like she was
sinking
. There was no doubt in her mind that the rest of her body would soon follow.

Crying now, she tugged again and again, harder and harder. Turning her wide, wet eyes to the photographer, she pleaded, “Make it stop. P-please make it stop.”

The man’s jaw moved up and down, up and down, but nothing audible fell out.

Everything below her elbow was now gone.

Within seconds the backdrop was drained of color.

Nearly hysterical now, Amy planted her right foot against the wall, then yanked with all her might. To her surprise, her hand slid free. Off-balance, arms flailing, she pirouetted away like a drunken ballerina. Her left arm struck the photographer’s tripod, sending it and his camera crashing to the floor, while nearly sending herself there as she tripped over one of his splayed legs. The man recoiled in fear. He pulled his knees tight against his chest and warned her to stay away.

Catching her balance, Amy held out her hand. This was not an obligatory gesture to help the man up, but to inspect the colors swirling tempestuously within her arm. Then, quickly, the pigment of her pale, freckled skin returned as the colors submerged, taking with them the pin-prick sensations that had grown to an electrical buzz.

She glanced back at the wall and noticed that her hand had not filched all the colors from the backdrop. There were still a few smudges left. And as her vision returned to near-normalcy, she believed that those smudges were actually words.

Wiping her eyes, she inched closer until she could read them. Yes, they were words; easy words. She had no difficulty reading the sentence they formed. It was
deciphering
the sentence where she found she was having trouble.

HE KNOWS WHERE YOU’VE FLOWN

Then another flash blinded her.

The room went topsy-turvy, and she spiraled into a bottomless sea of silver.

5.

As Rachel and Duncan stepped through the emergency room entrance of the hospital, they were greeted by Amy’s school principal/English teacher, John Kincaid, who had called them with the news of her accident. They’d met Kincaid before, mostly at award ceremonies honoring students who’d made the Principle’s Honor Roll. Not much taller than a schoolboy himself, Kincaid looked even mousier next to Duncan’s six-three, bear frame. The principal’s thinning white hair and weary stoop made him look twenty years older than he probably was, which, Duncan guessed, was somewhere in the mid-forties.

“Not to worry, not to worry,” Kincaid said with practiced, soothing urgency, sounding as he did over the phone. “She’s just fine. Took a tumble off a chair is all.” A broad smile widened his face. “I assure you both that her admittance here is purely cautionary.”

As they passed the admitting desk, Duncan noticed two paramedics working listlessly over documents, talking quietly to one another; whispering. They both looked up as Kincaid ushered him and Rachel by, their eyes following them down the gleaming corridor. By their grim, round-eyed expressions, Duncan supposed that they’d just brought in the lurid remains of a homicide victim, or something equally gruesome.

They checked in at the security desk, a mandatory procedure.

The guard, a retired cop (Duncan could spot them a mile away), ran his finger down the computer screen. “Amy McNeil, you said? Admitted within the last hour or so?”

“That’s right,” Duncan said, launching sarcastically into cop rhetoric: “Adolescent Caucasian female, ten years old, approximately four-and-a-half feet tall, reddish-blond hair, greenish blue eyes, usually has in her possession at least one item with a Barbie logo.”

The guard looked up, not amused. “She’s not showing up on my—”

“The child from Jefferson Elementary,” Kincaid reminded, stepping out from behind Duncan. “I arrived shortly after the ambulance. I’m her principal.” He pointed to the visitor badge affixed to the lapel of his modish jacket. “Surely you remember
me
.”

“‘Course I do,” said the guard, swiveling the monitor around. He pointed to the screen. “But the girl
you’re
referring to was registered as Katherine Bently, not Amy McNeil.”

Duncan and Rachel exchanged bewildered glances.

Kincaid sighed. “A mistake, sir, just as I authenticated initially. And one which you obviously failed to correct in the interim. Now please, these are her parents—”

“Alright, alright, I believe you,” insisted the guard, smiling now. After retrieving the necessary information, he issued Duncan and Rachel visitor badges.

“Bay four,” said the guard. “It’ll be the second door on your right.”

“‘Bay’ four?” Duncan said, insulted for his daughter. “What, is she getting her tires rotated?”

The guard shrugged, brandishing another impish grin at Kincaid as he walked by, as if the man were a drag queen instead of a self-respecting principal.

They paused in the doorway. Amy lay on a bed, appearing to be asleep. A male nurse was standing over her, adjusting a saline drip that had been inserted into her right hand.

The nurse saw them in the doorway and motioned for them to enter.

“I’ll leave you folks alone,” Kincaid said. “If someone should need to speak with me, I’ll be in the waiting area.” Then he disappeared down the hallway.

“You must be Katherine’s parents,” the nurse said with an appeasing smile. “She’s going to be fine. Probably just had the wind knocked out of her.”

Rolling her eyes, Rachel said, “Her name is Amy.” She reached into her purse and removed a pen. “Here,” she said to the nurse, “you might want to scribble that down somewhere.”

Taking in the scene, Duncan was beginning to wonder if Amy’s situation might be a little more serious than they’d been led to believe.

He followed Rachel to the bed, then bent down and kissed Amy’s cheek. “Hey, baby cakes,” he whispered in her ear.

Rachel, worry sagging from her face, softly placed a hand upon her daughter’s forehead.

The nurse was reading the admission form. “Well, there’s obviously some mistake. She’s been registered as Katherine Bently.” Hunching his shoulders, he looked up at them. “Name ring a bell?”

Disgusted, Rachel shook her head.

Although the name wasn’t arousing any carillons in Duncan’s belfry, he had to admit that it
was
giving the rope a slight tug.

“Being her parents and all,” Duncan said, “we’re almost positive her name is Amy McNeil.”

The nurse studied the admission form some more, then the papers beneath. “Well, what obviously happened is the people at admissions copied the information straight off the medic’s report. The ambulance driver just got his names mixed-up,” he said, as if that kind of cute little blunder happened all the time. He made some notations on the forms, referenced the new name, then handed the clipboard to Duncan. “Go ahead and look over the paperwork and feel free to make any other corrections. Once you’re through, just go ahead and give it to the doc. And don’t forget to go by the front desk and give those folks the right info. They’ll want to know what insurance to bill, as well.” He stepped out of the “bay” and began pulling the curtain closed. “Constance Strickland is the ER doc on duty. She’s already checked Amy out. I’ll see if I can track her down for you.”

“Thank you,” Rachel said.

“Yes, do that,” Duncan urged.

The nurse drew the curtain closed, leaving them to their privacy.

Duncan shuffled through the papers, wanting to confirm for himself what the nurse had just told them.

Rachel leaned over and cooed into Amy’s ear. “Mommy’s here, baby. Everything’s all right now.”

Amy stirred restlessly but remained asleep.

“They’ve got everything wrong,” Duncan said, comparing documents. He was seething now. “Fucking incompetents. None of this is right. Christ! This is someone else’s information! The phone number’s all wrong, the address—” He stared at the address.