The Cathar Secret: A Lang Reilly Thriller (9 page)

     "What's the problem?"

     The two women exchanged glances, each waiting for the other to speak before Paige said, "Look at his left arm."

     Wynton turned his son around in his grasp. "What?"

     "The numbers," Mrs. Jennins said, "See the marks?"

     Wynton focused his attention on a series of scratches on his son's arm. "Numbers?"

     "He found a pin or some sharp object somewhere, I'd guess," Mrs. Jennins commented.

     Closer inspection revealed she was right. He could make out the same inverted "V" for a one, plus 425, the crossed seven, and the triangle underneath.

     Wynton put the little boy down. "So? Hardly broke the skin. They'll heal in a day or two."

     Mrs. Jennins shook her head. "That's not the point. Marking his arm like that. The next step could be serious self-mutilation."

     Wynton tried not to grind his teeth. "Kids get scraped up every day. It's part of growing up. What's so unusual?"

     He had an uncomfortable feeling he knew the answer.

     The older woman sniffed her disapproval. "Not like that. He intentionally inflicted pain on himself."

     Paige spoke for the first time. "Don't you recognize them, the same numbers he wrote last night on his Doodle Bear?"

     Wynton had already dismissed the incident. "We don't know
he
wrote them last night. Besides, he hasn't learned either his numbers or his letters yet. Maybe some other child . . ."

     Mrs. Jennins gave that head shake again. "His teacher saw him do it. Or at least finish it before she could stop him."

     There was an uneven quality to Paige's voice as she added, "Wynton, those are the
same
numbers . . ."

     Wynton would not have been overly surprised to see a talking white rabbit holding a pocket watch. He was half certain he was in some sort of Wonderland, Lewis Carroll's or someone else's creation.

     "Look," he began reasonably, "I'm sure there's a perfectly normal explanation. Perhaps he saw those numbers somewhere . . ."

     "That hardly explains how a three-year-old learned to write them," Mrs. Jennins interjected, "let alone willfully inflict the discomfort of scratching them into his own skin."

     Wynton picked up the remaining chair, moved it next to Paige's across the desk from the older woman, and sat. He felt the same way he did when negotiations with another lawyer were proving futile. "Okay, so what do you suggest?"

     Mrs. Jennins nodded toward Paige. "I have already given Mrs. Charles the name of a woman, a child psychologist . . ."

     "A psychologist?"

     Wynton's voice was a full octave louder than he had intended.

     "I think it would be advisable," Mrs. Jennins said.

     "But, my son isn't . . ."

     "Your son has shown a definite tendency toward something abnormal, possibly harmful to himself."

     Wynton took a deep breath, suppressing a number of things he wanted to say, none of which would be flattering to Mrs. Jennins in particular or to mental health professionals in general.

     Instead, he glared across the desk. "There's nothing wrong with Wynn-Three."

     The older woman gave that audible inhalation again. "Well, that's certainly your decision to make but for St. Philip's Day Care . . ."

     Paige took Wynton's hand in hers while looking intently across the desk. "Mrs. Jennins, could you give us a few minutes?"

     Mrs. Jennins took a long look at Paige, and then at Wynton. "Certainly. I'll be in the hall."

     She stepped outside shutting the door behind her.

     "Paige," Wynton began, "this is nuts! Just because Wynn-Three makes a few marks on his own arm, maybe not even real numbers . . . I mean, there's nothing wrong with the kid."

     Paige squeezed his hand, gazing intently into his face. "Of course not."

     "But why . . . ?"

     "Wynton," she said with the tone of a teacher addressing a less than bright student, "in a few months we have to apply to all the private schools for admission to pre-kindergarten next year which will mean admission into kindergarten, first grade, and so on. Those schools are intensely competitive, turn down ten or more children for every one they admit. I wouldn't want his record here at St. Philip's to have something unfavorable in it. Public school is
not
an acceptable alternative."

     No, it wasn't. Not from what Wynton knew of the Atlanta Public Schools system. Assaults, arms, and drugs were more common than literacy. Few of the educators he had seen on TV spoke correct English and Atlanta only missed last place in national test scores thanks to the District of Columbia. A private education was no longer a luxury in the city; it was an educational necessity.

     He began to understand. "You mean if we don't subject Wynn-Three to some head shrinker, he might not get in?"

     "That's exactly what I mean."

     Great. Now in addition to the personality and aptitude tests and interviews of three- and four-year-olds conducted by private schools overwhelmed with applicants, his son would also have to obtain some sort of seal of approval from
Psychology Today.
Sending Wynn-Three to St. Philip's Day Care had been a mistake, he saw with twenty-twenty hindsight.

     "What happens if the shrink decides Wynn-Three is some sort of a nut case, a serial cookie snatcher, or teddy bear molester?"

     She searched his face, hoping he was only making a bad joke. "He'll be fine."

     Wasn't that what he had said just minutes ago? He nodded in defeat. "Okay, call the woman."

480 Lafayette Drive

An Hour Later

M
ARCIE ROLLENS CAME OVER JUST AS
Paige parked the SUV in the driveway and was unbuckling Wynn-Three from his car seat. A few years Paige's junior, she and her husband rented a garage apartment a few doors down the street. Having no children of her own, she frequently babysat Wynn-Three.

     "Marwie!" The little boy exclaimed excitedly, arms outstretched. He was unable so far to pronounce the hiss of the C in her name, though there was no problem pronouncing the sound in other contexts. "Marwie come to see me!"

     Marcie leaned down to exchange hugs with him. "I did, I did indeed come to see you!" She turned to Paige. "Actually I decided to take a break from the computer. Seeing my very favorite kid was a bonus."

     Paige shut the door of the BMW. "Things slow in the world of high society?"

     Marcie was a reporter for
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
's Living section which included social news. Although Paige surmised the job didn't pay a lot, at least Marcie got to work from home.

     "Marwie come!" Wynn-Three had a two hand hold on her arm. "Come inside!"

     Paige smiled. Marcie was never too busy to play with the child; and, she suspected, spoil him whenever the opportunity arose. "Wynn, Marcie has work to do."

     Wynn-Three reluctantly released his grasp.

     Marcie sighed. "As for society, high or otherwise, there's not a lot happening. The galas for multiple sclerosis, breast cancer, and heart disease are over. The rest of the disease balls will finish up soon. Debutante season hasn't gotten started. Jeez, but I get tired of fat ladies in evening gowns, the divine bovines paying a fortune to elbow each other for space in the society mags. I'd take a pay cut to handle a nice, bloody murder, even a decent fight between city council members."

     "Look! I was bad." Wynn-Three was holding up his arm, impatient with the conversation between adults that excluded him.

     Marcie squatted, sitting on her heels as she winked up at Paige. "Just like a man: can't stand being ignored by women." She took Wynn-Three's arm in her hand. "Oh, my! Did a cat scratch you? Did it hurt?"

     Wynn-Three nodded. "Put num'ers on my arm."

     Her expression went from mock-serious to curious as she cocked her page boy haircut head to get a better view. "Numbers?
You
put them on your
own
arm?"

     Wynn-Three nodded solemnly.

     There was a question on her face as she shifted her attention to Paige. "News to me. I didn't know he could do his numbers yet."

     Paige extended a hand to help her neighbor to her feet. "News to me, too. It's weird. If you have the time and can tolerate my coffee, I'll tell you about it as soon as I put Wynn-Three down for his nap."

     Marcie gave a glance in the direction of her house as though her editor might be waiting there for her. "Why not? It's got to beat writing about other people's parties."

     A protesting Wynn-Three tucked away and coffee bubbling in the percolator, Marcie plopped down on a kitchen chair and produced a pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket of the man's shirt she wore over a pair of jeans. "I suppose your lord and master would not approve."

     Paige snorted derisively as she retrieved a pair of mugs from a cabinet. "Comic understatement. If you recall, he nearly went into orbit when you lit up out in the back yard last summer. Tobacco didn't really bother him before Wynn-Three was born. Now, he's convinced the child will suffer from secondhand smoke if someone in the next county takes a puff. He even worries if he's around someone with the habit,
afraid he somehow brings the effects home to his son."

     Marcie chuckled, putting the cigarettes away. "You are married to a male womb."

     Paige was pouring the coffee. "I'm sure he's not the only man overly protective of his firstborn, but it can be a pain in the ass. Sugar or sugar and cream?"

     "Sweetener only." Marcie leaned forward to accept the extended mug. "So, what's the big deal about Wynn-Three scratching himself? Have you told Wynton yet?"

     Paige sat at the kitchen table, slipping off her shoes and extending her legs to put her feet on an adjacent chair. "He knows. The woman at St. Philip's insisted I call him. Talk about overly protective! Anyway, starting last night . . ."

     Twenty minutes later Marcie stood and put her empty mug in the kitchen sink. "That's truly weird. And you have no idea where those numbers came from?"

     Paige turned the faucet on, rinsing out her own mug. "None."

     "You sure he can't write any other numbers?"

     Paige transferred both mugs from sink to dishwasher. "His teacher at St. Philip's tried that as soon as she saw the marks on his arm. He has no clue as to numbers or letters."

     "I'd be surprised if he did. Most kids don't start learning to read or write until kindergarten at the earliest. But he's a smart little boy."

     Paige looked at her friend, uncertain if the remark was sincere or only offered out of kindness. "Mother's pride aside, he's not
that
smart, not enough to teach himself. He had to have seen those numbers somewhere."

     "I guess."

     Marcie's attention was drifting toward the kitchen table where a box of crayons lay next to a coloring book. "Wynn-Three's work station?"

     "From last night. Keeps him in sight and out of trouble while Wynton and I fix dinner. I should have made him take it back to his room but we were running late this morning."

     Marcie was thumbing through the book. "Smart or not, Rembrandt he ain't."

     The she stopped flipping, staring at a single sheet.

     Paige stopped wiping the counter top. "What?"

     Before Marcie could answer, Paige took the two steps that brought her beside the younger woman. Her eyes followed Marcie's to the page where Dick and Jane were broadcasting huge smiles as they played in a sand box. The only color Wynn-Three had applied to the page was yellow, a large spot of it on the boy's shirt.

     "Looks like some sort of sheriff's or law enforcement emblem to me," Marcie observed.

     "More like just a blob," Paige said.

     Marcie pointed. "No, not a blob. See, it has six points like some cops' badges."

     Paige was surprised at the relief she felt. Marcie's sudden interest in Wynn-Three's coloring book had sparked some sort of irrational fear as to what her son might put on paper next.

     "Blobs, badges, whatever," she said a little more airily than she felt, "it's only a kid's coloring book."

     Marcie took a long last look before closing the cover. "I guess so. Well, thanks for the coffee. It's back to the society pages, the social climbers, and Parvenu Avenue."

     Through the window in the kitchen door, Paige watched Marcie walk down the driveway and turn toward her house. Something in Wynn-Three's coloring book had startled her, Paige had seen it in her face.

     But what?

     Paige turned back to the sandbox scene. Other than the burst of yellow on the boy's breast, nothing else had been colored. She leafed backwards, noting nothing but scribbles from every crayon in the box.

     Whatever Marcie had seen was eluding her.

498 Rear Lafayette Drive

A Few Minutes Later

A
T HOME, MARCIE STARED BLANKLY AT
the mountain scene from last summer's vacation that occupied the computer screen when not in use. Only a part of her attention was on the e-mails that had arrived during her short absence. A major exhibition of works by some contemporary abstract artist she did not recognize was coming to the High Museum of Art, the opening to be kicked off with a five-hundred-dollar-a-plate black-tie dinner. The attachment provided a preview of some of his works, "art" that seemed to consist of canvasses painted a single color with titles like "Rage" or "Depression." People paid thousands of dollars for what any reasonably competent house painter did to Sheetrock every day! Her natural cynicism told her that if P. T. Barnum's maxim still applied, the High Museum would be filed with suckers that night. She scrolled through two more announcements, hardly reading either. Something else was occupying her thoughts, something unidentifiable that skulked around the shadows of her consciousness. From experience, she knew if she concentrated on something else, it would come to her.