The Faithful (4 page)

Shoving the previous night’s empty bottle into the garbage bin, he’d asked his son what was on tap for the day. But his attempt at cheeriness had fallen flat. Without a word, Jack had shoved a Costco bottle of ibuprofen across the counter and poured his dad a glass of water.

“I was thinking maybe we’d gotten to the point where he just wouldn’t talk to me anymore. But I kept pushing until he told me about those cyclo-cross races going on at the Clatsop County Fair. He loves those damn races . . .” Mr. Barbetti stopped, choking up.

“Would you like some water?” Carl asked, but he shook his head and took a sip of amber liquid instead.

“Jack was so excited when I said we could go,” he said hoarsely. “It’s been so long since he acted like a kid . . .”

“Since your wife passed away,” Josh said quietly.

“Yeah. Emma . . . maybe marrying her was a mistake; she was only just out of high school. But we couldn’t keep our hands off each other, and you know, being Catholic.” He shrugged. “My mom used to hold her rosary in one hand while she beat me with the other. Marriage was the only option.”

And he’d loved Emma, he told them. He’d loved her deliriously and blindly, and with his whole damn heart. For a time, they’d been happy. She’d painted, and he’d worked at the sawmill—and if he had too much to drink on occasion . . . well, in the early years it was under control.

“But Emma, she had her demons, too. Some days she seemed happy with our life; other days she wanted to move to an ashram in India or live ‘off the grid’ in the Ozark Mountains or some damn thing. Out of the blue, she’d disappear. She’d go for groceries and not come back for days.” He stopped, blinking into his glass.

“That must have been difficult,” Josh prompted.

“I was out of my fucking mind, thinking she was dead in a ditch or something,” Mr. Barbetti agreed. “But she always came home. She’d be bruised, exhausted, covered in filth . . .”

“Any idea where she’d been?” Carl asked.

Mr. Barbetti looked down. “I learned not to ask. But that was all before Jack came along. She was a good mom to him . . .”

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Barbetti,” Josh said softly.

He shuddered and drained his glass. “They found her car in the Barview Jetty off the 101. She drove full bore across the damn beach and straight into the water.”

“Mr. Barbetti,” Josh redirected as gently as he could. “Can you tell me about the cyclo-cross races? You said Jack was excited to go?”

He scrubbed hard at his face, pushing his hair up into spikes dampened by his tears. “Yeah, Jack was really excited. But I knew it was a mistake the moment we got there. It was so loud and hot in the arena.”

They had found seats at the back, and Mr. Barbetti had rolled his jacket into a ball and used it as a pillow.

“I was just trying to get through it without puking,” he admitted. “The next thing I knew, Jack was asking me for money to buy a hot dog.” He rubbed his eyes again. “I gave him a twenty, asked him to get me a Coke. I didn’t even watch him leave . . .”

After a moment, Mr. Barbetti turned glum eyes on Josh. “That’s everything I remember.”

“Thank you.” Josh glanced at Carl, who gave a small nod of encouragement. “This might seem like a strange question, so bear with me. Is your son, um, special in any way?”

“Special? What do you mean?”

“Does Jack have any abilities that would be considered abnormal?”

“He’s really smart. Tested at a genius level. The school keeps talking about skipping a grade, but he doesn’t want to move past his friends. Like that?”

Josh frowned. “That might be significant. But does he have any, um . . . psychic abilities? Like mind reading, or predicting the future, or being able to move objects with his mind?”

“Moving objects with his
mind
? Can people seriously do that?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“No,” Mr. Barbetti said with a smirk. “He doesn’t read my mind or change the channel without the remote.”

“What about when he was younger? Did he ever talk about dreams that came true, or ghosts visiting him, or anything?”

That seemed to stop him cold. He blinked at Josh, cheeks going pale. “Shit. Yeah, he did.”

Josh leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. No matter how many times he did this, it never got any easier. “What kind of ability does Jack have, Mr. Barbetti?”

“I don’t think he
has
any ability,” he said defensively. “It was a long time ago and I don’t see what this has to do with Jack’s kidnapping.”

“Please, just humor me,” Josh said.

Mr. Barbetti grumbled and reached for the bottle. It clinked against the edge of the glass as he poured himself another three fingers. He took a hefty swallow and Josh stifled the urge to beg him to go easy. Despite the amount of alcohol that must have been coursing through his veins, his eyes were surprisingly sober.

“When Jack was three, he started seeing people who weren’t there. He was saying all kinds of wacked-out things about angels and demons and something he called ‘the White.’ We took him to a priest. He wanted to do an exorcism.” He drained his glass, and Josh noticed his hands were shaking.

“Emma freaked out. She hauled us out of there, said no way was that priest getting near Jack. She told me she’d gone through the same thing when she was a kid. Spooks, she called them. They’d tell her to do or say something, and then laugh when she got in trouble. She said it took a long time to figure out no one else could see them. But she learned how to control them, shut them out. Or so she said. Now I have my doubts . . .”

“Since your wife’s suicide,” Josh said softly.

“My wife didn’t kill herself. Suicide is a mortal sin.”

Josh noted the stubborn set of Mr. Barbetti’s shoulders and nodded. “All right. What happened with Jack?”

“Emma said she could teach him to block them out. I don’t know all that went on between them; I didn’t get involved. But Jack stopped talking about that kind of stuff and Emma was happy. She said Jack was really strong.”

“Mr. Barbetti, do you think Jack was still seeing these ‘spooks’?”

“He never said so. Why?”

“Do you think he would have talked to anyone else? A teacher at school, or his friends?” Josh pulled a pen and notepad out of his breast pocket.

“I don’t know. Maybe. What’s this about?”

“I need to talk to Jack’s friends. I’ll also need access to his medical and school records. Has he seen a psychologist or anyone else? If so, I’ll need to talk to him or her as well.”

“What? Why?”

“I want to know if anyone had knowledge of Jack’s abilities.” Josh snapped his fingers and made a note in his book. “The priest you took Jack to. What church was it?”

“What the hell is this about?”

“Sorry,” Josh said. He took a deep breath and pocketed his notebook. “For the past decade I’ve been heading a large missing-children investigation. Since the 1960s, over seven hundred kids have gone missing across the US. I believe, although not everyone agrees, these cases are linked. And I think your son might be one of them.”

“How? Why?”

“Because all these children have some form of ESP, whether it’s telepathy, precognition, telekinesis, or something else.”

“I don’t know what those things are. You seriously think Jack was kidnapped because he used to talk to ghosts?”

“Yes, I do. That’s not the only connection. The lamb’s blood left at the scene is a major clue. Sometimes there’s just a drop, sometimes more. But it’s always there, like a calling card of some kind.”

“Seven
hundred
kids? Are you fucking
serious
?”

“Seven hundred and seventy-eight, actually. Not including your son.”

“Why is this not on CNN or something?”

“Because over fifteen thousand kids go missing
every year
. Seven hundred and seventy-eight kids seems like a lot, but over the course of fifty years it’s just a drop in the bucket.”

“Fifty years? This has been going on for
fifty years
?”

“Yes, sir. I believe so.”

“So . . . what? Do you know who took Jack?”

“I wish I did. I suspect this is being done by a large organization. They have a lot of resources, and many people involved. The kids always disappear without a trace. I believe they are being taken because of their special abilities, but for what purpose? I just don’t know. But I do know one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I strongly believe your son is still alive. I think they all are. No bodies have ever turned up, not ever. Not
one
. So that gives me hope. And if we can find just one of them, I think we’ll find them all.”

“But you’ve never found
any
of them, right?”

“That’s true. But it only takes one.” Josh spoke with more confidence than he felt. It had been ten years since he first linked the cases, and his confidence was pretty much shot. But he would never give up.

“Somehow, this organization is finding out about these kids. Finding out what they can do. If I can figure out how they’re getting their information, that just might be the bit of thread I need to unravel this whole thing.”

CHAPTER SIX

“The telekinetic kids were extra special. They got taken somewhere else.”

“What? Rowan . . . Red! Can you hear me?”

“They were the Inner Circle . . .”

“Rowan? You are freaking me out! Wake up!” Dan sounded like he was yelling through miles of pillowy cotton.

Slap!

Distant fire prickled my right cheek.

“Uhhhhh . . .”

“Rowan, wake up!”

Slap!

The left cheek this time.

“Whaaaaa . . .”

I couldn’t open my eyes. My eyelids had bricks on them. Why were there bricks on my eyelids?

“Rowan!” Dan’s worried face swam into focus, hovering over mine.

“Oh, shit. They
are
open.”

“What?”

“My eyes.”

“What? Can you see me? Are you all right?” Dan’s worried face floated above me like a balloon.

“You have a booger in your right nostril.”

“Red, seriously . . . what the
hell
?”

“Did you slap me?” My cheeks were burning.

“Yeah, sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. Are you okay?”

“I could fire you for that.”

“You go right ahead. Can you sit up?”

“I think so.”

He helped me anyway, supporting my back and not letting go until he was certain I wasn’t going to flop backward and concuss myself on the floor.

“What the hell happened?”

“I don’t know. That card . . .”

“Right.” He grabbed it off the floor. “
‘Ricordare, Ritornare.’
I didn’t know you spoke Italian?”

“I don’t.”

“Then how did you know it meant ‘Remember, Return’?”

“I don’t know. Can I see it?” Dan pulled it into his chest, clearly wondering if I would pass out at the mere sight of it. Again.

“I’m okay, I promise.”

He handed the card over. There was nothing else on it. Just those two words, in bold print on white card stock. How sinister could that possibly be?

And yet dread was pounding its spikes through my temples like coffin nails. I handed the card back to Dan with a shudder.

“Get rid of it for me?”

“Of course.” He stuffed it into the pocket of his cargo pants and helped me to my feet. I was shaky; my legs felt like rubber. Dan shoved a chair under me and I sat down with an embarrassed laugh.

“Sorry. I really don’t know what that was all about.”

“Do you think you should go see a doctor? Maybe your blood pressure dipped or something. My mom gets that a lot, then she falls over just like you did.”

“Isn’t she in her eighties?” I lifted an eyebrow in his direction.

“Well, yeah . . .”

“Thanks, Dan. I think I’m all right.”

He was still frowning with worry.

“Are the latest CCD images in?”

I waited him out. Dan was a smart man. He understood the futility of arguing with a stubborn redhead. He gave in with a sigh.

“About twenty minutes ago. Would you like me to run them through the star catalog match?”

“That would be great.” I tried to stand and realized just how shaky I still was. “Maybe I’ll head home early. Do you mind?”

“I think that’s the first sensible thing you’ve said in the last hour. Go home, get some rest, do whatever else it is you do when you’re not busy being a science nerd.”

I laughed. “Okay, thanks.”

He helped me put on my coat and handed me my purse.

“See you tomorrow night? Wait! Are you sure you don’t want me to check . . .”

“I’ve got it.” And with that he pushed me through the door and closed it in my face.

Like most medium-sized towns, Las Cruces, New Mexico, had been hit hard by the economic downturn.

During the real estate crash, I took advantage of a steady job and a hefty savings account to buy my first home. A year before, the house would have been way above my means. I had patiently worked through the red tape that came with buying a foreclosed home, and was proud to be in my thirties and mortgage free.

The house was located in a newer subdivision off El Camino Real on the north end of Las Cruces. The development was full of beige stucco houses with Spanish-tile roofs. In the back corner, my house stuck out like a sore thumb.

It looked like a child had put it together. Five white blocks of varying sizes were stacked in a random way and then linked by a central courtyard. The inside had two bedrooms and a den spread out across twenty-two hundred square feet.

It took almost forty-five minutes to get home from the White Sands Missile Range, but it was worth it to live off the base. I had lived on base at WSMR for six months after my transfer, and that was plenty.

After getting my masters in aeronautics and astronautics from MIT, I had moved the forty minutes to Westford, Massachusetts, to work on improving the Haystack Long Range Imaging Radar. After more than a decade of greenery, apple orchards, and New England winters, the move to New Mexico three years ago had been a huge adjustment.

Las Cruces, also known as “City of Crosses,” was a combination of Old Mexico and Old West. Modern conveniences like Albertsons and the drive-through Starbucks were slapped on top of the old town like a fresh coat of paint that barely covered the rough grain of the wood underneath. The Rio Grande cut a path across the west side of the town, and to the east the Organ Mountains stood sentry like ancient guards.

Due to proximity, the city housed many employees of the White Sands Missile Range and the White Sands Test Facility, as well as students from New Mexico State University. It was through NMSU that I had just completed my PhD.

The eastern sky was aglow as I pulled my yellow FJ Cruiser into the garage. I had held it together during the drive home, but as I let myself into the kitchen, I began to shake. The walls pushed inward, threatening to collapse on top of me like a weighted blanket. Fighting the urge to escape back into the emerging daylight, I took a big, trembling breath. The walls receded on my exhale, so I did it again. And then again.

Light. I needed light.

The house was as I had left it, but as I moved from room to room turning on lamps, nothing felt the same. I kept expecting to see something out of place: a painting hanging askew, a vase tipped over, the corner of a rug turned up. But there was nothing.

I finished in the living room, looking around as though I were a guest. The couches were made of buttery leather, accented with orange and plum throw cushions. The table lamps were orange glass, and a revolving rosewood coffee table stood in the center of the room. The artwork was bright and abstract, by artists such as Darlene Keeffe and Sharon Cummings.

Most of the furniture in the house was midcentury modern, a style I found pleasing to the eye. I had purchased the furniture and artwork with studied care; through time, I’d cobbled together a collection that made me feel at home.

Yet it all looked like an illusion. Like a stage preset with furniture and props. I stood with my hands on the back of the couch, waiting.

Waiting for what?

I could feel the anticipation in the surrounding stillness, like a held breath. The air throbbed in time with my heartbeat.

What actors would step out of the wings? And what story would they have to tell?

But the stillness remained. For once there was no one lurking in the dark corners, waiting to torment me.

It was
inside
. Like that stupid slogan about being the change you wanted to see in the world. The change was happening within.

I closed my eyes, shaking my head in denial.

Ricordare, Ritornare.

There was a cesspool of toxic junk churning deep inside me. It was spinning faster and faster, threatening to spill over the sides and burn me with memories.

Remember, Return
.

My jaw clenched convulsively. My tongue glued itself to the roof of my mouth. The tendons in my neck went as taut as violin strings. Was I having a seizure? I crumpled onto the couch, curling in on myself.

Ricordare! Ritornare!

“No! I’m not ready!” I screamed, terrifying myself even more. What? Ready for what?

The tinkling of wind chimes. The earthy scent of hay and horses.

“Rowan, Rowan

Under the apple tree

Rowan, Rowan

Remember, return to me!”

A child’s rhyme. A skipping-rope chant. I could hear the slap of the rope hitting the ground. Again and again.

“
Rowan
(slap!)
Rowan
(slap!)

Under the
(slap!)
apple tree
(slap!)

Rowan
(slap!)
Rowan
(slap!)

Remember,
(slap)
return to me!
(slap, slap!)”

The rope was red plastic. It glowed in the last rays of the setting sun, flaming for a moment as it arced up over my head, and then winking out as it dove down into the shadows.

My feet found the air at just the right moment, missing the rope as it passed beneath them. I jumped and landed, jumped and landed.

My body was light as air, small and sturdy and perfect. I was burning with childfire.

“Rowan, Rowan.”

With one last devilish wink, the sun dropped behind the mountains.

“Under the apple tree.”

They were green and rocky and impossibly tall.

“Rowan, Rowan.”

Before my child-eyes everything faded.

“Remember, return to me!”

Leaving nothing but shadows.