The Faithful (6 page)

And the answer to that could drive a man to drink.

“And who trusts a man who doesn’t drink?” Sumner muttered in his best John Wayne voice as he pulled to a stop by the front stairs and cut the engine.

The silence descended like a fresh blanket of snow. There was no one about; it must have been dinnertime. Was he in the dining hall? Sumner could picture him, encased in his black robes, joyful amid the heat and noise. So many young and old bodies crammed together, sharing the pleasure of mealtime. Sumner felt hollow, achy. But was it with fear, or desire?

Then he saw him. He was enveloped in the darkness of the porch. His black robes were fluttering in the evening breeze. They danced an elegant ballet around his slender frame, contrasting sharply with his stillness.

Father Narda’s face was hidden in the growing shadows, a black moonscape. He raised one hand, though whether it was in benediction or in condemnation, Sumner didn’t know.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“I’ve spoken to Father Santos at St. Mary’s. He’s adamant that knowledge of Jack’s ghostly encounters never left the sanctity of the church.” Josh sat down across from Carl at a two-person table in Dundee’s Doughnuts.

“Don’t you feel like a bit of a cliché?” He lifted an eyebrow at the coffee and doughnut.

“You should try one; they’re the best doughnuts in Oregon.” Carl took a hefty bite, leaving sugar-glaze crumbles in his mustache. Josh handed him a napkin from the dispenser.

“Just coffee for me,” he said to the waitress as she approached their table. He turned over the ceramic cup in front of him, and waited while she poured. “I think the church is a dead end. It’s not like all the kids were Catholic.”

“But did all of them attend some kind of church? Maybe that’s the link.”

“I’ve thought of that. First of all, not all the families were religious. But even if there were no atheists in the bunch, there’s no way all those families consulted a religious leader about their child’s abilities. And even if they had, we’re talking about a bunch of different religious organizations.” Josh took a sip of his coffee, and then shook his head. “No, I just don’t see it.”

“I don’t see a connection between these kids at all, Josh. Well, other than the ESP factor.”

“They all disappeared without a trace,” Josh said, ticking off each connection with his fingers. “No bodies have ever been found, they were all kids between the ages of five and twelve, lamb’s blood was left at the scene of each disappearance . . .”

“No other forensic evidence?”

“Absolutely nothing. No fingerprints, no fibers, no DNA. These kids just
vanished
.”

“The lamb’s blood seems religious to me. Is that Catholic?”

“It’s Old Testament. Book of Exodus. The Jews were instructed to paint lamb’s blood on their doorposts to avoid the Plague of the Firstborn. So the firstborn Egyptian children died, while the Jewish kids were spared.”

“Ah, right. Passover?”

“That’s right.”

“Were all these kids the eldest in their families? That might be a link.”

Josh shook his head. “Nope.”

“But this group you’re picturing—you think they’re religious?”

“That’s my guess. I’ve never found an organized religion that links itself to supernatural powers. But maybe some kind of cult?”

“But you’ve never found any hint of them. What does that say?”

“Either they have enough wealth and resources to remain below the radar—”

“Sounds like a conspiracy theory. The absence of evidence proves they exist.”

“
Or
they don’t exist and I’m off my rocker.”

“Right.”

The two agents sat mulling it over in silence.

“Okay, Josh. Let’s assume you’re right and some kind of cult is kidnapping kids with ESP all over the country. Where are they hiding them?”

“I have no idea.”

“What do they want these kids for?”

“I don’t know.”

“And of course, how are they finding them in the first place?”

Josh raked his fingers through his hair. “Welcome to my life.”

Carl leaned back in his chair and smiled at the waitress as she refilled their cups. When she left, he looked at Josh with weary eyes.

“You know a lot of guys in Washington think you’re crazy.”

“Yup.”

“That you’re wasting your career on some kind of flimsy conspiracy theory?”

“And what do you think, Carl?”

He shrugged. “I’ve learned to trust my instincts, and put stock in the instincts of my fellow agents as well. You’re a good agent, Josh. You earned your stripes on the Jessup case, and on the Wineheart murders. You deserved that promotion to senior special agent.”

“But?”

“Well, on this one you might indeed be off your rocker. I don’t know.” He watched Josh for a moment. “It’s personal for you, isn’t it?”

Josh took a sip of his coffee and nodded.

“I was twenty, my first six months with the sheriff’s office in Elkhorn, Nebraska. I’d never handled anything more serious than traffic violations and domestics.” Josh pulled out his wallet and slipped the photo out of a credit card compartment. He slid it across the table. Her hair flamed in the shaft of sunlight filtering through a crack in the blinds.

“Ryanne Jervis. She was a month past her seventh birthday when she disappeared. I found her backpack in a creek a mile from her home. It was covered with blood, which of course was later determined to be from a lamb. No trace of her was ever found.”

“I assume she had ESP?”

Josh nodded. “She was the outcast at her school. She knew things she shouldn’t have. She talked to people who weren’t there. Kids thought she was weird, spooky. Some people thought she was a witch.

“Her mom, Sherry, was a real piece of work. Sexy as hell, and she used it for all it was worth. She slept with half the town, including plenty of men who should have known better, like the mayor.

“She had Ryanne when she was nineteen. No father listed on her birth certificate, and no one ever owned up to it, although there was plenty of speculation. You know how small towns can be.

“Anyway, when Ryanne disappeared her mom went on self-destruct. I tried to save her. Hauled her into rehab three times. Kept her daughter’s case going, even though there was no evidence and there were no leads. I became obsessed with finding Ryanne. I got my BA in criminology and eventually my master’s as well, all to gain the skills I needed to find her.

“And then Sherry Jervis hanged herself on May 24, 1996. Ryanne’s fifteenth birthday. I came home from her funeral and submitted my application to the FBI that same afternoon.”

Once again, Josh pulled something out of his wallet and passed it across the table. It was a piece of paper, folded over many times and soft with age.

“That’s a photocopy of the original, of course. I carry it with me wherever I go.”

Carl unfolded it and read the short note inside. Josh had read it so many times it was committed to memory.

Dearest Josh,

I can’t. It just hurts too bad.

If you ever find my baby, please tell her I’m sorry. Tell her I loved her.

Thank you for being my only friend. Thank you for caring about my sweet girl.

I’m sorry.

Love, Sherry

“Damn.” With a shake of his head, Carl handed back the note. Josh folded it and tucked it back into its home inside his wallet, along with the school photo of Ryanne Jervis.

“Did they all go to public school?” Carl was shouting.

“What?” Josh rolled over and looked at the clock on the bedside table. The red numbers said 3:24. He was completely disoriented. The room was black save the glow through the curtains from the illuminated walking path along the beach.

Shilo Inn. Seaside, Oregon. Right.

Carl Robertson was breathing hard on the other end of the phone. Josh had answered it automatically, before he’d pulled himself out of the pit of his dreams.

“What did you say?”

“Did they all go to public school? Josh, is that the link?”

“Well, yes. But the school administration and teachers were thoroughly investigated in each case.”

Josh sat up and rubbed a hand across his face. Something was niggling at him. His body knew before his brain caught up, and his heart began to gallop inside the walls of his chest. He forced his mind to flip through the files like a stack of cards. One by one, faster and faster, their faces flashed before his eyes.

Yes, they had all gone to public school. The schools were all different, of course. Different states, different socioeconomic regions.

But they were all
public
schools.

And was there anything that linked public schools across the nation?

“Oh my God.” How in the world had he missed it?

“Josh?”

“Standardized testing!”

“What?”

Josh flung the blankets off and launched himself at the small table where his laptop sat charging. He flipped it open and waited impatiently for Safari to load.

“Standardized testing!” He propped the phone against his ear and typed frantically into the Google bar. Sure enough, there it was.

“The public school standardized testing started in 1965 with the introduction of the Elementary and Secondary Education Act. It tests all public school children yearly from kindergarten through seventh grades. 1965! The first missing kid was Johnny Stewart, from Albany, New York, in late 1965!
Holy shit,
Carl!”

“So all these kids would have taken this test?”

“You bet! Every public school in the
country
has to administer these tests.”

“Wow. I’m afraid to ask, but . . . what organization runs it?”

“Shit, Carl.
Shit!
Federal government. Department of Education.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line, and Josh half expected Carl to simply hang up and from that moment forward pretend Josh Metcalf didn’t exist. After all, who wanted to go up against the Feds? Even when you
were
the Feds. Hell,
especially
when you were the Feds.

“I hope you’re wrong, Josh. Because if this is true, it’s going to get us killed.”

CHAPTER NINE

“I don’t get it. You’re remembering new things about your childhood?” Dan asked. He looked strangely out of place on my living-room couch in his cargo pants and faded blue sweatshirt. It came as a shock to realize no man had ever sat on my couch, let alone a rugged science geek drinking Coors at nine in the morning.

“Maybe. I don’t know.” I was too agitated to sit and instead moved back and forth through the living room, flapping my arms like a flightless bird.

“Red, sit down and have a beer. You’re making me nervous, and you’re burning a hole in the carpet over there.”

I sat, wrapping my arms around myself and ignoring the proffered can.

“It’s not really like remembering. It’s more like
remembering
I
forgot
. Does that make any sense?”

“Uh, not really, no.”

“My whole childhood, where I grew up, where I went to school, my dad . . . I don’t know. It’s all gone foggy somehow. Like the sharp corners have gone soft and spongy. Does
that
make sense?”

“Once again, I’m going to go with no.”

“Do I sound totally insane?”

“Is that a trick question?”

I flopped back against the velvet cushions. “I don’t know what to do!”

“Once again, I think you should have a beer.”

“I don’t drink.”

“Seriously? Sugar is your only vice?” He tossed a can in my direction. It landed with a cold thump in my lap.

“Seems like now might be the perfect time to start,” Dan said.

Popping the top on the can, I asked, “What have I told you about my childhood? Eeeew, that tastes terrible!” Dan rolled his eyes, then sat forward and plucked the Coors out of my hand.

“Well, I know all about your life at MIT, from what you studied to that chick you banged sophomore year—”

“I never!”

He laughed, ducking just in time. My pillow missile missed his head by an inch.

“Well, one can dream, and it got you smiling. But seriously, you’ve told me a lot about your college life, and about working at Westford, but before that?” He shook his head. “Not much. I know your dad died when you were eighteen. Heart attack, wasn’t it?”

I nodded, but uncertainly. Closing my eyes, I tried to recall the hospital where I had said good-bye to the only parent I’d ever known. The beeping of the machinery, the astringent smell of cleaning fluid mixed with vomit. These memories had been permanently etched in my mind. They were trauma memories, infused with sharp grief and the prolonged loneliness that came after.

But they were no longer clear.

With my mind’s eye, I looked down at the still form on the bed, trying to recall the man who had raised me, then left me to face adulthood alone.

There was a cloud of gray hair, matted against the pillow. But the face was a blur. Was his nose straight or hooked, big or small? Did he have a strong chin, or did it recede into the folds of his neck? Did he have my pale skin, or was he more tanned?

Why couldn’t I remember?

The panic crested inside me like a wave filled with malevolent, biting sharks. I launched myself off the couch, startling Dan into spilling beer on his pants. “Oh my God, Dan. I can’t remember my dad!”

“What?”

“I can’t . . . remember . . . my
dad
!”

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for a picture!” I yelled, continuing to pull books off the built-in shelves surrounding the flat-screen TV and throwing them behind me like a dog digging for a bone.

“Whoa! Watch out!” Dan ducked aside as an Astronomy 305 textbook flew toward him.

“Where are my photo albums? I can’t . . . aha!” I pulled a thick album out from the bottom shelf, sat down on the floor, and opened it over my crossed legs.

“Here we go, let’s see . . . no, this is at MIT.” Shoving the album aside, I turned back to the shelves. Dan picked it up and flipped through it.

“Ooh, sexy.” He held up the album, and I glanced back. It was a group shot taken at Carson Beach during the summer of 2005. While the others around me looked tanned and fit, my skin was albino white, my hair a lit candle in the summer sun. I grabbed the album away from him.

“Yeah, I was twenty-three. I haven’t worn a bikini since.”

“You should. Maybe you’d get a boyfriend.”

“Ha-ha,” I murmured as I continued to yank books and toss them aside. Finally I sat back on my haunches.

“What the hell?”

“No more photo albums?” Dan asked, although the answer was obvious.

“What did I do with them?”

“I don’t have any albums, either. All my pictures are digital ones on my computer and phone.”

“Sure, me too, for my recent photos. But where are the albums from my childhood? I used to . . . I mean, I could have sworn . . .”

“Could they be in a box somewhere? Maybe in your garage?”

“There’s nothing in the garage but my car. I unpacked everything when I moved in.”

“Maybe you lost them in the move from Westford, but you didn’t notice until now?”

“Maybe.”

“Okay, try this. When was the last time you remember seeing them?”

Closing my eyes, I tried to picture the albums. But just like my dad’s face, they were hazy. I shook my head and looked up at Dan from the pile of books, a drowning woman looking to be saved.

“I don’t know.”

Dan’s brow was furrowed. He grabbed my hands and pulled me back onto the couch.

“Listen, maybe I should take you to your doctor?”

“Jesus, Dan. I don’t have a brain tumor or anything.”

“I’m sure you don’t, but it couldn’t hurt to get checked out, right?”

“Dan, come on. You saw that note; you probably still have it in your pocket! Something in that note has
triggered
something inside me.”

He opened his mouth to argue, and then shut it and handed me another beer. This time I drank the whole thing.

“Let’s be scientific about this,” Dan said three beers later. He pulled a notepad off the kitchen counter and found a pen. Sitting at the table across from me, he ripped my grocery list off the top of the pad.

“Sounds good,” I said through a mouthful of rocky road.

“I’m going to write down everything you remember, okay?”

I nodded, pouring more caramel sauce into the bucket.

“Where were you born?”

“Well, I don’t exactly
remember
that, but I was born in Chicago on May 24, 1981.”

“And your mom?”

“She died during childbirth.”

“That still happens?”

I shrugged. “Apparently.”

“So your dad raised you?”

“Yup.”

“Okay.” He was writing as he spoke. “So you grew up in Chicago?”

Chicago?

“Rowan? You grew up in Chicago?”

“Sorry, yes. That sounds right.”

He looked up from the notepad, eyebrows raised.

“I . . . yes, I grew up in Chicago.”

“And where did you go to school?”

“Uh . . .”

“Rowan?”

“There were horses . . .”

“What? In Chicago?”

“Sorry, what did you say?” I blinked, bringing Dan’s face back into focus.

“You went to a school with horses? In Chicago?”

“No, of course not. That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Rowan. Can you remember where you went to school?”

After a moment, I shook my head. “No.”

His hand was shaking as he put down the pen. “Maybe we should work backward instead. Do you remember moving to New Mexico? Meeting me?”

“You tried to bring me to a
Star Trek
convention that weekend.”

“And you missed out; it was epic. Do you have any blanks about working at Westford? What did you do there?”

“I was working on Haystack under Kenneth Barnes. That all seems pretty clear.”

“Good. So before that?”

“I got my master’s at MIT. I interned at Lincoln Labs in the ISR program.”

“What’s that?”

“Come on, you know what that is.”

“Do you?”

I sighed. “ISR stands for the Intelligence, Surveillance, and Reconnaissance Systems and Technology Mission. I worked on airborne targeting and moving-target-detection radar. Do you want me to go on?”

“Don’t get snarky, Red. I’m trying to help.”

“Sorry, I know. I’m just . . .”

“Freaked out?”

“Yeah.”

“Before you got your master’s and worked at ISR?”

“I was at MIT doing an undergraduate. I did a double major in aeronautic engineering and astronomy.”

“Anything about that time in your life seem fuzzy?”

I shook my head. “No, it all seems pretty clear.”

“All right, we’re getting somewhere. So before you started at MIT you would have graduated high school. Where was that?”

There were horses.

“I . . . I need more ice cream.”

“Can you remember high school? Prom? Graduation? Anything?”

“That’s all a blank,” I admitted, and swallowed past the cold lump in my throat. “Dan, what the hell is happening to me?”